Spirit Pouch (19 page)

“I know you will,” she says quickly, and I can see her green eyes glisten in the lamp light.  She turns and darts like a rabbit off to her room.

I sit down on my stack of blankets.  “William,” I call out quickly as he turns to head off to his own bed.  “Thanks.”  He looks perplexed, so I add, “For being a good friend these last few days.”

“You’re welcome, Jared.  I wish you were coming with us,” he smiles.

“Yeah.  Me too.”

William nods and turns toward his bed.

I roll off my stack of blankets to my knees and flip the edges of the blankets outward, then fold a little extra material into the center to provide more padding. 
If I can get a bit more cushion from this hard floor,
I muse,
then I will sleep better.  After all, I’m heading for Arizona at first light.

I set the feather down onto the floor nearby, slip my boots off, then roll onto my padded temporary bed to test it out. 
Not too shabby,
I think,
except for this lump.
  Reaching down by my hip I search for the offending lump intending to straighten it out. 
Hey!  It’s in my pocket!
  I reach into my pocket with my left hand and pull out my newly acquired white stone, the old marble pouch from Annie, the bumblebee from Joseph and the pinto bean.

The vial!
I think, with a slight panic, that I have lost it or broken it.  I reach into my right pocket, and with unanticipated relief, slide the small glass container out onto the blanket next to the stone.

Pulling gently against the draw strings, I open the tattered leather pouch. 
Faith.
  I think of Alma as I place the tiny brown pinto bean into the pouch. 
Repentance.
  I read a scripture once that said that your sins, though they be crimson, can be purified and become white.
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  I drop the white stone into the pouch, next to the seed, to represent purity. 
Baptism,
I think, gently slipping the glass vial of water into the leather bag. 
Jesus was baptized.
  I slide the Dove feather in next, remembering that when Jesus was baptized, the Holy Ghost descended upon Him in the form of a Dove. 
Something personal,
I think as I reach for the bumblebee that Joseph had given me.  I roll it in my fingers, feeling the chipped edge.  A thought creeps into my mind and I slowly tuck the marble into my pocket.  I then slip the one small color photograph of Lyn that I own out of my wallet.  Mechanically I push my wallet back into my hip pocket and wistfully smile as I gaze at the two dimensional image of my sweet heart in the dim light of the oil lamp.

I hope I see you soon,
I think, and then place the photo into the leather pouch.  I roll onto the blankets with the pouch held tightly between my fingers and stare at the rough wooden rafters above me.  I feel a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat as a sensation of loneliness engulfs me.  In my heart I am homesick, and with tears seeping out of my closed eyes, I whisper, “I wish I were home, in my own bed in my own time!”

Chapter Ten

Pack Your Trunk

Wednesday

My
thoughts of home are silently interrupted by a barely perceptible change in the ambient light which filters through my closed and tear-filled eyelids. 
Did Elizabeth hear me whispering?  Did she turn up the light to check on me?  It would so not be cool to be caught crying!  To be homesick!
  I suddenly feel hot.  Well, maybe not hot, but at least the cabin feels warmer.  Right then I hear a distinct click and the whir of a … of a … fan? 
Air conditioning?
My eyes fly open.

Into my vision first comes the ceiling and the single light fixture in the center of the textured and painted plaster. 
Whew hoo!
I almost yell out loud.  I roll over to set the pouch down onto the floor.  In my excitement I have not noticed that the pouch is no longer in between my fingers.  Not only that, but my blankets are no longer beneath me.  In their place is my very own bed, and on the bed is the spirit pouch.

I throw my feet over the edge of the bed and my stocking feet kick against my tennis shoes.  “I sure missed you guys the last few days,” I whisper to my shoes as I slide them to one side.  Joyfully I stand up and pad to the kitchen in my stocking feet.  The dirty dishes are right where I remember them being, on the table, waiting for me to wash them.

As I clean the table and tuck the dirty dishes into the dishwasher I ponder the events of the last few days. 
I actually went back in time to 1866.
  I roll the thought over in my mind. 
And not only that, but I was physically transported to Dogtown Colorado and worked in the brickyard with William Cottle.  How cool is that?
 
Way cool!  In fact, too cool … to be true,
I catch myself doubting. 
Here I am, home in Tucson, Arizona, in my own home, on Wednesday night, doing the dishes from the dinner that I ate, but yet I spent five days in Colorado.  That doesn’t make much sense.

I remember watching a show on the Science channel a few months ago about the human brain.  They said that the brain will fight for sanity by sorting through the facts looking for truth, and throwing out the fantasy.  It isn’t very logical to hold onto an idea that is impossible, and so the brain will introduce an alternative thought as an explanation.  I probably fell asleep on my bed and dreamt the whole thing.  I find it strange how you wake up and your dream seems so real that you can touch it, but the more you try to tell someone, or even think about it, the more ridiculous it gets.
  I chuckle out loud.  “I was actually believing it, myself.”

