Spirit Pouch
Authors: Stanford Vaterlaus
SPIRIT POUCH
By
Stanford E. Vaterlaus
Copyright © 2015
by Stanford E. Vaterlaus
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author. To do so is illegal and punishable by law.
Publisher’s note:
Although the story told here is true,
The Spirit Pouch
is a novel. It is historical fiction. All of the characters from the present time are entirely fictional. They are the creation of the author, but the story and setting that takes place in 1866 in which they find themselves are not.
The Spirit Pouch
is based upon two main sources, a journal written by William Henry Cottle and a transcription of an event told by Annie Cottle to her grandchildren in 1936.
Our Pioneer Heritage
pg 240. All other events not found in these two sources are speculation or the imagination of the author.
To Susan:
Who is my wife and a direct descendant of William Henry Cottle.
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Earrings And The Geometry Tutor
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Prologue
Today is a great day. In fact, it is a totally awesome day.
I smile as a vivid recollection of the past twelve weeks flashes across my mind like a meteor across the night sky.
Maybe this day would never have come had it not been for those incredible experiences that shaped our lives like a clay brick in a mold.
I don't tell people about those days any more. They just think that I am relating a dream, or maybe a vision, but mostly they just think I am weird and crazy. I can't blame them for that. It has been six months now, and sometimes even I find myself doubting if the experience was real. That's why I carry the taw in my pocket. When a miracle occurs in your life as incredible as this, you just don't want to forget it. So I recorded it in my journal as a sacred memory, that I will share if you will believe.
* * *
Chapter One
The New Kid
It
is the first day of school, and there they are, as planned. Jeffery Rasmussen, Christopher Wright, and Matthew Richardson are huddled around Jeff’s open locker.
“Hey!” I half yell as I saunter toward my friends. As a sophomore at Mountain View High School, I feel smug and secure, unlike last year as a lowly freshman. In a way I feel sorry for the freshmen. If they have friends here, they probably won’t find them for three days, and that will be a day after they find their locker. I feel pretty clever, having registered for school at the same time as my three inseparable friends. We all have hall lockers practically next to each other. There is security in numbers, and it feels great.
Jeff looks up. He is tall, with straight blond hair cut in a butch, and sky blue eyes that make him look German. Mom says that he is quite handsome for a fifteen year old. But guys don’t go around noticing things like that. “Hey, Jet!” he yells back.
Jet isn’t my real name, of course. It sort of caught on three years ago in seventh grade. Matt was goofing around with acronyms in Miss Bistol’s English class and discovered that my initials spell J.E.T. Among my friends I am now known as Jet. My mom still calls me Jared, or Jared Ether Taggart when she gets angry.
“How come you guys are here so early?” I ask, knowing I can rile them a little. “Couldn’t you wait to get to English Lit. with Old Mrs. Harris?”
“Are you kidding!” Jeff yells. “Just thinking of Old Mrs. Harris practically ruined my summer vacation!”
“Hey, that reminds me,” Matt says, digging into his backpack. In honor of it being the first day of school he has bleached the tips of his hair and then slicked it backwards giving the effect of soft swirled butter on top of a stack of golden brown pancakes. He pulls a CD from his bag and holds it out for me to take. “You left this in the car after the water-skiing trip.” Matt grins, “You would hate to lose something this valuable on a skiing trip.”
“Yeah,” Chris smirks. “And what could be more valuable than a Silver Simpson CD?” Christopher’s eyes sparkle and lock gaze with mine for one knowing instant and a teasing smile of orthodontically perfect teeth bursts out on his face.
“Just because you guys can’t slalom, you didn’t have to speed up the boat. Do you know how hard that water gets when you fall off your ski at forty miles per hour?”
“Yeah,” Chris laughs. “And if you get dunked head first at forty it could rip your trunks clean off.” Matt and Jeff join with a roar of laughter.
“Hey,” I say tossing my head and leaning back like I am on just one ski. “That’s the risk you take when you’re cool and you can slalom." I step backwards and swoop to the left, “Whoosh.” I lift an imaginary ski rope, then I swoop to the right, “Whoosh.”
It is then, right at the peak of my imaginary slalom demonstration, that I collide with reality and my imagination swoops back to the present, the hallway of Mountain View High School.
