My Story (21 page)

So he’d go down and do his thing, leaving Barzee and me up at the lower camp by ourselves, where we did … well, pretty much nothing. All day. Every day. There just wasn’t that much to do when you’re confined to a tent and a small clearing in the trees. It was horribly boring. You can’t even begin to imagine. We rarely cooked. There was little cleaning. I had read every book they had in camp, and I hated them all. I had read the entire scriptures by now, parts of them many times through. And other than reading, there was nothing else to do.

My life pretty much consisted of three things: getting raped, being forced to drink alcohol, and sitting on a bucket in a clearing in the trees.

But as horribly boring as it was to be left up in the camp, I was still relieved when Mitchell wasn’t there. There was the obvious reason that it meant a few hours when I didn’t have to wonder when I was going to be raped. Plus, I was just a little more relaxed when he wasn’t around. I didn’t have to listen to the sound of his constant preaching. His constant talking about himself. The constant singing of church hymns that once I thought were beautiful but now hated to hear sung in his voice. And Barzee was a little easier to live with when he wasn’t around. She was always irritable and whiny and as pleasant as a thorn underneath your fingernail, but she was a tiny bit better when Mitchell wasn’t leering at me or pulling me into the tent.

But I want to be clear. I never developed any kind of affection for Barzee. She was a monster and I knew that. She never showed me a single moment of kindness. She never demonstrated a single act of compassion or understanding toward me. If Mitchell was the devil, then she was his sneering sidekick. In some ways, I think that she was even worse. She was a
woman
. She was a
mother
. She knew what I was going through.

Still, of the two evils, I’d take Barzee over Mitchell any day.

And anyone who suggests that I became a victim of Stockholm syndrome by developing any feelings of sympathy toward my captors simply has no idea what was going on inside my head. I never once—not for a single moment—developed a shred of affection or empathy for either one of them. There was no traumatic bonding. No emotional ties. The only thing there ever was was fear, and never anything else. That’s the only emotion I
ever
felt toward them.

*

Sometime during the first week in September, the skies started to grow cloudy. It took a couple of hours for the billowing clouds to build, but they did, growing dark and menacing in the west. A cold wind suddenly blew down the canyon, bringing an instant chill. The clouds grew darker as they started to climb the mountain. The sky was shrouded in mist and the wind began to howl. Evening was coming quickly and the shadows were growing thick and full. Then it hit. Flashes of light. Deep thunder, the air shattered from its power. A hint of rain. And then the hail. Cold, hard, irregular chunks of ice falling from the sky. We ran into our tent for shelter. It was coming down so hard, I wondered if the hail was going to rip the tent apart. We huddled, the tent bent toward the ground, the hail beating down around us.

Once the storm passed, we climbed out of the tent. The mountain was white with a thin layer of hail, and the ground was wet and slippery underneath. And it was cold. It was as if nature had announced the end of summer with a single blow.

Mitchell looked at the sky. “We’ve got to leave for California soon,” he said.

My heart sank, a crushing weight seeming to settle on my shoulders. I had been foolish enough to think that the time to leave for California wouldn’t actually come. But it was here now. Soon we would be gone.

San Diego, California. Eight hundred miles from my home. It might as well have been in another universe. I’d be forever lost in California. No one had been able to save me when I was just a few miles from my home. What chance did I have once Mitchell had dragged me off to San Diego? I would lose all hope.

*

It took us a couple of days to get ready. There was a surprising number of things to do. First, we had to decide what we wanted to take with us and organize it for the trip. Everything we were going to take to California had to be packed in Mitchell’s nasty green bags, including our bedding, clothing, the tent, the tarps, all of our food, utensils, and his books. It was not an easy thing to do. Then, once we had decided what to bring, we hiked back and forth between the upper and lower camp, storing all of the other stuff inside the half-finished dugout, trying to hide it from anyone who might happen upon the camp. We also had to protect it against the animals that would be digging around. Finally, we had to wipe away any of the signs that we had been in the camp.

