Spirit Pouch (3 page)

He says that the spiritual challenges that we face today, of immorality, drugs, and the technological distractions of television, internet, and movie houses require no less faith to overcome than did the challenges that the pioneers faced.

I know one thing as I listen to Brother Jorgensen.  I am glad that I am not a pioneer.  The blizzards of ice and snow suffered by the Mormon pioneers sounds far worse than the storms of pornography and immorality today.

Besides, walking through rain and mud is not my thing.  I have just finished behind-the-wheel driver training and I am now the proud bearer of a driving permit.  No.  A pioneer’s life is not for me.  I am sure of that!

After the sacrament meeting is over I escort Lyn and Sarah to Sunday school class.

“Come on, Ty,” Sarah calls as we pass him at the back of the chapel.  She smiles and her invitation seems irresistible.  “We’ll show you where Sunday school class is.”

“Nah.  I … I mean … I can find my way,” he stammers.

Sarah’s smile fades immediately to disappointment and she turns her face away quickly, but not before I catch a fleeting glimpse of her wounded feelings.

We walk down the hallway to our class and Ty finds his way just like he said he would, following about twenty feet behind us.

It seems to me that Sunday school class was more of a social hour than a class.  The young women and young men automatically segregate and sit on opposite sides of the small class room.  I think no one wants to appear as if he likes a girl by sitting next to her, especially if he does not really like her.  But even so, a steady murmur of conversation floats around the room and never really ceases even during the lesson.  Once in a while I feel guilty and try to listen to the teacher.  I even answer a question or two and read a scripture out of the
Doctrine and Covenants
, but the floating conversation and social interactions are far more enticing.

I am glad when Sunday school is over and we go to priesthood meeting.  Brother Gibson announces the stake dance coming up next Saturday night, and reminds us that we will need dance cards to get in.

Ty looks at me with a question.

“If you don’t have a dance card,” I say, “you can get one from a member of the bishopric at Mutual on Wednesday.”

Chapter Two

Spirit Pouch

Family
Home Evening is short tonight as usual.  Since I am the only priesthood holder in our small family of two, Mom says that it is my responsibility to conduct Home Evening.  Besides giving her a standing assignment to make refreshments, I ask Patricia C. Taggart to offer the opening prayer, but of course I call her Mom.  She never uses the ‘C’ in her name but I know it is there.  It stands for Cottle, her maiden name.  Mom says I should appreciate the Cottle family line.  They come from strong pioneer stock.

We have an opening song and a prayer, and then read from the book of Mosiah.  I say the closing prayer and ask for a way to help Ty Smith to hear the gospel and accept it.

“That was a nice prayer,” Mom says.

“I hope He hears it,” I say.  “I’ve been trying to be more sincere in the things I ask for.”

“He will.  I know that Heavenly Father listens to prayers.”  Mom looks wistfully away in the distance, then ricochets back.  “But sometimes He answers them in unexpected ways.”

She pauses for a moment to let the thought soak in and I am going to ask, “What do you mean?”  But she continues with an obviously lightened voice.  “Jared, I have something for you.”

“What?”

“It is a treasure that I have been meaning to give to you.”  Mom gets up and leaves me sitting on the couch. 
A treasure!
My mind produces images of gold doubloons salvaged from a sunken Spanish ship. 
A treasure!  No, not doubloons.  Antique jewelry.  That’s it!  Antique jewelry.  That’s more my mom’s style.

Mom comes back into the room and I admit that I am a little disappointed that she is not dragging a treasure box wrapped in chains behind her.  Instead, she holds out a small brown leather bag.

“It’s more of a tradition, I suppose,” she says.  “Here, I want you to have it.”

I reach out and accept the strange gift.  “What is it?” I ask, turning it over in my hand and feeling the texture.  The leather is wrinkled, but the surface is still soft despite a thousand tiny cracks which divulge its age.  One side appears to be singed as if by fire but is totally intact even so.

“It is called a spirit pouch.”

I look up at my mom to see if she is feeling okay.  She looks a little distant, like she is thinking about something far away.  “Sit down, Mom.”

She does.

“Now tell me what this is again?”

“A spirit pouch.  It …”

“It looks like a marble bag,” I smile and glance at my mom.