I turn to see whom I have skied into, but in my mind I am already sure that it is going to be a girl. I have been acting like a fool, and now I have managed to cement that image into the mind of a girl, and I know by the end of the first day, the entire school will know that I whooshed right into some girl.
I see the English literature book hit the floor and open onto its pages upside down near my feet, and a single sheet of white paper floats downward.
“I … I’m sorry,” I stammer as my eyes make contact with the owner of the English literature book. I am relieved to see that it is not a girl after all, but instead an angry faced boy with unruly, straight black hair scowls at me as he desperately tries to straighten the remaining four books still tucked under his left arm.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you
…”
The boy swears using words that are fairly common for high school. But I don’t use words like that and neither do my friends. They don’t make him sound tough, and they don’t make him sound masculine, but rather they degrade him. Instantly I know that he has no respect for others, nor for deity. I feel sorry for him.
“If you’re going to practice ballet, do it in the gym!” the boy finishes.
“I’m sorry,” I say again and I stoop to pick up the book and sheet of paper. I snap the book closed, creasing a few dirty and mangled pages in the process. I don’t feel sorry for the English literature book. I know that it will bring its own misery and revenge during the coming semester.
Standing up, I hand the literature book to the boy who is still mumbling one obscenity after another. I notice that Jeff has unobtrusively walked around behind the boy. It seems a little odd, but I do not think much about it until, as the boy ungratefully reaches to snatch his book from me, Jeff extends his own arm and with one finger he dislodges the remaining four books from under the boy’s arm, sending them sliding forward and backward. The books crash to the floor and spread across the hallway.
The boy turns with a fury and for a moment his eyes look as if he will flatten Jeff’s nose with his fist, but Jeff jumps backwards and chuckles as if he were teasing his little sister.
“Hey, you dropped something,” Matt laughs, pointing to the hallway floor. Chris chuckles as he joins in with Matt.
“Jeff!” I say sternly, covering the smirk on my face with righteous indignation. “That wasn’t very nice!”
The truth is that I want to laugh, too, but I can not. I already feel guilty for bumping into him, but it is more than that. I think Jesus would have been ashamed of me for laughing, even though this boy has a really foul mouth and probably deserves to be laughed at. I can not help smiling, though when two sophomore girls, that I remember from freshman algebra class last year, giggle as they step gingerly over the trail of scattered literary obstacles on the floor of the hall. The boy glances at the two girls, then turns away quickly as his face reddens.
“Come on you guys,” I say, glancing at Matthew, and Chris, and finally at Jeff. “Help him get his books.”
The boy yanks his Literature book out of my hands. “I’ve had enough of your kind of help already.”
I glare at Jeff who has not yet moved and nod my head toward the books on the floor.
“Hey, I was just getting a little payback for last year when a senior dumped
my
books on the floor,” Jeff whines.
“Yeah,” Chris laughs. “And they kicked them clear down the hall. Did you ever get them all back?”
I kneel down and pick up an advanced calculus book and a computer printed out schedule. At the top, it says Samuel T. Smith. “Well, you were an obnoxious freshman last year, Jeff. You probably deserved it. But Sam, here, isn’t a freshman.” I hold up the calculus book and point to the word ‘Advanced.’ Maybe I am the only one in this group who is impressed, but in my mind, anyone who can take Advanced Calculus has to be a genius. Last year I barely squeezed through beginning Algebra with a low ‘D.’
“My
friends
call me Ty,” he says tersely, grabbing the calculus book and placing it with the others which Matt and Chris have picked up. He takes the print out and heads down the hallway.
“Can we help you find your class?” I yell.
“I may be new here, but I’m not stupid,” he yells back. “I can find the lousy class.”
I watch as he trudges down the hall and turns the corner.
“Unless he’s in band or has P.E. next period, he’s going the wrong way,” Chris smiles.
“He is new here,” I say. “We should help him.” Across my mind flashes images from the parable of the Good Samaritan. I know Jesus would want us to help him.
“He doesn’t want our help,” Chris replies. “Besides, when did you become so righteous?”
“Yeah,” Jeff says. “You could lighten up on that teacher’s quorum president goody-goody stuff here at school. We’re your friends!”
