A gasp rises from Kazim’s followers. This old man has announced that Siyyid Kazim will soon die, on the day of ‘Arafih, which—though they do not know it—corresponds to the last day of the year on the Christian calendar.
The shepherd continues. “I do not understand the last part of the Prophet’s message. He said that I should tell you, Soon after, He who is the Truth shall be made manifest. Then shall the world be illuminated by the light of His face.”
Having pronounced his ominous message, the old man sits on the ground. Grieved at the news of their master’s death sentence, the students begin to weep.
“There is no doubt as to the truth of your dream,” Kazim says to the shepherd and then turns to his weeping followers. “And as for you—why do you weep and groan? Did you not hear the good news? The appearance of the Promised One is at hand. Why are you sad? Would you not wish me to die, that the Promised One may be revealed?”
The weeping stops. Siyyid Kazim tenderly embraces the old shepherd.
One of the students says, “It’s not fair that after all your work you will not live to see the prophecy fulfilled.”
Smiling, Kazim turns to the young speaker and says, “From what other seat would you rather witness such a glorious day?”
In Rochester, by lunchtime on the day of Winnie’s dream, Edith Talbot has spread the news of her daughter’s most recent vision to most of her friends. The Evangelicals are buzzing with excitement; surely the dream means something. By three o’clock, a group of churchmen track down Reverend Crenshaw and corner him in his kitchen. “What is the meaning of the oracle’s dream?” they all ask at once. The churchmen look to the Reverend as their advent advisor, a fount of mystical wisdom about the end times.
“I don’t like the word oracle,” the Reverend says. “Winnie’s a child of God—a bit odd, but many of the prophets of old were a bit off plumb, too. Sometimes I think that those with special, uh, mental aberrations—as it were—possess a gift, or an openness to receiving God’s word.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” says Pastor Phelps of the Congregational Church. He is impatient. “But does this dream have anything to do with the Return of Christ? The year is almost gone, and we’re still waiting!”
Reverend Crenshaw, now sixty pounds lighter than his previous self, rises nimbly to his feet as if about to take the pulpit. He begins to pace.
“I believe the dream does pertain to His return, yes. Why would God be communicating to us now if not to speak about the Second Coming? It is logical that this dream is meant to reveal something profound about that great event.”
“So who is the man beneath the palm tree?” demands Felix Shims, a deacon at the Methodist Church. “And why is he happy if he’s going to die on New Year’s Eve?”
“And who is this person who is coming after this fellow dies?” asks the Baptist minister.
“Here’s what I believe,” the Reverend says. “The palm tree represents Christianity. Did not Christ ride into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, symbolically introducing Christianity to the world?”
The churchmen all nod yes. This makes sense.
“And the man beneath the palm tree, beneath that symbol of Christianity, must represent all Christians!”
The churchmen murmur approval. Why had they not seen this?
Felix Shims, however, is troubled by the Reverend’s interpretation. “Are you saying that Christianity is going to die at the end of this year?” he says.
“My dear friend,” the Reverend replies jovially, “in this dream, death must surely represent the death of this wicked world in which we live. The Christian beneath the palm tree is happy because the end of this world means the beginning of the reign of Christ. Did not Winnie say that the man was happy because the one he is waiting for—and I can only suggest that he is waiting for the return of Christ—will come soon after?”
“Astonishing!” remarks the Baptist minister. “It makes sense.”
But Felix Shims is not satisfied. “Wait just a minute here, Reverend,” he says. His brow is furrowed. “If the world comes to an end on New Year’s Eve, then how can Christ come soon after? My understanding is that Christ’s return is what brings about the end of the world. Doesn’t that mean that He will have to come right before, rather than soon after?”
The churchmen grow silent. Perhaps they had agreed with the Reverend too soon.
Reverend Crenshaw scratches his head. “You raise a good point, Felix,” he says, buying time to think. In a flash it comes to him. Of course!
