by R. R. Irvine
“I still say we shoot him,” Belnap said.
“Does anybody know what the hell he’s doing up there?” Horne asked.
Movement in the doorway of the Assembly Hall beyond the Sea Gull Monument caught Traveler’s eye. The man who stepped out of the shadows into sunlight was tall, white-haired, fragile-looking, and somewhere in his seventies. His suit was black, his shirt starched and white, his tie gray; his appearance made Horne catch his breath.
“Moroni,” Bill called from his perch, “it wasn’t my idea to climb up here. They chased me.”
“That’s Josiah Ellsworth,” Horne murmured under his breath. “The apostle.”
Ellsworth was coming directly at them across the lawn, ignoring the winding paths. Church security reappeared, four of them materializing from the trees and shrubbery, better dressed than most but still armed with that hard-eyed FBI stare. They closed around Ellsworth, keeping a respectful distance but near enough to provide protection.
“I didn’t see them waiting for me,” Bill said. “I didn’t have a chance.”
Traveler looked for signs of additional security inside the ten acres that made up Temple Square. The Tabernacle was big enough to hide an army of them, as was the Assembly Hall and Museum. Joseph Smith’s life-size bronze statue provided cover too, not to mention the Temple Annex, an ivory-painted Moorish building made of oolitic limestone.
Josiah Ellsworth stopped in front of Lieutenant Horne and said, “Do you recognize me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Seen up close, the apostle had a young face, unlined and untroubled. He was Traveler’s height, six-three at least.
“That man tried to attack me.” With a tilt of his head Ellsworth indicated Bill. “The Lamanite is his accomplice.”
According to The Book of Mormon, Indians were thought to be descendants of one of the lost tribes of Israel, known as Lamanites.
Ellsworth turned his gaze on Traveler, who sensed recognition in the man’s eyes.
“Are you with the blasphemers?” he asked.
“I’m a friend.”
Nodding, Ellsworth said, “ ‘And it shall come to pass that there shall be a great work in the land, even among the Gentiles, for their folly and their abominations shall be made manifest in the eyes of all people.’ ” When he finished speaking, the apostle looked expectantly at Horne.
Horne wet his lips; his Adam’s apple shimmied. A twinkle in Ellsworth’s eyes said he was used to provoking such a reaction.
Traveler got Horne off the hook by saying, “Are you hurt, Mr. Ellsworth?”
“Thank you for asking, Brother Traveler. He touched me on the shoulder, nothing more. What else he had in mind I don’t know. My friends here”—a brusque gesture indicated the security men—“didn’t give him the chance to go further.”
“That’s fifty points,” Bill called down to them.
Traveler didn’t look up and didn’t respond.
“Counting coup,” Bill clarified.
Apostles counted ten points, Traveler recalled. The prophet one hundred. He didn’t remember any mention of fifty-point scores.
“An eagle feather earned,” Charlie said. His words got him hustled back to the tourist center where the firemen were waiting.
Under different circumstances, the situation might have been funny, but in Salt Lake, assault on a church dignitary, even if no more than a touch, could earn prison time.
“I apologize for my friends,” Traveler said. “I know it was inexcusable, but it was a game, a bet, nothing more.”
“I have studied Lamanite culture,” Ellsworth said. “I am familiar with coup counting. But it can be earned only if those you touch are your enemies.” He turned to look up at Bill. “ ‘Wherefore, let no man glory in man, but rather let him glory in God, who shall subdue all enemies under his feet.’ ”
With that, the apostle smiled and headed toward the temple.
When he was out of earshot, Horne turned to Belnap. “Get a ladder in here, for Christ’s sake. Let’s get that bastard down before we lose our jobs.”
Coming from a man like Horne, profanity was unusual; hearing it uttered on the temple grounds made Traveler fear for Bill’s safety more than ever.
“Let me get him down,” Traveler said. “If I do it, there won’t be any trouble.”
“There won’t be any trouble my way either.”
