The Remnant (31 page)

I, Brigham Young, Prophet, do hereby swear
and affirm that all that is written here is truth, so help me
God.

Trace stood there stunned. Was it possible
that he held in his hand an actual testament by the second Prophet
of the Mormon Church? He shone the light on the box itself. The
figures represented a tiny diorama of the Mormon Exodus to Utah.
The precious metal was nearly an eighth inch thick all the way
around the inner box of wood. The casket itself had to be worth a
fortune even if it had had no intrinsic historical value. He read
on.

I am the bearer of a shame not my own. Our
founder, Prophet Joseph Smith, has proven himself a scoundrel and a
mountebank, and I am loathe to know what to do, or what is to
become of the faithful who look to me now for guidance in these
most trying of times. Smith has been most foully murdered, but
perhaps that is his earthly reward for the lies he has told, for
the lives he has very nearly ruined.

Upon learning of his untimely death at the
hands of the gentile mob in Carthage I rushed back from Washington
City where I was engaged upon the task of politicking for the
Prophet that he might become our next President. I hurried
immediately to his home where I was greeted by his wife, Emma. I
took her to my breast in all brotherhood and solace, and the lady
clung to me, suffering the ultimate devastation of having lost her
earthly mate, but I assured her that she and the Prophet would be
together once again in the light of the Lord’s love, in God’s good
time. She informed me that it was the Prophet’s wish that his
eldest son fill his shoes as leader of the faithful. Having known
this all along I not only acquiesced but promised to do all in my
power to protect and shield him upon his return, since at that time
he also was away engaged upon politicking for his father.

Emma then informed me that the Prophet had
prepared an heirloom to be given to his son upon his death, a
casket containing the most sacred of relics and a message to the
next man to be Prophet. She led me into a small parlor where I had
sat many times before, engaged in prayer, listening to the Prophet
discourse upon a vision, or simply contemplating the glory of God
while surrounded by the warmth of fellowship. From beneath a
coverlet she removed a finely carved box of aromatic cedar, and
placed it upon my lap.

"This you must guard for my son," she
commanded, and left the room.

For the longest time I gazed upon that
small casket, feeling as though she had placed the weight of the
world upon me. The Prophet wished that the contents of the box be
passed to his successor, but what was within? He had left no
command not to look and neither had his spouse, but neither did I
have either spoken or written permission to open it.
At that
instant, in the Prophet’s own study, I felt a spirit upon me,
watching, and my hand would not be stilled. I twisted the tiny
steel key and opened the box. Instantly upon seeing the tablets I
knew what they were and a shock riveted my body such that I might
hardly breathe. But then, as I lifted them out into the lamplight
with shivering hand I realized that they were not of gold or even
brass but copper. Of course the angel, Moroni, took back the
plates, or so we had been told. Perhaps, I mused, these were simply
replicas of the original, made to Joseph’s specifications. Would
that I had placed them back within the box and locked it
tight.

Glancing askance at the casket once more I
noticed inside a small scrap of paper lining the bottom upon which
I recognized the Prophet’s scrawl. I prized it out with my
fingernail and read with growing despair.

The brief document was an epistle to the
Prophet’s son, admitting to his own perfidy. The plates I held in
my lap were not replicas at all, but some of the originals that
Joseph Smith had made to fool the faithful. How he ever convinced
anyone they were gold or brass or made by the immaculate hand of
God Almighty would surely baffle any who did not know Joseph Smith
personally, but to those of us who have reveled in the dazzling
light of his ministry there is no mystery. I myself have witnessed
visions when he showed them to me with a wave of his hand. I have
felt the spirit fill me when he preached it, and I am not a weak
willed man nor one given to lightheadedness or folly. All his
followers knew the power of the Prophet’s words, and many believed
that he had it within him to change water to wine. Convincing them
that copper was gold in a dimly lit room would have hardly been an
insurmountable feat for the man.