“But then again, would you not all agree that we must die before we can be resurrected?” the Reverend asks.
Everyone agrees.
“And that our old nature must die before we can be born again in Christ?”
Again, there is no dissent.
“Then, my friends, does it not hold that the world must die before Christ returns? Is he not the life giver? This is the true meaning of the dream. On New Year’s Eve, the world will die—spiritually or symbolically or in reality, I don’t know which—but the world will die, and we will know it when it does. And shortly thereafter, Christ will return in the Glory of the Father to bring life abundant to believers in Him.”
Spontaneous applause greets his creative output. Not until after supper will it occur to the Reverend that he has set a precise date for the end of the world.
Chapter 37
Through the window of the Rochester Inn, Ollie can see the November snow descending in a suffocating fury. Ollie sits across a pine table from newspaperman Thomas Sharp. It is not the icy wind whistling through the cracked window pane that causes Ollie to shiver; it is the harrowing tale being spun by the editor of the Warsaw Signal.
“Since the death of your friend Horace Carter, you’ve been living in terror,” Ollie summarizes as Sharp stops his monologue to sip his coffee.
“Unfortunately, I can’t prove that the Mormons were responsible for his death, though I’ve tried.”
“You could be wrong.”
“You don’t know these people the way I do. Horace was a Mormon, then left the Faith. This is unforgiveable to them. Their secret Avenging Angels track down apostates and spill their blood on the soil, believing that only this can redeem their traitorous souls in the eyes of God.”
“If they are the murderous lot you make them out to be, why have they not killed you? Why stop at intimidation?”
“Believe me, there are nights when I wish they would burst into my room and spill my blood, just to get it over with. I feel like a man who’s been marching for months toward the gallows. On the streets I sometimes see them staring. Some nights I hear footsteps outside the window. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“What could be worse?”
“Their intimidation has had the desired effect. It has rendered my pen impotent.”
“I think you over-dramatize your surrender. In the past weeks I’ve read your articles and I would not characterize your writing as timid.”
“Ahhh, but you don’t know the words that were not written!”
“I do know, however, what you did write. I’ve followed your articles… dare I say religiously? You criticized the formation of the Nauvoo Legion.”
“To no avail. It may now be the most powerful army in the land. Who could have known that when Joseph Smith moved his band of outcasts to Nauvoo, that mosquito-infested hell-hole would become a military headquarters.”
“You decried the Nauvoo city charter that authorized the Legion, and Joseph Smith’s land transactions. You’ve denounced their prophet himself… and his excessive power.”
“Excessive power seems almost too modest a description for someone who is mayor, lieutenant-general of the Nauvoo Legion, presiding judge of the highest city court, land speculator, and political boss. But I have not protested a new ordinance passed by the Nauvoo city council that allows the city to review all state arrest orders! This puts more than power in the hands of Mr. Smith. It makes him essentially exempt from civil law!
”
“Then you must write your conscience,” Ollie says.
Thomas Sharp pulls a wrinkled piece of paper out of his coat pocket and puts it on the table. His eyes urge Ollie to read it. “I have written my conscience,” Sharp explains. “But I lack the courage to publish it. I believe that my health depends on my silence in this matter.”
Ollie reads some of the written words aloud: “Now we ask our citizens; what think you of this barefaced defiance of our laws by the City Council of Nauvoo, and if persisted in, what must be the final result?”
“Violence.” Sharp replies, answering the question he had written. “I believe violence may be inevitable. I have it from a most trustworthy source that Joseph Smith is going to write a letter to several of the candidates for the United States presidency. He will be asking them if they are willing to validate and sustain Mormon rights with federal power.”
“I can’t believe that any candidate would agree to such a thing.”
“Probably not, but Mr. Smith has the entire Mormon vote to pledge. If they all refuse, however, I understand that Smith is prepared to declare himself a candidate.”
“Joseph Smith? President of the United States?”
