The woman kneels in the sharp grass at the water’s edge and gently sets a handwoven basket into the cold current. A forbidden child sleeps inside. The mother has defied Pharaoh for as long as possible. She can no longer hide her son; he has outgrown her protection. Jochebed checks once more to ensure no water is entering the vessel she has prepared with pitch and straw, the meager resources of a Hebrew slave. The basket is tight, secure. She glances around to make sure she is undetected by the soldiers who guard this part of the Nile. She looks in at her boy, and the ache deep inside starts to rise. God has guided her to do the very thing Pharaoh decreed—throw her Hebrew son into the water. How will he survive the dangers, the currents, the evils lurking beneath? Where will the water carry him? She forces herself to push past her fears and begins to close the basket. For the last time, she reaches in and gently brushes the boy’s hair from his forehead. At her touch, she sees again, with savage clarity, the vision.

It first came just after her baby crowned, after Jochebed pushed into the sacrificial fire of childbirth instead of pulling back. Puha, the midwife, breathed in wonder and whispered, “The child is still within the veil.” As Puha’s hands gently opened the sac to draw out the child, water gushed forth, and with the flood, divine sight:

The color blue-green, everywhere. A deafening sound—the roaring of water. A fierce current, unyielding and inescapable, driving a small vessel toward a foreordained destiny. Separation. Confusion. Followed by dominance. Position. Wealth. Jochebed, trembling, knows it is the child’s destiny. Water, everywhere. Power, immense. Rejection. Meekness. Pain. And finally: A burning tree that does not consume. Glory. God . . .

The vision fades. Jochebed has seen, like the prophetess Sarah, Mother of Israel, that her son is destined for greatness. She knows, somehow, that the water that was meant to destroy will deliver him. It is this assurance from God that has given her the strength and the wisdom to prepare this vessel—this ark—that will carry him safely through the water. And yet, Jochebed hesitates. She watches over her son a little longer. She basks in his loveliness, trying to memorize his small features. The child is heavenly, possessing a beauty uncommon even among the Egyptians. Her son is strong yet vulnerable, only months old. Her certainty about casting him into the water has begun to fade when Miriam’s voice brings her back.

“Mother. Mother!”

Jochebed spies her daughter’s face across the river, hidden in the reeds. Miriam, her eldest child, who awoke that morning with the idea that she was quick and small enough to hide undetected and watch where the water would carry her brother, is now frantically pointing. Jochebed glances around and sees an Egyptian soldier coming toward her. Quickly, she secures the top with a leather strap, pushes the basket into the Nile, and stands up. She has agonized about this moment for months, and it is over in an instant. She grabs her water pots, turns, and waves her arm to draw the soldier’s attention away from the water. It works. He has not seen the basket floating downstream. Unconcerned, he follows as she walks back to the settlement.

With each step, as the distance grows between Jochebed and her children, her faith and resolve threaten to break. Will they survive beyond her reach? Did she use enough pitch? Will Miriam know what to say if she is caught? With mounting fears, she parts her lips and prays. Please, God, let the water guide and not destroy. Please, let Miriam, so quick and wise, witness her brother’s deliverance.

Deliverance. The word wraps around her like a shawl. Jochebed begins to hum the words of a song the elders of Israel have sung for decades about the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. She can hear the deep, harmonious voices of the sons of God, bringing peace to her soul:

Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer. Who delivered Abraham an heir—the first of a nation as numerous as the stars in heaven, causing life to bloom in the barren desert of Sarah’s womb.

Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer. Who delivered Isaac from the altar of sacrifice to test both him and Abraham, and provided a ram in the thicket.

Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer. Who delivered Jacob from famine and brought his beloved son, Joseph, long thought dead, back to him again.

O, Who is he? Who is the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob? He is the God of Deliverance—the God of Miracles. And he will deliver Israel once more.

As Jochebed finishes the song, she stops on a hill close to home. At last, she dares to look back toward the river, wondering where her son has been carried, hoping Miriam has seen. She watches and waits, needing deliverance. Then, in the distance, she sees Miriam running. As she draws closer, Jochebed sees that her face is streaked with tears. Her legs buckle beneath her. What if?

Kneeling, she hears Miriam shouting, laughing. Miriam’s tears are tears of joy! She throws her arms around her mother and explains that the waters carried the basket to Pharaoh’s sister, who heard the baby crying and had compassion on him. He was too beautiful! She believes her gods have brought him to her. She will raise him, but she needs a wet nurse. “I told her I would bring someone. Come, Mother! Come quickly.”

Jochebed takes Miriam’s hand, and as they race back to the river, her mind repeats the words of the ancient song again: Who is he? The Deliverer. The Deliverer! The Mighty Deliverer.

Miriam leads Jochebed to the porch of Pharaoh’s sister. The baby continues to wail. It is a strange sound. She has never heard him cry so loudly. He would surely have been detected and killed by the soldiers if he had cried that loudly at home. Pharaoh’s sister places the child in Jochebed’s arms. “Feed my son. I will pay you for your time.” Jochebed nods. The two women, tall and handsome, see each other eye to eye, and they know the other knows—this boy must survive. Their gods have revealed it to both of them.

“His name will be Moses,” Pharaoh’s sister finally says. “Because I drew him out of the water.”

But you were not the first, thinks Jochebed, who remembers Puha, who drew him out of her womb.

Later that night, as Jochebed breastfeeds Moses, basking in the wonder of deliverance, she quietly sings the ancient songs. Her eyes grow heavy. She sleeps but dreams:

The roaring sound of rushing waters. Great walls of sea rising high on either side—a highway in the deep. Water pulling back; dry ground. The Hebrews running. Pharaoh’s chariots closing in. A man standing at the water’s edge, arms outstretched, holding a branch of the burning tree high in the air. It is Moses. The water that was meant to destroy will save. His eyes are full of fire—the power of God coursing through him. Moses! Moses has become a living ark, carrying an entire nation through the water, a vessel of God to deliver his people from extinction. Moses—the one who draws out.

Jochebed awakes, trembling. She has seen again, like the prophetess Sarah, that her son’s deliverance is the deliverance of many. Moses is great beyond her understanding. She remembers the first vision and knows that his path to this future moment will lead him through great loneliness, rejection, and pain. She aches to shield him from it all, when a quiet assurance, like before, washes over her, and she knows his family will walk with him, Aaron and Miriam. The rest is unclear.

The baby stirs in her arms, rooting. As she puts him to her breast, feeling him eagerly draw out her milk, Jochebed looks into his angelic face with awe. Who is he? The Deliverer. The Mighty Deliverer.

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Charlotte Eaves Winder has a degree in English Teaching from BYU and is working on a Master’s in Creative Writing from Harvard Extension School. She has taught LDS seminary and institute and enjoys spending time with her family, reading, and gardening.

Art by Winslow Homer (1836–1910).

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I.

It was almost too easy to go from twelve brothers to eleven, thought Judah, son of Leah.

Step One: Take Joseph to the pit.

The pit was at the bottom of the mountain, next to the long trading road. When ten of the brothers had first arrived with their flocks a week ago, the pit had been an annoyance. They’d had to station Zebulun, Judah’s younger brother, at its side to prevent the baby goats from falling in. But now that Father had sent Joseph—their little seventeen-year-old half-brother—to “supervise them,” the pit was an opportunity.

Step Two: Remove Joseph’s coat—the coat of many colors, crafted with the finest fabric that Canaan and its traders had to offer.

Sad fact: Father only really loved two of his children, the sons he’d had by his favorite wife, Rachel. So Joseph and Benjamin—numbers eleven and twelve in the pecking order—got treated better than the rest of them, especially after their mother died. Benjamin was too little to be annoying about it, but Joseph liked to lord it over them. “Look at this beautiful coat Father gave me,” Joseph would brag, spinning in circles so its colors twirled around him, while Judah—the fourth oldest son—trudged around in limp hand-me-downs. But at least after today, Judah would still have his coat, while Joseph would not.

Step Three: Throw Joseph into the pit.

Judah tried to not feel too guilty upon hearing Joseph’s yelp of pain when he hit the bottom. He peered down into the pit. It didn’t appear that Joseph had broken any bones in the fall, which was good. Not that a few broken bones would matter—they planned to let him die here, after all.

Step Four: Kill a baby goat.

They had baby goats in abundance, which made this particularly easy, though it made Judah a little sad that his brothers insisted on one of the baby goats from his flock. They ripped up Joseph’s coat and spread the goat’s blood on it. Poor goat—didn’t even live to see its first birthday.

Step Five: Go home and be a happy band of eleven brothers instead of twelve.

The fifth step ended up being a problem: Reuben’s flocks had wandered off on the other side of the mountain, so he had to find them. Reuben told them to start toward home without him, but Judah and the other brothers were really hungry. It made sense to eat lunch before they left.

Their meal—roasted baby goat—was a little spoiled by Joseph’s cries from the pit, repeated phrases like, “This isn’t funny anymore!” and “I’m sorry for telling you about my dreams, but that doesn’t mean they’re not going to happen.” This shifted to “Please, just let me out.” There was also “Dad’s going to be so upset” and “What would your mothers say?”

Good riddance, that’s what their mothers would say. At least that’s what Judah liked to think.

