The Wishing Star (24 page)

“Oh, my dear Jenny!” In mock horror he threw himself to his knees beside her. “I implore you, marry me, marry me so that I can keep you silenced forever. With trinkets and baubles and all of my gold, I pledge my heart as long as I may have your vow of silence.” And they both laughed in joyful merriment.

Much later Jenny ran lightly up the backstairs to her room, still chuckling her enjoyment over Mark's foolishness. Clara was sitting on Jenny's bed, in the center of the patch of bright moonlight. “I needed to do my thinking, and there wasn't moonlight in my room.”

Silently Jenny took her place beside Clara. Crossing her legs, she folded her arms and waited. She heard the faint sound of a horse trotting down the lane—Mark's. In the renewed silence the crickets took up their chirping and from the creek the frogs answered. The heavy night air wrapped scent and sound about the two.

Finally, Jenny asked, “What are you thinking?”

“You were very joyful and happy, laughing your way up the stairs.”

Jenny thought back and then whispered, “I was. I hadn't thought of it that way. It was the night, the moon, and—”

“Mark?” Clara whispered. “Jenny, where does he fit into all this?” Her gesture swept only the room, but Jenny knew what she was thinking.

“He doesn't.” Slowly pulling the pins from her hair, Jenny began to put into words all that she had avoided thinking about before. “Mark wouldn't approve; I'm sure of that. He is my good friend, but he wouldn't be if he were to know. He mustn't find out.”

Out of a long, dreamy silence, Clara finally spoke. “Jenny it's gettin' near the solstice. If you are serious about learning more, you'll need to go to the sabbat.”

For a moment Jenny closed her eyes against the bright moonlight; almost against her will she whispered, “Power! If only I could have it all.”

Clara was whispering too, “Mark or the craft, Jenny? You must choose. I'm feelin' there's much you are unwilling to tell me. So be it; decide alone then what's important. I'm feelin' he won't allow Mark in your life.”

Although the night air was heavy and warm, Jenny shivered as if a winter wind had chilled her. Clara had just said “he,” but the unnamed one struck terror in Jenny. How much longer could she avoid facing that
he
?

Chapter 17

In May of 1832 Kirtland seethed with excitement. Not for more than a moment could the young church forget these were the days of gathering. Very soon Jesus Christ would be returning to claim His own, and the Mormon people had been chosen to prepare Zion for His dwelling place.

Tom was well aware of the excitement as he walked into the assembly hall on that first Sabbath day following Joseph's return from Missouri. Beside him was his friend Aaron Seamond.

Aaron had been one of Sidney Rigdon's followers when Kirtland's people had belonged to the Campbellite group. At times Tom had been prone to charge Aaron with cynicism, but today his fervor was as high as Tom's as they listened eagerly. Joseph was giving the details of his trip.

“Brothers and sisters, I know the Lord has chosen you to bear the gospel in this generation. The Lord has blessed us mightily; He has let us know by revelation all He commands us to do. Brethren, we must be about the Lord's business.

“On every hand we see these are the last days. Very soon the Lord will be walking the earth, His footstool. This whole continent is sacred ground!

“Now, I will tell you what transpired on my journey. By the Lord's direction we have combined the United Order under one governing body. Presently we are negotiating for a $15,000 loan. This has been a glorious year in Jackson County, Missouri! The church has grown; we have a membership of three hundred. Many more will be coming.

“Now, let me tell you about the remnant of Jacob. Bless the Lord! The federal government is cooperating with the Lord. Thousands of these people are being moved through Independence. Shawnees, Kickapoos, and Pattawattamies—all are being moved from lands in Ohio, Kentucky, and Illinois.

“Old Andrew Jackson doesn't know it, but he's a tool in the hands of the Almighty, helping Him prepare for the gathering of Israel!” Joseph leaned forward, his voice dropping nearly to a whisper. “I'm predicting the Second Coming is less than nine years away!”

The high tide of excitement which greeted Joseph Smith's prediction that Sabbath morning lingered with the people of Kirtland and colored their lives.