“His ambition knows no bounds. And for every decision he makes, he can testify that God revealed to him indisputable divine guidance.”
Ollie stops to think about this. “Have you wondered if the man truly is a prophet?”
“Oliver, he is a polygamist. His followers kill people for heresy.”
Ollie again stops to think. This description sounds like the great mujtahids of Islam. These wise men certainly were not prophets, and they represented a counterfeit religion. Only Christianity, of which Mormonism most certainly is a clever perversion, bears the stamp of authenticity.
“Your grudge with the Mormons is a political one,” Ollie says at last. “My dispute with Joseph Smith is purely religious.”
“Personally, Oliver, I don’t care if your dispute is over the color of his eyes. The anti-Mormon movement needs every man of influence it can find. Your stories appear in many newspapers. You could help make the case for controlling this madman.”
Ollie stares across the table at Thomas Sharp. “If you publish this story”—he holds up Sharp’s wrinkled article—“I will help.”
“You drive a hard bargain. It’s my life on the line, you know.” Sharp extends his hand, almost tipping over the oil lantern that burns brightly in the center of the table.
Ollie takes the man’s hand and shakes it once, firmly.
Chapter 38
Over the next month Ollie weakly honors his agreement with Thomas Sharp by publishing several articles critical of the Mormons. In Ollie’s mind, though, the Mormon issue fades daily as the world seems to rapidly pitch toward the Second Coming. Every conversation and each prayer anticipates that auspicious event. Reverend Crenshaw has assured everyone that Christ will return by the end of the year—before the start of 1844, he has promised. Though no one will put a date or time on His Glorious Return, the Rochester Christians almost universally look to New Year’s Eve as the perfect occasion.
In the week following Christmas, emotions begin to erupt. The clock is ticking down. Many Christians report that they can’t sleep. Many non-Christians suddenly declare their belief in Jesus and beg forgiveness for their lives of slumber and sin. Prayers rise like a continuous mist from the city and surrounding villages. Work all but ceases. Procrastinating wives and daughters sew white ascension robes. Apocalyptic nightmares cause brave husbands and sons to tremble and scream. Many farmers say their animals are growing restless. A waitress in Rochester breaks down sobbing and has to be sedated by Doc Anderson. The bell ringer at the Baptist church begins singing a hymn and can’t be stopped.
On New Year’s Eve, the whole family gathers at Ollie’s house for the Big Event. Except for Jonathon, they are all wearing white ascension robes. The afternoon passes slowly with the offering of many prayers and the singing of many solemn hymns. Isaac can feel his gut tightening in anticipation of the Appearance of Jesus in the clouds. It could come at any time now.
As the sun sets and darkness envelopes the farm, Phebe offers to make some supper. “I’m sure everyone is hungry by now,” she says.
“Phebe, we have no need for food, my dear,” Reverend Crenshaw says. “Come and sit by me. These old bodies of ours will soon be called up to a place where food has no meaning.”
Ollie cradles his wife on the sofa. “You’re trembling,” he says. “Afraid?”
“I don’t think so,” Alice replies. “A little maybe. Excited mostly.”
“When He comes,” the Reverend explains with great confidence, “we will wonder why we were ever nervous about it, so wonderful it will be.”
Phebe takes her husband’s hand and squeezes it. “Still, I’m a little scared.”
“So we will be able to enter heaven without dying,” Isaac says. “Just like Ezekiel.”
Jonathon is preparing his camera for the event. He is quite certain that he will not be going anywhere with his friends. In fact, he is quite sure that no one will be leaving the farm this evening. At the start of the New Year, 1844, he will take a picture of the friends he is with, just as he has for the past two years. And if by some chance his friends vanish, he will make a self-portrait and title it “I Was Wrong.”
For a few minutes the crackle of the fireplace is the only sound in the house. Reverend Crenshaw takes out a pocket watch, studies it, and then puts it away. “Less than four hours on this earth,” he says.