However, as they started eating dessert—dried dates on crackers, Joseph’s favorite—Judah began to reconsider. Before they had thrown Joseph in the pit, they had considered outright killing him, but Reuben had convinced them that murder was bad and that the pit would be a much more elegant solution to their problems. But really, was this actually any better from a moral standpoint? True, starvation or dehydration would be the immediate cause of Joseph’s death, but it would still count as murder. The Cain and Abel story made it pretty clear that God had a major problem with killing your own brother. Joseph was only their half-brother, but even if they only got half of Cain’s punishment, it would still be pretty bad.

“I was thinking,” said Judah, “that instead of letting Joseph die, we could sell him.”

“That’s not the plan,” growled Dan, Bilhah’s oldest.

As Judah looked around at his eight other brothers sitting around the lunch circle, he realized that if he was not careful, he could end up in the pit with Joseph.

“Yes, we had a plan,” said Judah. “But do we really want our brother’s blood on our hands? Who knows what God would do to punish us. If we sell Joseph—say to some traders—then we achieve the same result, but without any murder. And Joseph would probably fetch a good price. He’s young and strong and healthy.”

It took some additional persuasion, but Judah managed to convince them.

Then Simeon asked the million-shekel question. “Where are we going to find slave traders?”

As they debated, they saw a dust cloud in the distance.

It was a caravan of Midianite slave traders.

Truly, this was almost too easy.

II.

The hard part was getting Joseph out of the pit. It took the better part of an hour, and way too much rope. Judah acquired several new callouses and a rope burn on his arm.

The other hard part was the look of betrayal on Joseph’s face as they handed him over to the traders.

III.

As dusk fell, Reuben returned with his sheep.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” he observed.

“Just thought we should wait for you, big brother,” said Judah. Judah had always looked up to Reuben—not only was Reuben the oldest of all twelve brothers, but they also shared the same mother.

“Thanks,” said Reuben, and then, lantern in hand, he walked casually over to the pit and peered down.

Reuben turned around, aghast. “What have you done with Joseph?”

None of the brothers said anything.

“What have you done?” Reuben repeated. And this time, his eyes landed on Judah.

“We, uh, well, we sold him to the Midianites,” said Judah. “As a slave.”

Reuben let out an awful wail, and he started ripping—yes, ripping—his clothes. Seams split, fabric tore. In a few moments, apparel that had taken Reuben’s wife weeks to weave and sew turned to rags.

“How can I return to my father without the child?” Reuben asked.

As a group, they lowered their eyes to the dirt.

Reuben was right. Even at seventeen, Joseph was still a child.

“Mark my words,” said Reuben. “His blood will be on our hands.”

Judah pushed at some grass with his foot. He’d felt very righteous, selling Joseph instead of letting him die. But Reuben had planned to actually save Joseph, and now that was impossible.

IV.

They presented Joseph’s coat to Father, telling their story: On their way back from shepherding, they had found these fragments. Fearing, they had collected them. “Did these belong to Joseph?” they asked.

Father picked up the pieces one at a time, pressing them against his face as he wept.

“Yes, these belong to my son. He has been torn apart by wild beasts.”

Father did not speak again for three weeks. Judah’s mom, Leah, alternated between tears and rage. She looked at them—Judah and his five full brothers—as if they were to blame.

It’s true, thought Judah. We are the wild beasts. We tore Joseph apart.

V.

Not long after, Judah married. His wife was a Canaanite named Shuah. Judah decided that he would not be like his father, marrying multiple women to whom he felt varying degrees of fondness. No, he would devote himself fully to Shuah, giving her his whole heart.

And then his heart expanded when Shuah bore children—first Er, then Onan, then Shelah.

One afternoon, Er and Onan played on the floor of their tent. A warm breeze tousled Shuah’s hair as she held baby Shelah.

These four, thought Judah. They mean everything to me.

Shuah seemed to sense his thoughts, as she always did.

“I can’t imagine losing any of them,” she said. “How your father must feel, to lose a son. No wonder he is still broken by your brother’s death.”

Judah joined his sons on the floor, helping them play with their carved wooden goats. Perhaps, thought Judah, Joseph is still alive, working somewhere for the Midianites. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps I have not done the unimaginable.

VI.

Sometimes, when visiting Canaanite cities, Judah saw slaves. Judah always looked for Joseph’s face. He would sell his best livestock to bring his brother back.

But he never found Joseph.

Once, in Shechem, Judah watched in horror as a slave died. Whip lashes covered the man’s back. His ribs were visible beneath his skin, his face sallow. He was young, but he looked old.

So often—so very often—the slaves were mistreated. They expended their lives in bursts. Flames of potential put out so quickly, so soon.

Why do I pretend that Joseph could still be alive? thought Judah. We all know he is dead.

And Judah awaited the punishment that would come from God, as swift and as sure as a desert storm.

VII.

Er’s death was not Judah’s fault. Er was a grown man and had made his own choices. The signs were clear: God had struck down Er for his personal wickedness.

But as Judah wept by his son’s body, he could not help but wonder: What could I have done differently? Is there more I could have taught? Could I have been a better example?

Maybe not, Judah concluded. Maybe not after what I did to Joseph.

Judah’s loss was an endless pit. If you threw in a stone, it would fall for minutes, hours, days, and it might never reach the bottom.

But Er’s death was not the end. Er left a young widow, Tamar, and since Er had not given Tamar seed, Judah’s second son, Onan, was obligated to do so.

Onan acted as if he would do his duty to Tamar, but did not.

He too was struck down by God.

Once again, Judah wept at the body of his son.

Why would God do such a thing?

Just yesterday evening, Onan’s eyes had sparkled by the light of a lantern as he told a funny story about goats scaring a camel. And now his skin was cold, his eyes unseeing.

Why? Judah asked God, but he heard no response. After all, what could one hear from the bottom of a pit? Just your own labored breathing. Just your own unheard yells for help.

It was not fair, but Judah had poured out unfairness on his own brother, so he could not complain.

The next week, Tamar came to Judah, uncertain. If she had seed, she would have a permanent place in the household. Judah felt for her, but Judah did not want to give Shelah to her. Shelah was the only son he had left.

“Shelah is not of age,” said Judah. “Go, return to your father’s house and live as a widow until the time comes.”

Tamar was not happy with the arrangement, but Judah could not help but blame her for the loss of his sons. He did not want to see her every day in his household.

Besides, he did not know if he actually planned to force Shelah to do his duty to Tamar.

What if God struck down Shelah as well?

Judah could not survive another loss.

VIII.

Another loss.

This time his darling wife Shuah.

Shuah, Judah’s everything and all.

Gone.

IX.

Was it immoral to indulge in an afternoon with a harlot?

Yes.

Did it dull the pain of his losses?

No.

If Judah was going to visit a harlot, should he have gone home and gotten the baby goat for payment first, rather than giving up his staff, his signet, and his bracelets as a pledge?

Yes. But if he had done that, it would have given him time to think and he would never have gone through with it.

Was it a problem that now he couldn’t find the harlot to pay her?

Yes.

Was it a problem that everyone said that this harlot did not exist?

Yes.

Did he know what the harlot looked like?

Of course not. She’d kept her face covered with a harlot’s veil.

Did he need his staff, his signet, and his bracelets back?

Also yes. It had been three months, and only God knew if he’d ever get them back at this point.

It was a bad situation all around, and then Judah heard about the scandal.

His daughter-in-law, Tamar, was pregnant. Out of wedlock. It was a shame to the entire extended family. And since she was officially part of his household, it was his problem.

Now, per the law, it was up to Judah to have his daughter-in-law burnt.

He was not looking forward to this. He liked Tamar. She was a good girl, and a good wife to Er, even though Er had been a bad husband.

“Bring her to me,” said Judah with a sigh. “And she will be burnt.”

They brought Tamar to him. The burning couldn’t happen immediately—they needed to have a conversation first. He’d prepared what he planned to say, questions and admonishments, farewells and justifications. But immediately Tamar forced everything off script.

With a defiance he did not expect of a Canaanite woman, Tamar jutted up her chin and thrust forward a large cloth-wrapped bundle.

“I’m sure you want to know who the father is,” she said. “Well, you can see for yourself. The man gave me his signet, his staff, and his bracelets. Do you happen to know who they belong to?”

Dread sinking in his stomach, Judah opened the bundle and found his missing items.

The situation was suddenly much more awkward. Not meeting Tamar’s eyes, Judah twiddled with one of his bracelets. He suspected God was watching from the heavens, laughing at the cosmic irony.

Judah tried to find something to say, but struggled.

He certainly couldn’t burn Tamar when it was his own fault. He’d have to tell everyone that he was the father. His brothers would mock him for weeks, and his own father—well, there would be disappointment and disapproval. Hopefully this didn’t become part of the permanent family record, but with his father’s emphasis on record keeping . . . well, it probably would. People would be talking about this for decades, maybe even centuries.

On the positive side, at least he had his missing items back.

After a few minutes, he finally managed a single word.

“Why?”

“Shelah has been of age for an entire year, yet you did not send for me. My marriage contract was clear about what you and your sons owe me: posterity. A place in your household. The ability to worship your God and be part of your family.”

“I put you in a precarious situation by sending you to your parents,” admitted Judah.

“Yes,” Tamar agreed. “I decided that if you were not going to act to fulfill the contract, I would see it fulfilled.”

“You have been more righteous than I have,” said Judah wryly.

In good news, his action was no longer immoral. However, the intentions of his heart—which an all-seeing God could see—had been.

