Righteous02 - Mighty and Strong Read online

  “Brother Timothy?”

  He straightened his back, leaned against the hoe. Sweat trickled through the streaks of dirt on his face, dripped from his beard. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “Yes, Emma?”

  The sun was too hot, too bright. She shielded her eyes. “Brother Timothy, please, I need your help.”

  Brother Timothy studied her with a gaze so penetrating it almost hurt. “Are you in trouble?

  She thought about why she’d gone to the hospital and started to look away in shame, but managed to check herself. “Brother Timothy, I’m ready to get married.”

  He blinked. “Sister Emma, the Lord makes that decision, not you.” His wives stopped what they were doing, stared.

  “I felt the Spirit. When I was in bed last night, it came upon me and I felt it burning inside me. It told me I needed to get married and who to marry.”

  “The Spirit told you.”

  “I know it, Brother Timothy. I just do.” He didn’t answer and she stammered. “I-I don’t know. I’m just a girl. My father said girls don’t choose, but I felt, I thought I…”

  “Your father is right,” Brother Timothy said. “It’s usually the father, together with the prophet who chooses. Usually.” A thoughtful note entered his voice. “I’ll need to take it to the Lord in prayer. Who is this man?”

  “His name is Jacob Christianson, and he’s a doctor at Sanpete County.”

  “Who?” A sharp edge entered his voice and he fixed her with a piercing look that made her shrink.

  “My mother said he was the son of a polygamist leader in Blister Creek, that he was a good man, ready for the Gathering, and I thought if you spoke with him, he could, well, you know, you could tell him…”

  Brother Timothy turned back to his hoeing and Emma watched him for a long minute, afraid, and uncertain if he was done with her and if she should turn and go. But then he stopped and leaned against his hoe again.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him. Brother Clarence and I were discussing him just the other day. Jacob Christianson is a proud man who puts himself above the Lord.” This confused Emma, who couldn’t square that with the gentle, kind man she’d met at the hospital. “But he’s a good man, if you could just talk to him, I know he’d listen.”

  “Why is this man here, so close to the church, yet he hasn’t gathered with the saints yet?” The prophet voiced the question, but it didn’t seem directed to Emma, so she didn’t answer. He turned to his pregnant wife, Sister Karen. “Get me Brother Clarence. Tell him we have to talk about Jacob Christianson.”

  He walked over to Emma once Sister Karen had gone. “There’s something more here than just a girl who is ready to get married. What could that be?”

  “I don’t know, I-I thought I was doing the right thing. I felt…I mean the Spirit…”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Shh, you did the right thing in coming to me.”

  “Does that mean that you’ll tell Jacob to marry me?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I do know the Lord will give you what you deserve, Sister Emma.”

  #

  The wolves picked up Jacob’s scent as he made his way through the crowd. He felt them hunting him, the alpha male snarling to keep his lieutenants in line.

  He was at the Manti Pageant, surrounded by thousands of Mormons, all come to see the spectacle on the hill. Floodlights dramatically lit the fortress-like temple and the wall that stretched across the hilltop. The pageant was a rough retelling of Mormon history, from the Angel Moroni leading Joseph Smith to the Gold Plates to scenes from the Book of Mormon, to the travails of the Mormon pioneers.

  At the moment, a group of actors portrayed pioneers struggling across the frozen plains with handcarts. Some would die, others would emerge with strengthened faith. Melodrama. Monologues. Poignant moments.

  Jacob didn’t stay still. He walked through the crowd, chatted with a couple who’d just returned from a mission to Nauvoo, Illinois, volleyed Biblical verses with the evangelical Christians who’d staked a position across the street to witness to the Mormons attending the pageant. The night was cool, with a breeze from the west that smelled like the desert: sage and sand and sun-baked rock.

  Before long, he could see the two men. Jacob spotted the third about twenty minutes later. This last man seemed to be directing the other pair.

