The Wishing Star (11 page)

When Jenny stopped, breathless and flustered, in the doorway of the bookstore, she could only fidget and sniff deeply of the dust and leather and ink.

“Yes, young lady, what would you like to see?” Jenny looked past a very white shirt and black string tie to a round face as friendly as the parson's. She smiled at him.

“Oh, everything,” Jenny whispered. “Do you mind if I look? I'll be careful.” She rubbed her sweaty palms on her dress.

He chuckled. “You're not the usual kind. Help yourself,” he pointed to the double rows of bookcases, and Jenny eased herself between them, wondering where to begin. There were leather books and cloth-bound ones, dark covers and bright. Some wore strange titles she didn't understand. She also saw familiar books, ones she had read at school and at the library in Manchester, the ones the librarian had called classics.

As Jenny moved slowly down the aisle, touching books with a cautious finger, yet not daring to pull them from the shelf, a bright green cover caught her eye. Hardly believing what she saw, she tipped it out of the shelf. It was the same from green cover to the gold outlines on the front.

The shopkeeper was at her elbow now. “You wouldn't want the likes of that book,” he said gently. “It's not for fine young ladies.”

She turned. “Why not?” she asked, surprised. Her hand still held the book. “It's a bonny book, all green with the gold lady.”

He cleared his throat and continued to smile kindly at her. Leaning closer, he whispered, “It's a book about magic, witchcraft, and the like. Now, if I were to have my say, such a book wouldn't even be in town, but there's some who set great store by such things. Nowadays we don't hear much said against such teachings, but frankly I believe it is wrong, terribly so. I think this treasure-digging and using seer stones to hunt for lost articles or for telling fortunes is of the devil. But the owner, Mr. Anderson, insists we must provide what the people want.”

“The book's bad?” Jenny asked, still fingering it.

His smile was gentle, his eyes full of concern. “It's of the devil. Satan is behind the likes of such stuff.”

“Satan,” Jenny stated flatly. She pulled the book down and turned the pages. “It's talkin' about power, knowledge, how to get things you want. Isn't that good?”

He looked astonished. “Child,” he said, “there's power, and there's power. Not all power is good.” His sensitive eyes took her in, and he was about to continue when the door opened. He turned and moved toward the front of the shop.

Jenny slowly replaced the book. She frowned, thinking about the strange manner of the little man, hearing the echo of Mrs. Harris's words. The booming voice from the front of the store caught her attention. As she looked up she heard the man ask, “You have some Masonic books?”

“Right this way.” Beneath the clomp of boots, Jenny heard the shopkeeper ask, “Why would you be needing them?”

After a pause the man said, “I'm joining the lodge.”

Suddenly Jenny recognized the voice. She popped around the corner of the bookcase. “Hyrum!”

They left the shop together. Jenny was chattering, running to keep up with Hyrum, when they met Mrs. Smith and the Harrises talking together on the street corner.

Martin Harris looked up at Hyrum and said, “Your mother's tellin' me you're about to join the Masonic lodge.”

Mrs. Smith reached for the package Hyrum carried. “You found a book?” Her fingers picked nervously at the paper before she tucked it into her bag. She met Jenny's gaze. “Hyrum's been tellin' me about how this Masonic book might be helpin' a mite. He says we'll understand more of how to get the faculty of Abrac.”

When the Smiths had gone their way, Jenny and Lucy Harris trailed far behind Martin Harris as he headed for the livery stable. Mrs. Harris shook her head. “That Smith bunch! I've never seen the likes of them, always wantin' something they don't have. First they used the seer stone to tell fortunes, and now this. But I suppose I'd be worryin' myself too if I were ridin' as close to losin' my place as they are.”

Jenny turned to look after the little woman and her tall son hurrying down the street. “That's sad,” she said, painfully aware of want. “The faculty of Abrac; I wonder—”

Mrs. Harris interrupted with a snort, “Hogwash to them! You should hear the latest story the mister is puttin' out. I heard him myself. He was talkin' to that man Chase. Says several years ago his son, Joe, had an appearance. 'Twas a spirit come to Joseph, informing him there was gold plates hidden near his home. Young Joe tried to get them, he says, but there was a toad guardin' them. Well, this toad changed into a man and hit him a wallop on the side of the head.