Judah picked up his signet and slid it onto his finger. “Well, welcome back to the family.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Assuming the baby is born healthy and strong, will you consider my contribution of seed sufficient for our contract?”

“Yes,” said Tamar, her cheeks reddening. “I am not interested in doing that with you ever again.”

Judah felt his own cheeks burn. “Good. Good. Well, that’s settled then.”

Six months later, Tamar gave birth not to a single child, but to twin boys. Judah and Tamar named them Pharez and Zarah.

Once again, Judah’s heart grew. He loved his infant sons with everything he possessed.

They did not replace the sons he had lost, and in no way did Tamar replace his dear Shuah. He still felt the pain and the sorrow. But a bit of light made its way to the bottom of the pit. Maybe God saw Judah with some kindness, after all.

X.

Never before had Judah known hunger.

Worse than the gnawing in his own stomach was watching the pains of his adult son, Shelah, his just-barely-walking sons, Pharez and Zarah, and his daughter-in-law Tamar.

He gave most of the remaining food to Tamar, for if she did not eat, how could she give their sons suck?

Months passed, but still the famine continued.

Perhaps this is our punishment for what we did to Joseph, thought Judah. All of us brothers, slowly starving together.

Word came that there was food in Egypt, and his father instructed Judah and nine of his brothers to travel and purchase supplies for their families. Father would not send Benjamin—“Something could harm him!”—though he was willing to risk any of the rest of them. Decades ago, Judah would have begrudged his father this favoritism, but now that Judah had lost his wife and two sons, he thought he understood.

Still, Judah hesitated to take the trip. Pharez and Zarah were still so very small.

“Go,” Tamar told Judah. “I will take care of things while you are gone.”

And so Judah went. As they made the long journey, Judah wondered why God would help the Egyptians through the famine, but not his covenant people in Canaan.

Their arrival in Egypt was like any arrival in a strange land where one did not speak the language: confusions, misdirections, misunderstandings, and the overwhelm of new sights and people and sounds. Also, Egyptian men and women wore very little clothing compared to the Canaanites. But even if they were light on clothing, none of the Egyptians appeared to be light on food.

An Egyptian guard seemed to follow them through the city, but there was not much they could do about that. Judah remembered that his great-grandfather, Abraham, had had run-ins with the Egyptians. Hopefully Egypt did not have a long memory.

Eventually, Judah and his brothers learned that in addition to a pharaoh, Egypt had a governor. Anyone wishing to purchase Egyptian grain had to make the request directly to him.

They stood in line outside of a palace for several hours, waiting. The ten brothers stayed relatively silent—many people watched them now. Judah studied the strange carvings outside the building—carvings of animals, of gods, and of men. There was nothing like this grandeur or artistry in any of the cities he had visited, and his family’s tents—well, sometimes it was best not to make comparisons.

Then, when it was finally their turn, they were let in to a large entrance hall, with pillars that felt as tall as mountains.

They approached the elaborately carved throne where the governor sat. His face was chiseled like the statues in the city, his skin was a golden bronze, and he wore an elaborate headdress made of fabric and gold. This was a man who, on a whim, could save or skewer them.

When they were about twenty feet before the governor, a man at the side of the room hissed in Hebrew, “Kneel if you value your life.” Judah was impressed that they had their interpreters ready for anyone—these Egyptians were observant and prepared.

Judah and his brothers kneeled on the hard stone—not just an ordinary kneel, but with their faces touching the ground. There was a slight residue of sand from the shoes of those who had petitioned previously, and it itched at Judah’s nose. But if he had to prostrate himself before a foreign ruler to gain food for those he loved, he would do it.

“Do not raise your faces, unless you are instructed to do so,” instructed the translator.

Sandals thumped against the stone. The governor had descended and now walked in a slow circle around them.

He said something in Egyptian, gruffly.

“Where are you from?” asked the interpreter.

“We come from Canaan, Lord, to buy food for our family,” said Reuben.

The interpreter translated Reuben’s words.

“I don’t believe it.” The translator matched the governor’s gruffness. “You are spies, come to see the nakedness of our land, to analyze our fortifications, to bring your own ruler down upon us.”

“No, we are not spies. We are brothers,” said Simeon.

“Ten brothers?” said the governor. “That seems unlikely. Have you other family?”

Even with the pause for translation, the governor seemed shrewd. He was the type of person who could draw everything from you, see all of your lies, see all of Egypt at once.

“We have a father, of course,” said Reuben.

“You are all grown. Your father must be quite old. Is he still alive?” This the governor asked with a bit less harshness.

“Yes, alive and well,” said Reuben. “But hungry.”

“I still do not believe you,” said the governor. “Ten brothers—it would be an unlucky number. A man would be better to have more or less, but not ten.”

“We are ten before you,” volunteered Judah, speaking into the earth. “But we are twelve brothers. One was lost, many years ago. The youngest stays with our father.”

The governor laughed. “What an unconvincing lie.” And then he raised his voice, and it seemed to shake not just the building, but all of Egypt. “I was right—you are spies.”

“We tell the truth, my lord,” said Simeon.

“Then prove your story. One of you can go and fetch your youngest brother. Only then will I believe you.”

The ten brothers stole glances at each other. Their father would never let Benjamin go.

“We can’t do that,” said Simeon.

Before they knew it, they were swarmed by Egyptian guards and thrown into prison.

Conditions in the prison were better than they could have been. They shared a large room. They were fed well, and given plenty of water to drink. But it was still a prison. And there was always someone watching and listening.

Judah talked a little with his brothers, and he prayed with them, but most of the time, he thought of his family. His wife Shuah. His lost sons. The three sons that remained. Tamar. His mother Leah. His father. His half-brother Benjamin. He tried to remember his brother Joseph’s face, but it flitted from his memory, replaced by images of Egyptians: the guards, the prison warden, the translator, the governor.

Why can I not even remember my brother’s face?

After three days they were brought again before the governor. They still knelt, but this time the interpreter instructed them to raise their faces so the governor could see them.

“I am a God-fearing man,” said the governor through his interpreter, his voice measured. “If you tell the truth, then your families are hungry. I will allow you to purchase food for a time. I will send back nine of you, with the food, and keep one of you here. Then, you will return with your youngest brother. That is how you will prove that you are not spies. That is how you will get more food.”

The brothers looked at each other. Nine of them returning to Canaan was much better than only one. But would their father agree to send back Benjamin?

“Or, if you are spies, by the word of Pharaoh you shall die,” said the governor casually, as if he were discussing the night’s dinner. “You may discuss with each other and make your decision.”

The governor sat on his throne and sent the interpreter away, giving them a bit of privacy.

“We must accept the governor’s offer,” said Simeon. “We have no other choice.”

They all agreed.

“One of us doesn’t get to go home,” said Judah, thinking of his children.

No one volunteered for further imprisonment in Egypt. “We brought this on ourselves,” one brother said. “This is our fault,” the others agreed. “God’s justice, for how we treated Joseph.” “He pled with us from the pit, and we did not listen.” “We should never have done it.”

“I told you we shouldn’t harm the boy,” said Reuben. “Now God holds his blood against us.”

The governor left, and Judah worried that something even worse would befall them.

A few minutes later, the governor returned with his interpreter. “Have you chosen a brother to remain?”

They shook their heads.

“Then I will do so.”

The governor’s eyes lingered on Judah’s for a moment, but then he pointed at Simeon.

“You. I will keep you.”

Judah was flooded with relief that he had not been chosen, followed shortly by guilt at his relief. His brother—his full brother—would remain trapped in Egypt so the rest of them could go free.

Things got worse after they began their journey home. At the first inn, they discovered their money in their bags of food. The governor was already suspicious, and now they had paid him nothing for their food.

When they made it back to Canaan, their families shouted with joy at their wealth of grain. But then they learned of Simeon’s fate.

Simeon’s wife and children were inconsolable. Judah and Simeon’s mother, Leah, collapsed on the ground, tearing out her hair.

Father wept bitterly. “Now I have lost two of my sons. I am undone.”

Judah had only seen his father this broken once before: when he had lost Joseph.

Maybe the rest of the brothers mattered, after all.

XI.

“Please, Father, we’re dying,” said Shelah. Judah’s grown son—the only remaining son who had been born by his dear Shuah—could barely stand, barely walk.

“There’s nothing I can do,” said Judah. “If we return to Egypt without Benjamin, the governor will kill us. And my father will not let Benjamin go, no matter what arguments my brothers make.”

Tamar tried to console their children—their children who were now almost three—holding them both in her lap, but they would not be consoled.

“We believe in you, Judah,” said Tamar over their children’s wails. “Turn to God, and He will provide a way.”

Yet Judah had already prayed. Judah already knew what it seemed God wanted him to do.

“What if God expects too much?” asked Judah, raising his voice above the din. “What if the cost is too high?”

The young boys quieted for a moment.

Tamar spoke into the stillness. “Then you must decide who you are, and who you want to be.”

XII.

As they made the weary journey to Egypt, Judah watched over Benjamin the same way you would watch a toddler who at any moment might both find and fall off a cliff. There were so many dangers on the road: bandits and slave traders. And so many more dangers in Egypt.

Benjamin seemed unaware of the danger. Or maybe just unafraid. He was grown, and had children of his own, but still their father treated him like a child. They all did, in a way.

Could Judah actually give up everything for Benjamin? For his half-brother?

