One Candle

by Gale Sears

  The rest of the family stood staring at their guest’s gruesome visage; a gash slit the top of his forehead, producing a stream of blood down one side of his face. The other cheek looked as though he’d been dragged across the icy courtyard cobblestones, showing scrape marks and the beginnings of a massive purple bruise.

  Joseph hid behind his mother’s skirts and Albertina started crying.

  “Joseph, shut the door,” Rene barked. “Francesca, bring warm water and towels. Albertina, more wood for the fire.”

  The commands gave purpose and the three went immediately to their tasks.

  Joseph picked up Colonel Beckwith’s dog and brought him inside. “It’s all right, Nellie. You’re safe now.” He shut the door and struggled to secure the bolt. The dog ran to sit on the hearth rug, alert to his master’s presence and command. “Hey! Come here, you!” Joseph said, hurrying to Colonel Beckwith’s side. “Guess he just wanted to be with you, sir. Sorry.”

  “Better for me to keep an eye on him,” the colonel said in a low tone.

  Joseph nodded. His attention was diverted by the sight of Elder Woodard brushing absently at the blood on his face.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Rene,” he mumbled. “Sorry for this.”

  Colonel Beckwith gently pushed his arm down. “Hold on, son, we’ll get that cleaned.”

  Rene laid a hand on his shoulder. “And there is nothing for you to be sorry about. Those brutes should be arrested.”

  “Oh, I’ll see that justice falls heavy on their heads,” the colonel answered.

  Albertina came in with the logs and placed several on the fire. “How did you ever make them stop, Colonel Beckwith?”

  “They know my influence. They do indeed. Plus, I had this,” he said, holding up his sturdy walking stick. “And . . . that.” He pointed the stick at Nellie, who barked his allegiance.

  Joseph laughed, then sobered as he looked at the missionary’s face. “I’m sorry they hurt you,” he said, stepping forward and placing his hand cautiously on Elder Woodard’s arm.

  “Step aside, now,” Francesca ordered as she brought in the towels and pan of warm water.

  Joseph went to Albertina, taking her hand, and watching wide-eyed as his mother began gently washing Elder Woodard’s mangled face. Albertina saw her brother wince several times and thought perhaps the book of martyrs might not come off the shelf as often as before.

  “What brought you to us this time of night, Colonel?” Rene inquired.

  “Intercession, it would seem,” the colonel answered. “I had a question for Elder Woodard that I was planning to discuss in the morning, but something told me I should come tonight.”

  “It was fortunate you did. Things might have been much worse.”

  “I don’t understand how they could do this,” Albertina said suddenly. “The Waldenese know injustice—they know cruelty. It’s in their history.”

  Colonel Beckwith leaned over and rubbed Nellie’s head. “A few are afraid of this Mormon teaching, Mademoiselle Guy. And a few actually believe it is the doctrine of the devil.”

  “But it’s not. I have heard them preach, and we have seen a miracle at their hands.”

  “This I know,” Colonel Beckwith said, winking at Joseph. “But some people do not like their truth threatened. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Francesca cleared her throat. “Yes, threatened. And when people feel threatened they can do despicable things.” She glanced over at Albertina, then back to her work. “I think it is too dangerous for you to be attending any more meetings,” she said in an even tone.

  Albertina stared at her. “What?”

  Francesca stood and applied a clean cloth to the gash in Elder Woodard’s head. “No more meetings. It is too dangerous.”

  “But I am learning. I am—”

  “We will not discuss it tonight,” Rene broke in.

  “But Papa, I—”

  “Albertina,” Elder Woodard interrupted, his voice tired and shaky. “I have to agree with your mother. These are no longer idle threats.”

  “But my friend Madeleine will still be attending meetings.”

  “Yes, she probably will. But she will have her family with her, her brothers and parents to protect her.”

  “And I have no one.”

  Francesca turned to her in shock. “Albertina!”

