The Wishing Star (16 page)

So for a time, and for reasons Jenny couldn't explain, she avoided the forest path and the mysterious encounters.

As the winter waned, Mrs. Harris became an enthusiastic housekeeper, waging war against winter's accumulated dirt. She also took up the task of making a young lady out of Jenny, much to the distress of both.

As often as she dared, Jenny dallied in the afternoons instead of hurrying homeward. Still hesitant to go back into the forest, she frequently followed the Smith children home. Jenny enjoyed the chatter and laughter, the teasing and playful pranks. Aware of her loneliness, she was irresistibly drawn to the large family, despite Lucy Harris's disapproval.

Often the young schoolmaster, Oliver Cowdery, walked with them. In the past Jenny had found him morose and withdrawn, but on these walks he regaled the group with exciting stories of Vermont. Along with the stories he had to tell, he would demonstrate the art of using the rod.

The rod, delicately balanced on Oliver's fingers, would tilt as Oliver walked slowly down the path. “There!” he exclaimed. “That's signifying water's to be found here.”

He was unabashed when Jenny exclaimed, “Who wants to dig a well in the middle of the woods?”

One afternoon in April Jenny followed the Smiths and their youthful schoolmaster home. It had been a beautiful day, full of the joy of spring and the excitement of a school term drawing to a close. But they met gloom as they stepped into the cabin crowded with people and piles of household belongings.

Lucy was talking rapidly, darting about the cabin gathering up bedding. Hyrum sat at the table watching his mother. His expression silenced the chattering brood.

Mrs. Smith clattered a load of kettles onto the middle of the table and turned to survey the silent group. “Well, 'tis the worst,” she advised them. “We've lost the place. Get your things together; we're goin' home with Hyrum.” The outcry began, but her raised hand cut through. “No fussin'. Don't give them the satisfaction of knowin'. 'Sides, we'll be back as soon as Joe starts a-sellin' the gold Bible and makin' a heap of money.” She turned to Cowdery. “I 'spect the best you could do is go to Harmony and be helpin' with the translatin' to hurry things along a speck.”

When Jenny carried the news home, Lucy Harris paused in her housecleaning long enough to think. She finally spoke, as if she were pulling out the thoughts like yarn from her knitting. “That'll mean Martin will be back soon.” She eyed Jenny and sighed, “What's goin' to become of us all?”

“What are you meaning?” Jenny asked slowly.

“I expect more turmoil.” She paused, then spoke briskly. “First things first,” she instructed. She stepped down from the chair she was standing on and dusted her hands together. “Before I get the cleanin' done, there's something more important.”

“What?” Jenny asked, mystified, as she looked at the litter of dishes and pans Lucy Harris had pulled from the shelf.

“I'm goin' to take the team and go into Palmyra and see the preacher at the church.”

“Whatever for?”

“First off, I'm goin' to do something I promised I'd do long ago. I'm goin' to set up your baptism.”

“What baptism?”

“Jenny”—Lucy leaned her face close to Jenny's—“we've talked before about the truth, remember? That real power, spiritual power, has the truth as its source. That truth—the only truth—is in Jesus, in His death and resurrection.”

Jenny nodded, “But—”

“I know you've seen and heard—and read—a lot about other kinds of power. Even my husband Martin has shown you the other. And I let you go on and read your pa's book even though I didn't like it, and I let you run off to the Smiths and hear that Lucy's wild tales of gold plates and—”

Mrs. Harris paused, looking squarely at Jenny. “I don't claim to know all there is to know about the Bible,” she sighed. “That's why I want to take you into Palmyra to talk to the parson. Everybody's got to make a choice, Jenny. If you don't make one—well, you make one anyway. And now's the time for you to think about yours.”

Jenny thought about the church in Palmyra.

Every Sabbath day in that sanctuary, she had sat in cold, hard pews and listened to the organ draw threads of sound around her that amazed and awed her. She had looked at the small circle window of stained glass, showering arrows of brilliant color over the shoulders of worshipers, and had dreamed of them as mystical fingers bestowing blessing and fortune. Sometimes the parson's words dropped on Jenny with raw-nerve intensity, creating a moment of awareness. But for the most part, Jenny's Sabbaths were empty of the meaning of worship.

