Morning Star (2 page)

Chuckling, Jenny recalled Crystal's daring move. Very shortly after becoming acquainted, Crystal had casually dropped a talisman at Jenny's feet.

Jenny sighed, straightened her shoulders, and looked around the kitchen. Only a practicing witch would recognize the signs: the wisp of rosemary, the crossed twigs, the hint of lavender. Now she frowned and moved her shoulders uneasily.

It had been a year since she and Mark had moved to Springfield—a year of being back into the craft on a practicing basis—and still she felt the familiar void in her life. The powerlessness, the lack of growth and direction in her life filled her with frustration.

Just last night, after the coven had held their solstice ritual, Jenny had confided to Crystal her disappointment. After listening, Crystal had shrugged and wiped at the perspiration on her face, saying abruptly, “I've no sympathy. You've been advised to go to sabbat. You knew when you started meeting with us that we were no more than white witches. If you want more, you know what must be done.”

In frustration Jenny had cried, “And you—why will you be content to be a powerless white witch?”

The woman had looked at her with a stony face. “I might wonder what you have in mind. I enjoy the craft, but I intend to be master of my own fate. You might say I'm frightened enough to accept my own limitations. I have all the power I need. I enjoy our coven and the ritual of worship.
I am
, and that is all I need.”

Jenny slowly dried the dishes and returned them to the cupboard. She was frowning, puzzling over Crystal's statement and the strange icy blast her words had left.

Restlessly, Jenny took up her trowel and walked slowly out the back door and down the garden path. It was past noon. The herb garden was shadowed and cool. Perhaps digging through the soil would straighten out her muddled thoughts.

As Jenny ducked under the chestnut tree, her hair tangled in the branches. Impatiently she shook the branch and picked at the pins in her hair. When the coil of her hair slipped down her back, she was freed. But the action immediately plunged her into being more than Jenny.

Kneeling in the soil, breathing deeply of the mingled odor of pungent herbs and moist earth, Jenny thought again of those words.
I am
. Jenny sensed a hidden meaning, and knew only that she was left curious and vaguely uneasy.

Jenny pulled weeds from her herb garden and dug into the loam with her fingers. The crumbled soil smelled faintly of last autumn's leaves. As she lifted her hand to sniff at it, her mind immediately filled with scenes of their life in Missouri.

Though the events had happened eighteen months ago, the damp earth scent bridged the gap as if it were yesterday she and little Tamara had walked the woodland paths as serene and happy as woodland nymphs. But the serenity was an illusion.

She winced, remembering the ugliness and death at Haun's Mill. Closing her eyes she saw the tortured faces of the Saints. Homes, family, even faith were stripped from them.

Settling back on her heels, she stared up at the sun-dappled trees and wondered about the people. Were they happy now? How easy it had been to drop the faith as soon as she left Missouri! But what about them? If their new life was not better than hers, they were in a desperate situation.

And what about Joseph? He had escaped from his Missouri prison, and his flock had settled across the river in Illinois. What a commotion that had caused! She grinned. Good old Joseph had landed on his feet just as she expected. The newspapers had been full of the stories. Illinois had welcomed the Saints with open arms.

A twig snapped behind Jenny. Without raising her head she murmured, “Is that you, my husband?”

“Is that a disappointment?” Mark's voice was heavy, bitter. Jenny got to her feet and turned. He looked at her soiled hands and the tumble of hair spilling down her back, and she saw the frown and his tightened lips.

“You're angry because I went last night,” she whispered, widening her eyes to allow him to see the pain. It worked; the cold expression softened a bit and he bent to press a kiss against her forehead. But he turned away, and she knew the matter wasn't resolved.

She had tried to tell him the truth about her nature worship, about God, but that had failed. He didn't understand, and discussing it only fortified this stony wall between them.

She tried the dimpled grin, and that won out. As she carefully held her soiled hands away from his dark suit and lifted her face, he murmured, “At least my rival is a bunch of women, dotty with their strange ideas. It could be worse.”

