One Candle

by Gale Sears

  “Yes, Antoine Gaydou.”

  “Good, good. He is the best. Tell him to take measurements for trousers and I will bring them shortly.” Without waiting for a reply, the colonel turned in the direction of his home. “High to, dog!”

  The missionaries watched them go and then headed for the tailor shop. The bell over the door jangled when the three entered, and Antoine Gaydou looked away from the man to whom he was speaking to welcome possible customers. When he recognized the men entering, his face lit up with delight.

  “Elders! What a surprise!” He moved from behind the counter to shake their hands. “I do not know if you remember me, Elder Woodard, but . . .”

  “Of course I remember you. You and your wife were at the meeting in Rorà.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s right. That was us.” At that moment, Mary emerged from the back room. “Ah, here is my wife now. Look, Mary, it’s the Mormon missionaries.”

  Mary approached timidly. “Good morning, gentlemen. It is very nice to see you.”

  “Yes, yes it is,” Antoine agreed. “And you have come at a good time. My wife’s brother and father are here, and I am sure they would like to meet you.”

  Lorenzo took note of the man to whom Antoine had been speaking and the young man who stood behind Mary. The shop was small, so Mary moved to the side and brought her brother forward.

  “Elder Woodard, this is my brother Stephen and my father, John Malan.”

  Elder Woodard held out his hand to each in turn. “A great pleasure to meet you,” he said. “And may I introduce Elder Thomas Stenhouse and Apostle Lorenzo Snow?”

  “Snow?” John Malan said, stepping forward. “You are the one who wrote The Voice of Joseph?”

  “I am.”

  “Ah yes,” Antoine interjected. “My father-in-law has read that tract many times. He found it in the shop the day after Mary and I returned from Rorà and he absconded with it. So we have yet to read it.”

  Elder Woodard pulled a pamphlet from his pocket. “Here is your own copy, Monsieur Gaydou.”

  Antoine held the pamphlet high in the air. “See here, Father Malan? My own copy! You may keep the other one for as long as you like.”

  “Or until it falls apart,” Stephen added.

  Antoine laughed. “Yes, yes, or until it falls apart!”

  “You find the words of the tract interesting, Monsieur Malan?” Lorenzo asked.

  “More than interesting, Monsieur Snow. I am drawn to the message and I have many questions.”

  “We are fond of questions,” Lorenzo answered.

  “Excuse me, Elder Snow,” Stephen interrupted. “Did Elder Woodard introduce you as an apostle?”

  “He did.”

  “An apostle of Christ?”

  “Yes.”

  “As the apostles of old?”

  “Yes.” He smiled at the gawking boy. “We believe that the Church of Christ has been restored, Stephen, with all the keys and priesthood power as found in the primitive church.”

  “But an apostle. That is a wonder.”

  “We have a tender feeling for the apostles, Monsieur Woodard,” Mary said. “You see, when our mother was fifteen years old she had a vision of twelve apostles.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Elder Woodard questioned.

  “Yes, she saw them and sang with them,” Mary affirmed. “It is a marvelous story, but I think it best that she tell you.”

  John Malan spoke up. “Yes. We would love you to come to our home for a re-union. Would that be possible? It is less than a two-hour walk from here.”

  “We would be honored, Monsieur Malan. Elder Stenhouse is on his way to Switzerland in a few days and we are preparing, but Elder Woodard and I would love to share the gospel with you and your family.”

  “And perhaps a few of our neighbors?”

  “Of course,” Lorenzo said. He felt the Spirit of the Lord fill the room, and, as he looked into John Malan’s eyes, he knew that he and his family would be essential to the gospel work in the Piedmont. He reached to shake John’s hand. “May we plan for a week from today?”

  “Yes, that will be good.”

  Mary moved to stand beside her father. “Perhaps this is what you’ve been waiting for, Father,” she said softly. She turned to the missionaries. “Several months ago my father was called by the synod to be an elder in the Waldensian church, but he refused the honor.”

  “Mary,” John gently reprimanded.