  A gay roommate at the U (now there was an eye-opening experience for a young man from a polygamist family) had once told Jacob he possessed an ability he called gaydar. It was his supposed ability to pick a fellow gay man from a crowd based on speech and mannerism.

  Short of a gay pride t-shirt, Jacob had no clue about gaydar, but he could spot a Mormon at a hundred yards. Accent, mannerism, the “Mormon smile” of religious undergarments beneath a white shirt. And he was doubly sensitive to fundamentalist Mormons. Cut a man’s hair, his beard, get the woman out of the prairie dress and put her in jeans and a tank-top. Didn’t matter. A child raised in plural marriage carried a mark for life.

  The three men dressed in white shirts and ties, but the beards—close cropped though they were—gave them away. Jacob pretended he didn’t see them. He found an empty spot on the grass, sat and watched the pageant for a few minutes. Shortly, one of the men came and sat a couple of feet away.

  “What do you think of the pageant?”

  “Not bad,” Jacob said without turning from the show. “Except they’ve turned Joseph Smith into a Hollywood caricature.”

  “Most of these people wouldn’t recognize a real prophet if he parted the Red Sea.”

  “Maybe because they’ve spent too long following a false one.” Jacob turned and looked at the speaker. It was dark, and hard to pick out the man’s features. “I’ve met several prophets. Some are more impressive than others.”

  “Careful, brother. That sounds like blasphemy.”

  “Many men are called to prophesy,” Jacob answered in an even tone. “But only one is ever called to lead the Saints.”

  “Who are you?” the man asked. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I am waiting for the One Mighty and Strong.”

  The man drew in his breath. “Who told you to say that?”

  “Nobody told me,” Jacob said. He thought about the missing woman, Sister Miriam. She had studied, she was good. But could any of that replace a lifetime of drinking scripture and prophecy? Of waiting for the end of the world?

  “Then why did you say it?” the man asked.

  Jacob decided to press. “I’ve studied the scriptures, prayed to the Lord for guidance. Look at these people. They’re lost, confused. They let go of the iron rod and they need someone to bring them back.”

  The iron rod, from the prophet Lehi’s dream in the Book of Mormon, was the only way through the mists and darkness of the world. The evil sat at a distance, in a great and spacious building, mocking the believers, many of whom would let go of the iron rod and be lost. Isn’t that what had happened to the LDS church? The world had mocked and persecuted until the church surrendered its true principles. Not only did it give up plural marriage, it now condemned those who’d held true.

  “Someone to bring them back?” the man asked.

  “The One Mighty and Strong. Joseph Smith prophesied he’d come in the last days to gather the saints, bring them back to the Lord. I think that day has come.”

  “And you are looking for him?”

  “I don’t need to look for him,” Jacob said. “When the time comes, he will find me.”

  The man was quiet. Jacob could almost hear him thinking. When he spoke, his voice was low, with a sharp, tight edge. “Thou art in great danger, Brother. Thy soul is at risk, as is thy mortal existence.”

  “By what authority do you threaten me?” Jacob asked.

  The man moved closer until he sat with his face intimately close to Jacob’s. A sudden illumination from the hillside, together with the sounds of simulated battle and a voice crying out to God. In the light, Jacob could see the intensity burning in
the man’s eyes. A hunting wolf, closing in on his prey. He was bearded, with full lips and a prominent nose, slightly askew. And young, maybe no older than thirty.

  Brother Timothy. He was speaking to the prophet himself.

  “Tell me truthfully,” Brother Timothy said. “Who sent thee?”

  After Jacob and Fernie put the kids down last night, he prepared a speech for his wife. It was a terrible thing to ask.

  Dear, I’m going to vanish for a while. How long? Hard to say. Days? Weeks. What’s that? No, I can’t call to let you know I’m okay. Too dangerous.