In that instant my heart was crushed. I knew
I had followed a false messiah and had been instrumental in
bringing untold others to the fold. The epistle went on to reveal
that the Urim and Thummim were both merely rocks, nothing more than
a distraction for the crowd, as a hawker might present at a
medicine show. The Book of Mormon and all of his writings were
simply elaborate works of fiction. He ended the missive by
informing his son that the Latter Day Saints were now his to
control. They were his army and his nation, the salvation of his
family and his birthright, as though all the believers who had
brought him to the height of his power were nothing more than pawns
to his godless avarice. I must confess before God Almighty that at
that moment I wished the man were alive, that I might murder him
myself with my bare hands.

I sat there I know not how long with the
document and the false plates in my lap, sunk in utter melancholy.
Even when I attempted to pray I found no answer, no feeling of
communion with a greater being that had in the past sustained me.
But eventually I came to realize that just as the followers were
all blind, the son knew nothing of the lies the father had
perpetuated. Neither did the wife. I was the only one who
understood that the Church of the Latter Day Saints, the church I
loved, had been constructed upon a false and perfidious
foundation.

I placed the plates back within the casket.
Then, on impulse, I held the note to the chimney of the lamp until
it was afire and placed it inside the grate of the small iron
stove, watching until it was burned to cinders. When I was
absolutely certain that no man would ever read what Joseph Smith
had last written I took up the casket and I left the house, sure in
my path. The Latter Day Saints must find a home where they could
live in peace, but beyond that I knew that taking away their God,
their faith, the divine story that the Prophet had taught them to
believe would be a blow worse than mortal to men and women who had
given up all to follow that path. I could not in good conscience
leave the men and women I had come to love and respect to such a
fate.

Emma has never forgiven me for usurping what
she felt was her son’s birthright, but if there is a God in Heaven
I know that he shall forgive me for shielding the son from
knowledge of the lies of the father, and for protecting the Saints
from a truth worse than death.

If you are reading this now, I pray that you
are a God fearing man and can understand the necessity of my
actions, but I have by now met my Lord and answered to him. I have
not destroyed the plates, and I leave this last notice of my
actions in the hope that God Almighty will understand what I have
done and that the truth may continue to exist even if hidden from
the multitude.

Do with these artifacts and my testimony as
the Lord God and your conscience guides you.

By his own hand, and under the eyes of God
Almighty

Brigham Young

Trace stared at the parchment, his jaw
hanging.

Here was proof positive that the Mormon faith
was based on a patchwork of lies and false revelations by their
original Prophet, in the words-and signed by a man-almost as
beloved to them. Here was the rat poison he needed to weed out the
vermin in California City. But how was he supposed to use it and
what possible good could it do for Ashley? Rendt would certainly
kill to keep it from being publicized. Was it possible he’d trade
her for the casket and its contents? If he would, would she accept
the trade?

The question gnawed at Trace with razor
chisel teeth.

The one thing Ashley wanted more than
anything else on earth was revenge against Rendt. What would she do
if she realized that Trace had not only given up all hope of that
revenge to save her, but that he had handed Rendt what he most
wanted in the world in the exchange? Remembering the fire in her
eyes Trace knew she’d never forgive him.

Of course none of that made any difference if
he couldn’t get up the face of Raven’s Head, and he doubted whether
he could make the climb unencumbered, much less carrying the box.
Still, what choice did he have?

The story was easily read by moonlight. Marie
could see the hoofprints where Sparkie had plowed down into the
soft dirt atop Raven’s Head, and she could tell by the scuff lines
in the soil and the way Maxie peered curiously over the edge of the
precipice, where Stan had disappeared to. She leaned out to peek
over the cliff and in a narrow cleft there noticed a piton just
like one of the metal devices that hung on Paulie’s bedroom wall.
Through it a climbing rope was looped.

"Hello?" she called.

Her voice echoed away plaintively. She knew
that it was just as likely that Trace Wentworth was now as dead as
Stan. But she couldn’t believe that her vision would be so wrong.
Why bring her here in the first place? Why send the light to show
her the way?

