“None. You trust him your way, and I’ll obey him mine. And we’ll see whom he favors.”
“It’s not a competition, Nathan.”
“Of course it is. And I have the nation of Zion on my side. You came with nothing; you’ll leave with nothing, in this life and the next.”
But he was wrong. I had my salvation. I had peace, somehow. And in that moment, that was enough because I also had faith that God would show me mercy. I gave him my heart; he would give me my life.
Chapter 25
The rest of the night was little more than a dreading of the dawn. I spent most of it on my knees before the fire, pouring myself out in prayer.
“Lord, forgive my rash decisions. Keep me strong for Melissa and Lottie. I know you can restore our family to reflect your design. Father, I will follow in the steps you plan for me.”
In the depths of my being I wanted to go home. Without voicing it as prayer, my mind lingered on a vision of walking through the gateway of my father’s stone fence with Melissa and Lottie in tow. Nathan stood on the other side, watching, until my father ran from his barn, my mother close behind, and the five of us fell into each other’s arms, weeping.
But that could only happen with the grace of God. With a grateful heart, I claimed that grace, and I pleaded with the Lord to share that grace with my girls.
As the fire died down, I sought the warmth of my bed, but I willed myself to stay awake. I thought of the story of the disciples with Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. I longed to be worthy of my Savior’s praise, able to stay awake and struggle with the Holy Spirit, hoping to find some way to follow his prompting that would allow me to stay with my children.
Bring me back to them, Father. Or better yet, bring them to me.
I eventually slept in the final hours of darkness and awoke to a whimsical answer with the warmth of my girls crawling into my bed, thrusting icy feet against me.
“Papa and Aunt Amanda are already gone,” Lottie said once I’d kissed her good morning.
“Really?”
“They went to visit Uncle Kenneth,” Melissa said. “Papa seemed upset and Auntie Amanda sounded worried.”
As well they should be. If I were held in such contempt for refusing to be rebaptized, what hope did the unbaptized have in the church’s new fervor?
“We had a bowl of hot porridge to warm us up on the inside,” Lottie said. “Then Auntie Kimana told us we could get in bed with you to warm us up on the outside.”
“Well I’m very glad she did.”
“She let us have snow and molasses while you were at the meeting last night,” Melissa said.
“My goodness, how spoiled you are.”
Melissa pulled the quilt up to her chin. “I heard people talking last night. They sounded angry.”
I relived every word of the conversation before asking if she remembered what they were talking about.
“No, not all of it. Only Elder Justus yelling something about your clothes.”
“Nothing but the clothes on her back!”
I could not, in that wonderful moment, tell them all that had befallen our family the night before, but I knew my oldest daughter would not rest until she had some explanation.
“Your father and some others—they aren’t very happy with me right now.”
“Because you don’t believe the prophet?”
“Yes.” Such truth in simple answers. “And I’m leaving today, to go visit with Aunt Rachel for a little while.”
“Until they aren’t angry anymore?”
Oh, Father, wrap yourself around her heart. “Something like that, yes.”
Lottie tugged at my sleeve. “Can we come too? I love Aunt Rachel’s.”
“It’s too cold for you to travel such a distance,” I said, thankful for the handy truth. “But promise you’ll pray for me every night while I’m gone?”
They nodded, creating crackling static with their hair.
Sometimes I think if I could have any moments to relive, I would choose that morning. The girls smelling of sleep, the pocket of warmth on a frigid winter morning, and the innocent belief that we would have these days forever.
“Tell me,” I said, “what else did you and Kimana do last night? Did she say prayers with you?”
“Yes,” Melissa said. “And she told us a story about a mama fox and a bear.”
“You’re a mama fox, Mama!” Lottie brought her little hand out from under the warm blanket and touched my nose. “Only you’re not red and you don’t have a tail.”
“That’s right,” I said, playing like I was about to snap her finger between my teeth. “But you never know . . . I can be tricky.”