As I close the dishwasher a thought occurs to me.  I thrust my hand into my left pocket. 
Where is it?  It’s got to be here!
I pull my pocket inside out to reveal only an old pair of fingernail clippers.  My heart sinks.  I wipe off the counter and a sadness floods over me as if I have lost a good friend. 
Geometry test,
I think. 
No wonder I feel gloomy.
  I wipe my wet hands on my pants.  They are dirty any way and are going into my laundry basket.  My hand brushes against a lump.  A bulge in my pants right where my pocket would be.

What is that?
  I push on the lump and it feels hard against my leg.  I immediately stick my almost dry hand into my right pocket and retrieve the lump.  It is the bumblebee!

“Yes!  I knew it was true,” I half whisper and half yell, shooting both hands gleefully into the air.  “It is all true!”

Tomorrow is going to be a good day,
I muse, as I pad back to my own bedroom in my dirty-brown and much worn out socks.  I think about Lyn, and about Ty and then about seminary. 
Oh!  I need to take a copy of my four-generation fan chart!
  I rummage around in my closet until I find my genealogy book.  I locate a copy of my fan chart
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and slip it from between the pages.  Folding it with care, I tuck it into my shirt pocket for tomorrow.

When I arrive at my English Literature class Thursday morning, Ty Smith is already there.  He catches my eye as soon as I enter the door and I can tell that he wants to talk.  Jeff is there, too, slouched back in his chair, bored and definitely not anticipating the inevitable suffering that can only be inflicted by one more hour in Ol’ Mrs. Harris’ class studying Shakespeare.

I place a hand on Jeff’s shoulder as I pass his desk and land my books on the desk right behind his with a solid thump.  “Couldn’t wait to get more English Lit, huh?” I  smirk, trying to razz Jeff a little.

“Yeah, like bamboo under your fingernail or a hot stick in the eye,” he grumbles.  “And you know who was here before me, don’t you?  Dumbbell, behind you.”

I turn in my seat.  “Good morning, Ty,” I say smiling.  I want to tell him all about the spirit pouch and that he is right about the contents representing faith, repentance, baptism and the Holy Ghost. I want to tell him how I had gone back to 1866 and stayed with William Cottle and how we made bricks in Colorado.  But I know he will not believe it. 
Who am I kidding?
I think. 
I hardly believe it.

“Jared,” Ty explodes with exceptional exuberance.  “You will never believe what I found!”

“Try me,” I smile.  “I’m pretty open to unbelievable stories right now.”  I can not imagine anything that would be more unbelievable than my own adventure in Colorado.

“Listen,” Ty says with a hint of urgency.  “I was just doing my seminary homework, and …”

“You’re right! That is unbelievable!” Jeff mocks from his chair where he has been eavesdropping.

Ty rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath in a show of irritation and annoyance, and also a supreme effort on his part to ignore the insult.  His eyes lock back onto mine, “You know, our assignment that is due today.  The four generation …”

The bell rings for class to start and I immediately turn around in my seat.  I know that Mrs. Harris will first scan the room for absent students, and then she will demand each student’s full attention to the lesson topic.  I have seen Mrs. Harris lavishly dole out additional essay assignments to those who dare to not comply.  Those essay assignments are always due in two days and are harshly graded.  Not even ten unbelievable stories from Ty are worth doing an extra essay.

After what seems like
three
grueling hours of English Literature, the passing bell finally rings.  I slam my book closed and stand up, dragging my backpack to my desktop.

“Jared,” Ty says.

But I am looking out the door.  I  just saw Lyn walk past the door in the hall and she had stolen a glance inside.  On Thursdays she has an art class just up the hall, and this is my chance to walk with her.

“There’s Lyn,” I say quickly, shouldering my bag.  “I’ve got to go.  See you in seminary.”  I make tracks out of the English Literature classroom, which all by itself brings joy and happiness to my soul, but on top of that, I am soon strolling along side of Lyn.  She is chatting with Becky about her four-generation fan chart
[76]
that is due today.

“Some of my ancestors have strange names, like Christoff, or Cornelius,” Lyn laughs.  “How about you, Jared?  Do your ancestors have funny names?”

“Not as bad as some of the Sioux Indian’s names.  How would you like a name like Crazy-Horse, or Fool-Hawk?”

Lyn and Becky laugh.  “I wouldn’t like those.  My name would be more like Beautiful-As-The-Morning-Dawn, or Butterfly-On-A-Flower.”