  “Your parents love you, Albertina, and they are protecting you. You must obey their wishes.”

  “Thank you for that, Monsieur.” Francesca said, turning her back on her daughter and wrapping a long strip of gauze around the missionary’s head to secure the bandage.

  “No more tonight,” Rene insisted. “Albertina, please take Joseph up to bed and this time be sure he gets to sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took Joseph’s hand, and turned to Colonel Beckwith. “Good night, Colonel. I’m very glad you were here to save our Elder Woodard.”

  “Always up for a bit of adventure,” he returned, and Nellie gave several barks.

  Joseph giggled. “He likes adventures too!”

  “Ah, he does. He does, indeed,” Colonel Beckwith said, ruffling Joseph’s hair.

  Albertina paused in front of the missionary. “Good night, Elder Woodard,” she said timidly. “I will say prayers for you.”

  “Thank you, Albertina.” Then, softer, “Do not lose heart.”

  Albertina gave him a small nod and tugged her brother closer to her side. “Come on, enough excitement for you tonight.” She noted that he was uncharacteristically quiet as they climbed the stairs and entered the dark bedroom.

  “Albi?” he said as he climbed into bed.

  “Yes?”

  “Why were those men so angry with Elder? He is a nice man.”

  Albertina sat on the edge of the bed. “He is a nice man.”

  “So?”

  “So, I think what Colonel Beckwith said is true—they’re afraid.”

  “They didn’t look afraid.”

  “Sometimes when you’re afraid you act tough to cover it up.”

  Joseph’s eyes widened. “I do that!”

  Albertina bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Yes, I think we all do that. Now it’s time for sleep.”

  “Albi?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you hum me to sleep?”

  “I will if you stop talking.”

  “I won’t talk anymore.”

  “You just did.”

  “Only to tell you that I wouldn’t.”

  Albertina put her fingers on his lips and began humming his favorite lullaby.

  Joseph yawned and closed his eyes. “Albi?”

  “Shhh.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t go to the meetings anymore. I was going to go with you when I got bigger.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  Joseph yawned again and rolled onto his side.

  Albertina pulled her shawl close and continued humming. Her thoughts drifted out into the dark, cold night. She thought of being absent from Madeleine’s side as Elder Woodard preached. She thought of missing the feeling of peace when scriptures were read and prayers were said. The blanket slid off Joseph’s shoulder and she covered him again. I will wait a few days, she thought. I will wait until the scare of the attack is less, and then I will tell them that I must be allowed to attend. I am not a child anymore, and the meetings are important. Surely Elder Woodard will change his mind and help me in convincing them.

  An owl hooted outside the bedroom window and she jumped. “Silly,” she whispered to the dark room. “Just an owl. Nothing to fear. Nothing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Torre Pellice

  January 26, 1851

  Father Nathanael found the old priest standing out in the frozen garden, out among the frosted
clumps of dirt and the skeletal cornstalks. His face was towards the sky and he was mumbling. The young priest moved quickly to his side.

  “Father Andrew! How did you get out here?”

  Andrew raised his walking stick. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

  “But you can’t stay out here.”

  “Go away!”

  Father Nathanael stepped back, outside the range of the walking stick. “Father Pious saw you here, and—”

  “Meddling toad,” Andrew growled. “Can he not keep out of my business?”

  “Your business of standing out in the cold garden?”

  “Leave me be.”

  “Come in and we can talk about what has upset you,” Father Nathanael coaxed.

  Andrew turned to glower at him. “Go away!”

  Father Nathanael stood still and clasped his hands together. “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

  Father Andrew lost his balance as he turned to swipe at the young priest with his walking stick, and Father Nathanael moved quickly to catch him before he fell.

  “Can I not have a moment’s solitude?” Andrew bellowed.

  “It is too cold out here, honored one,” Father Nathanael said as he righted his charge.