He had given up a brother to get rid of an annoyance in his life. It had been so easy. And it had not made his life any better.

Now, Judah had promised his father his own life for that of Benjamin. Judah had committed that Benjamin would return home, even if he had to sacrifice his own life to make it possible.

Judah was afraid he could not do it, that he would not do it, should the need arise. And so he worried and watched, watched and worried.

As soon as they entered the borders of Egypt, they were joined by Egyptian guards, and as soon as they entered the borders of the city, they were greeted by the same interpreter as before, with a message from the governor inviting them to eat dinner at his home.

It sounded more like an invitation to a private slaughter than to a feast. But they were in no position to turn it down.

As they waited in the governor’s mansion, Judah stayed as close to Benjamin as he could. They had brought double the coin, gifts from Canaan, and Benjamin. But would it be enough?

After a long time, Simeon was led in. They each embraced him.

“How were you treated?” asked Judah.

“I can’t complain,” said Simeon, then looked at the ground. “I started to think that you wouldn’t come for me.”

“Of course we came,” said Judah. But it had been a near thing. If they hadn’t come, Simeon would have died in prison. Of course, he still might—they all could die.

Finally, the governor entered. They prostrated themselves on the floor.

“Stand,” said the governor through his interpreter. “You are my guests, in my home, and I want you to feel welcome.”

He led them into a room where they were to eat. In any other circumstance, Judah would have felt welcome: the cushions, the food, the gold goblets, the music.

But all Judah could feel was a trap closing tight, especially when the governor asked after their father, especially as the governor talked and talked to Benjamin, and especially as the Egyptians gave Benjamin a double portion of the meal.

The question was this: had the governor set the trap, or had God?

Judah only managed to eat a few bites.

Finally, dinner ended. Finally, they negotiated for more food for their families. Finally, the governor’s servants loaded them with supplies for their families. Finally, they left the city. Only then did Judah breathe easily.

But then, a sound.

Soldiers.

They were surrounded.

Accused of stealing the governor’s goblet.

“If one of us brothers stole the goblet,” they said, “then that brother will die. And the rest of us will serve the governor as his servants.” For surely none of them would have done such a thing, not with so much at stake.

The steward opened their sacks, one by one, starting with the oldest and moving to the youngest. With each sack, Judah’s dread increased.

And then, Benjamin’s sack.

At the top: the goblet.

Benjamin’s face was overcome by surprise and horror.

Judah ripped his clothes, Reuben ripped his clothes—they all ripped their clothes, for if any moment deserved it, it was this one.

They returned to the house of the governor and fell, as one, on the ground before him.

“What have you done to me?” asked the governor through the translator, his anger like the crack of thunder. “I, who have done only good to you.”

Judah raised his head, stood, and stepped forward.

Now that the moment had come, he had no hesitation. He was doing this for Benjamin. He was doing this for his father. For his sons. For Tamar. He was doing this for himself—so he could be at peace with his soul. He was doing this for Joseph, what he should have done many years ago.

“There’s nothing we can say or do to fix this,” said Judah. “There’s nothing we can do to clear our names. For this is the judgment of God, for our past sins. And so we will be thy servants, to atone for all our wrongs. But please, whatever you decide to do, don’t kill Benjamin.”

It took a minute, but the interpreter translated Judah’s words.

“You’re right,” said the governor. “Why inflict death? Servants are much more useful than dead men.” The governor let his eyes wander across them, before resting again on Judah. “But why should you suffer for the acts of your brother? I will take only the youngest, he who has wronged me. The rest of you can go home to your father.”

Ignoring the guards, ignoring the peril, Judah stepped closer to the governor. “Please, my lord. I know you have all the power of Pharaoh, but I must ask more of you.”

The governor was silent, and Judah took his silence as permission.

And so, at first slowly, but then in a rush, Judah told their story, the story of their family. Their father and his four wives; the twelve brothers; how their father had favored Joseph and Benjamin; how, in jealousy, they had turned against Joseph.

“Because of our actions, that brother was lost. He must be dead now. And that is our fault—our great sin. Because of us, Benjamin is all our father has left of his wife Rachel. Our father’s life is entwined with his, wrapped together like two strands of a single rope. If Benjamin does not return, then he will die. I know it to be true.

“But we need the food—our families are starving. So I promised my father that if it came to it, I would give my life for Benjamin’s, so that Benjamin could return. And that is what I do today.”

Judah knelt before the governor, bowing his head. This is who I am, he thought. Not my past mistakes. Not my regrets and failings. But this: A man who would climb into the pit for his brother.

“Please, my lord,” said Judah. “I plead of you. Take me as a servant instead. Let Benjamin go back with the others to my father, so my father may live.”

There was silence after the interpreter finished with Judah’s words. With a gesture, the governor sent away the interpreter, and the steward, and the guards, and all the others, until only the governor and the eleven brothers remained.

The governor began to cry.

Judah looked back at his brothers, but they seemed as confused as him.

“I am Joseph,” the governor said in perfect Hebrew.

Judah shook his head. The governor spoke in Hebrew, but Judah could not understand him.

“I am your brother Joseph,” said the governor. “You sold me to the Midianites, and they brought me to Egypt. I am your brother.”

Judah blinked rapidly. Joseph? Could it be? It was impossible.

Yet as Judah looked past the bronzed skin and the Egyptian clothing, he could see his brother’s face. He looked like Benjamin, but older and with deep creases in his face, tired eyes, and a scar beneath his ear. Oh, the suffering that Joseph must have seen.

“Don’t be upset,” said Joseph. “Don’t be sad. Don’t be angry with yourselves any longer for selling me as a slave. It was God who sent me here, to Egypt, so that I could save your lives. You’ve seen two years of famine, but there will be five more, and without me, being here, in this position, all of our families would die.

“This is God’s great deliverance. God sent me here. God made me like a father to Pharaoh. God made me lord of Pharaoh’s house and a ruler throughout the land.”

Could it be possible? wondered Judah. Could God have taken our evil—such a great evil—and turned it into a force for good?

“Brother, my brother,” whispered Benjamin, stepping forward.

Joseph and Benjamin embraced, their tears running down each other like rain in the promised land.

When they stepped apart, Joseph wiped tears from his eyes. “I want you to send for our father, and all your families. All of you must come, and I will nourish you in Egypt.”

“Thank you,” said Benjamin. “Thank you.” And all the brothers added their thanks. If Joseph meant it, they were saved.

Joseph embraced one brother after another, until Judah was the only one left.

Judah wanted to embrace Joseph, but he was afraid. The last time he had touched Joseph was decades before, when he had gripped Joseph’s arms and pulled him from the pit. But Judah had not steadied Joseph; he had not wiped the dirt from his face; he had not offered him water. Instead, Judah had shoved Joseph into the arms of the Midianites.

“No matter how much I apologize,” said Judah, “it will never be enough.”

“Judah, my dear Judah,” said Joseph, and then Joseph pulled him close.

In Joseph’s embrace, Judah felt no animosity. He felt no anger, no bitterness, no resentment. He felt only love from his brother.

How could this be possible?

As they stood, their arms tight around each other, Judah’s tears mixed with Joseph’s. And as they stood there, in a land far from their own, the walls of the pit crumbled, collapsing until they stood on solid ground.

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Katherine Cowley is the Mary Higgins Clark Award nominated author of The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet. She has also published two other novels and numerous short stories and essays. Her LDS-themed works have appeared in Irreantum, Segullah, Dialogue, the Mormon Lit Blitz, and Wayfare. She lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with her husband and three daughters.

Art by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner.

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The daylight clawing down through the branches was slowly dying. In its place, a growing breeze scraped through the trees, too cold for this time of year.

Aasim Beaver sat on his haunches, his wide tail tapping the ground. This new wind didn’t carry the smell of cedars or date palms. It smelled of danger and darkness.

It smelled of death.

His tail tapped faster. They should all be in their homes, preparing for whatever was coming. Not gathered like fools discussing the health of local mushroom colonies or squabbling over territories. But Nahar loved these little gatherings, and now that she was pregnant, he wouldn’t let her come alone. He would protect his family at all costs.

He could not fail again.

Nahar rested her tail gently, but firmly, atop his to still it and urged his gaze back to the gnarled stump in the center of the crowd of animals. A wizened brown hare with a half-severed ear ended his rant with a thump of his hind leg, then hopped off the stump.

A mongoose—this season’s community chair-mammal, according to Nahar—scurried atop the stump in his place.

“Thank you,” she squeaked, “for that important reminder that scent markers make good neighbors. Remember to mark what’s yours and respect what’s not.” A tendril of icy air rushed past her, and she shivered. “If there’s no further business—”

“What of my parents?” a deep voice asked from beyond the circle of gathered creatures. Two sharp, ridged horns pierced the lengthening shadows as an adolescent gazelle stepped forward.

“That’s the boy I told you about,” Nahar whispered to Aasim. “He called on the council last week for help finding his parents. They disappeared one night and haven’t returned. He’s busy caring for his younger sisters, poor dear. Otherwise he’d go looking himself.”

The mongoose wouldn’t meet the gazelle’s eyes. “Yes, um . . . you see . . .”

“Won’t be no search,” the wizened hare grumbled. All ears flicked toward him. The mongoose shot him a disapproving look, which he met with a defiant thump.