Two firemen, escorted by Belnap, arrived carrying a lightweight extension ladder; they hesitated at the reflecting pool, staring up at Bill as if contemplating his potential for violence.
“He could take someone with him,” one of the firemen said.
“It can’t be more than a fifteen-foot drop,” Horne said.
“Then we’ll hold the ladder while you climb up there.”
“Leave it to a Gentile,” Traveler said. “Back off a ways so Bill won’t panic.”
The firemen looked to Horne for guidance.
The lieutenant pointed at the monument. “You heard me. Set up that ladder.”
They exchanged shrugs before wading through the ankle-deep water to lean the ladder against the marble column. The top rung was two feet shy of Bill, whose arms and legs were wrapped tightly about the pillar. As the firemen were about to extend the ladder, Horne said, “On second thought, I don’t want you scratching the marble.”
“You’re damn right,” Belnap said. “Shoot him off of there and be done with it.”
Traveler was wondering if it was time to evoke Willis Tanner’s name again when Horne pointed a finger at him. “We’ll send Moroni up there after all. If something goes wrong, we can kill two birds instead of one.”
Without a word, Traveler waded in. The water smelled of chlorine and felt icy despite the warmth of Indian summer.
“Consider yourself baptized,” Bill called down to him.
Water from the hem of Bill’s robe dripped on Traveler’s head as he adjusted the ladder until it stopped wobbling. That done, he climbed far enough so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice.
“I know what you think,” Bill said, “but counting coup is no game. If only one of those I touch sees the light, then I have done God’s work.”
“It’s me you’re talking to.”
Bill laid his head against the marble globe on which the bronze gulls were landing. “I struggle in the wilderness, Moroni. I walk the streets. I proselytize. And still I have only Charlie to show for my efforts.”
“Prophets are seldom appreciated in their own time.”
“Don’t I know it. Donations are off. Charlie and I can barely make ends meet.”
“You have a roof over your heads.”
“The basement of the Chester Building is not a proper place for a prophet.”
“Maybe I can talk Barney into lending you a vacant office.”
“I need a sanctuary, Mo, a place in which to pray.” Bill raised his head to stare up at the temple towering two hundred feet above them. “I envy them, you know. Their faith, their diligence. Think of the love that went into building such a monument.”
Bill let go with one arm, nearly losing his balance, to gesture at the temple. “What kind of people were they, Moroni, those pioneers who crossed the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains to claim this desert sinkhole and call it their promised land? They arrive too late to grow a crop; they have meager provisions. There is no guarantee they will even survive the first winter. Yet what do they do? Do they despair? Do they curse their luck?”
Bill shook his head. “I’ll tell you what they did. They gathered around Brigham Young, their prophet; together they walked this very ground. And there . . .” Bill pointed at the temple once again. “There Brigham thrust his cane into the earth and said, ‘Here we will build the temple of our God.’ ”
Bill began to tremble. Traveler eased up another rung to catch him if need be.
“I stand in awe, Moroni. They marked the spot and bided their time, building their homes and planting their crops, until finally six years later the tem
ple’s cornerstone was laid. For the next forty years they worked on God’s house. They cut the great granite stones from the Wasatch Mountains twenty-six miles away, each stone so heavy it had to be hauled by four oxen, a trip that took four days. Forty years to the day after the temple was begun, the capstone was laid and fifty thousand people gathered here to give the Hosanna Shout.”
Slowly, Bill raised one arm and then the other. Traveler lunged, wobbling the ladder, to wrap his arms around Bill’s legs. Out of the corner of his eye, Traveler saw more firemen arrive carrying stretchers.
“Listen to it, Moroni. ‘Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! To God and the Lamb! Amen! Amen! Amen!’ ”
“Grab hold, you’re slipping.”
“Have faith,” Bill said. “Those who were here that day said the ground trembled with the raising of their voices. Will the ground tremble for me one day?”
“If you don’t hold on, it will.”