A loud knock on the door interrupts them.
Phebe shrieks. Isaac scurries across the floor to sit by Ollie. They stare at the front door. Is this how it will happen? A knock on the door to collect them for their journey to heaven?
Another knock! Louder.
Bravely, Ollie stands and walks to the door. “Who is it?” he asks.
“Edith Talbot. And Winnie,” a voice replies.
Ollie opens the door and the two Talbots enter with a cold wind. Nine-year-old Winnie, the local oracle, stomps her feet to clear off the caked snow.
“We got here as soon as we could,” Edith says excitedly. “Didn’t know where else to go.” She turns to Reverend Crenshaw. “Thought you would be here tonight, Reverend. Glad you’re all here.”
Ollie escorts them into the center of the room. “Please, take off your coats,” he says.
“No, we don’t have time.”
“For goodness sake, Edith, what’s this all about?” the Reverend says.
Edith turns to the old man. “It’s Winnie, sir. She’s had another vision.”
The Reverend stands and approaches Winnie, then turns to look at the faces of his family as if to say, “It’s beginning.” Winnie is absolutely calm, but the Reverend’s eyes reveal a nervousness that was not present before.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Reverend. It’s wonderful,” Winnie says.
“How is it wonderful, Winnie?”
“I saw a cloud in the night sky that was filled with lights. It flashed bright, and the lights rolled around inside it. And then the dark sky started to glow, and a wind started up. I could feel it on my face, and even though it was cold outside, the wind was warm. I looked away for just a second, and when I looked back a hundred angels were starting to gather around the cloud. Maybe a thousand. I think they’re getting ready for Jesus.”
These words penetrate Reverend Crenshaw and the strength goes out of his legs, which buckle. On his knees he raises his hands and shouts, “It’s true. He is coming at last!”
They do not feel the frigid air as they race out of the house into the moonlit night like white ghosts. Jonathon trails them with his camera and tripod.
Storm clouds have eerily gathered on the horizon like a bunched-up shroud. The clouds roll ominously and threaten to obscure the full moon just beyond them.
“Quickly now,” the Reverend urges, “Up onto the barn.” He and Isaac lift a wooden ladder from th
e side of the barn, setting it upright against the roof. “Careful now.” The Reverend climbs the ladder first. Once he is on the roof he turns and helps Phebe off the ladder, then Alice. Edith and Winnie are next, followed by Isaac.
Edith places her left foot on a patch of ice and begins to slip, but Isaac catches her dress and she regains her footing.
It seems to Ollie that being a few feet closer to heaven is not much of an advantage. Besides, heights bother him. “I’m staying down here,” he replies. He turns to see his friend setting up a camera and flash pot. “With Jonathon,” he adds.
The roof dwellers find places to sit. The Reverend turns to the oracle and says, “Winnie, do you see any clouds that look like the ones in your vision?”
The girl scans the horizon. “Not yet,” she says, “but they’re changing real fast.”
“And they’re quickly coming towards us,” Alice says. For the first time, seated there in the winter chill, she feels cold. She wishes that Ollie were there to put his arms around her.
For five minutes, nothing happens. The sky watchers begin to shiver.
“Anything, Winnie?” the Reverend asks hopefully.
The girls shakes her head no.
“Let me get your coats!” Ollie yells, but he is shushed by the others. He looks up at the sky. Just to the east is a growing mountain of clouds. It looks like a thunderhead, rare as that would be in winter.
“There!” Winnie says, pointing to the thunderhead. “There!”
All heads swivel to look in the direction of her finger. The cloud formation is both frightening and awe-inspiring. It tumbles and tilts. And then it happens.
A single flash!
Then more lights. They’re in the clouds. They dance.
The Reverend stands up. “It’s time!” he shouts. “Just like Winnie said!” And then he helps Phebe up. Alice is still grasping her knees, too mesmerized to stand. Isaac helps Edith and Winnie to their feet.
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