“Boy’s grown. He don’t need hoof holdin’. He needs the truth.” He turned to the gazelle. “Wolves got your folks. That’s the sorry truth. Makes no sense riskin’ our lives to look for bones. It’s best you move on.”

The gazelle reared and struck his hooves into the forest floor as his voice charged through the night. “It wasn’t wolves!”

Aasim grabbed Nahar’s paw to pull her away. He wouldn’t risk her being around if a fight broke out.

Directly overhead, a branch snapped. Every creature stilled, eyes and ears searching, assessing.

More branches shuddered, drawing closer. Aasim tugged at Nahar, but she resisted and pointed at a giant heron hopping down towards the clearing. “It’s only Traveler.”

Nahar often mentioned the news-bringing bird, claiming he was harmless. Aasim didn’t trust outsiders, however. Especially those with snake-like necks and beaks as sharp as human spears.

The heron perched on the lowest branch, looming over them. “The boy is right. Wolves are not behind these disappearances.”

“These?” The mongoose quivered atop the stump. “There have been more?”

Traveler bobbed his head. “Two water buffalo a day’s flight from here, brother and sister. And a pair of owls, too. There’s never blood, no sign of struggle, no saying good-bye.”

“What happened to them?” the gazelle asked.

“Not what. Who.” The heron leapt from his branch to the center of their gathering and lowered his voice. “The Double-Snatcher.”

All the animals cowered slightly. The heron stalked his way around his audience on spindly legs, wings spreading dramatically as he spoke.

“He doesn’t hunt. He doesn’t trap. He doesn’t use anything except . . . magic!” A stick shot up, clutched in his talons. Those closest to him flinched. He smiled as he tucked the thin branch under his wing and continued prowling. “His staff has the power to snatch control of your very mind. Under his spell, you’ll leave all that you love to slither, walk, or fly straight to him. And what does he do once you arrive?”

Not even Aasim breathed during the suspended silence.

“He feeds you to a ravenous beast!” The heron snapped his beak at an unsuspecting hedgehog and reveled in the resulting squeaks and startled squeals. “In all my travels, I’ve never seen its likeness. A true leviathan of the land that could cross your river in a single stride.” Nahar huddled closer to Aasim as the heron continued. “It crouches on its many legs outside a human colony, demanding to be fed. Beneath its row of unnatural eyes is a gaping mouth that never shuts. The beast swallows animals whole and doesn’t bother spitting out the bones.”

Beside Aasim, Nahar trembled. The last of the sunlight drained from the forest, and the heron’s beady eyes glinted in the shadowy night. This bird clearly enjoyed the power his stories had, and Aasim was done letting Nahar be terrorized by them. He pulled her away, and she came without protest.

As they headed for the river, she crept beside him, searching the shadows on either side of their path.

“It was only a full-moon tale,” he assured her. “The kind you tell young kits so they’ll stay close to the lodge. There is no mind-snatching man.”

“But Traveler saw him.”

“Traveler saw a gullible audience. He’s a performer. Don’t let him get under your fur.”

“The gazelles did disappear though. And there wasn’t any blood.”

“No blood where they were last seen,” he corrected. “They wandered from the safety of their home, and I’m sure wherever they were caught, there were signs of wolves or humans.” He eyed her seriously. “Regular, non-magic humans that our lodge protects us from.”

They emerged from the meager shelter of the trees, and the icy wind raked across them unrestrained. It clawed the normally smooth surface of their dammed-off pond, disfiguring the reflected face of the full-moon into a ragged skull.

Aasim shivered. The wind would only get stronger as the night wore on. The Double-Snatcher might not be real, but the danger of this storm was.

Nahar paused at the water’s edge. Her paws fretted over each other. Aasim stilled them with his own and raised his voice to be heard over the rising gusts. “I will keep you safe.” He stared meaningfully at her belly. “All of you.”

She nodded, then slid into the pond, letting its inky waters consume her.

Aasim followed her down to the watery entrance and up into the tunnel that led to the dry chambers of their lodge. They’d come home just in time. Beyond the vent hole at the top of their main chamber, the wind rushed faster and faster as if trying to escape something close on its heels.

Outside, wind-whipped debris pelted the wood and mud walls of their lodge. “They’ll hold,” Aasim said, nestling beside Nahar.

He reassured himself of everything he’d done to make this new lodge thicker and stronger than their last, yet this wind was like none he’d ever seen. It gnashed and tore at their roof. Chunks of mud ripped free around the vent hole, and the tightly woven sticks across the opening began to rattle. Nahar buried her head against him, whimpering.

The wind howled, vicious and hungry, devouring pieces of their home above them. All Aasim could do was hold Nahar and fight back memories of teeth and growls and other howls—of frantic cries and blood-stained dirt and scattered tufts of newborn fur.

The wind attacked for hours. When it left, their roof bore a gaping wound, and the vast uncertainty of the night bled in. Thick clouds now dammed the once moonlit sky.

Aasim sniffed tentatively. The air was heavy with the smell of coming rain. “We won’t have long to make repairs. A day or two at most. I need to get started.”

“Now?” Nahar followed him to the exit tunnel. “It’s too dark. You haven’t slept.”

“I’ll sleep once I know the lodge is fixed and you’ll be safe.”

“Let me help.”

Aasim rested his paw on her swollen belly. “The kits need you to rest. The sun will rise in a few hours, and I’ll have worked up an appetite by then. I’ll come home, and we’ll eat together.”

“I could make cattail soup,” she offered.

“I don’t want you leaving the lodge.” He motioned to their stockpile of tubers. “We have plenty to eat already.”

The water level in the exit tunnel looked lower than before; their pond was slowly draining. Part of the dam must have been weakened as well. That would have to be his first repair.

“If I’m not back by breakfast, I will be by midday,” he said. “No matter what, promise me you won’t leave the lodge?”

She nodded, and he slid into the watery black.

Aasim had been right about the dam; the wind had left a bite in it, and the draining water was slowly eroding and enlarging the hole. He patched it easily enough with mud and branches, careful not to thump too loudly—Nahar needed her rest.

Repairs weren’t enough, though. If the clouds overhead proved as vicious as the wind that brought them, the rain might raise the river. He needed to make their dam taller, stronger. He had to keep Nahar safe.

Aasim made his way into the forest, the branches overhead nothing more than dark scratches against an already black world. He moved as quietly as he could, straining in the dark for the right size tree.

He found one that might work, and paced around it. It was thicker than he needed but perhaps he could use it to reinforce—

To his right, the underbrush rustled. Aasim froze, fur bristled. His heart thumped louder than his tail ever had, but he couldn’t see anything. Nothing smelled out of place.

When nothing attacked, Aasim began gnawing the tree. He ignored the prickling at the base of his fur every time he heard the forest shift. If he was going to reinforce the whole length of the dam and make it even higher, he would need a lot of trees. He didn’t have time to waste on fear.

The sun had been trapped behind the wall of clouds for hours before Aasim patted the last bit of mud atop the fortified dam. He’d spent all night and morning felling trees, floating them downriver, and fixing them in place. Thankfully, Nahar had slept through it all. He couldn’t let her sleep any longer though.

“I’ve stabilized the pond,” he called from atop his massive dam. “I’ll gather the branches to fix the roof if you want to start preparing the tubers. I’ll do the repairs after we eat.”

Only the rushing of the river replied.

His voice should have carried through the torn roof. She should have heard him, even in the sleeping chamber. Fear gnawed his belly, but he shook it off like water. They’d had a traumatic night. Nahar was probably too deeply asleep.

Aasim walked across the top of the dam to the riverbank. She was fine. She’d promised to stay in the lodge, and there’d been no signs of predators. If she was still sleeping, he should let her keep sleeping.

And he would. After he checked on her.

He dove into the pond and swam up the tunnel to the main chamber, now flooded with the dim gray of day. He wouldn’t even have to wake her. One quick peek to make sure she was fine, and then he’d—

The sleeping chamber was empty.

“Nahar?”

He checked the back tunnel and rechecked the main chamber and sleeping chamber.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

He scurried down the tunnel and back onto shore. “Nahar!”

He called her over and over, louder and longer until his voice was raw.

She never called back.

He ran downriver toward the cattails. Maybe she’d gone to gather ingredients, even though he’d told her not too.

The cattails were empty, though. Deep down, he’d known they would be. Something as simple as soup would never make Nahar break her promise.

But the Double-Snatcher might.

The thought snaked its way into his mind, and he tried to fight it back. There had to be a logical explanation. Magic and mind-snatching weren’t real. The Double-Snatcher couldn’t be real. Even if he was, he took creatures two at a time. Nahar had been alone.

Aasim followed the river downstream, sniffing for clues and calling her name. Impossibly, the wall of clouds in the sky thickened and darkened with more and more clouds until it seemed it would burst. Aasim reached the scent mound marking the end of their territory without so much as a trace of her. However, he hadn’t caught scent of a predator either. That was good. She was probably upriver somewhere. He’d cross to the other bank and work his way toward their upper boundary.

He was halfway across the river when a wail rose above the water’s rumbling. The cry was farther downstream, but there was no mistaking it—a beaver was in distress.

He launched himself downstream, swimming with the current as fast as he could, ignoring his neighbor’s scent mounds as he entered their territory. The cries and moans grew louder, separating into two distinct voices. Neither were Nahar’s.

Around the bend, an impressive lodge rose into view. It had fared the storm better than his own.