  It was obvious throughout the evening that Fernie knew the conversation was coming. She was quiet, pensive. After the older two went down, they bathed the baby together and he watched her out of the corner of one eye, wishing he knew what she was thinking. Inside, he prepared all the arguments. About protecting his sister, Eliza, about the missing young woman. Sister Miriam—make that Agent Kite—had friends and family, too. They loved her, worried about her.

  As they crawled into bed, Fernie asked, “Are you leaving in the morning?”

  “I was going to ask your permission, first.”

  “You have it.”

  “Don’t you want to discuss it, hear the reasons I want to go?”

  “I already know the reasons,” Fernie said. “You’re going because you’re a good person and you want to help.”

  Jacob wished he were as confident of his own motives. He’d love to tell himself it was about helping others. But Agent Krantz had been right; Jacob wanted to match himself against Brother Timothy and his men. He wanted to meet this self-proclaimed prophet for himself.

  “It’s dangerous,” he said, “and I have to leave you and the kids behind. That’s going to be hard. Really hard.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? You don’t think this is easy for me, do you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then why are you trying to talk me out of it?” she asked. Normally, she would have her arm around him by now, as they chatted before drifting off to sleep. She was on the far edge of the bed. “Jacob, I know what you have to do. And yes, I’m scared. I hope you are, too, at least a little bit. But I know you have to go.”

  “Is this about the priesthood?” he asked. “I don’t want you to give in just because I’ve got the priesthood. I’m not trying to use my authority. You can tell me no, and I swear I’ll listen.”

  “No, it’s not about the priesthood. I know you wouldn’t use it that way.”

  “Then why are you giving in so easily?”

  “If I tell you, promise you won’t mock me.”

  “Mock?” he asked, feeling hurt. “When have I ever done that?”

  “Maybe mock is the wrong word. I don’t want you to pick apart my words, over-analyze them. Just listen. Promise you’ll do that?”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  “I prayed tonight about what you should do, and the Spirit whispered that this was the right thing to do. So I’m already decided.”

  “Oh.”

  Jacob was suspicious of getting answers to questions via prayer, the Spirit, or any other supernatural means. He was open to the possibility, but too often people claimed to get answers from the Lord that just happened to match what duty told them to do, or what would benefit them personally.

  Every single time they approached a young woman about marriage, they would say something like, “The Lord wants you to marry Brother So-and-So.” Nine times out of ten, the girl would bow her head and say, “Thou sayest.” She would go to bed that night, thinking the Lord had already spoken to her father or to the church leaders. Maybe she’d pray and get her own spiritual confirmation.

  What she didn’t know was that the night before men had gathered at the church house or in the temple to discuss her fate. “I’ll hand over my daughter, if you’ll give me yours.” Or maybe, “I’ll take your daughter now, and pledge two of my own, once they are of age.”

  And of course the girl would get the expected answer to her prayers. She wouldn’t be happy about it, but who was she to question what the Lord had already confirmed to her father, or to one of the church elders?

  Was Fernie suffering the same thing? She knew Jacob was set on going, she knew she should obey her husband, and therefore she’d received the correct answer. Jacob remembered his promise and bit his tongue to keep from voicing these thoughts.

  “This is the Lord’s plan,” Fernie said. “Not just for the missing woman. For you, too. For our family.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know anything about this Brother Timothy, or his church, other than what I’ve heard. That’s just rumors and gossip. Maybe they’re for real, or maybe this is just another church of the Devil. Either way, this is the Lord’s test for you. And maybe a reward.”

  “Reward? I like the sound of that. The FBI offered ten thousand bucks. Is this going to be more than ten grand?”

  “That sounds like mocking to me, mister.” There was a teasing tone in her voice and she rolled over now and put her arm around him. “I’m talking about finding another wife.”

  “Oh, that.”

  She must have felt his body tense. “You know you can’t put it off forever.”

  “Watch me.”

  “We can’t keep living in the Lone and Dreary World. Sooner or later we have to return to our own people.”

  “It’s not so bad, is it? We have good neighbors. They don’t judge us, they don’t force their views or their religion.”