Tom didn't see much of Joe Smith that summer, but then, that was to be expected. Both arms of the church, as well as the heavy writing schedule, demanded most of his time. Tom was aware of the new mood of confidence in the people. In Kirtland the unrest of the winter was given a passing salute of apology by the church members as they began working doubly hard. With renewed enthusiasm they scurried about the country with the message of the church and the
Book of Mormon
.

It was nearly October when the Prophet came into the livery stable. “Let me guess!” Tom exclaimed. “You want shoes on that filly right this minute.”

“Wrong. I'm taking the stage to New York City. I intend to negotiate loans in the name of the Kirtland United Order.”

Tom thought he detected a slight swagger as Joe paced the room, saying, “The way we're growing, this church will stand with the best of them, and we might as well put ourselves on the map by growing as fast in our business dealings as the Lord indicates we should.”

“We'll be anxious to hear what's goin' on.”

Joseph's brilliant smile lighted his face. “You shall, my friend and bodyguard. When I get back, I'll take time to sit down with you and tell it all. I'm not forgetting your faithfulness to me, and the next trip I make to Missouri, you will be going too.”

On November 6, 1832, Emma gave birth to a son, and to the relief of all, the child survived and was named Joseph after his father. The whole community rejoiced at the news, and Tom felt much like a proud uncle.

The child was two weeks old when Tom rode out to the farm for his first peek at little Joseph. He had his brief glimpse and heaped his awkward congratulations on Joe and Emma. Taking his arm, Joseph said, “I don't think we're wanted in here. I'm headed for the woods to split a couple of logs; want to give a hand?”

“You've grown pretty soft pushing that pen; guess I'd better,” Tom joshed, following the Prophet out the door.

They worked most of the afternoon. When Tom paused to wipe the sweat from his face, he said, “My, the smell of that pine puts me in mind of splitting logs in Manchester. I like the feel of an axe in my hands.”

“Hello there! Is Joseph with you?” The hail came faintly through the trees.

“Right here!” Joseph bellowed back, saying to Tom, “From the sound of the horses, it's a battalion. Did you bring your gun?” Tom looked at him in astonishment and Joe threw back his head and laughed.

The men burst through the trees and John Whitmer threw himself off his horse. “Have a fella here who wants to meet you. This here is Brigham Young.”

Tom watched the stocky older man slowly dismount. There was an air about him that caught Tom's attention. Without a doubt, this was a man of action and authority. Joseph must have felt it, too. Tom watched the two men, now deep in conversation. Young was talking about reading the
Book of Mormon
as he and Joseph wandered toward the edge of the clearing.

Suddenly Joseph stopped and turned. “I clean forgot what I was doing. Tom, you're right about my being soft. Could you and John finish up the cutting and then come on back to the house for a bite of supper?”

That evening after they had eaten, the men continued to talk, and finally they prayed together. Tom wondered if the excitement he was feeling was evident to the others. He knelt beside his bench and listened. When it was Brigham's turn, Tom found himself straining his ears to understand the words. Suddenly it dawned on Tom that this new fellow was praying in tongues.

“Well, Brig,” Tom muttered into his sleeve, “you just cooked your goose. Someone should a-warned you how Joe's dealt with this kind of thing in the past.”

Tom felt the tension creeping over him. The others must have sensed it too; abruptly the prayer meeting was over. As the men got awkwardly to their feet, Joseph spoke. He was shaking Brigham Young's hand. “Fellas, I want you to remember this night. Our friend here has been speaking in the true Adamic language.”

Later, as Tom prepared to leave, he bent over the cradle for another look at the baby and Joseph asked, “Tom, just when are you going to take up the yoke of matrimony?” Tom ruefully rubbed his jaw, and Joseph burst into laughter. “That expression! What's the problem? It wouldn't hurt to do something besides shoeing horses.”

Indeed, Tom took up letter writing—to Jenny. Spurred by his guilty conscience, knowing he had neglected his sister, and driven by his memory of how hard she worked at the Bartons', he wrote. “Jen, I miss you sore. Why don't you take the stage and come visit me. I've already talked to old Mrs. Knight and she will be glad to put you up at her house.” He paused to reflect on the implications, and a slow grin came across his face.

