The Wishing Star (23 page)

“Well, maybe Missouri was a disappointment to some,” Joe continued, “but at least things are moving in the right direction here.”

“You sound satisfied,” Tom said. “What's happened?”

“The United Order has received a loan of $10,000 from Charles Holmes. I've appointed Whitney bishop, and his store'll be the storehouse and commissary.”

Tom pondered the information in silence, and then added, “So the translation business is back in full swing.”

“Tom, the Lord's blessing us in these last days!” Joe exclaimed. “He's given me a special blessing. Translating in Genesis, I've discovered a prophecy concerning my coming.”

“No foolin'!” Tom turned to look at his friend in awe. “Are you sure?”

“Well, what would you think if you read that the Lord will raise up a seer in the last days and give him the power to bring forth the word of the Lord? And his name will be Joseph just as his father's name is Joseph.”

“Huh!” Tom grunted. “You sure can't argue that.”

“'Twas a great comfort to find He promised safety,” Joseph added seriously. “I needed the assurance that the Lord was on my side.”

“What did He say?”

“Those who seek to destroy the seer, Joseph, will be confounded.”

At the livery stable the two of them perched on the fence rail while Joe continued. “Another thing, the Lord's made known the degrees of glory. There's three kingdoms in the eternities. All men will be assigned to one of them. The highest is celestial for the members of the true church, the terrestrial is the dwelling place of those who've never heard the gospel, and the third degree is called telestial, for those who've refused the law of the Lord. Liars, sorcerers, adulterers will be going there.”

“You mean there's a heaven for everybody?” Tom said slowly. “Well, that takes a big load off my chest; I guess I just won't worry no more.”

Joseph threw back his head and laughed. “Then you're not wanting to be part of Zion. You're throwing away the privilege of being with the people building the city of God. Tom, my lad, you're a gambler at heart. But I know you won't pass up that glory. When are you going to join up? I saw your face during conference. You were wanting to go to Zion so bad it hurt.”

“You're right,” Tom admitted, recalling that day. He raised his head and slapped Joe's leg. “Oh, all right. What do I need to do?”

****

Jenny pushed open the Bartons' kitchen door and a wintry blast followed her. She tumbled her books inside and turned out to the entry to shake her snow-laden shawl. Popping back into the kitchen, she shook her hair, exclaiming, “What a storm! It makes a body glad to be home and warm and dry.” She tossed her hair back from her face, then stopped. Mark and Mrs. Barton were sitting at the kitchen table.

“Mark!” she exclaimed, as astonished at her glad rush of surprise as she was by his unexpected presence. “It's been so long!” She hurried forward. “Oh, you're already having tea,” her voice flattened with disappointment.

Mrs. Barton laughed. “We couldn't wait; it
is
cold out. You might offer him some of the cookies you baked yesterday.”

Mark was pulling a chair forward and grinning down at Jenny. “I've never before seen you with such rosy cheeks. That's nice. Shall I bring tea for you? From the looks of you, you intend to let snowflakes melt into your cup.”

Mrs. Barton handed her a towel. “You'd better let me get the cookies.” She disappeared into the pantry and Jenny dared look at Mark. Wordlessly he beamed at her until the cookies were placed between them.

Later Jenny wondered what Mrs. Barton had been saying before she came. But for now she watched Mark eating her spicy raisin cookies as if he were starved.

“I came intending to entice you into ice skating, but I
may
be snowed in for a week.” He grinned happily.

“Ice skating?” Jenny whispered in panic. “I've never even touched a pair of ice skates.”

“Well, you shall now, and I promise I won't let you fall.”

Mark
was
snowed in, as was everyone else in town. Clara had gone visiting early in the day, and it was three days before she returned. Mark volunteered to fill in for her.

During the three days, as Mark carried in wood and dried dishes, Jenny's surprise grew. She was discovering a Mark totally different from her picture of the nice young schoolmaster with his spotless white shirt and shiny boots.

As she watched him roll up his sleeves and scrub pans, she listened to him talk. First law, then books; next he described a hunting trip into the mountains with his father.