"Trace?" she shouted.

"Hello?" came the feeble reply.

After only another pounding heartbeat she
answered. "Where are you? Are you all right?"

"Marie?" he called back.

"Yes! Can I help you?"

“I don’t know how," he shouted. "I have a
rope, but I’m not sure if I can make it up."

"Maybe Sparkie can pull you."

“I don’t know how to get the rope to
you!”

"I can see the piton," shouted Marie.

"Can you reach it?"

"I don’t know. It’s pretty far down. I’ll
try."

"I’ll have to release one end of the rope,"
shouted Trace. "But you need to tug on it to let me know which end
you want me to let go of."

"Okay."

"Be careful!"

The piton hadn’t looked nearly so out of
reach until Marie actually tried to grasp it. But leaning far out
over the edge of the cliff she tottered so that she felt as though
she was about to lose her grip, and Maxie growled anxiously behind
her. When she felt her legs sliding on loose gravel she crabbed
back to the top of the cliff, huffing in fear and frustration.

"I can’t reach it!" she shouted.

"Could you get to it with a stick?"

Now that was an idea. She searched the nearby
brush, but it took her several minutes to find a branch that was
both stout enough and not so rotten as to fall apart in her hands.
She carried it back to the ledge and discovered that she could
easily hook it through the rope.

"I can get to it with this!" she shouted.

"Jerk on one side!"

She tugged the rope on one side of the
piton.

"Okay. Here it comes!" shouted Trace.

Marie screamed as the rope shot around the
stick and through the piton. The loose end flew upward, and she
made one desperate jab with the stick. The end of the rope slapped
her arm, and she barely managed to wrap her hand around it before
it could fly back down through the steel ring. She clung to it,
gasping.

"Have you got it?" called Trace.

"Yes," she croaked.

"I’m going to send something up! You should
be able to pull it without the horse."

"Okay!"

"Now!"

Whatever was on the end of the rope was heavy
but not more than she could lift. Still whatever it was dragged and
bounced dully against the cliff face. When the rope went taut she
realized that whatever she was lifting could reach no higher than
the piton, so she tied the rope around a tree and ran back to the
cliff. In the moonlight a metal box glistened like silver fire,
just out of reach.

Now what?

She went back to the tree and untied the
rope. Then-easing out a little slack-she was able to hook the rope
with the stick and pull some of the line on the box side of the
piton up within reach. She stepped on it to lock it in place,
dropped the stick and then pulled the box up, setting it carefully
on the ground beside Sparkie. Then she pulled the rest of line out
of the piton. It wouldn’t do to have Sparkie drag Trace up there
and hook
him.

"I got it!" she called, tossing the rope back
down through the narrow defile.

It took three more throws before Trace yelled
that he had the line and had tied himself on. She looped the loose
end around Sparkie’s neck then leapt onto the horse’s back, guiding
him slowly into the woods as she felt Trace’s weight jerking on the
line. She wondered if he was being beaten badly against the rocks,
but he never called out. When she saw his hands and then his torso
clear the edge of the precipice she breathed a sigh of relief.

She jumped off Sparkie, and ran to Trace.

He hugged her, breathing hard, sweat pouring
off him. When he stiffened she followed his eyes back past the
horse.

An Angel-dressed all in black and holding a
rifle with a long clip-faced them from the trees.

"Step away from Mister Wentworth, Marie,"
said the Angel.

"No," said Marie, shaking her head.

"Step away from Mister Wentworth."

"Do as he says, Marie," said Trace,
evenly.

But the girl only clung even tighter to
him.

The Angel edged into the clearing, but the
moonlight didn’t reveal much about his grease-painted features
other than that they were soft and pudgy rather angular and hard.
His eyes were so dark they looked like gleaming shards of black
glass. The barrel of the rifle was aimed directly at Marie
and-through her-at Trace.