  Lorenzo noted that Mary’s fragile confidence wavered, but he could also see that there was more she intended to say. She took her father’s hand and stood straighter. “I just find it interesting that as much as you love the Waldensian faith, you have always felt that something was missing.”

  He patted her hand. “Well, that is true.” He looked at the missionaries. “It will be interesting to see if your doctrine can clarify my questions.”

  Lorenzo smiled. “We will do our best.”

  “Good,” John said. “Now, you have business, it seems, with my son-in-law—and Stephen and I have work. Come along, son.” He turned towards the door and Stephen followed. The young man stopped to shake hands with Lorenzo. “It was good to meet you, Apostle Snow.” His voice faltered, so he looked over quickly to Elders Stenhouse and Woodard. “Good to meet all of you.”

  “Thank you,” Lorenzo returned. “We will be honored to preach to your family.”

  Stephen grinned. “I’m afraid there might be a crowd.”

  “That would be gratifying. I believe it is why the Lord sent us here, Stephen.”

  “Yes, Monsieur. I think so too.”

  “Give the man his hand back, son,” John Malan instructed.

  Embarrassed, Stephen let go of Lorenzo’s hand and joined his father at the door. John gave him a gentle look of chastisement, and then addressed the elders. “Have a safe journey to Switzerland, Elder Stenhouse. We will see the two of you in a week.”

  “Without fail,” Lorenzo said.

  “Mary and Antoine will bring you,” John said. With that, he and Stephen moved out into the bright day.

  Before the jangle of the doorbell faded, Antoine turned a proprietor’s eye to the missionaries. “Now, elders, how may I help you?”

  Note

  Elder Woodard’s meeting with Stephen and John Malan in the tailor shop of John’s son-in-law was an actual occurrence. Elder Snow is not mentioned as having been in attendance (he may have already left for London) but I felt it important for the story to have him involved in this first meeting and in teaching at the re-union.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Torre Pellice

  December 10, 1850

  The fighting men emerged from the fog, heads bleeding, arms slashed, their long-barreled muskets slung across their backs and their sharp farm machetes—beidanas—dragging along the ground. Journey’s end.

  Father Andrew walked among the exhausted troops, searching for their captain, Pastor Henri Arnaud. As he walked past a jumbled group of men laid out like corpses on the ground, a young one reached out a bloody hand and caught the hem of his tunic.

  “Have pity, priest. Do not take my life before I have seen the river by my house, the beautiful falls tumbling over the rocky cliff.”

  Father Andrew tried to pull away. “Take your life? No, no. I welcome you back to the Piedmont—back to your valleys.”

  Another soldier cursed and spat upon the ground as he glared at the priest. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

  Father Andrew broke free and moved up the hill beyond the accusing stare of the skeletal man. His lungs burned with the effort of climbing. Where was his strength? He’d hiked these mountains a hundred times. He forced his feet to move. Suddenly, on the path ahead, he saw Albertina, her face smudged with dirt and tears. Impossible. Why was she he
re? She was in danger. She must stay safe at home. He called to her. She glanced back furtively and then hastened her pace away from him. “Wait! Come back! Where are you going? Come back!” But she did not come back, and as soon as she disappeared into the fog, a boy with blood on his face hissed at him from the shadows of the forest and pelted him with stones.

  “Go away, priest!”

  “Stop! Stop!” Father Andrew called out, a note of desperation in his voice. “I am looking for Henri Arnaud!”

  Several men brandished their menacing farm implements and moved to surround him. Andrew felt panic drop into his chest. He turned to escape down the narrow trail, but the uneven ground was treacherous and a precipice fell away on either side. He heard footfalls close behind him and guttural yells from men intent on butchery.

  “Wait! Wait! I will go back! I will go back!” Andrew screamed. His old legs tried to run, but he could not run. Where was his Albertina? Had she escaped into the fog? He heard the whoosh of a beidana near his ear. “Wait! Wait! I am just an old man. I mean no harm! Let me go back!”

  The fog encased him.

  “I will go back!”

  “Father Andrew?”