  “But they’re not our people, Jacob. Don’t you miss it?”

  “Miss what? You want to go back to the days when you were Elder Kimball’s fifth wife?”

  “No, of course not. But I miss my sister wives. I miss belonging to Zion. That feeling of community where everybody pulls in the same direction.”

  Truth was, he felt it, too. There was a depth in Zion, a solid feeling the world outside didn’t have. Here, there was too much change, too much uncertainty. Even the good people seemed lost sometimes, confused.

  “But why does going back have to mean plural marriage?” Jacob asked. “I have one wife already. That’s all I need.”

  “Come on, don’t be so proud. It won’t be that bad, you’ll see.”

  “I’m not being proud, I just don’t want it. Some people are wired that way, I’m not. I only want you, that’s all.”

  She was quiet.

  “Don’t you like that?” he asked. “You can have me all to yourself.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it, I love hearing you say that. But it’s only the selfish part of me. The rest of me says you need to find another wife sooner or later. It’s the only way you’ll grow to become a true leader in Zion.”

  Whoever said I want to be a leader in Zion?

  He wanted to help his people, but through medicine, by bringing reason and justice to a closed community. Moderate its excesses. Fight those who lusted for power. A leader? Hah. He didn’t even feel comfortable leading his own family.

  “I just know there’s some young woman down there who needs a good husband,” Fernie said, more firmly this time. “Soften your heart, listen to the Spirit, or you’ll miss it. Find her, bring her into our family. It could be the whole reason the Lord is sending you.”

  “Fernie, come on, you don’t—”

  “Shh, don’t argue. Just stay open to the possibility.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said. “That’s all I can promise.”

  And he did think about what Fernie had told him as he faced Brother Timothy at the pageant in Manti. He spotted the other two men who’d trailed him through the crowd. They stood together some distance off, faces blotted by shadows. There were thousands of people here, but Jacob felt alone, vulnerable.

  “Only one person sent me,” he told Brother Timothy. “The Lord.”

  Brother Timothy searched his face with those penetrating eyes. If he had the gift of discernment, he would be using it now. At last he stood up and held out a hand
to help Jacob to his feet.

  He put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “Say goodbye to the Lone and Dreary World, brother. Thou shalt never see it again.”

  “Thou sayest.”

  Chapter Nine:

  “Can I help you, officers?” the man asked.

  He’d introduced himself to Agents Krantz and Fayer as Erik T. Peterson. For some reason, every LDS church employee Krantz met insisted on using a middle initial: Boyd K., Terrance P., Willard H. And now, Erik T.

  “We’re so grateful you could meet us on short notice, Elder Peterson,” Fayer gushed, to Krantz’s annoyance. Normally she was bony angles and spines. She could work an interview until she had what she wanted, and not feel bad leaving her subject smarting from a dozen pricks. The way she spoke to this church functionary, you’d think she wanted to wash his feet.

  “Agents,” Krantz said. “Not officers.”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry.” The man rose behind an oversized desk and a chair that looked an inch or two higher than the chairs on the opposite side. “My secretary told me that. I should have paid more attention.”

  “It’s perfectly fine,” Fayer said. “People call us officer all the time.”

  “Actually, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard it,” Krantz said. His partner shot him a look, but he ignored it as he accepted Eric T. Peterson’s outstretched hand.

  The man was a power shaker, the kind who thinks of a hand shake as a minor struggle for dominance. Krantz normally kept his handshakes to a minimum, but this time he squeezed back. Just enough to let Peterson know he could turn the man’s arm into a pastry bag, if he chose.

  You wanna squeeze? Fine, let’s see how you like it when I extrude your bones and muscle through your elbow.

  Krantz had thrown the hammer and the shot put for USC. Ten years ago, true, but unlike some of his former teammates, he hadn’t let himself go soft. Well, except for the smoking. Coach would have kicked his ass for that one. He’d picked up the habit in Iraq and it was a hard one to shake.