“The gospel isn’t just for Sunday,” I say in defense, restating something that I had heard once in priesthood meeting. I can hardly believe that I, Jared Ether Taggart, actually say that. It is the right thing to say, but even as I say it, I can feel the bond of our friendship crack and a small gap between us begins to form. “Otherwise,” I chuckle, trying to mend the gap, “they wouldn’t have invented seminary, right?”
“And Mutual,” Matt says. “Hey, we’ve got to get to class!”
* * *
From the moment I walk in the door I am dreading English Literature. Not that it is too difficult, because it isn’t. From the time I was five and a half, I could read. What I am dreading is the impending boredom.
In a glance I see Old Mrs. Harris writing her name on the white board, and Jeff is just sitting down halfway back in the middle row. There are two empty desks behind Jeff and I sit down in one right as the tardy bell rings. Old Mrs. Harris turns around and stares at each one of us individually.
“Good morning, students. I am Mrs. Harris and this is Sophomore English Literature. If any of you are in the wrong class, please raise your hand.”
Jeff turns halfway around in his seat and when I see his face I think he is going to be sick. “I’m in the wrong class,” he mumbles under his breath. “I can already feel it.”
“I see there is one seat vacant, so starting up here in front I want each of you to stand and state your full name while I take roll. And since this is Sophomore English, please tell the class something about yourself in two sentences or less.”
I take a deep breath and watch Old Mrs. Harris point to Annabelle Hass in the first row. Annabelle rises timidly to her feet. She is a Mia Maid in my ward and her dad is on the High Council, but she doesn’t say all that. The fact is, I don’t remember what she says. I do remember when it is Jeff’s turn to stand, because his desk is in front of mine.
“My name is Jeff Rasmussen, and I’d rather be water skiing.” He sits down like a heavy sack of potatoes.
I stand up next. “My name is Jared Ether Taggart,” I say. “Most people call me Jet. And I am named after an ancient American prophet.” I glance around the room and smile as I sit back down smugly in my chair. I have acquired the reaction that I want. Those that are familiar with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and the Book of Mormon think I am brave and awesome to associate myself with religion here at school. I can see in their eyes that we share a knowledge of things that most of the other students do not. In fact, the others are left wondering just how awesome my name really is. But at least they know that I think it is cool.
Just at the height of my glory the classroom door opens abruptly and Ty Smith hesitantly steps inside.
“Do you belong in this class?” Old Mrs. Harris asks.
“Yes.”
“Then please be on time in the future.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There is one empty seat behind Mr. Taggart. Please sit there, but first tell the class your full name and something about yourself.”
“My name is Samuel T. Smith. My friends call me Ty. And I’m here because I want to learn English Literature.” Ty smiles and as he plods to the desk behind mine I hear Jeff mumble, “Yeah, right!”
Before the passing bell rings, we learn all about Old Mrs. Harris’ famous grading system and hear a thorough explanation of what will get you sentenced to after school detention. We even get to read some
Romeo and Juliet
.
This is going to be a long semester
, I think as the bell rings.
I turn around as I stand up. “Ty, I’m glad you made it to class!”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want you to miss learning any English Lit!” Jeff adds.
I snatch Ty’s schedule from his desk, “Hey, I’m sorry for bumping into you this morning. Can I help you find your next class?”
“Yeah, right” he snarls, getting defensive. “Like you can help me with this one.” He grabs the schedule back, but not before I see his second hour class.
“Seminary?” I squeak out. “You didn’t tell me you were Mormon!”
“I’m not!”
“Then
…”
“Then why seminary?” He pauses, and I just sort of nod my head. “Because my dad is Mormon and he wants me to associate with ‘good kids.’ It is part of the deal.”
I feel about two inches tall and a sense of guilt fills my heart. We have already teased him, insulted him, and knocked his books across the hall, and that is all before first period. Maybe he is looking for some
other
‘good kids.’
“Look,” I say trying not to show my guilt. “I’ll not only help you find your next class, but I’ll walk you there. I’ve got seminary second hour also.”
* * *
“Hi, Jeff,” I say pulling out a chair and sitting down in the space he has saved for me. It was one of those unspoken rules. Whoever arrives at the cafeteria first would save eight chairs by leaning them up against the table. Among us it is called the Mormon table.