  Andrew slapped his hands away. “Too cold for solitude? Solitude is cold. Solitude is the black tunnel—the fearful loneliness.” He looked again at the sky filled with swirls of dark storm clouds.

  Father Nathanael stepped away again, and stood quietly as Father Andrew mumbled his prayers to heaven. It was only when Andrew leaned forward on his walking stick, groaning from the cold, that the young priest intervened. “Shall we go in now?” he asked softly.

  Andrew nodded. “There are no answers here. No answers.”

  Father Nathanael put his arm around Andrew’s back. “Come, my friend. Perhaps you can find answers by the warmth of the fire.”

  Andrew began weeping as he walked. “Lord, grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change.”

  “Wise words from our favorite saint.”

  “But Saint Francis did not have an errant great-niece,” Andrew said gruffly—his petulance overruling some of the sadness.

  Father Nathanael was silent. Earlier in the day he had taken Rene Guy to the library to visit with Father Andrew. He recalled now that Rene had looked tired and anxious, and when he had left the monastery it seemed as though sorrow was added to his load of cares. Had they discussed Albertina Guy? Was she the source of the sadness? Father Andrew had used the word errant in connection with her name, but Father Nathanael could not imagine that a possibility; the girl was dutiful and kind, and she sang with the voice of an angel.

  As they came into the courtyard, a slivered shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the stone fountain at its center.

  “A simple sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows,” Father Nathanael quoted.

  “I do not think Saint Francis has the words today to calm my soul,” Andrew answered.

  Father Nathanael unlatched the monastery door and guided Andrew inside. It was a side door into the larder, and Andrew was nearly overwhelmed by the smells of dried herbs, apples, and root vegetables, as well as dirt and hay. It was a smell from his boyhood and he longed for the hayfield and his father’s hand on the scythe.

  The two priests stood still, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dimness, and then they moved to the end of the larder, climbing carefully up a set of stairs and through another door into the kitchen. Andrew blinked as they stepped into the room, assaulted by the light and the bustle. People hurried from here to there, pots bubbled on the central stove, and a brace of rabbits roasted on spits over an open flame. The warm air caressed his old body and Andrew sighed.

  “It feels good,” he said absently.

  “Of course it does,” Father Nathanael answered, moving him along. “You nearly froze yourself out in that garden. I don’t know what you were thinking. We’ll get you settled by the fire in the library, and I’ll bring you a cup of broth.”

  “Why do you put up with me?” Andrew asked as they moved out into the chill of the hallway.

  “My brother’s keeper, I suppose,” Father Nathanael said flatly, and Andrew laughed.

  “You are a young man of sense, Father Nathanael. Why can’t all young people have sense?”

  Father Nathanael gave him a curious look. “Such as yourself? Running around during the French Revolution with the likes of Danton? Imbibing in the luxuries of princes?”

  “Now, now! Don’t bring up my infamous past! I will grant you, I am not a good example. Besides, that was a thousand years ago.”

  Father Nathanael smiled. “I suppose each of God’s children must find their way through the forest.”

  “Tchet! Do not give me such a wise answer.”

  “My apologies.”

  They reached the library and Father Andrew began to shiver. “The cold has leached into my bones,” he moaned.

  “Here, sit down, and I will put more logs on the fire.”

  As Andrew sat and Father Nathanael went to the wood bin to get the logs, the library door opened and Father Pious came in, followed by a man Andrew could not quite make out. As they neared, his anger rose.

  “I do not want to see you,” he said, pointing at Father Pious. “And I definitely do not want to see you!” He glared at the second man and waved him away.

  “Where are your manners, Father Andrew?” Father Pious said, looking shocked. “That is no way to speak to your visitor. I thought you were fond of the Mormon missionaries.”

  “Get out, you dissembler. You care nothing for this man. You just want to mock me.”

  Father Nathanael came forward, looking over the head of Father Pious and addressing Elder Woodard directly. “Now is not a good time. Father Andrew needs rest.”