“It’s not a toy,” Mom explains.  “It’s a … well … a reminder of your heritage.”

“Huh?”

“One of your ancestors born back in the 1800’s is part Sioux Indian, and so this spirit pouch is part of your heritage.”

I untie the drawstrings on the leather pouch and look inside.  Glancing again at Mom, I carefully pour out the contents.  Onto the short table in front of the couch flow a small white stone, a pinto bean, an old beaded bracelet, a tiny glass vial with a tight fitting cork, and lastly, a slender gray feather.

“The legend is that there was one particular Sioux Indian, probably a medicine man, who would express his desire to the Great Spirit while holding the spirit pouch.  According to the stories recited and passed down from generation to generation, the Great Spirit would grant this medicine man’s desire, if it was righteous.”

“Does it work?” I ask as thoughts of treasure again float across my mind.

“I tried it once, and it didn’t work,” Mom confesses.  “But, of course, I’m not a medicine man and not all of the items inside the bag are the original, authentic articles.  The leather pouch is authentic, however.  It once belonged to a medicine man.  At least that is what my mother told me.  So just think of it as a symbol of our heritage.  Something you can pass on to one of your kids some day.”

“So this was handed down from Grandma Cottle?” I ask in astonishment.

“Yes,” Mom smiles.

Then it really is an heirloom
, I thought. 
And coming from my own grandmother makes it a treasure.  A strange sort of treasure
, I admit,
but it is awesome.
  A kind of lump swells up in my throat as I think about the gift and I have to swallow hard.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say quietly.

I gather up the items and drop them carefully one by one into the bag.  I walk to my room and set the pouch onto my dresser, then roll onto my bed. 
What if it really worked?  What if you could ask for anything
 
… righteous, of course?

“Jared.  Did you forget about refreshments?” Mom calls from the kitchen.  All thoughts of the spirit pouch flee, at least for the moment.

Tuesday

Tuesday morning English Literature class is okay considering the fact that it is English Literature taught by Old Mrs. Harris.  We take turns reading passages from
Romeo and Juliet
and every now and then we pause to discuss symbolism or metaphors.  I have a difficult time concentrating on the impending tragedy that Romeo will face when I have an impending tragedy of my own.  My first geometry test is less than two weeks away.  I am going to need some help to keep from failing math.  What I need is a tutor.

The passing bell rings and Mrs. Harris says, “Don’t forget your homework assignment on the board.”

I grab my notebook and slide Shakespeare under my arm as I stand up.  Jeff stands up, too, but looks straight past me at Ty.

“Nice earrings,” Jeff taunts sarcastically.  “They definitely make you look … ah … more pretty.”  Jeff chuckles and walks away.

“When did you get your ears pierced?” I ask as I walk with Ty out of Old Mrs. Harris’ room and we head for the seminary building.  I decide not to say that I agree with Jeff, that the blue studs do make him appear more feminine and, I guess you could say, more pretty.

“Why?  Are you writing a book or something?”

“It doesn’t matter.  I was just curious, that’s all,” I say.  My attempt to start a conversation certainly does not begin well.

“If you must know, I got them pierced last night, after school at the mall,” Ty finally admits after we have walked in silence for a short distance.

“Ty,” I say looking at him seriously.  “Would you consider tutoring me in geometry?  We have an exam in ten days and I need some help.”

“You’re not smart enough,” he answers bluntly.  “I don’t want to waste my time.”

“Smart kids don’t
need
tutoring,” I say, letting a little bit of anger and disgust slip into my voice.  I know I am not as smart as most kids in my grade, or at least I know that I do not grasp mathematical concepts easily, but to be bluntly told by a fellow student that I am dumb is extremely insulting. 
If I weren’t such a humble guy,
I laugh at myself,
I would tell Ty Smith off right here.  I would tell him that I wouldn’t take his help even if he begs.

“I’ll think about it,” Ty answers as we reach the door to the seminary building.

“Thanks,” I say, kind of shocked.  “Don’t take too long.  I’ve only got ten days!”