“I’m not afraid of becoming a martyr.”
“I am.”
“You’re named for an angel, Moroni. You have nothing to fear.”
“What about Charlie?”
“My apostle would be lost without me, I admit that. I will descend for his sake.”
“I’ll go down first and hold the ladder,” Traveler said.
As soon as his feet were in the pool, Traveler looked up to see Bill’s tennis shoe feeling around for the top rung.
“Left a little,” Traveler said.
“My legs have gone to sleep.”
“Don’t move, then. I’ll come back up.”
“Look out!”
As Bill let go, Traveler shoved the ladder out of the way and tried to break the fall. He succeeded except for one outthrust leg that hit the lip of the pool. Bone snapped. Bill screamed as he and Traveler landed on their backs in the cold water.
They were immediately surrounded by police. Horne himself helped load Bill onto a waiting stretcher. As the attendants started to lift it, Bill grabbed hold of Traveler’s sleeve. “I didn’t realize who he was, Moroni. Not at first.”
“Who?”
Bill tugged until Traveler crouched down beside the stretcher.
“Ellsworth is more than an apostle,” Bill whispered. “He’s the White Prophet.”
“Don’t start, Bill, not now.”
“He exists, Moroni. I knew that the moment I touched him.”
Traveler settled back on his haunches and stared at Bill. Recognition by touch was probably one of Bill’s euphemisms. Most likely Josiah Ellsworth was known to Bill before, by sight and reputation at least. Whether or not he was the White Prophet was another matter.
“He doesn’t exist,” Traveler said. “He’s legend.”
“You resemble him, Moroni. For a moment, when I first saw him, I thought he was you.” Bill sighed deeply. “What will they do to me for touching him?”
Traveler had heard stories about the White Prophet since childhood. The Catholics had their Black Pope, or so the litany went, and the Mormons had their White Prophet. In the case of Catholicism, the Superior General of the Jesuits was actually called the Black Pope because of his black cassock. In the case of the White Prophet, the color had been chosen— the opposite of black—because all things Catholic smacked of the devil. Yet there was something devilish about the White Prophet too. His name, like the bogeyman, was often evoked to scare unruly children. The White Prophet will get you and carry you off to hum in hell. His mother’s words, echoing years later.
According to tradition, the White Prophet was the leader of the Danites, sometimes called the Brothers of Gideon or the Sons of Dan; he was a shadow prophet picked from among the apostles, the leader of the avenging angels sworn to destroy the enemies of the Mormon church.
Horne tapped Traveler on the shoulder. “We’d better take him to the hospital.”
As the stretcher was raised Bill turned his head toward Traveler and mouthed, “Pray for me.”
“Is he under arrest?” Traveler asked Horne.
“What do you think?”
“I’ll post bail,” Traveler called after the departing stretcher, which was accompanied closely by Sergeant Belnap.
“Sacrilege should be like murder,” Horne said. “No bail.”
“Am I free to go?”
The policeman waved Traveler toward the gate. Walking away, Traveler felt as if his back were a target. He almost missed seeing his father, who was waiting beside Charlie at the tourist center. The Indian raised his hands, displaying the handcuffs as if they were a prize for counting coup.
“I think you ought to ride in the ambulance with Bill,” Traveler said to the Indian. “He thinks the Danites are after him.”
Charlie nodded. “The White Prophet is a formidable enemy.”
“Not you too?”
“Charlie’s under arrest,” Martin said. “He’s not going anywhere but jail.”
“I need medical attention,” Charlie said and collapsed, pretending to faint.
“He should have been an actor,” Martin said as the Indian was carried away on a second stretcher. “Maybe we’d better go along just the same.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in the White Prophet?”
“In the land of Zion it’s always best to be prepared.”
“Did you reach Willis Tanner?”
“I left a message,” Martin said.
Church security was waiting for them at the gate, two men looking every bit the equal of Apostle Ellsworth’s personal bodyguards.