  “Let me go back!” He opened his eyes onto weak morning sunlight slanting its way through his small window. Andrew squinted. “Where am I? Who is that?”

  “It’s Father Nathanael. Are you all right?”

  Father Andrew became aware of his rapidly beating heart and sweat-covered body. “No. No, I am not all right.” He rubbed his face and struggled to sit up. Father Nathanael helped him. “These cruel dreams,” he grumbled. “Will they not leave me alone?”

  Father Nathanael went to the cupboard. “What was this one?”

  Father Andrew put his legs over the side of the bed. “All I was trying to do was find Henri Arnaud and welcome him back to the valleys.”

  Father Nathanael brought out Father Andrew’s clothes. “The Glorious Return? Well, that dream took you back in time. You must have heard stories yesterday when you were visiting with your Waldensian friends.”

  “Tchet! Those Waldensian men in my dream—you would have thought I was one of the king’s soldiers come to kill them or chase them back to Geneva.” He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking there was something about Albertina in the dream, but the images were fading, and he could not be sure. He shivered as the bitter cold from the stone floor crept into his feet and made his ancient bones ache. “I need my slippers.”

  Father Nathanael fetched them and knelt to put them on Father Andrew’s feet. “Can you stand?”

  Andrew grunted. “Of course I can stand.” But the saying and the doing were two different things. His legs shook and he clutched Father Nathanael’s arm. “My legs are traitors.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I am afraid I don’t have much of that left.” He wobbled and Father Nathanael steadied him.

  “Shall we forgo the trip to Pinerolo?”

  “What?”

  “The monastery is letting us borrow the sleigh.”

  “To go to Pinerolo?”

  “Today is the music contest in Pinerolo,” Father Nathanael reminded Father Andrew, placing a shawl over his shoulders.

  Andrew brightened. “Yes, yes. I know this. I know this.” He stood straighter. “I have been looking forward to it.”

  “You have. So I was thinking that perhaps you forgo prayers this morning, and go for a nice warm bath.”

  Forgo prayers? The morning prayers were his favorite meditation. But soaking his old bones in a warm tub sounded like a heavenly proposition, and might just exorcise the bothersome dream. “Bath,” he said decisively. “But on judgment day you will need to step forward and say it was your idea.”

  Father Nathanael chuckled. “I do not suppose the Lord will think too badly of me.”

  The two started forward, Andrew with more momentum than his legs had strength.

  “Slowly,” Father Nathanael encouraged. “You do not want to arrive at the concert with a bump on your head.”

  She had won! Albertina and her friend Madeleine—the two songbirds—had won the music competition. Andrew stood clapping with the rest of the audience, as proud of his great-niece as any father would be of a daughter. What a glorious afternoon. His mind went back to the delightful sleigh ride from Torre Pellice—his body covered in warm furs, his heart light with anticipation, Father Nathanael escorting him into the city music hall and to his seat with Rene, Francesca, and Joseph. He had listened to the other musicians and singers with half a heart until the announcement of his Albertina and her friend. He felt as though heaven was present as they sang Handel’s duet “Sing unto God.” In simple country dress, without accompaniment or false pride, their pure voices filled the music hall with precious hope. Andrew’s heart was taken back to his boyhood in Lyon—running in the fields, the stone farmhouse, his mother’s face. He wondered if others in the concert hall were experiencing the same transport of emotion. It seemed so, for as the song ended, there was a shared sigh, a breathless pause, and then enthusiastic applause. And now, as the songbirds were presented as the winners, the clapping and cheers broke out in earnest.

  The family had seats close to the stage, so Andrew could see the girls well. They each carried a mingled look of surprise and elation as they moved forward from the group to accept their flowers, a laurel wreath, and a small wooden box containing their winnings. As Albertina took the box, her hand trembled, and Andrew noted a look of sadness behind the smile, and when Madeleine reached over and hugged her, she burst into tears.

  “Poor little sparrow,” Andrew said to Rene. “She is just overwrought with all the noise and attention.”

  “Perhaps so,” Rene answered.

