Ammon could hardly think.
As the group of Church leaders assembled in their proper places, Ammon bent down and lifted a single blade of green grass, a stubborn holdout against the coming winter, then pressed his palm into the dirt, letting the rich soil press between his fingers. This is sacred ground, he thought as he examined the soft earth. Father Adam. Mother Eve. They and their children walked here! Adam prophesied from this location. A warm shiver ran down his spine.
Looking up, he watched the prophet position himself among the group of priesthood leaders. The spirit of the day was solemn and a reverent feeling permeated the air.
So much work to do here.
So much more to come.
The leaders gathered in the open field, the other members of the Church in a semicircle across from them. The trees behind the group of men were filled with singing birds. The sun was bright, but the air was cool. Luke kept his eyes on the prophet. He was dressed in a dark suit, black overcoat, and red tie, and though he looked as if the burden of the world was on his shoulders, his face was radiant with a spirit of great light.
A temple in Jackson County!
Ammon shook his head again.
How many dispensations had waited for this day? How many prophets? How many people? How many Saints had prayed for this to come, knowing that it would happen but never believing they would see it in their time? There were no words to describe it and he was speechless at the privilege of being there.
There was a short moment of silence as the prophet huddled with his counselors. While they waited, Ammon looked around, then closed his eyes.
Luke leaned toward him. “How long will it take to build the temple?” he whispered quietly.
Ammon shook his head. “I don’t know, brother.”
“It took them forty years to build the Salt Lake Temple.”
“Yes, it did.”
“Think this one will take us that long?”
Ammon opened his eyes and looked up at the brown trees and the stark, blue winter sky. “I don’t think so,” he finally answered. “I don’t think we have that much time.”
Luke watched him, thought, then nodded. The two young men were quiet for a moment until Ammon leaned toward his younger brother once again. “Mom is going to be proud of us.”
Luke turned to him and smiled. “So is Dad.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Camp Hostile
Southwestern United States
The entire facility had been designed to hold enemy combatants from various locations around the world, the final stop for terrorists who wanted to destroy the United States. Capable of holding 400 terrorists in individual holding cells, the camp was empty now. He was the only prisoner there.
One prisoner. A couple of hundred guards. Cement and steel all around him. Security cameras inside his cell. Quadruple strands of electrified wire outside the wall. A classified location.
No way was he getting out of there.
His cell was sterile, with no protrusions of any kind from which he could fashion a hook or weapon. A simple sink with a recessed faucet was fastened to the back wall. There were no windows. He had no desk. A simple bowl on the floor was his toilet, and it flushed automatically. There were no sheets on his bed, and strands of wire had been sewn into the padded mattress to keep him from ripping any of the material into shreds. His prison clothes were made of paper, leaving not a single piece of cloth inside the cell from which he could fashion a rope to hang himself.
How long King Abdullah had been inside the prison, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was going to die here. If they were merciful, they would kill him. If they were not, they’d let him live, leaving him to rot until he died from old age.
The king thought of his friend, the old man, and shivered in a despair so deep he thought his chest would rip apart. The old man had been ancient, more than a hundred years old, he was sure. One of the benefits of their oaths and combinations was the gift of living long.
A good idea when they were young and powerful.
But it seemed like a torture now.
King Abdullah looked around his cell, shook his head, and started crying like a child. He would be completely insane before he grew so old.
“Oh, beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved,
And mercy more than life!”
—Katherine Lee Bates
Chapter Fifty-Five
Four Miles West of Chatfield
Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee
(Six Months Later)
Caelyn’s mother kept a watchful eye on Caelyn. They’d made it through the winter. They had made it through the spring. Time had passed. Everything had gotten better.
Everything except her child.
Though six months had passed, there was no more life inside of Caelyn than there had been on the first day she had come back home. Her face was blank, her eyes vacant, her words soft and unemotional. Sometimes Caelyn would smile at Ellie, but even these brief moments of happiness were forced and fleeting. It was as if she had died along with her husband, as if her life was over, as if she was just waiting now, going through the motions, waiting for her time to go.
It was a tragedy, the way she’d given up. No, it was worse than that. What Greta was witnessing was much worse than a simple death. This was a tortured dying, an unending final chapter to a story that had no end. It was so unlike Caelyn to just give up like this. She was young. So much of life was still before her. She still had Ellie, a beautiful and loving child. She had a responsibility to be strong for her, and it made Greta angry to see her giving up like this. “Caelyn, please,” she had pleaded time and time again. “I know it’s hard, honey, but you can’t give up this way. You will heal. It will get better. I know what you’re feeling, but it will pass.”
* * *
Late in the afternoon, Greta opened Caelyn’s bedroom door. “Someone’s here to see you,” she announced.
Caelyn looked up to see Sara Brighton standing there. Sara moved toward her and pulled her into her arms, and the two of them held each other as if they would die if they let go. “How is Sam?” Caelyn finally asked after they had moved apart.
“He’s good, Caelyn. In fact, I’d say he’s completely better. He’s on duty now and very happy to be back at work. Those two months in the hospital were, I think, the very longest of his life.”