Melissa did not appreciate our silliness. “It was a story about a mama fox who leaves to find food for her kits because it’s cold and snowy and they have none. And when she didn’t come back, they cried and cried until a mama bear heard them.”
I conjured Kimana’s soothing, flat voice, hearing every word through the sweet retelling from my daughter. My own was scratchy and dry, more so now as the Indian woman’s myth took on new meaning. “What did the mama bear do?”
“She went to their den—”
“But she couldn’t fit all the way because her bottom was too big!” Lottie exploded into giggles, quite pleased with being able to deliver her favorite line of the story. Melissa had no patience for such foolishness.
“Well, of course she couldn’t. She was a bear.”
“So—” I strained for a casual lilt—“what finally happened?”
Lottie took a deep breath, but it was Melissa who charged in. “The mama bear just stuck her head inside because that’s all that would fit. She used her breath to keep them warm and her body to block out the cold. So when the mama fox came back, they were safe.”
My eyes filled with tears, but I whisked them away before the girls could see them. “Well, wasn’t that a lovely story for a snowy night?”
“You’re going away, just like the mama fox in the story,” Lottie said.
“And Kimana’s the mama bear who’s going to take care of us,” Melissa added sagely.
“Because she has a big bottom too,” Lottie giggled, and despite the cloak of trepidation hovering over that day, I joined in. That Kimana could have known what story to tell that night made God’s plan and path so clear. She would care for my children, not only keeping them warm and safe but covering them in prayer breathed by the Holy Spirit.
I gathered them close to me and kissed each cheek before playfully pushing them out of my bed. “Now, go see if Kimana has a big fire in the front room. You can take your clothes and get dressed in there.”
“Yes, Mama,” they chorused as they climbed out.
How I wished for such a fire, as my cold-stiffened fingers worked the same buttons that gave so little resistance the night before. Was it only the night before? How was it that one night could drain away everything that had sustained me for so long? I worked my hairbrush through the matted mess of tangles, just enough that I could create three sections to plait into a loose braid, which I left hanging straight. If nothing else, I could keep the back of my neck warm.
In the front room, my half-naked girls glowed pink in the light of the fire. Kimana was at her familiar place by the stove, and I walked right to her, wrapping my arms around her ample waist, and laid my head on her shoulder.
“Good morning, mama bear,” I whispered.
“They told you the story.”
“How did you know? Even I didn’t . . .” But that wasn’t true. On some level I think I’d known since the day Nathan came home.
“I told you. The night before the first snow. God sends me a vision.”
“But I’m not leaving in the spring. I’m leaving today.”
“I think my vision is not about you going away. God gives me a vision for the spring. My vision is the fox returning to her nest. In the spring, you come home.”
I glanced at the girls, relieved to see their backs to me as Melissa buttoned
Lottie’s dress, because I was on the very verge of collapse, my chin quivering, my words something between a choke and a whisper. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want Elder Justus to drive me away like some criminal.”
“This is the path God has left for you. Follow his steps.” She reached for her ladle, filled a bowl with porridge, and handed it to me. I held it, more grateful for the warmth in my hands than the promise of food. Kimana kept her bright brown eyes focused on me.
“You are going to the great city?”
“For now, yes.” To throw myself on Rachel’s mercy.
“You do not need a swift horse to go to the great city. You need only your two legs.”
“I can’t walk to Salt Lake City in the snow.”
Kimana shrugged. “So take a horse. One that Mr. Nathan will want to bring back home.”
I felt it as she spoke. Freedom. I did not need to be carried back in the arms of the one who betrayed me; I did not need to be driven by my oppressor. I’d been set free from all that bound me to this place. I could take myself away. And I could bring myself back to gather my children, leading an army if I had to.
But then . . . “What if he won’t let me go?” I don’t know if I meant Nathan or Elder Justus.
Kimana shrugged. “Leave before you can ask.”