“Berosh!” a male beaver called above the distraught wails of the female beside him. “Berosh!”

Aasim exited the river just above their pond. The male stepped protectively in front of the female, slapped his broad tail on the water, and bared his sharp, orange incisors.

“I don’t mean to trespass.” Aasim kept himself at a safe distance, front paws in the air. “I heard crying.”

“Our son.” The female stifled her sobs. “We were all sleeping in the lodge, but when we woke this morning, he was gone. It’s been hours.”

“He’s two,” the father said reluctantly. “It is possible he went searching for a wife and place of his own.”

His wife slapped her tail atop his. “You know he’d never leave without saying good-bye!”

Aasim steadied himself on all fours as the earth started to spin around him like a whirlpool. Two beavers mysteriously gone. No signs of blood.

“Have you seen or heard anything?” the mother asked.

“No.” Aasim’s voice came out as weak as his limbs. “My wife . . .”

“She saw something?”

He shook his head. “She’s missing too.”

The mother wailed anew—a loud, soul-scraping sound—and the urge to join her nearly consumed Aasim. But either Nahar was fine, or she needed his help. Either way, crying wouldn’t do any good. He met the father’s eyes. “I’ll keep an eye out for your son.”

The father nodded with a look that promised to do the same for Nahar, but there was no hope in his eyes, only the familiar sorrow of a father now childless—a sorrow Aasim wasn’t ready to face again.

Nahar and their unborn kits had to be okay.

He had to keep hoping.

He had to find Traveler.

She’ll be dead before you get there.

That’s what the heron had said—once his laughter died—when Aasim asked where to find the Double-Snatcher. He’d finally given Aasim directions though.

A day’s flight with the sun to your left.

Aasim didn’t know how many days of walking equaled one day of flying, but so far it was more than five—if he was going in the right direction. It was hard to keep something on your left that you couldn’t even see. Gray clouds smothered the world around him. They should have burst days ago but continued to darken. The air was heavy enough to drown in. Beneath him, the earth was hard and cracked with only a few stubborn shrubs daring to grow amongst the dirt and rocks.

By the time he’d found the heron and gotten directions, Nahar had already been gone half a day. He’d run for hours, hoping to catch up. Running became walking. Walking became dragging. At times he thought he caught her scent—the increased humidity should have made it easy. But it was so faint and fleeting, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. Now his legs threatened to collapse like chewed trees, and he stopped to rest again.

The further from the lodge he trekked, the more foolish he felt. Did he really believe a magic human had snatched control of Nahar’s mind? What if she’d only wandered to the other side of the forest, perhaps to help those orphaned gazelles? What if she came home to find him gone?

Aasim had done his best to avoid any sign of animal life for fear of predators, but if the Double-Snatcher was real and anywhere nearby, the animals of the area would surely know.

In the distance, the tops of hills peeked over the horizon. If he pushed himself, he could get there in a few hours. The elevated view would help him scout out an area most likely to have local animal life, and if whoever he found hadn’t heard of the Double-Snatcher, he’d go home.

The idea to turn back ate at him as he dragged himself forward, but what else could he do? He would give his life for Nahar, but what if he died here, chasing a full-moon fable and she was somewhere else, scared and alone? What if every step he took was one step further away from her?

The hills loomed larger, speckled with what looked like rocks. No, not rocks. Tree stumps. Not a single tree remained standing on the hills.

Only one thing in all of nature destroyed a forest in that way.

Aasim ran with renewed energy. He reached a hill the height of four grown trees and wove between its stumps until he crested the top. A tangled mass of human buildings sprawled into view.

And at the base of the hill crouched the beast.

Aasim ducked behind a stump and peered cautiously around it. Traveler’s description had been right, but the beast was even worse than Aasim had imagined. Multiple straight legs angled away unnaturally from the beast’s wide belly. Its hide was the color of bark-stripped trees, and it had no tail or nose. On what he’d assumed was its flank but must have been its face, a row of black, sharp-cornered eyes stared unblinking above a gaping, cavernous mouth with its wide brown tongue protruding to the ground.

Humans bustled beside the beast, their thin colorful skins flapping in the gradually growing wind. Aasim counted six of them, all adding strange human items to growing piles. Human scent mounds, perhaps? To keep the beast from entering the city?

There were animals too—snakes, camels, owls. A pair of lions made the nearby herd of sheep bleat nervously, their collective sound the only one that reached Aasim atop the hill. The lions didn’t look interested however, and as a seventh human appeared from behind the beast, Aasim saw why.

The man was tall with a patch of long gray fur beneath his face, and in his paw was a crooked staff. He pointed it at the lions, then the beast. The humid air grew cold as Aasim watched the lions stroll onto the tongue of the beast and disappear in the abyss of its mouth.

The Double-Snatcher pointed his staff at one of the humans’ growing mounds. Two brown shapes emerged from behind it, their flat wide tails unmistakable even at this distance.

Nahar!

Aasim’s heart leapt to his throat. Nahar headed for the beast with a younger beaver at her side. Aasim darted toward her, but the hill sloped treacherously under his already weak legs. She stepped onto the tongue. His sides heaved with every breath. He wouldn’t reach her in time.

“Nahar!” he cried, his voice still too far to be heard. “Nahar!”

She kept walking up into the waiting mouth of the beast until it swallowed her completely.

Aasim skidded to a stop halfway down the hill. His eyes clamped shut, unable to bear the sight of a world without Nahar.

He had failed her. She and their unborn kits were gone.

He thumped his tail against the earth. He thumped again, harder. He continued thumping until he was railing against the ground as if he could transfer his pain to it. The cold despair within him melted as the heat of his wrath took hold. His eyes snapped open.

He wouldn’t go home. There was no home without Nahar. He had to avenge her and his children that would never be. He would chew through the Double-Snatcher’s staff and destroy the source of his power; no more families would be torn apart this way. Then he would attack the humans. He would bite and scratch as many as he could until he joined Nahar in death.

Aasim resumed his downward path with the focused calm of purpose. The humans continued building their mounds near the mouth of the beast. He’d have to sneak around its backside and attack the Double-Snatcher and his staff from behind.

The Double-Snatcher pointed his staff at the camels, and they plodded toward their doom. As they climbed the tongue, a human exited the mouth and—

Aasim froze. There was an eighth human, and it was in the beast’s mouth. More than that, it had come out of the beast’s mouth. Aasim’s heart threatened to burst from his chest. If it had survived, maybe Nahar had too.

Aasim crept forward, studying the strange beast more intently. It lay so still, it didn’t even seem to breathe.

He gasped. He’d been too far to see it before, but this close, it was obvious. It was no beast with wood-colored skin. It was a lodge. A massive wooden lodge supported not by legs but thick logs braced against the earth. What he’d assumed were eyes must have been ventilation holes.

Its design was impractical. If anything happened to those few supports, the whole structure would topple. He could exploit that weakness and chew through the logs, but Nahar was still inside. He couldn’t risk hurting her.

The last of the animals made their way into the lodge, and the humans began carrying items from their mounds into the lodge as well. The Double-Snatcher laid his staff against a rock and hefted a part of a mound himself. Aasim would still attack the staff first. He couldn’t risk being mind-snatched if he wanted to free Nahar.

He slunk forward, staying hidden behind stumps until he made a dash for the backside of the lodge. He crept under the support logs to the far end of the structure and peered around its corner. The Double-Snatcher’s staff lay abandoned on the rock. Aasim would only have one shot at this.

Once all the humans had their paws full of mound pieces and were facing toward the entrance of the lodge, he ran to the back of the rock and pulled the staff behind it. The rock wasn’t large enough to conceal the full length of the wood, but the staff was no thicker than his paw. It would take less than a minute to weaken it enough to snap. He sank his incisors into the middle of the staff and stripped piece after piece, whittling the wood thinner each time.

A chittering human approached the rock. It must have spotted the staff’s exposed end, which jostled as he worked. Aasim bit the middle one last time, then bent back one end of the staff with his paws while his tail held down the other.

The staff splintered with a satisfying crack, and the human squealed as it finally spotted him.

Aasim dodged between the human and the rock and ran for the lodge entrance. Chittering erupted among the other humans as he wove between them, pushing his tired muscles to their limits. On the ramp, he startled one human so much it fell, spilling everything it had carried. The human guarding the lodge’s entrance ran to help, and Aasim scurried past it into the darkness.

A menagerie of smells overwhelmed him. Every animal he’d ever known and plenty he’d never fathomed stared at him from behind wood-barred walls, each trapped in their own small chamber. They brayed, roared, and bellowed as he ran past, screaming Nahar’s name.

“Aasim!” Nahar’s voice trilled with relief.

He bounded towards the far end of the lodge where her tiny paws reached between the wooden branches caging her in and skidded to a stop when he reached her. The young male beaver behind her must’ve been Berosh.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe now.” He bit through four thin branches with one bite each and reached inside for Nahar.

She didn’t move.

“We’re supposed to be here, Aasim.”

She didn’t seem the least bit afraid, which terrified him. He’d destroyed the staff. It should have destroyed the power controlling her.

“That’s what the Double-Snatcher made you believe,” he said.

“It wasn’t the Double-Snatcher.” Nahar took his paw in hers, and a peaceful smile washed over her. “It was Kastor and Ramad.”

They’d rarely spoken of their children since the attack, and the sound of their names stripped him from the inside out. He had to force the words out of a hollow space deep within. “Kastor and Ramad are dead.”