“If you’ll come with us,” one of them said, displaying a compact briefcase, “we have a phone call for Moroni Traveler and Son.”
Traveler and Martin followed the pair into the museum, adjacent to the tourist center, where the briefcase was set on top of a glass display case filled with Mormon gold coins. A card key opened the briefcase and activated a cellular phone, fitted with an electronic scrambler, which was handed to Traveler. After that, the security men moved to a discreet distance.
“Mo,” Willis Tanner said, his voice clear and free of static, “I got your message. I suppose it’s about Mad Bill and that Indian. Assault is a serious offense. So is trespassing.”
Traveler angled the phone so Martin could hear.
“What’s the charge going to be?” Traveler said.
“Josiah Ellsworth is an important man.”
“How important?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Moroni.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on your honeymoon.”
“At this moment Lael and I are passing through Spanish Fork on our way to Manti. It was the prophet’s idea really, honeymooning in our state’s temple towns. Manti’s first, then St. George. After that, our schedule’s open. Maybe we’ll double back to Provo, maybe not. I’m sorry you couldn’t be at the wedding, Mo. Had you seen the light you would have been my first choice for best man.”
“The price was too high,” Martin shouted at the phone, referring to the ban against Gentiles setting foot inside the temple.
“We’ll never let up, you know,” Tanner said, “not until we have both our Moronis back.”
Martin snorted. “Get to the point, Willis. Did you call to help Bill, or not?”
Tanner chuckled. “Lael and I thought it would be nice to turn the tables on you two. We want to give our Moronis a wedding present.”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I owe you one. Mo knows that.”
“I don’t recall a debt,” Traveler said.
“Lael saw you first, Mo. You stepped aside.”
“You know my luck with women.”
“Lael says she’s going to play matchmaker one day.”
Martin groaned. “Don’t ask for a favor in return.”
“Did you hear me ask for anything?”
“You always do,” Traveler said.
“Have faith, Moroni. ‘Behold I will lift up my hand to the Gentiles, and set up my standard to the people; and
they shall bring thy son in their arms, and thy daughters shall be carried upon their shoulders.’ ”
“I don’t trust him when he starts quoting scripture,” Martin said.
“You will,” Tanner said. “I have a lead on the child, on Moroni Traveler the Third.”
“Don’t start that,” Martin said. “We’re not even certain he exists.”
“What kind of lead?” Traveler asked.
“How old would he be now?” Tanner answered. “Two, going on three?”
“That’s right.”
“The army of the Lord is growing,” Tanner said. “Eight million Mormon saints and counting, more than enough to find one small, lost soul. And you know the prophet. He keeps an eye on his Moronis. ‘If one is lost,’ he told me, ‘send forth the Legions of Nauvoo.’ ”
That was Tanner’s way of reminding Traveler of the church’s power. Not only was it the richest in the country, but the fastest growing. As for the Legions of Nauvoo, the first one was raised in Illinois by Joseph Smith, who rode at its head on a horse named Charlie, determined to defend the faith. But in the end, the legion was unable to keep him from being murdered and his people driven from Illinois.
“When you consider the missionaries we have all over the world researching ancestors,” Tanner went on, “we’re the real detectives, not Moroni Traveler and Son.”
“If we’re ever going to add another and son,” Martin said, “get on with it.”
“We have a man in Park City, Giles Wilmot. He’s semi-retired, a part-time doctor and part-time church historian who’s uncovered a Moroni Traveler that hadn’t shown up before on our genealogy computers.”
Traveler said, “Are you telling us he’s actually found the boy?”
“You must have faith,” Tanner said.
“I know you, Willis. There’s more to this than you’re telling us.”
“Easy, Mo,” Martin said. “Maybe I’ve misjudged him. Maybe he’s the answer to an old man’s prayers for a grandson.”
“As I said before,” Tanner said, “it’s my gift to old friends. Just don’t ask me to help with the Chester Building.”