“Butterfly-On-A-Flower is nice,” I agree, smiling at the thought of Lyn being a butterfly.  “It sounds like springtime, and soft, and … and pretty.  Of course my name would be Fast-Like-A-Deer, or Running-Deer.  My Sioux Indian friends would just call me Running,” I smile.

“Or they would call you Fast-Like-A,” Lyn laughs and pushes me a little.

We reach the seminary building and take our usual seats, followed closely by Ty.  Ty sits up front in his new-image seat and Brother Franklin starts the class.

“We want to talk about the Spirit of Elijah today,” Brother Franklin says.  “Who can tell me a little about the Spirit of Elijah?”

Becky’s hand shoots into the air, and Brother Franklin nods toward her.

“Okay,” she starts.  “It’s a feeling you get when you do family history.”

“We have heard people say that they feel the Spirit of Elijah
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while doing genealogy,” Brother Franklin agrees.  “So who is this Elijah person?”

Several hands shoot upward, including Ty’s hand.”

“Brian.”

“Didn’t he do a lot of miracles, or something?” Brian states hesitantly.

“Yes, he did.  Can anyone name one of the miracles?”  Brother Franklin points to Doug.

“He made a barrel of wheat never run out,” Doug answers.

“Okay,” Brother Franklin agrees.  “Let’s read about that.  Turn to 1
st
Kings in your Old Testament.”

I open my Bible to 1
st
Kings, but my thoughts are pulled to the four generation fan chart I had stuffed into my shirt pocket.  I pull it out and open it up.  I don’t feel too guilty, either, since I already know the story of Elijah and the barrel of meal that would not run out until the rains came.
[78]

I stare at my paper. 
Four generations only go back to my great grandfather.  William Cottle has to be two more generations back in order to reach 1866.  I wonder how our family line connects to his?  This morning Mother told me that William Cottle is my great great great grandfather.  William must have had children.  I wonder who they were?

I hear Brother Franklin ask another question about Elijah and several hands shoot up, including Ty Smith’s hand. 
Ty surely got excited about this family history stuff,
I think.

Like water down a sluice, my thoughts slip back to 1866. 
I wonder what William Cottle is doing today?  How are their loaded wagons and oxen doing on their trip to Denver?  Three days by wagon to get down out of the mountains!  What an adventure!  Of course being a pioneer and walking next to a wagon is not really for me.  I’m not into that sore feet stuff.  I had my fill of that the last few days.  It seemed forever before I got my boots.  No.  I will just have to deal with driving in rush hour traffic.  Three days by wagon to get from Dogtown to Denver.  I think I would die.

“Jared?” Brother Franklin calls.

My thoughts come whirling back to seminary class with a jolt as if I have been suspended weightless above my chair and unexpectedly the gravity comes back on.  I guess I look a bit surprised, too, because there is a general chuckle throughout the room.

“Do you want to share how you felt as you researched your four generations?” Brother Franklin continues, not seeming to notice my rapid re-entry into reality, although I am sure that is the purpose of the question.

“Yes …, sir,” I stammer.
“It was actually quite awesome.  I really got to know my ancestors.  It was like I was there with them.  Like they were my friends … actually like they were my family.  I even got to do a little research past my four generations.  I learned that my great, great, great grandfather, William Cottle, lived in a log cabin in a town in Colorado called Dogtown.”  There is a giggle from the back row and a little chatter throughout the classroom. 
It’s not the Spirit of Elijah,
I think. 
But at least they think I’m awesome because I know stuff about my great, great, great grandfather.
And just so they know exactly how totally awesome I really am, I say, “William worked in a brickyard and the bricks he made were actually used to build the first brick buildings in Central City.  The brickyard owner, Mr. Roworth, said the bricks would make the buildings fire proof.  William’s father worked in a gold mine.  We … I mean … they, had a cow and sold the milk.  Anyway, I learned lots of cool stuff.  It made me feel connected.  I feel like my family is important and I want to be with them after the resurrection.”

I glance at Ty.  He is genuinely interested in the class today, and is literally sitting on the edge of his chair.  He wants to comment on the lesson and tell his story.  I can see it in his eyes.

Brother Franklin ends the seminary class and after the closing prayer Lyn comes straight over to my desk.

“I have something for you,” Lyn says quietly.

“For me?”

She nods.

“What is it?” I ask.  My thoughts race trying to figure it out. 
A missed homework assignment?  Maybe I dropped something?  Is it school picture time?  Maybe it is a prom invitation … no …that’s not until March.  Okay, I give up.

“Come on,” Lyn motions with her hand. “Walk with me so we are not late for class and I will show you.”

I get up to follow Lyn, and Ty catches my arm.  “Jet, I really need to talk with you,” he says, barely in a whisper.  He sounds almost desperate, like something bad is about to happen and only I can save him.