“I know. Their spirits came to me.” Her continued smile hurt him even more than speaking their names had. “They told me they were alright but danger was coming for us, and I needed to follow them right away. I wanted to wait for you, but they promised you’d follow. They led me here and told me I could trust the humans. And they were right. The humans didn’t hurt us.”

A group of humans entered the lodge, and Aasim ducked into Nahar’s chamber. He lowered his voice. “You only saw what the Double-Snatcher wanted you to see. That’s what happens when you’re mind-snatched, Nahar. Maybe they haven’t hurt you yet, but look around.” He gripped one of the remaining branches of the cage wall. “It’s a trap.”

“It was really them,” she said. “I felt so much peace.”

“If it was really them, why wouldn’t they appear to me, too?”

She cocked her head, looking confused. “They didn’t?”

“No.”

For the first time, he seemed to have broken through her delusion. She scanned the cage around her, and it looked like she was finally seeing reason. When her eyes met his, they held a calm resolve. “I don’t know why they didn’t visit you, but I do know you came.” She squeezed his paw. “Just like they said.”

He pulled his paw free. “I didn’t come because they said something. I came because you’re in danger. Because after frantically scouring the river for clues, I learned that he”—he pointed to Berosh—“had also disappeared, and I feared the heron had been right.”

“My grandmother’s spirit came to me,” Berosh said. “She told me to follow her right away because my future family needed me more than my current one. She promised my parents would be okay.”

“They’re not okay!” Aasim said. “They’re weeping and searching and worried out of their fur.”

He poked his head through the cage opening. The humans were rebuilding their mounds in the center of the lodge. He turned back to Nahar and Berosh. “The humans only have a few more loads to carry before their mounds are fully transferred. We have to go now, while they still have their paws full. It’s our best chance of escape.”

“I know what I saw.” Nahar retreated to the far corner of the chamber and lay down beside Berosh. “I’m not leaving. This is where the kits and I will be safe.”

The ground beneath Aasim threatened to tear away like their roof in the storm. He’d come all this way, and she wouldn’t let him save her.

“Please, Nahar,” he begged. “None of it was real.”

“You said the same about the Double-Snatcher.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

Human chittering blended into the cacophony of animal sounds. Aasim checked the entrance. All eight humans were inside, and only some carried items. The mounds were fully transferred.

They had to run. Now. His tail thumped on the floor faster and faster. How could he get her to see the truth?

Gentle pressure stilled his tail. Nahar stood beside him. She reached up and smoothed the fur on his cheek. “I would never want you to feel trapped.” She looked at the open door, then back at him. “It’s okay if you need to go.”

He didn’t know what the humans had planned, but he knew he’d keep her and the kits safe or die trying. He stared at their one chance of escape, not moving as two humans hauled the long wooden ramp into the lodge. The meager light of the outside world was slowly eclipsed by the closing doors until the lodge was lit solely by the dim bars of gray sneaking in through the ventilation holes above.

Nahar squeezed his paw, her voice hopeful. “You believe me then?”

“No.” He turned to her. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t stay.”

She rested her head against him, and he held her close while the humans secured a log across the door. Sharp pings attacked the roof, and every creature in the lodge fell silent as the pings swelled into a thundering roar that flooded the air.

The rain had begun.

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Originally published in Irreantum 20, no. 3 (2023).

Whitney Owens Hemsath writes short stories, poems, novels, and more, with works for both children and adults. She writes regularly for LDSLiving.com and is the author of Types, Shadows, and Casseroles: Finding Christ in Your Daily Life—a 2025 LDSPMA Praiseworthy Award winner. She holds a BA in screenwriting and has had her work included in university curriculum. When she’s not writing, she enjoys doing Zumba and 3D printing new items for her business Fiction & Filament.

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Theric Jepson is one of our favorite fiction writers. We hope you will enjoy his wit and insight in this personal narrative.

The post-op instructions tell me I should be able to go about my normal routines tomorrow. They also say I should be able to return to work in two days. And that more vigorous activity will be possible in a week. Sex is allowed in five days if I feel up to it. The five-inch-thick layer of gauze can come off in two days. I should be able to lift a bag of groceries in three or four. Exercise in a week or two. The full range of human possibility, save one, should return in a couple weeks. If not, call my doctor.

So, to return to that first sentence, the post-op instructions presuppose that my normal routine is lying in bed with a bag of frozen peas on my crotch. It would be more accurate to call that my aspirational routine.

Having one’s genitals dyed orange with iodine, then swathed in blue towels and clamped with metal clamps for maximum visibility and access is one of those things that, when the time arrives, you find you can do. The enormous, burly woman who preps me is generous, dousing my nethers with a gallon or so of stain. We have much to chat about, as I am a high school English teacher and she loved her high school English classes, reading all of Romeo and Juliet the night the first scene was assigned, buying her own copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The doctor, in his turn, loved Gatsby. He started buying and reading Fitzgerald and had exhausted the complete works before leaving high school.

This is good because the only topics I can think to chat about are a bit too literal. I do learn new words like lumen (not the flashlight word but the inside-anatomical-tubes word) and intraabdominal (not the kind of surgery I’m doing today—mine’s merely intrascrotal), but sometimes the thrill of new vocabulary ain’t enough.

In a way, it’s a lot like visiting the dentist. My wife, Lynsey, and I find dentistry relaxing. Lie back, eyes closed, chatting optional, a professional scraping away. Sure, sometimes it’s uncomfortable, but grabbing onto my pants legs or clenching my toes suffices to get me through. I’m not sure how Lynsey copes. Maybe she falls back onto hypnobirthing—it worked in labor, after all. In this room, however (which is much like a hygienist’s nook), I have no pants and my arms are crossed on my chest. If things get uncomfortable, all I can do is put my feet under their rests and push up.

When it comes to vasectomizing, Dr. Li prefers all three methods of closure. After snipping out a quarter-inch length of each vas, he electrocutes their insides (lumen!) to cauterize (which I could feel just fine, lidocaine or no lidocaine, my body jerking on the table like a B-movie actor being brought back to life), clasps them shut with titanium clips, then folds them over upon themselves, stitching each half to itself.

Then everything gets shoved back in the tiny hole and I get a giant stack of gauze to pad my codpiece for two days. I’m left alone in the room to wipe off some of the orange and get dressed. I’ve never worn a jock strap in my life and, as the tighty-whiteys I bought for some unremembered purpose were unfindable, I put on the tightest-fitting pair of garments I own—a style I haven’t purchased since my mission (since, in my married state, my libido requires no mechanical suppression)—pull them all the way up, roll down the waistband, pull on my pajamas, and take baby steps into my no-more-babies future.

Because I myself am a big baby, it’s only seven hours later that Lynsey feels the need to remind me, for the record, that pushing four humans out of her own tiny hole was worse. This is nothing I deny. In fact, it’s part of the reason I went under the knife today. But! She did have one advantage: I was there, feeding her ice chips and whispering koans about her motherly strength and pushing a tennis ball into the small of her back. I on the other hand was alone with Dr. Li. And sure, he loves Fitzgerald, but still.

I missed her. I wanted her hand—or some part of her—to hold.

We were done having babies a long time ago, Lynsey and I, the youngest of our three boys now seven. We started early so we could have a nice, long, empty-nest period. We filled our tiny house quickly, but since we only had boys, they fit in the one available room, stacked on top of each other. Done.

And, consciously, we were done. Subconsciously however, maybe not. Relying on our own self-discipline was hardly the way to stop at three, after all, but if Lynsey secretly (even to herself) wanted another, who was I . . .

Holding my beloved as she wept, night after night, mourning the existence of this new thing growing inside her, I understood something new about abortion—something new about its potential whys. Because although she dreaded leaving our home, she was also ready to do something with her hours besides care for children. And now this thing inside her had supplanted whatever possible futures she might have crafted.

Not that abortion was ever on the table for us. It wasn’t. And even though Lynsey lurched about motion-sick for eight months, now that child number four is here, we are so glad (even though there’s nowhere to put her).

My current stance on abortion strikes me as exceedingly Mormon, though perhaps a Deseret News poll would disagree. But if we can agree that certain circumstances make abortion morally sound (and the General Handbook, the Church’s official position on all things worth having an official position on, says yea), then abortion should be legal and available, full stop. Consider rape, for instance. Courts move slower than pregnancy, so unless abortion is accessible whenever a woman requires, raped women are de facto forced to carry rapists’ seed to term.

Choice may be the most sacred principle in our faith’s theology. If something can ever be allowed, how dare you choose for another whether they can or cannot do it? But this isn’t an essay about hot-button political topics, my fluctuating opinions on which no one cares.

Lynsey and I were married when I was barely still twenty-three and she was barely twenty-one. This is what our parents hoped BYU would do for us and, amazingly, it worked. I had no capacity to flirt or date, and thus was doomed to live in small dark rooms scribbling books; Lynsey had no desire whatsoever to get married, and would instead move to Manhattan and wear black and be dangerous. It took some divine intervention to get us inside the Oakland temple and sealed, but that’s another story with another angle on choice. (She’s still a bit peeved at God, if you ask her about it. And who can blame her? Have you met me?)