“Old man Smith's sayin' that in September Joe's to be let have the plates—genuine gold, he says, and need some translatin'. There's supposed to be a story about the ancient people on this continent.—I'm thinkin' if Lucy gets hold of them, she'll be translatin' them into cold, hard cash.”

They were nearly to the livery stable. Jenny saw Lucy's quick glance toward Martin Harris's sturdy back. She also saw the tear in the corner of her eye and the impatient hand that flicked it away. Straightening her shoulders, Lucy Harris marched toward her husband, Jenny tagging slowly along behind.

Chapter 8

Lucy Harris turned from the stove, “Jenny, run out to the barn and fetch me some eggs.”

With a quick nod, Jenny dropped her dish towel and headed for the back door. As she crossed the yard, she saw Tom lean over the railing of the pigpen, tilting a pail. The air was filled with the shrill squealing of hungry pigs. Jenny paused to watch Mr. Harris poke at the pig sow.

“Get out o' there and let the little 'uns have a chance!” he roared, flailing at her shoulders.

Jenny went into the barn and climbed to the loft to search through the straw for eggs. The squealing in the pigpen subsided, and Mr. Harris's voice rose. “Well, I'll be a-goin' out with you tonight. Joe said Walters will be there. I can't miss that. 'Sides, the other members of the Gold Bible Company will be there.” Jenny heard the low rumble of Tom's voice answering him. She folded the eggs into her apron and slipped back down the ladder.

As she walked toward the door of the barn, Harris spoke again. His voice was low and deliberate. “The boy's got a talent. There's something there, and I believe he's learnin' how to get it. It'll help a lot if Hyrum will learn how to get the extra power from the faculty of Abrac.” His earnest voice stopped Jenny just inside the door. “He's pretty convinced that joinin' the Masons will do it.

“You know, I was out to his pa's place once. Joe was a talkin' and I was standin' there pickin' my teeth with a pin. I dropped the thing in some straw and couldn't find it. Well, old Joseph and Northrop Sweet were there and they couldn't find it either. Just jokin' I said, ‘Joe, use your stone and find it.' I didn't even know he had it with him. He pulled it outta his pocket, and stuck his face in his hat. Pretty soon he was feelin' around on the ground—without lookin', mind you. Then he moved a stick and there was my pin. That boy has a talent, and I'll be waitin' around to see what he does with it.”

Slowly Jenny walked to the pen. “You believe it too? Do you 'spect he'll be findin' a treasure?”

She watched the excitement light his eyes and felt her own heart thump. “Something big,” he said. “There's things buried out there. And there's forces fightin' against you. A fella over Palmyra way said they were diggin' by the old schoolhouse and the whole place lit up. Scared them so the bunch of them took out o' there. Later they were diggin' again, close to a barn. They looked up and a fella was sittin' on top of the barn. They say he was eight or nine feet tall. He motioned them to get outta there. They kept on workin', but finally they got so scared they took off.”

Tom leaned on his pitchfork. “Do you know anything about using the rods?”

“Naw, but old man Smith can tell you about them if you want to know. He's been usin' them for years.”

“Findin' treasure?” Jenny asked eagerly.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on who you talk to.”

“Jenny!” Mrs. Harris called and Jenny scooted for the house.

Martin Harris watched her go and said, “For a little 'un, your sister's sure interested in diggin', isn't she?”

Tom nodded soberly and went back to pitching straw. “Yeah. She's so little it's hard to take her serious. Is it possible for young'uns to get caught up in the craft?”

“Willard Chase's sister did. She has a green glass seer stone she uses all the time.” Harris paused and then added, “I wouldn't be a-discouragin' it. Never know, she might really get the power.”

That evening after Jenny had finished the dishes, she went upstairs and dug the green book out of the cubbyhole where she had hidden it. Studying the cover, she stroked it thoughtfully. She pondered about the strange uneasiness she had been sensing in church. She needed something, and she must reach for it, but the reaching couldn't be done with her bare hands.