Blue-misted mountains, crimson trees, and the mingled scent of woodsmoke and frying bacon lingered in his memories. What he described in detail wasn't the deer he shot, but the leggy fawn, faltering timid and curious on the edge of the clearing.

They discovered there were books they had both read, and they discussed them eagerly. They shared the poetry he could quote, and the plays he wanted her to see.

When the sky cleared, a dozen eager boys pushed snow from the lake and Mark and Jenny tried out the ice skates.

At first Jenny was shy with this new Mark, but she gradually thawed beneath his genuine warmth. Before the week was over, she knew that she was privy to a secret side of him. She sensed it first when he quoted poetry to her; even more clearly she recognized the difference when Clara walked into the kitchen, and the contained shell of the old Mark settled around him like a protective armor.

As Jenny said good-bye, Mark lifted her warm hand to his cheek and then he was gone.

Jenny watched through the kitchen window as his horse loped down the lane. Secret whispers moved through her heart, reminding her that rich young men married proper girls from proper families. The real Mark, those whispers nagged at her, was the one she watched as he joked around and teased Clara. The casual shell was real, the tenderness inside was a dream.

****

In Kirtland the new year slipped in on snowy feet, nearly unheralded. At Hiram, Joseph Smith and Sidney Ridgon continued to work at the task of writing. But unsettling things were going on. Often the rumbles started at the livery stable in Kirtland, where winter-bound men gathered to talk. But there were winter discontents in Hiram, too.

Ezra Booth, formerly a Methodist minister, then Mormon convert, had turned apostate after the first trip to Zion. Now he was exciting curiosity. Copies of letters written by him and printed in
The Ohio Star
were read and passed around the stable. The first comment was, “Joe shouldn't have taken him in to begin with. A preacher in the Methodist church is bound to be a mighty poor follower. Has too many ideas of his own.” Another said, “Some of his complaints were right, like Partridge's quarrel with Smith.”

A few nodded, and a voice spoke from the back of the group. “Partridge didn't make no bones. Told Joseph he didn't like the land and Joseph told him heaven chose it. So then Partridge told him he wished he wouldn't say he knew things by the spirit when he didn't, such as that Oliver had raised up a big church when it was plain to see he hadn't. Joe said if he said it, then it would be.”

“What about Rigdon telling him the vision of Zion was a bad thing?”

There was silence when Tom replied, “Seems it falls in a category of faultin' the Lord.” He went back to his workbench.

While Tom mended harnesses in front of the sheet iron stove at the rear of the stables, he listened to the talk going on around him.
Malcontents
, he decided. But some of the men had been on that journey to Missouri. They supported Ezra's statements in the newspaper.

One thing was certain, a storm of unrest was brewing among the men of the church. Later, when news from Missouri indicated that Zion was suffering the same kind of unrest, Tom decided it was time to visit his friend in Hiram.

It was late that March evening before Tom could leave the livery stable to go to Hiram. Even in the small town of Kirtland, Saturday night revelry added to the chores that must be done before the Sabbath.

Tom rode his horse toward Joseph's home, grateful for March's softening wind. He was nearly to the outskirts of Hiram when he met a group of riders coming toward him.

Thinking that he recognized one of them, he called, “Hello, is that you, Williams?” No answer came, but the riders veered away. Slowly he rode on, pondering the strange event.

As he reached the Johnson farm where Joseph Smith was living, Tom noticed light spilling out the open door; but until he stood in Joseph's parlor staring at the spectacle, he didn't understand. Slowly he walked across the room.

Emma was already digging at the mess of tar and feathers which covered her husband. “What happened?”

Joseph could only mutter, while Emma answered shortly, “Busted in here, the whole lot of them, and dragged him out into the night. This is the way he came back.”

Throughout the night, Tom and Emma dug at the mess that covered Joseph's body. It was nearly morning when Joseph picked up a quilt and handed it to Tom. “Here, my friend and bodyguard, stretch out in front of the fire. You'll need a little sleep to stay awake during my sermon this morning.”

“Joseph!” Emma exclaimed in horror. “Surely you don't intend to stand before the church and preach!”