As I watched Mitchell bury the last of our gear deep inside the dugout, I had to wonder, would I ever come back to Salt Lake City? Would he allow us to come back in the spring, or was he hiding all the gear because he knew he would never be back again? Was he hiding all the gear because he didn’t want to leave a trail? Because he knew that he would never need it? Would I ever see these mountains or my hometown again?

That afternoon, Barzee and I had our final bath, Mitchell pouring bucket after bucket of freezing water over our heads. We washed our grungy robes in the stream, beating them upon the rocks to get them as clean as we could, then headed back to camp. We were working in the tarped area outside the tent when we suddenly heard voices. They were above us, a little higher on the mountain. And they were walking toward the bowl that hid our camp. Mitchell froze. Barzee’s eyes went as wide as saucers. I didn’t know what to do. I was so hopeless at this point, so far removed from thinking that I was ever going to escape, that I didn’t even think about calling out.

Gathering his wits about him, Mitchell herded us into the tent, hissing at me to be quiet, then scrambled in behind us. He quickly jammed the zipper up, then released a corner of the flap that covered the screen and peered out from the sliver of an opening between the fabric.

Whoever was out there was close enough that we could now understand what they were saying. Two men. Apparently they were college students because they were talking about a test they had just taken. It sounded like they were out looking for some kind of animal bones to take back to the lab. They got closer, breaking from the trees where they could see into the bowl that hid our camp. Mitchell glared at me. I sat without emotion in the corner of the tent. Mitchell threw my headdress onto my lap and I reluctantly put it on. Barzee reached over and secured the veil in front of my face. Mitchell moved to the other side of the tent so he could see them through another slit in the fabric. I crouched and tried to follow him, hoping I could steal a peek, but he pushed me back, almost throwing me to the ground. “Shut up!” he hissed.

As though I had said anything.

I crouched in the corner and listened intently.

The voices suddenly stopped. They must have seen our camp. There was silence for a moment. “Hello! Is anyone home?” one of them called out.

Mitchell glared at me. Barzee moved a little closer. Mitchell pressed his thumb and index finger together then drew them across an imaginary blade, as if he were testing that it was sharp. I lowered my eyes and listened but didn’t move.

“Hey there! Anyone home?” one of the young men called again.

Mitchell peered through the slit in the tent, tense as wire, his mind seemingly planning his attack if they were to come into the camp. The air was calm. Not a sound.

The young men started to walk toward the tent and then stopped. “Anyone home?” one of them tried a final time.

No answer. Only silence.

I could imagine what the students were thinking.

They must have felt like they were intruders, like they were trespassing on private property. The camp was well organized and well supplied. It had an air of permanence, like it was someone’s home, not just an overnight camping location. If anyone was in the camp, they were obviously hiding in the tent. Clearly they could hear them, but they were not willing to answer—not a particularly friendly thing to do. And the camp was hidden in the trees a
long
way off the trail. Clearly, whoever lived in the camp had come there with the intention of getting away from people. Nothing indicated that they wanted to be disturbed.

Considering all of this, they young men did the right thing. Without saying any more, they turned and walked away.

It was the smart thing to do.

We waited a long time inside the tent, listening for the sound of voices or footsteps on the dry leaves. Convinced they were gone, Mitchell carefully unzipped the door and climbed out. Barzee and I followed. Mitchell stared at where the young men had been standing. No one was in sight. He waited another minute in silence. I carefully removed my veil.

“That was our sign,” Mitchell announced. “The date that I have chosen is acceptable to the Lord. It is time for us to go.”

Two days later, Mitchell had us up before dawn. We hiked down the trail in the darkness. All of us had to help carry the green bags, for they were bursting with our supplies. In addition, Mitchell had added a small supply of crackers, a bit of cheese, some water, a couple of plates, and a few utensils.

Is this the last time I will ever walk this canyon? I wondered as we stumbled in the dark.

Exiting the trail, we caught the University of Utah shuttle down to Rice-Eccles Stadium and walked downtown to the bus depot. Halfway to the bus stop, I was already very tired. And I felt ridiculous. Not only did I have the sheet across my face, but Mitchell had ordered Barzee to sew a thin veil in front of my eyes, leaving my face completely covered. I could see through the thin material, but only barely, and I felt claustrophobic peering through the veil.