  “I understand,” Elder Woodard said. “I just wanted to offer some explanation concerning his great-niece.”

  “The audacity,” Father Pious hissed. “You strangle a young girl’s soul and then you come to explain it?”

  “Be quiet, Pious,” Father Andrew snapped. “You know nothing about it.”

  “Oh, don’t I? Everyone knows that your great-niece has been going to their meetings. Her heresy is not a secret.”

  “Get out!” Andrew said through clenched teeth. He wished he were twenty years younger so he could bodily throw Father Pious from the room. “Father Nathanael, would you please follow him out?”

  “Of course,” Father Nathanael said, taking Father Pious gently by the arm. “Shall we go and see if the floors need sweeping?”

  “What? What’s this? You cannot tell me what to do. I am senior to you!” Father Pious spluttered.

  “Yes, but I am stronger.” He headed Pious towards the door, and Elder Woodard followed.

  “Wait, Elder!” Andrew said sharply. Elder Woodard turned. “I do have some words for you, sir. Come and sit down.”

  Elder Woodard moved to sit in the chair opposite the priest. The side of his face was healing, but still carried the evidence of the beating he’d received. Father Andrew studied him for several moments. He had met the man when he hosted the missionaries for dinner at the monastery, but he had been reserved, choosing to spend his time observing. Albertina had spoken of the man from England in glowing terms—of his storytelling, his humor, and his brilliance. All Andrew saw was a fox. A wounded fox, but a fox all the same.

  Andrew leaned forward. “I am sorry that you have been hurt.”

  “Thank you for that kindness.”

  “Do you mind my speaking to you in French?” Andrew asked.

  “No, of course not. I love the French language.”

  “Do not try to flatter me, young man.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. I mean what I say.”

  Andrew’s pique was somewhat blun
ted by the man’s straightforward manner. “Very well, then we can speak to the point.”

  “I find it best,” Elder Woodard replied.

  “So you speak French. And how many other languages?”

  “Several.”

  “And you think yourself brilliant?”

  “I think myself fortunate. I thank the Lord daily for my abilities.”

  Andrew grunted. He remembered his raucous youth, when pride in his abilities and accomplishments made him boastful and uncouth. “How old are you?”

  “I am nearing thirty.”

  “That is young. I have seen more than eighty winters and summers.” Elder Woodard nodded, but did not speak. “At this age of my life,” Andrew continued, “I do not want conflict and sorrow.”

  “Of course not. No one wishes that.”

  “But that is what you have laid at my doorstep. That is what you have brought into my nephew Rene’s home. Look at what happened the other night. Look what you brought to the door of the inn.”

  “I am aware—”

  Father Andrew cut him short. “I am sorry for your injuries, but do you think I will accept you bringing peril to my family? Do you think you can preach falsehoods to an impressionable girl like our Albertina and not be held accountable?”

  “Falsehoods?” Elder Woodard asked calmly. “You have listened to our words . . . to the words of Elder Snow.”

  “Words that an impressionable girl like our Albertina cannot untangle from her feelings.”

  Elder Woodard chose his words carefully. “Perhaps you are right, though I find her very bright.”

  “Bright is not the issue. Being able to decipher what is true from what is false—that is the issue.”

  Elder Woodard tamped down his irritation and spoke softly. “Father Andrew, there was a time when our words seemed of great interest to you, and now you accuse us of preaching falsehoods?”

  Andrew was about to respond, but he stopped. He had read The Voice of Joseph pamphlet and been intrigued by much of the narrative. The story of Joseph Smith’s vision moved him to tears, but he could not give away his anger and disbelief. He was fighting for the safety of his family, the soul of his great-niece, and the foundation of his faith. “Your preaching has caused strife in the community. There are rumors that Joseph Smith copied the words of your Book of Mormon from someone else, that he stole people’s money, and encouraged mob violence against the authority of the states and even the United States government. What do you say to that?”