Although he did not say so in his letter, he realized having Jenny here would settle a problem he had been ignoring. Joe was always urging the missionary work on him. And he was convinced, too, that Jenny needed to do something about her salvation. Jenny's coming would take care of his brotherly responsibility and possibly also convert her.

“Wonderful!” he muttered; then he wrote, “I miss you, Jen. Since I can't come see you, well, it looks like you could see your duty clear to visit here.” As a postcript, he added, “Emma Smith has finally gone and done it. She produced a little boy for them. His name is Joseph, after his father.”

And Jenny received the letter. Sitting in the rocking chair in the Bartons' kitchen, she rocked lazily and read the letter with a gentle smile. Dear Tom! She chuckled over the scrawly words and wondered what could have spurred him to such an enormous endeavor. Shaking her head, she murmured, “Tom, knowing your love of the written word, I'd expect a journey to see me would have involved less pain and time.”

Mrs. Barton came into the kitchen, saying, “That lazy Clara! It takes her twice as long to run an errand as it would the average person.—A letter?”

Jenny nodded. “From my brother. Oh, there's a postscript.” She caught her breath and when her voice broke in mid-sentence, Mrs. Barton turned in surprise. “Joseph Smith and his wife have a little baby boy, named Joseph.”

Mrs. Barton was frowning. “And that saddens you.”

“Oh, it doesn't,” Jenny gasped. “It's just unexpected.” After a moment, she added, “Tom's wanting me to come visit.”

Mrs. Barton, still studying her face, said slowly, “You could take the stage.”

“I would like to see Tom,” Jenny said wistfully, “and,” she rushed on, “I've never been as far west as Ohio. Everyone's talking about going west; I'd like to at least see Ohio.”

Jenny realized later that her reply to Mrs. Barton had been simply words—the kind of words she was prone to pick up and toss around, just because words were expected.

But those words had consequence, and almost before she knew it, she was on her way to Kirtland, Ohio.

Leaning out the window of the stagecoach as it swayed slowly through the streets of Kirtland, Jenny finally accepted it. This was Joseph's town. Seeing it was like tying two ends of a dream together, making reality.

Tom was there to lift her down from the stagecoach; his rough hug and whiskery kiss filled her eyes with tears. “Oh, Tom, I didn't realize I missed you so much!”

“Tom!” the booming voice came from just behind her. “I see you've taken my advice, but I meant for you to choose from among our own.”

Tom squeezed Jenny again and whispered, “See, I told you that you're all grown up. Even Joe didn't recognize you.”

“Oh.” Slowly Jenny stepped out of Tom's arms, and just as slowly she turned. Blinking, she stared up at the man. Twice as tall and broad as she remembered, he was clad in dignified black, and for a moment she wished for the farmboy's shirt. She stepped backward to see his face. It was the same cheerful grin beneath the bright hair. The grin became puzzled and now Jenny could laugh. “You really don't remember me, do you? I'll give you a hint. The first time you saw me, you said I was the ugliest thing you'd ever seen.”

“Ma'am, I'm humbly begging your pardon, but no lady as fair as you would merit such talk from me.”

“Joe, you're puttin' on,” Tom protested. “This is my sister, Jenny.” And by his grin, she knew he did remember.

Jenny stayed three weeks in Kirtland, Ohio. As she rode the stage back to Cobleskill, her mind was a patchwork quilt of pictures and words, woven together with emotions as brittle as old thread.

Tom was heavier than she remembered, with bundles of knotted muscles from his work at the forge. She had watched him pounding the glowing iron against the anvil until she expected the two to merge. She walked to church on his arm, and quietly listened to his constant stream of talk.

He obviously felt compelled to convert her to the new church. And while her eyes were busy about the town, sorting and storing impressions, seeing faces that she would remember, she was amused by Tom's earnestness.

In three weeks' time, the shape of her thoughts and feelings were influenced not by the commitment of these people nor by the thrust of their creed, although they saw to it that she was bombarded with fearsome words about her fate; the real attraction of Kirtland was one dark-coated figure. All others became peripheral images, colored only to supply contrast to him.

She had witnessed a painful scene, too. From a distance she had seen Joe and the woman beside him bending over a bundle in her arms. At Jenny's whispered words, “Why, Emma is dark, too!” Tom looked at her in surprise.