Caelyn smiled at the good news. “Do you still see Azadeh?”
“Almost every day.”
“I like her so much. She’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever known.”
“We feel the same way, Caelyn. But the fact is, I feel the same way about you. Both of you have lost so much.”
Caelyn cleared her throat and looked at the open window. “We all have, haven’t we, Sara?”
Sara watched her carefully. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Caelyn took a step toward the window. Ellie was walking hand in hand with Sam across the yard. Sara moved and stood beside her, both of them looking down on their children, the things they loved more than anything else in the world.
“She looks happy,” Sara said of Ellie. “Such a pretty little girl. I can see so much of you in her face, but her spirit is so much like her father’s.”
Caelyn nodded as she tugged at the lacy curtains.
Sara put her arm around her. “It’s been six months,” she said.
Caelyn shook her head violently.
“I think it’s time for you to do this, Caelyn. You need to do it for Ellie. You need to do it for yourself.”
“They said I had as long as a year before they had to officially change his status.”
“I know that, honey, but the situation is much more clear than with many missing soldiers. He isn’t missing, Caelyn. We have eyewitnesses. We know what happened to him.” She hesitated, then continued, her voice a bit softer now. “Caelyn, I’m not sure it’s fair t
o Ellie.”
Caelyn shook her head again, her eyes filling with sudden tears. “What am I going to do?” she pleaded. “What am I going to bury? The only thing they recovered was his finger! Am I supposed to bury that?”
Sara reached out and held her close again. “What other choice do you have, honey? What other choice do you have?”
“And now, he imparteth his word by angels unto men, yea, not only men but women also. Now this is not all; little children do have words given unto them many times.”
—Alma 32:23
Chapter Fifty-Six
Arlington National Cemetery
Washington, D.C.
It had rained all night, thunderclouds rolling in from the Blue Ridge Mountains, boiling with power as they met the moisture from the sea. Lightning and heavy rain pounded the night, then suddenly stopped as daylight drew near. The first line of storms moved off to the Chesapeake Bay and lingered over the sea, caught between the rising sun and the musky coastline behind. The rain wasn’t over. What was already the wettest spring in a century had much more to give.
The day dawned cold and dreary. Another band of dark clouds gathered in the morning light, moving in from the west, blowing over the hill that lifted on the horizon. Heavy mist hung in the air until the morning breeze finally carried it away.
The grass around the freshly dug grave was wet and long, with tiny drops of moisture glistening from the tip of each blade. The pile of dirt next to the grave was dark and rich, loamy with many years of rotting vegetation, and now rain-soaked and wet. A green patch of plastic Astroturf had been placed over the pile of dirt and pinned down at the corners to keep it from flapping in the wind. A sad arrangement of plastic roses and baby’s breath sat atop the fake grass.
The six-man color guard waited by the grave. Their uniforms were so crisp, they almost cracked as they moved, their boots so highly polished they reflected the gray light from the sky. Tiny blades of wet grass clung to the sides of their boots and the cuffs of their pants. The sergeant in charge stood in front of his men, giving them one final inspection, straightening a shoulder board and tightening a shirt here and there.
The soft clop of hooves sounded from the narrow strip of asphalt that wound through the national cemetery. Glancing to his right, the sergeant saw the single mare, old and slow but still proud, her dark mane perfectly curried and braided to the right. She emerged from around a tight bend in the road, drawing a small carriage behind her. Black and shiny, with huge wooden wheels and a leather harness, the carriage carried a single bronze casket on its sideless bed. Seeing the casket, the sergeant took a deep breath and straightened himself. “Ten-HUT!” he whispered from deep in his chest, the order nearly silent yet crisp and powerful. His soldiers drew themselves straight, their shoulders square, their chins tight, their hands forming fists at their sides, their elbows slightly bent into powerful bows.
As the funeral procession approached, the team leader placed his right foot exactly behind his left, his toe pointing down, barely touching his heel, then turned with precision so perfect it looked almost mechanical. The wagon drew close and the sergeant felt his heart quicken. This one was special and he wanted it right.
As the wagon passed under a huge oak tree, he caught a better glimpse of the casket, a dark bronze box draped in an American flag. Beside the flag, a ring of flowers, fresh cut and beautifully arranged.
Twenty-four roses. Twelve red and twelve white.
White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.
Seeing the flowers, the soldier had to swallow against the catch in his throat. That others might live, he repeated to himself.
Next to the roses, glistening in the cold, humid air, a copper medallion and white ribbon had been carefully draped over the stars on the flag. For the first time in his life, the soldier saw the Medal of Honor, the most sacred tribute his nation could bestow upon a man.
His squad stood stone-cold still as the funeral procession approached. And though the sergeant avoided eye contact with the mourners who followed the carriage, he couldn’t help but see her out of the corner of his eye.
Young and blonde, the little girl glanced around anxiously, a bewildered look on her face. Her mother walked beside her, a perfect reflection of the child: long blonde hair, dark features, and wounded eyes. Tall and slender, the mother wore a simple white dress. No black clothes. No dark veil or mournful hat. The woman was young, perhaps only a year or two older than he was, but there was something about her, something strong and wonderful.