* * *
I chose carefully—every stocking and petticoat I owned, two dresses. No room for my shawl, but Rachel had a plethora, and I wouldn’t be above asking one of the other wives if it meant being warm. I moved swiftly, telling myself I was not running away. I was not abandoning my daughters.
“It’s an expedition.”
Still, Elder Justus’s voice echoed in my head. “Nothing but the clothes on her back.” I held Amanda’s Bible and remembered what Nathan said I had brought into the marriage.
“Nothing.”
Not nothing. I’d brought my heart and my faith and my trust that he worshiped the true God. That and my journal. I leafed through the pages, one verse standing out:
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
In truth, though, it was the belief of my childhood that drew me back, although this day, I felt I’d almost become a man, for only a man could so easily get on a horse and ride away. And I knew God would direct my path.
I’d brought the notebook with me, but I would not take it now. I would leave it for my daughters—a part of me until I could read the Word of God with them again. Nor would I take Amanda’s Bible. I did, however, venture into the room she shared with Nathan and, after a little bit of foraging, managed to find the small, blue, latched book that had been a gift to me on the day of my wedding.
“Forgive me if I take this one thing.” I spoke to the empty bed.
When I emerged, bag in hand, Melissa and Lottie were seated at the table with a pile of rabbit skins.
“Auntie Kimana says we can make winter coats for Lilly and Rose,” Melissa said.
“She’s going to help with the stitching,” Lottie said, swaddling Lilly in a pelt.
“And hats, too. If there’s time.”
“It will be a good way to pass the time today,” Kimana said. “Time goes fast when hands move most.”
“How wonderful!” I nearly shouted in my attempt at cheer. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“If Papa lets us come to Aunt Rachel’s, we’ll bring them. She’ll think they’re so pretty.”
“She will. And that will keep them warm for the ride.”
I felt guilty, almost, for tearing them away from their project to say good-bye. Each girl dutifully got up to give me a hug, and it took every ounce of control I had not to sweep them up with me to carry out the door.
I can still feel the way my arms doubled up as I wrapped them around their little bodies. They smelled of brown sugar and snow, and there’s a particular place on my cheek where the coldness of Lottie’s nose pierced when she kissed me.
“How long until we see you, Mama?”
“Only the Lord knows that, my Missy. If you’ll pray with your auntie Kimana every night, he’ll tell you.”
“Can I pray with Papa, too?”
“Of course you can. He needs you to.”
I glanced outside to see Honey already saddled. Her breath puffed from her nose in great bits of steam, and it relieved me to see that the snow barely reached her forelocks. We might come across some deeper drifts, but I was small, and she was a strong, prancing thing. We were matched in spirit.
Kimana held my coat out, and I backed into it. Like a child, I stood very still as she fastened the buttons, wrapped a woolen scarf up past my mouth, and tugged a tight woolen cap over my hair. My gloves were leather, lined with fur, and once they were on, I felt completely disguised. I knew Kimana could see only my eyes, and I hoped they conveyed the depth of my heart when my words got lost within the folds of the muffler.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We’d never spoken such words to each other, and yet in that moment, I could not have felt them more strongly for any person other than my own children.
She closed her eyes and lifted her hand. Her palm hovered an inch from my face, and she began to chant what sounded like one long, extended syllable, her lips never closing against each other until she came to the end.
“It is a blessing of my people, that the path you follow will rise up to bring you home. God be with you, my daughter.”
God be with me, indeed.
The first sting of cold morning air brought tears to my eyes, and I held a gloved hand up to shield them from the sun. I fastened my bag and swung myself up in the saddle. I’d ridden her only a few times, and from her reaction, Honey was not immediately happy to have me astride. I clicked to her gently as I’d heard Nathan do, and by the time we reached the first white, swelling hill, we’d grown used to each other. I kept a keen eye out for Nathan and Amanda, knowing my initial direction would take me past the route to the overseer’s cabin at the mouth of the quarry, but I saw not a soul. I don’t know if God was hiding me from the Saints or if he was hiding them from me. Honey and I picked our way across the snow; I used familiar landmarks to identify the buried road to Salt Lake City. This clump of trees. That rock. As long as the sun was in the sky, I would be able to gauge my direction—north. Our pace was slower than I’d hoped, though, and by the time the sun reached full noon, I began to worry that we might not arrive before dark.