He stepped back and pulled a black lace scarf from his pocket. “Letty Harrison asked her husband to pass this on to you. So now Letty is a member of your group! I am amazed that Lew takes it so lightly—he's a deacon at the First Presbyterian Church.”

Jenny's voice was throaty, “Everyone takes it lightly except my husband. True, most of the husbands are being indulgent, but some are seeing the value in it all.”

“Value?”

Jenny ticked off the list. “How do you suppose Lew Harrison won a seat to the senate? He knows. Remember the ulcerated leg of Mather Johnson? It wasn't that addle-pated doctor who cured him. Mark, I could go on and on—the storm that broke up the rioting last month, as well as the reversed finances of William Frank that kept him from running for the House of Representatives.”

“And your group is taking credit for all of this?” Mark turned away. “Come, let's see if there's anything for dinner. After these meetings of yours the Cartwright household suffers for a week.”

As Mark followed Jenny to the house, he stuffed his hand in his pocket and felt the letter. He pushed it down out of sight, deciding he needed more time to think about it. The outrageous letter had initially evoked a solid
no
, but now, strange as it seemed, it was causing him to have second thoughts. Most certainly those second thoughts would never have been necessary had it not been for the scarf and those midnight meetings deep in the forest.

Mark turned away from the door and went instead to sit on the porch swing. The pleasant street reflected all the values of a prospering, growing city. Just recently the city had become the seat of state government. Springfield was attracting settlers with money and influence. In response to demands, the small city was quickly assuming a cosmopolitan atmosphere.

Up and down the wide, tree-lined street, houses similar to the Cartwright home had been built during the year since Mark and Jenny had arrived.

He contemplated Jenny's reaction if he dared propose leaving this comfortable white bungalow. With a sigh Mark shook his head.

“Mister Cartwright, sir—” A woman stood at the gate, peering up at him. “I've come from the post office. They gave me a letter to deliver to the missus.” She still hesitated at the gate, glancing uneasily beyond him.

“Mrs. Callon, if I remember correctly,” Mark said, going down the steps toward the elderly woman clutching her shawl about her head. “I haven't seen you for some time. I understand your husband is ailing.”

“'Tis, but I intend taking him to the doctor. I don't believe in the likes of this witchin'.” She watched him stuff the letter in beside the first and glanced sharply at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she hurriedly continued.

“Good thing you were accepted by the Supreme Court to practice law in the state of Illinois before it come out that your wife is in the witchin' business.”

Mark heard Jenny's step behind him as she answered, “Why, Mrs. Callon! You talk as if it's bad. I'm a white witch. I'm not out to harm a soul. You need to investigate the craft. We witches are intent on helping people, doing good to all mankind. See, someone's in need of the power to move nature in response to our needs. If you'd like, I'll come past with some things to help your husband.”

With a snort of alarm, the woman backed toward the street. “'Tis using the devil's powers to do the devil's work and then lay claim to the powers of heaven.”

Jenny watched the woman leave, then in a bemused voice she said, “Mark, your dinner is ready.” Mark pulled the flap of his pocket down over the letters and followed his wife into the house.

After dinner, while Jenny was washing the dishes, Mark took out the letter Mrs. Callon had given him. “Jenny, here's a letter. Mrs. Callon brought it from the post office.”

With her hands in suds, Jenny exclaimed, “Letter! Who ever could be writing to me?”

“Don't you want the surprise of discovering on your own?” he teased. “Here, I'll dry dishes for you. There are dark circles under your eyes. I know you're tired.”

“And no one believes it's anything except a silly lark,” Jenny brooded. He knew from the shadow in her eyes that Mrs. Callon's words had disturbed her.

When she had dried her hands, she took the thin folded sheet and carefully opened it. “Oh, it's from Sally. How did she ever know where to find us?”

“We told her before we left Missouri that we'd be going to Springfield.”

“It's been so long. Why did she delay writing?”

Mark had to admit, “Likely she needed confirmation. I didn't tell you, but Joseph Smith was through Springfield last autumn. He stopped to see me at my office. I'm sure he carried the news back to Sally.”