Saturday

I feel pretty smug as I enter the front door to the stake center Saturday night.  I am wearing my dark green Sunday slacks and a white T-shirt with a short sleeve, unbuttoned green checkered shirt over the top.  My black shoes are freshly polished to a mirror-like luster, and my hair is perfect, not a single strand out of place.  And a wisp of my mother’s unscented hair spray will keep it there.

I hand Sister McClair my dance card.

She smiles, “Sign in right here and have a good time tonight.”

“I will.”  I have no problem promising that.  Tonight is going to be great.

The lights are dim in the dance hall, but I spot Matt and Chris right away.  Jeff is just coming off the dance floor as the next song starts.  It is a swing and I can feel the beat practically lift my feet.

As I swing my way toward Matt and Chris, I spot Lyn.  She isn’t hard to spot, being the prettiest girl in the building.  She has curled her hair and is wearing a light green dress, which makes her eyes sparkle even in the dim light.

I say hello to Matt and Chris, then scoot over and ask Lyn to dance.  We are just getting into a new twirl where Lyn will spin right up into my arms, when the swing song ends.

I walk with her off the main dance floor.

“Thanks for asking me to dance,” she smiles.

“You’re welcome.  It was fun.”  At that moment my eyes focus on a young man seated along the wall.  He has a patch of bright fire engine red hair on one side of otherwise solid black.  It takes me a moment to recognize him.

“Hey, is that Ty Smith?” I ask a little perplexed.

“With red in his hair?” Lyn replies.

“Yeah!”

“That’s him,” Lyn says without turning to look.

“Come on.  I need to go say hi.”

“Go ahead without me,” she says quietly.  “I’m going over by Sarah.”

She starts to leave, but then adds, “Ask me to dance again on the next swing.  That was fun.”

“Okay.”

I turn and find a seat next to Ty.  “Hi,” I say loud enough to be heard above the new song that is starting.

“Hi, Jet,” he replies without even looking at me.

A Mia Maid that I recognize from the Ajo Ward walks up to Ty.  “Would you like to dance?” Brittany asks.

“I guess,” he replies standing up unenthusiastically.  “But don’t get too close.  I don’t want all that lipstick on my shirt.”

Brittany stares at Ty with a disgusted look.  “Never mind,” she says backing off.  “I won’t be getting anywhere near your immaculate shirt.”  She turns sharply, flipping her brown hair defiantly off her shoulders and walks away.

Ty sits back down.

“Hey, what happened to those … ah …”  I want to say ‘cute’, but I restrain myself, “earrings?”

“In my pocket,” he sounds irritated.  “They wouldn’t let me in wearing them.”

“No, I guess not.  But they let you in with red dye in your hair?”

“Bleached and then dyed,” he corrects, still not looking at me.

I follow his gaze, but I can guess to where it will lead without even looking.  Sarah Hansen is walking off the dance floor giggling and laughing.  Even I will admit that she would make a fine catch someday for a lucky young man.

“Just go ask her to dance,” I say nonchalantly.

“I did!”

“Did you tell her you didn’t want lipstick on your shirt, too.”

“No, I didn’t get a chance.  She turned me down flat.”

“Oh!” I say a little surprised.  “You’re probably not
smart
enough to get Sarah Hansen to like you.”  I guess I am still bruised from being called stupid when I asked Ty for tutoring four days ago.  It doesn’t feel like a bruise, though.  It feels more like an open gash from the razor sharp edge of a Nadessioux knife.  I get up and without turning to look back, I walk straight over to Sarah Hansen.

“Would you dance with me?” I ask with a forced smile.

“Sure.”

She lifts her hand and I take it, guiding her gracefully onto the dance floor.  We spin smoothly around the dance floor, rocking left and right to the gentle beat of the slow music.

“Ty wanted to dance with you,” I say as the music comes to a stop and we walk off the dance floor.

“I know,” she says with a fleeting painful expression.

I don’t say more, but she volunteers.  “He has changed since that first day in seminary, I mean with earrings, and now with dyed hair.  I guess I want to be friends with someone who will go on a mission, and who will hold the Melchizedek Priesthood and who will take me to the temple.  Ty looks like he joined a gang!”  She winces again, “So I turned him down.”

“I understand,” I say smiling.  “Thanks for the dance.”

I turn to look at Ty but he is gone and I do not see him the rest of the evening.