“Good girl, Honey,” I said, leaning forward in the saddle to pat her neck.
My eyes burned with the glare of the snow, and my breath began to crystallize on the muffler wrapped up to my nose. I began to ride with one hand holding the reins and the other tucked inside my armpit, alternating at the count of one hundred. I wore three pairs of socks, but at some point I pulled Honey to a halt, hopped off, and pulled a petticoat out of my satchel. I ripped it into thick strips and wrapped the material over the top of my boots, creating another layer of warmth. It meant my feet fit poorly in the stirrups, but we were moving at a slow, easy gait.
I fought drowsiness by stopping to scoop handfuls of snow into my mouth—shocked into alertness until long after it melted. I spoke to Honey, quoting all the Bible verses I could remember and paraphrasing those I couldn’t. I kept the image of my daughters forever in front of me, planning our future. I would arrive at Rachel’s door, half-frozen and deserving of her pity, if not her approval. I would stay the winter in Salt Lake City, finding work where I could. Laundress, perhaps, or cook. Certainly an apostate could be worthy of such manual labor.
It was in the midst of such a vision that I realized my eyes no longer stung. I panicked, thinking evening had fallen, and I was nowhere near Salt Lake City. Nowhere near anything. Not a cabin, not a puff of smoke. But the sky did not have the hue of sunset; it had turned gray. Where before I could look out on the horizon and see a clear line where the white of snow met the blue of sky, now
all merged into this one colorless shade.
“But it’s blue behind the gray,” I said out loud to Honey. “Remember that.”
Then I heard it. A hum at first, and I remembered what it felt like to lay my head upon my husband’s chest and listen to his laughter. The humming grew, and what had been a harmless, soft, distant gray wall took on life and speed and sound.
Lord, no!
If Honey and I were on course, the storm was coming from the north. Northwest, actually—off the lake. Sensing danger, Honey came to a stop, waiting for my command. My heart went out to this poor creature, caught up in my rash decision. But for my pride she would be safe in her barn, and I would be safe at home.
Or I’d be facing this storm in the cutter with Elder Justus.
Either way, God was throwing a wall between me and Salt Lake City, and I knew enough of grace to know he would forgive my impetuousness and guide me to another path.
I tugged on Honey’s rein and turned her around. To my delight, there was our home, Lottie and Melissa playing run-ribbons on the fresh green grass.
“No!” I shook my head and welcomed the sight of solid gray.
Honey pranced, venturing a few steps on her own. I saw a clearing dotted with a dozen cold fire pits. A gust of wind slammed against us, scattering the ashes.
“Zion.” I gave a decisive yank to the reins and dug my padded boots into Honey’s side. She reared up and broke into the fastest run she could manage. The sting of snow pelted my face, even though she carried me through a dark forest as I ran, ran to warn Nathan. To tell him my father was going to kill him. Kill them all.
“Nathan, go!” But my warning was swallowed up in the snow, the force of the storm nearly knocking me out of the saddle.
I heard nothing but the roar of the wind, punctuated by the laughter of my daughters. Pure white enveloped me, and I thought about the white stones of the temple. How envious they would be, those Saints, to know that I was a spire in the midst of God’s creation.
Honey struggled beneath me, her muscles straining to keep us upright. My legs gripped her, I’d long since dropped the reins. Then, in the next gust, she was gone. For just a few seconds, I swirled with the snow—free. When I fell, I knew only that the earth was beneath me now, though I had no idea if I’d landed with my face buried in snow or raised to the sky. I might have stayed there, if not for Honey’s gentle nudging. I somehow found her bridle, then grasped her mane and pulled myself to my feet.
For Time and Eternity Page 28