On this day, with Mrs. Harris, she reluctantly entered the cold building with solitary and lonely thoughts. In the gloom the round window was a beacon, throwing colorful shadows throughout the sanctuary and tipping the heavy wooden cross behind the pulpit with shades of light. Did it happen by chance that afternoon shadows funneled one beam of rich light into a pinpoint finger precisely at the center of that wooden cross?

Jenny's mind amplified the results. As she sat facing that cross, listening to that somber man spread heavy words she didn't understand, she felt the weight of light and form.

She watched him turn and lift the silver chalice from the sanctuary table. At the moment he poured the wine, purple light from the window caught the chalice, spinning webs of brilliance for Jenny's eyes. That moment of awe fell against her with greater weight than the words he spoke. The wonder of the total experience robbed words of meaning for her.

Jenny's mind reeled with the possibilities. In the cold church building, she had felt a sensation akin to what she had felt in the woods—with one exception. She was moved, but not frightened as she had been among the trees. The image of the chalice and the cross rose again and again to the surface of her thinking, until finally her question overcame her hesitancy, and she sought out Mrs. Harris.

“The cross?” Lucy Harris replied. “Why, Jesus died on the cross for our salvation. The silver cup holds the wine—representing His blood—that we drink at communion.”

As Lucy tried patiently to answer the questions, Jenny's confusion grew.
Was the blood of Jesus in the chalice like the blood of the rooster sprinkled around the circle where Tom and Joe were digging? Was the cross like the sword Hyrum Smith carried—did it have power to break through the spells of spirits? Is this act of baptism the one event that will launch me into the world of true power?

The next Sabbath day, in the shadow of the same cross, Jenny Timmons was duly baptized at Palmyra Presbyterian Church. But the finger of light at the center of the cross was gone; the web of color that haloed the chalice was gone. And Jenny wondered if this way of faith really was the way of power.

Just before she slipped under the water, her eyes met the eyes of that somber parson. For a moment his face brightened until he almost looked glad. She heard his words. “Jennifer Timmons, I baptize you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, the great God and Savior, who gave himself to redeem and to purify you. And just as He was buried to be lifted up, you shall be baptized to be lifted up for everlasting life.”

“Child,” said Lucy Harris at breakfast the next morning, “don't you just feel wonderful, now that you've chosen for the Lord?”

Jenny murmured a halfhearted agreement and went about her chores, while Lucy watched and waited for the significance of Jenny's decision to take effect. Jenny waited, too. She waited for the power to come, for the feelings she had known in the woods and in the church to return, for her mind to understand, for the vague thoughts that had haunted her to crystallize.

She was still waiting when Martin Harris returned to Manchester the following Wednesday. Subdued and tired, he was nevertheless full of talk of getting the gold Bible printed.

They were visiting Martin's brother Peter and his wife Abigail when Lucy Harris finally had heard enough about the gold Bible. “Martin!” she cried, exasperated. “This gold Bible business is no religious crusade! It's just a bunch of wild stories conjured up by those who'd take a gullible man for what he's worth. Like every other project you've been duped into—when you get a new idea into your head, you get shaken loose from your money. Please, Martin, can't you see—”

“Woman!” he roared, jumping to his feet and flinging his chair aside. “Will you leave me alone? What if it
is
a lie? If you'll just mind your business, I'll stand to make a pile of money out of it yet!” He stomped out of the house, leaving Jenny and Mrs. Harris to gather their belongings and follow.

During these turbulent days, Jenny noticed how often Lucy Harris bore bruises. Many mornings Jenny observed the woman's tear-reddened eyes and sensed her troubled spirit. As the summer drew to a close, Jenny's own tension mounted; then, abruptly, there was release.

Martin Harris turned jovial, kind—at least the few times he was at home. Most conspicuous was his absence.

One late summer evening Jenny watched the man don a clean shirt and leave the house. She turned to Mrs. Harris and said, “He's happy now. Where's he going?”