It took us until midmorning to make it to the bus stop. We entered and moved toward a small bench along the far wall. Mitchell commanded us to stay there while he went to buy our tickets. The bus terminal was crowded with all sorts of people. Young and old. All sorts of nationalities. Most of them—no, all of them—were poor. Middle-class and rich Americas don’t ride the Greyhound anymore.

Mitchell stood in line at the ticket window. Barzee didn’t pay him any attention. She had been ambivalent about the move to California, and I think she was already tired of the work. Being out in public changed her relationship with me. Up on the mountain, I was her slave. She could boss me around, make me haul the water, cook, do most of the work. But she had to pitch in to help now and that bothered her a lot. Her body language was unmistakable. She simmered. Was it really appropriate for the future
Mother of Zion
to be hauling packs around?

While she seethed, I had time to look for any friendly faces in the crowd. When someone caught my attention I tried to stare at them, hoping I could communicate with just my eyes, even through the thin veil. I was still praying for someone to rescue me, for someone to recognize me and whisk me way. A middle-aged black woman seemed to look at me. I thought I caught a hint of a smile. Maybe she’s a mother. Maybe she understands what trouble looks like? Maybe she will see the desperation in my eyes. I stared at her, praying she would recognize me.

Glancing at me, she got a sour look on her face. “What are you staring at!” she sneered. “Don’t you know that’s rude! And why don’t you take that rag off your face!”

I looked away. I felt ashamed. I felt rejected. I felt my hopes were being shattered once again.

It was the last time that I ever tried to communicate with someone through my veil.

Mitchell came back to us with the bus tickets. He was so proud. His ministering had paid our way to California. The Lord had provided once again.

A few minutes later, we started boarding. There were only two seats on each side of the bus and Mitchell pushed me toward a window seat, then dropped into the seat beside me. Barzee sat in front of us with the green bag that held our meager supply of food. Mitchell didn’t even wait until the bus pulled out of the depot before he reached up and took some of the food out of the bag and started stuffing his mouth with crackers and cheese.

I was worried. No, it was more than that. I was terrified.

I had already felt real hunger and I didn’t want to feel it again. And at the rate Mitchell was eating, our food would be gone before we made it to Nevada. What would we do then? It had taken almost every penny that we had to buy the bus tickets to California. We were leaving the generous grocer behind. We were leaving behind all of Mitchell’s friends. Mitchell didn’t know a soul in San Diego. Where were we going to stay? How were we going to live? How would we get more food?

Mitchell must have been in an especially good mood that we were finally getting out of Salt Lake City because he passed me a few crackers and some cheese.

“Maybe it would be better if we didn’t eat right now,” I said. “Maybe we should save it until we really need it.”

Mitchell and Barzee acted like I wasn’t there.

I thought about trying to save some of the food, but changed my mind. Better to eat some while I could.

The bus was crowded. I thought it smelled bad, but maybe that was just Mitchell. The bus pulled out of the station, black smoke belching from the exhaust pipes underneath us. We rode south, through Salt Lake City and then Provo, seventy miles of nothing but cities and bedroom suburbs. On the other side of Provo, we started to hit the rural counties where there were miles and miles of nothing but sagebrush, juniper-covered mountains, and barren desert. Every passing mile took me farther and farther from my home. Farther from my family. Farther from the people I loved.

We continued through central and southern Utah. The great rock country outside of Zion National Park. We stopped in some of the larger towns. A few people got off. A few people got on. The ride seemed to take forever. The bus driver was a pleasant woman who would jump on the intercom from time to time to tell us bus jokes. I almost smiled. I didn’t know there was such a thing as bus jokes. We passed over the Utah border. Will I ever be home again? I wondered. It was starting to get dark. We rode through a few miles of Arizona before the freeway turned west and dropped into Nevada. I leaned against the window and watched the passing terrain. Not much to look at. Nothing happening out there.