He saw the brief flare of anger in her eyes and watched as she chewed her lip. “If Joseph was here, it was for a reason. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't think it important to the welfare of the Cartwright home.” He said lightly, “He was on his way to Washington and hadn't time to spare on us.”

“Washington,” she mused. “Whatever for?”

“He was just following up on his campaign for national notice and sympathy. You saw the newspaper articles. You know the Nauvoo newspaper,
Times and Seasons
, had published accounts of the Haun's Mill massacre as well as a complete story of the Saints' expulsion from the state.”

“I also know of the nationwide interest and sympathy,” she said soberly. “'Tis only fair.”

For a moment Mark was silent. He was thinking of the reply to those articles given by the editor of the
Chicago Democrat
. That editor had stated that the stories were being used to the profit of the Saints. Given more bloody marks in their history by Illinois or any other state, he predicted, the sympathy generated would insure that the Mormon religion would become firmly entrenched in the land. Mark sighed and reviewed his unwilling involvement in it all.

He looked at Jenny. “Joseph carried hundreds of affidavits and petitions to Washington seeking redress for Missouri's persecutions. Right off he bumped into what we've been hearing so much about lately—states' rights.”

Jenny nodded. “I remember, but I thought it mostly dealt with slavery.”

“No, it's a touchy situation. The state's constitution makes the legal entanglements far-reaching. Washington couldn't afford to get involved. There're too many out there just waiting to see how far Washington and the Constitution can be pushed.”

“So they wouldn't do anything for him.”

“Not only that, but seems Joseph let the cat out of the woodshed. Since he's gone home, Missouri sent a few notes of their own. Boggs furnished Washington a complete transcript of the Mormon problem in Missouri. That didn't set well, and Washington told Joseph's lawyer, Higbee, to take the case to Missouri.”

“I guess that settles that,” Jenny said soberly.

“If Joseph is inclined to leave it there,” Mark replied. “I hope he will.”

Jenny was reading her letter. “Sally mentions Joseph in Washington. That's how she knew we were here.” She read silently and then said, “There's much happening. Oh, Mark, I feel so out of touch!”

He couldn't help asking, “You'd trade this for another frontier town?”

She looked around her home for a moment and with a sigh lifted the letter and began to read aloud:

“Nauvoo is a lovely place. The name means a beautiful plantation in Hebrew—the Gentiles had called it Commerce. We were here from the beginning and have watched the struggle from a plague-infested swamp with a handful of poor houses to what it is today. In just one year's time it has grown to a place to be proud of. Joseph laid it out in nice square blocks. There's a goodly lot for each home. We started out with log houses, like Missouri, but already there's brick and limestone buildings going up
.

“But we'll not forget our past. Already Joseph says Nauvoo is just a stopping place until we are strong enough to claim our inheritance. Now the army is being built up. The temple will be set high on the hill. Plans are in the making, including the temple, a grist mill, and other such businesses. In another year we'll be on our feet again
.

“Which comes to the purpose of my letter. Jenny, I fear for your soul. It's going on two years, and you need to be thinking of Zion. There's to be a gathering. The prophecies still hold: Joseph warns us that destruction still awaits this nation. Only the true church will be saved.”

Jenny lifted her face and Mark watched her rub at the tears. “There,” he chided, “there's nothing in that letter to make you cry.”

“Oh, Mark, you'll never understand!” She was shivering, and now his thoughts were on the past. Jenny's fear was a reminder: at one time her brother Tom had asked if his fear of God was keeping him from following Jenny to Missouri. And when he had joined the wagon train, he had given her his whispered promise,
In sickness, in health, I pledge you my love
. Could those dark shadows in her eyes reflect a soul sickness?

With a sigh, Mark slowly pulled the other letter out of his pocket. “I've had a letter from Joseph asking me to come to Nauvoo. Seems he needs another lawyer, and he knows Illinois has granted me a license to practice law in the state.”