Even in their sadness, the mother and daughter were beautiful. They walked hand in hand, the mother matching the small steps of the girl, both of them misty-eyed but determined. The child approached the grave like it was a monster.
Thunder broke behind the soldier and rolled through the trees, deep, sad, and somber, the sound echoing across the wet ground as another clap rolled and slowly faded. A cold breeze blew at his neck, raising the hair on his arms. “Please, Lord,” he prayed. “Hold up your hand. Give this family twenty minutes before you let your rains fall.” Another clap of thunder tumbled across the green, rolling hills. Another flash of lightning. But the rains didn’t fall.
The soldier looked again at the roses on the casket.
White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.
* * *
The army chaplain directed Caelyn and Ellie to a pair of wicker chairs. Ellie held onto her mother’s hand as they sat down, then leaned into her shoulder. The child’s white dress fell to her ankles and she reached down to press the wrinkles from her lap. A tiny crown of white flowers had been braided through her hair and she tugged at them gently to keep them in place.
Caelyn didn’t look at Ellie as the horse-drawn wagon came to a stop. The funeral procession moved forward and formed a half circle on one side of the grave. Ammon and Luke took up a position on the other side of the grave, Sara between them. Bono’s parents stood beside her, his father fighting to hold himself together, his mother more at peace. Someone behind Caelyn reached down and touched her face, and she leaned into the unseen hand.
Outside the small ring of family members, three young officers stood in dress uniforms, ribbons and badges upon their chests: comrades of the fallen, fellow Cherokees.
Sam moved stiffly with his brothers, his injuries flaming up from the dampness in the air. Looking down, he smiled at the young prince. The boy glanced across the grave at Ellie, then looked down at the dirt, his face clouded with shame.
His uncle had done this to them. His uncle had caused this pain.
Sam looked down and read his thoughts from the pained look in his eyes. Kneeling, he whispered to the young prince, then stood up again.
The chaplain nodded to the color guard leader and the sergeant commanded under his breath. “Element, post!” The six men moved forward in perfect step toward the carriage, taking up a position with three of them on each side of the casket. Without any verbal commands, they reached out and took the casket by the metal handles and lifted together. Nearly empty, the casket was light in their hands.
The color guard turned crisply, carried the flag-draped casket forward, and placed it over the nylon straps that had been stretched across the grave. After they had stepped back, the chaplain walked to the casket and paused, then turned to
Caelyn and her daughter. Leaning over, he offered a few words of instruction, then straightened up again.
“One of Lieutenant Calton’s brothers in arms has been asked to dedicate the grave,” he said.
Sam stepped forward. The prayer was simple and pleading, and tears flowed as he spoke. At the conclusion of his prayer, Sam turned to the casket, took a short step toward it, and placed his hand on the flag. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t move. Bowing to one knee, he touched the flag again. “You were always my hero,” he whispered through his tears. “I will love you forever. And I will never forget.” He knelt there a moment, then forced himself to stand. The chaplain moved to his side and Sam stepped back to
his place.
The chaplain straightened his uniform quickly and began to speak. Less formal than most, he spoke of simple things. Duty and honor. Bravery and truth. The obligations that came with freedom and the price that had been paid to keep a people free. Then he nodded to Caelyn and lowered his voice. “I cannot help you,” he said. “In a moment such as this, there is little comfort I can give. Indeed, were I to say too much, my words might only diminish your loss. Only time and the Lord can ease you of this pain. But though I don’t have the answers, this much I believe.
“All men will die. All men will be called upon to pass through the veil. But only a few, only a few special men, only those who have been worthy to answer a calling from God, are given the honor to die for a cause.
“And in this life, in these times, all of us will be called on to make a sacrifice. When or in what manner that sacrifice may be required, only God knows. All we can do is wait and prepare and pray that when our time comes, we will be ready to complete the task that He gives, so that when it is over, when we have done all we could, we might look to the Lord and say:
I have fought my way through,
I have finished the work Thou didst give me to do.
“If we can reach that point, if we can say these words to the Lord, then our sacrifice will be over and He will bring us home.”
The chaplain paused as he clasped his hands and looked again at Caelyn. “I am so proud of your husband,” he said in a low voice. “I am so grateful there are still men like him in this world. He fought for the freedom of others. That’s the way we do it here in America.
“And so, Mrs. Calton, I speak for a thankful nation when I tell you that we are not only grateful to your husband, we are also grateful to you. We are grateful for your sacrifice and the price you have paid. Your sacrifice is sufficient. Lieutenant
Calton is home. And I pray the Lord will bless you until you are together again.”
The chaplain stopped, took a step back, and nodded to the color guard. Two of the soldiers stepped to the casket and lifted the American flag. Another sergeant marched to the side of a huge tree, a dark oak on the hillside that would watch over the grave. The sergeant lifted a silver bugle and started playing “Taps.”
The Great and Terrible Page 168