As she thumbed through the book, she began to wonder—could it have anything to do with the power Hyrum had talked about it? She recalled Martin Harris's excitement, talking about the Gold Bible Company. Surely that didn't have anything to do with the black Bible the solemn-faced man at church read before he started to talk.

She sighed deeply and rubbed her eyes. Questions—the world was full of unanswered ones. Did Pa's book hold the answers for any? Could this green book give her the mysterious power it seemed to promise?

Mrs. Harris was still downstairs by the fire—maybe she would know.

Jenny crept down the stairs cautiously, Pa's stolen green book in her hand. As she reached the landing, the last stair creaked, and Mrs. Harris's head, bent over her worn leather Bible, snapped up with a start.

“Jenny, child!” she laughed. “You nearly did this old heart in! I thought you'd been asleep by now.”

“I—I knew you were still up,” Jenny stammered. “And—well, there's something I want to ask you.”

“Come, sit, child.” Mrs. Harris patted the footstool near her rocker and motioned Jenny nearer the fire. “What you got there?” She reached for the book, and Jenny pulled back.

“It's—was—my pa's.” Jenny faltered, then her desperate curiosity overcame her. “I been readin' in it some, and I don't understand it all, but it talks about gettin' power—like Mr. Harris and Joe Smith are tryin' to do—” She gasped for a breath, then went on before Mrs. Harris could interject a word. “An' like the parson talks about on Sundays, and—” Jenny stopped, astonished at her own boldness. “Mrs. Harris,” she plunged, “this black Bible of yours and this book—do they say the same, about gettin' the power, I mean?”

Mrs. Harris reached for the green book and gently pried Jenny's fingers from the spine. She winced slightly as she looked at the cover, then fingered the gold design thoughtfully.

“Jenny,” she began, “I ain't much of a reader, and I'll confess I ain't read this book, but I know what's in it—least, I know what it's about.” She handed the book back to Jenny. “An' I know something of that Joe Smith.”

She paused. “Child,” she sighed, “remember me tellin' you that there's only one truth, but there's lots of powers?”

Jenny nodded slowly.

“This here,” she raised the black book that lay in her lap, “holds both—the truth and the power. That 'un,” she pointed to the green book crushed against Jenny's chest, “that book may tell you about some power, but it won't tell you the truth.”

Jenny pondered this before she spoke. “Mrs. Harris,” she drew out her words slowly, deliberately, “what is the truth?”

Mrs. Harris smiled faintly. “Somebody else asked that same question, child, a long time ago. An' the answer he got is the same one you'll come to someday. Truth ain't an idea, or even a way to get power. It's a person—Jesus, who died on the cross to save us all.”

“From sin?” Jenny interjected anxiously, remembering the parson's sermons, seeing the strange wild glint in Joe Smith's eyes, feeling the stolen book burning against her arms and chest.

“From sin,” Mrs. Harris agreed, “and from yourself. From greed and the burnin' for wealth and power like Joe Smith's got; from the stubbornness of doin' things your own way like my Martin's got . . .”

“Power,” whispered Jenny. She turned her full attention to the firelit face of the mistress. “Mrs. Harris, my ma said this book is evil, but she didn't say why. The little man at the book shop said the power in it is from the devil. Is power evil? Is it?”

Lucy Harris's eyes were hidden in the shadows as her hands fingered the worn pages of the Bible. When she looked again at Jenny, a single tear had left a trail down her cheek, glistening in the light of the dying fire.

“Jenny,” she began, “the only lastin' power lies in the truth. There may be power in the spells told about in your pa's book, or in Joe's seer stone and divinin' rods. But the real power to be had don't come through such tricks. It comes through faith, through God.”

Jenny went to bed restless, disturbed by her conversation with Mrs. Harris. Faith seemed an awfully slow, awfully uncertain way of getting the power. And it didn't seem to offer much in the way of benefit for the here and now. Pa's book and Joe's stone promised a more immediate fulfillment—and it was easier to come by, too. The right words, a sword, some blood from a goat or a lamb, and a person could have riches
and
power, served up by the spirits like the rich folks' Christmas goose!

But what if Mrs. Harris is right?
Jenny shivered at the thought.
If it really does matter where the power comes from—