  Andrew thought his nephew’s voice sounded convinced, but noted that his face was one of fatherly concern. “She will be better when she returns to the quiet mountains.”

  The concert over, the audience members slowly dispersed, and the participants came down the marble steps to mingle with family and friends.

  Joseph ran to his sister and flung his arms around her. “You sang beautiful!”

  Albertina knelt down, hugged him to her, and cried on his shoulder. After a moment, Joseph pushed away from her. “Don’t be sad, Albi. Look! They gave you flowers!”

  “And well deserved,” Father Andrew said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “It was perfection.”

  She took a deep breath and stood. “Only God is capable of perfection, Uncle. You know that. But thank you. We tried our best.”

  He smiled at her. “I would say you did more than try.”

  “You winned!” Joseph piped in, running around her. “You winned! You winned!”

  Albertina laughed weakly at his antics as she went to hug her mother and father. But then the tears began again.

  Rene held her at arm’s length. “What is it, daughter?”

  She shook her head several times, brushing distractedly at the tears on her cheeks.

  “Albertina, what is all this about?” he insisted.

  “I . . . It’s just the excitement,” she whispered. “Too much excitement.”

  “I told you,” Andrew said, patting her back. “She is a quiet girl from the mountains.”

  “But Madeleine Cardon is also a quiet girl from the mountains, and she is not weeping,” Rene said, motioning with his head to where Madeleine stood with her family.

  Andrew looked over and caught Madeleine’s eye. She smiled broadly and waved at him. “Well, maybe she is a mountain rock and Albertina is a mountain flower.”

  Albertina laughed outright at that. She shook her head and wiped her face with a handkerchief her mother had given her. “Oh, Uncle! Thank you.” She took his hand. “You are right. I am being too fragile, and not giving much thanks to God for this good day.”

  “God is over all,” Andrew said.


  Joseph stopped running and looked up to see if God was hovering above his head. The family laughed and Andrew saw the last of the sadness leave Albertina’s face.

  As he dozed in the sleigh ride back to the monastery, Andrew saw again Albertina’s trembling hand as she reached for the box, the hidden sadness in her eyes, the tears. “She was just overwrought with all the noise and attention,” he mumbled. He tried to convince himself that that was the only truth, but his heart knew something different—his heart knew that his great-niece was hiding a painful secret.

  Note

  In 1686, the Duke of Savoy, Victor Amadeus II, issued an edict that decreed the destruction of all the Waldensian churches, and maintained that all the inhabitants of the valleys must denounce their heretical faith. The far-outnumbered Waldensian soldiers put up a brave resistance, but were soon overwhelmed by the duke’s superior forces. To avoid extinction, the remaining Waldenese chose exile from their beloved homeland, with most settling in Geneva, Switzerland. In 1689, pastor and soldier Henri Arnaud led more than 1,000 exiles back over the Alpine mountains. After many battles and miraculous interventions on behalf of the Waldenese, they were allowed to return home. This event became known as the “Glorious Return.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Prassuit

  December 15, 1850

  Stephen Malan had not exaggerated when he said that a fair number of neighbors might fill the Malan home to hear the preaching of the Mormon missionaries. The Malan family alone had nine members, and with fifteen others, the house was crowded. Everyone was affable, and Lorenzo was grateful for each soul willing to hear the message of the gospel and weigh its soundness. He knew if the people would open their hearts even a pinprick, the light of truth could penetrate.

  As people found places to sit or stand, John Malan welcomed his neighbors and gave a short testimonial of the unique message contained in The Voice of Joseph. He told of their meeting with the elders in his son-in-law’s tailor shop, and having invited them to preach. He then introduced the elders and gave them permission and protection to preach their doctrine in his home. Lorenzo stood, positioning himself so he could see most everyone in attendance. He would speak to them in Italian and hope they would understand his words concerning the first principles of the gospel. He knew his command of the language was ragged, but he prayed for guidance. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Spirit restrained him. He stood silent, noting the looks of puzzlement on the attendant faces. He took a breath and prayed for the right words and that his heart would be open when those words came. He tried again.