But he did, and Tom was there to watch and listen and gain new admiration for his friend. The sermon, delivered in quiet dignity, made no reference to the incident of the previous evening. And if the culprits were in the crowd, they were wearing the robes of righteousness this Sabbath.

The Monday morning crowd at the livery stable seemed to know the details of Saturday night.

“They say he had it coming . . . Word's going round that Eli Johnson got the mob together . . . Said it was 'cause Joseph has been too intimate with his sister, Nancy Marinda . . . Eli wanted to castrate Joe, but the doc chickened out.”

Five days after the tarring and feathering, one of the twins adopted by Joe and Emma died. Tom was there afterward to help move Emma back to Kirtland to live while Joseph and Rigdon journeyed to Missouri.

****

Mrs. Barton came into the kitchen as Jenny was finishing the dishes. She picked up the dish towel and a handful of spoons. Jenny shook off her dreamy mood and reached for another pot. When Mrs. Barton reached for the forks, she said, “Jenny, you've had your eighteenth birthday. Have you given any thought to your future? Young ladies your age have married. And as for school, you're educated enough to teach. I'm afraid there's little more they can offer you.”

“Oh,” Jenny sighed, abruptly realizing she hadn't given a thought to life as Mrs. Barton was seeing it. She shivered, thinking how horrified that good woman would be if she were to tell her what she had in mind for the future.

“Jenny, don't misunderstand,” Mrs. Barton continued. “I'm not at all anxious to have you leave us; you'll have a position here as long as you wish.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Jenny replied meekly, still wondering what she could say.

“Also,” Mrs. Barton continued, wiping more slowly now, “I'm concerned about Clara. Not that I think you're easily led astray, but there's strange going's on in her life.” She hung the towel on its rack. “If you're troubled and need to talk about it, please—”

Jenny widened her eyes. “Clara
is
strange, Mrs. Barton, but she doesn't trouble me.”

“That's good. Now, Mark is coming tonight, isn't he?”

“Yes.” Jenny looked at Mrs. Barton, wondering if she could sense the churning inside her.

“He's a fine young man. I've met his mother and think well of her.”

Without planning, the words burst from Jenny, “Fine young men don't marry kitchen maids!”

“I have a feeling that young man is looking beyond the kitchen,” Mrs. Barton responded gently. She watched Jenny carefully empty the dishwater into the pail beside the door, and just as carefully Jenny avoided Mrs. Barton's eyes. She didn't want to talk about Mark; she didn't even want to think about the confusion of her emotions every time he came to visit.

Jenny looked at the floor, fearful her eyes would reveal her thoughts, thoughts about what she and Clara had been studying together. They just didn't fit into the picture with Mark.

By the time Mark arrived, the evening was cooling and the primroses were slowly unfolding their tight buds. Jenny was sitting on the side porch, thinking of nothing except the evening calm spreading itself across the land.

Then Mark was there, offering her a yellow primrose. “Jenny,” he whispered with a teasing grin, “tell me your secret. Does it take the mysterious night to bring you into full bloom? Most times I find you a tight little bud like an evening primrose at high noon.”

“I think it takes the moonlight to bring me to life,” she whispered back. “I need to follow the creek until it disappears into the moon. I need to walk the pasture fence until it falls off the earth.”

“Walk the pasture fence!” he exclaimed, dropping down beside her. “That is a very different thing to do.”

“See there—” She pointed to the line of fence that rose and fell with the contours of the earth. She knew that at the point of disappearance, it followed the slip of the hill.

“It does fall off the earth,” he whispered. “But maybe it tunnels under the haystack; then where would you be?”

“Why, I'd be obligated to tunnel, too.”

“Then let's go!” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, toward the pasture. When they reached the fence, he lifted her to the top rung. Gathering her skirt in a tight wad that threatened her knees with exposure, Jenny ran lightly along the rail, slowing only to step gingerly across the posts before she ran on again.

At the end of it, when the fence plunged down the hill, Jenny jumped lightly to the ground. With a thud, Mark landed beside her. “You did it, too!” she exclaimed in delight. “Mark, the lawyer! You must be good to me, or I will tell all your clients that you are addlepated. That I know, because you walk fence rails in the moonlight!”