The woman's lips quivered. “He's happy because he's off chasin' after a woman.” Jenny's fingers crept over her errant mouth, and Lucy Harris said, “You needn't be embarrassed. Everybody in town knows Martin's shenanigans. I can't change him—but I wish the Lord would.”

Autumn crept up and Jenny was getting acquainted with another new schoolmaster. Rumor had it that her previous teacher, Oliver Cowdery, had finished the translating of Joseph's golden Bible—but not in Harmony, Pennsylvania. The whispers said that because Mr. Hale, Emma's father, had vowed to see the plates, a fellow by the name of David Whitmer had moved Joseph Smith, his wife, and the whole translation business to Fayette, New York. Now there was serious talk about having the manuscript printed.

One day, after Mrs. Harris had left to visit her sister for a week, Jenny discovered some additional information quite by accident. As she hurried about the kitchen preparing the noon meal, Martin strode into the kitchen ahead of Tom and Amos. He paced the floor with quick, excited steps.

“Mr. Harris,” she apologized, “I'm hurrying. I just didn't figure on you coming so soon.”

Unexpectedly he turned a sudden smile on her. “Jenny, lass,” he chuckled, “don't give me no mind. I'm a-thinkin' about all that's goin' on with the gold Bible business and it excites me, my it does!” Tom came into the kitchen and began to wash up. With a note of apology in his voice, Martin said, “Tom, I'm about to run out on you again. I can't stand not knowin' what's goin' on in Fayette.”

Tom slowly straightened from the washbasin and reached for the towel. “The writin' is all done; what's comin' up next?”

“I couldn't tell the old lady all this; she can only ridicule.” He paused and shook his head piously. “I'm fearin' for her soul, makin' fun of the Lord's anointed like that. You see, Joe's had orders to be startin' a new church. All this translatin' is for a purpose. The Lord's given him a mission of goin' to the Lamanites with the story of their brothers and the early settlement of this country. He's appointed to take the news of the restored gospel to them, and we're all to help him.”

“Where did you hear all this?” Tom asked as he took his place at the table.

“That's what the book is all about. The history of the lost tribes of Israel and how they settled in this country. Joe's responsible to get the story of Jesus Christ out to them. He's been gettin' revelations from the Lord right along, tellin' him what he's to be doin' for the Lord.”

“Such as—” Tom said slowly.

“Well,” Martin answered just as slowly, but with an edge of enthusiasm, “Joe had a revelation that there was a man in Toronto, Canada, eager to buy the history and be printin' it. Cowdery and Hiram Page went up there.”

“So they sold it?” Tom asked, and Jenny was surprised to hear the regret in his voice.

“Naw,” Martin paced the room again. “They never could find the man.”

“Why, that's surprising!” Tom exclaimed. “If the Lord sent them, you'd think—”

But Martin began to pace again. When he came back to the table, Jenny saw he was having a hard time controlling his excitement. “I'll tell you something else, if'n you can keep it under your hat. Me'n Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer got the privilege of being witnesses to the book.” His smile faded as he studied their blank faces. “You're not understandin' what that means, are you?” Slowly he sat down at the table and pulled his plate toward him.

“I don't rightly know how to explain it all so you'll see how important it was. See, Joe had a promise that some were to see the gold plates in order to bear witness. We went out prayin'. Now, I'll admit I don't convert easy—it took a lot of prayin' for me to get enough faith to see them, but when I did, I was convinced. Nobody can take that away from me. This angel from the Lord appeared. He was so bright it about put my eyes out to look at him, but he made himself known and then held out the plates so I could see them.”

Tom and Jenny stared at him for a moment before Tom asked, “You really did, huh? How'd the angel look?”

Jenny heard the clatter of Amos's boots, and Martin whispered, “Hush about it. Joe doesn't want it nosed about for now.”

****

During the winter of 1829 and into 1830, Martin Harris made several more trips to Fayette, New York, to see Joseph Smith. Just after he had returned in the early spring, Jenny came from school one day and accidentally interrupted something. She stepped inside the door and was halted by the sight of her mistress' flushed face. Although she knew she should leave, curiosity held her fast.