If we’d met and stayed in Oakland instead of merely wedding there, likely we would have arranged a different time frame—one more in keeping with our Bay Area peers—but being in Provo, we decided three years without kids was our longest morally defensible option. Therefore, after three years, we would start having kids and get them raised and gone before we were old. Three years and five months later, child number one was born. To look at photos, egad, were we young.

We moved home to California and decided to have another baby. Our apartment complex in Lancaster was adjacent to the site of a fatal shooting that occurred the weekend before we moved in. The desert was colorless and smelled bad. We had no neighbors who were neighborly. Lynsey felt like she was in prison, while the school I worked at was designed by a builder of prisons—and felt like it. Our life: as barren as we seemed to be.

When the way opened for us to move to the Bay, we snatched it, and Lynsey had only one period in El Cerrito before child number two was conceived.

Fertility is a confused sign of God’s favor. Mary was so favored she conceived sex-free. Sarah was so favored she was infertile for almost a century. In both cases: magic baby. God loves you.

The arrival of child number two wasn’t the disastrous, caesarian-interrupted labor of our first go-round, but labor is intense regardless, and Lynsey still wanted an experience to match her mental image. And, happily enough, twenty-six months later, the birth of child number three came only a half hour after we arrived at the hospital—a clean, simple, sliding-out awash in joy and motherly success. So while pregnancy number four was miserable, Lynsey did crave the high of giving birth to another child. “You are strong, you are strong,” I said as the contractions hit. “You are a mother.”

“I am a mother.”

“Your body is doing what it was built to do.”

“I am strong. I’ve done this before.”

“You’ve done this before.”

I knew that babies’ genitals are swollen from months in the stew and that foolish fathers often misidentify girls as boys, but I still made that error in the quarter-second I saw our baby before she was taken away so they could double-check her color. Less than a minute later, Lynsey held her on her chest, high on motherdom. It was ten minutes before anyone discovered we thought she was a boy.

A girl. Us? After three boys? Is such a thing even possible?

We wept.

This secondary miracle made the moment even more joyous.

We were told, when numbers two and three were born, not to let older siblings first see their fresh sibling held by their shared mother. Let mom hold the older child as dad introduces baby. It seemed to help. But when the boys arrived from Grandma’s four days later, it hardly seemed to matter which of us held their sister. They said hi to Mom as I brought the baby in from the back room and—it doesn’t matter. Her much older brothers aren’t interested in competing with her for Mom’s love and affection. They’re interested in providing their own love and affection.

We now have an oldest child, a middle child, a youngest child, and an only child—one of each. And by the time she is the age of the youngest, he’ll be her only brother left at home.

As we stopped for lunch on the way home from the hospital today and I was telling Lynsey about having my balls electrocuted, she was generously filled with remorse for not taking prevention upon herself. But that’s nonsense, of course. Snip-snip (correction: snip-snip-snip-snip) (hypercorrection: stab-stab-slice-snip-snip-snip-snip-bzz-clamp-clamp-doublestitch) might take—gasp—two weeks to recover from, but my body has not yet accepted (nor ever will) equal consequences for our reproduction—and it would have been grotesquely unfair to postpartumly douse my beloved in hormones we wouldn’t accept in a cheeseburger or to thrust a strange device into a womb that deserves ennobling retirement after building the four children we now have, one, two, three, and one.

(Incidentally, is three boys and one girl in one bedroom even legal in America? What if you’re a schoolteacher and every square foot costs a thousand dollars? Hhhh. You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.)

So. Farewell, seed without number. I’ve no doubt we would have loved you. But our house is finite. And another pregnancy might kill us, since we would never kill you.

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Theric Jepson wrote the novel Just Julie’s Fine, which Wayfare’s own Lori Forsyth said made both her and her husband laugh so hard as he read it aloud that they could not breathe nor maintain an upright position. Accordingly, this essay is accompanied by a warning that it is not for asthmatics, those with spinal injuries, or the otherwise infirm. “Fertility” was originally commissioned by Holly Welker for her book Revising Eternity: 27 Latter-day Saint Men Reflect on Modern Relationships (University of Illinois Press, 2022). It has been edited slightly for Wayfare.

Featured art: A Bridal Couple from Southern Germany, c. 1470.

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In the hush of Nazareth’s olive-laden hills, the veil between heaven and earth thinned as light spilled into the room of a young girl. She was called Mary—Miryam in her mother’s tongue—a name carried by prophetesses and song-weavers. Through her young life, she had been quietly confident yet open to wonder and mystery.

That night, although familiar with the imaginal realm, she was not prepared for what was about to happen. Suddenly, the angel Gabriel, radiant with a light beyond the sun, entered her presence, echoing words from ancient scrolls: “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Overwhelmed with fear, she wondered, Is this a dream? A vision?

Gabriel spoke again with gentle assurance: “Be not afraid, Mary. You have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son and shall call him ‘Yeshua’—‘Deliverance.’ He is the inheritor of David’s throne, and his kingdom shall flow outward forever.”

As the message grew within her heart and mind, Mary’s lips trembled: How can this be? I have never known a man!

Beaming as one beholding the secrets of creation, Gabriel met her astonished eyes with reverence and replied: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, Mary. The power of the Most High will overshadow you as the cloud once overshadowed Sinai, and thus the holy child born to you will be called God’s Son. I bless your understanding to be magnified in God’s light and love.”

With those words resounding, she surrendered into a profound stillness where she held back nothing and embraced everything. Then Mary, daughter of Eve and the promise of prophets, bowed the arc of her will to the Almighty, saying with humble acceptance: “I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be to me as you have said.”

And the angel departed.

Within the brilliant light of his presence, time had stood still, but now that the light had faded from her chamber, she found herself in a liminal space between past and future. Vibrations deep within her body manifested paradox: She felt weak yet strong, resistant yet yielding, and empty yet full. Nonetheless, beneath her feet in the deep darkness, there seemed a well of light—one from which she could draw. Her acceptance of vulnerability and her openness to the Spirit turned into wisdom that drew light beyond light from the well as she embraced her fruitful fear and the deep urge to escape from it.

Gabriel’s words echoed from the heavens. . . .

“Let it be . . .” To me, she remembered saying!

Putting a grateful hand to her heart while embracing her body, she exclaimed aloud, “Me? Me, Mary!” then knelt on the ground as Isaiah’s words filled her, “A virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” Clasping her hands, she looked to heaven and reclaimed. ”Immanuel!” Just then Isaiah’s joyful announcement continued in her mind, “For unto us a child is born. . .” “Unto us!” Unto me!

With such jubilation, Mary bowed—not from fear, but from the stirrings of divine possibility and the awe of what had just transpired. And what was to be.

Almost unaware to her, the air shifted once more. But this time, the presence filling the room bore a warmth deeper than fire and more ancient than stars.

This Divine presence was not announced with trumpet or thunder. Clothed in glory, she entered as wind through almond blossoms and as the hush before dawn—her voice flowing as water over smooth stones.

Mary saw and knew in her soul: This was the Mother—the Heavenly Mother of all souls, Wisdom, opening the void that lies beyond worlds.

Stunned, for the moment, then astonished beyond understanding, Mary felt in harmony with all that is—a beauty and glory beyond her imagining. She stood and impulsively reached toward the divine presence, but quickly held back, weeping with a new joy beyond any she had ever known.

There was no sense of yearning or determination in her—only utter trust consuming her body as the Mother reached out and lifted Mary’s astonished head to her bosom.

“Mary,” spoke the Goddess with timeless tenderness, “Beloved daughter, chosen vessel. You knew me and I knew you before the veil of birth. I come now to embrace you in the eternal bond of our love, awakening in you a remembrance that flows between our hearts.”

Mary looked again into Her face and those eyes that held a reflection of herself in orbs of love, and deep within her soul remembered seeing them before—before time, beyond space.

Mary collapsed again into Her tender embrace.

“You were chosen,” said the Mother, “from the great council before the world was made. You were chosen to bear a son—not only in body, but also in heart—to shape his compassion, teach him kindness, and sow in him the seeds of mercy and love, of forgiveness and grace, which will bless the entire world. Within you is strength sufficient for this calling. Prepare, dear one, for sorrow shall come as well.”

Mary wept, for in this Divine Mother’s presence, her soul opened wide.

“You and I,” continued the Goddess, “will share this son. Listen for my whisper in your dreams. I will be at your side when our son speaks his first words, when he takes his first steps, when he turns to you for comfort.

Know also, dear one, that this child is destined to bear the sins and griefs of the world. He will be misunderstood, betrayed, and pierced. You will see him mocked, beaten, bound, and hung upon a tree. It will wrench your heart as it will mine.”

Mary wept again but did not turn away.

“At the end, there will be an open tomb from which He shall rise,” She said, “and through him, death will lose its sting. He will bring everlasting life, and you will see him again as He walks with you after the world thinks him gone. And I, your Mother, will walk with you both until the veil is lifted once more.”

She placed her hands upon Mary’s head and then her belly, blessing the womb within her. Mary felt the hair all over her body rising in a holy coldness and something deep and beyond eternity awakening all the cells of her being.

“You are not alone,” She whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

Then, as gently as She came, She was gone.

The young woman who only a short time before was pondering how such things could be, now rose with clarity and strength, the fullness of which she had never known. She would carry within her womb and within her heart and soul the wonder the world would someday know—the promise of salvation. Wrapping her arms around her heart and her belly, the light of the moon encircled her, while the world, unaware, was spinning toward redemption.

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Gloria Gardner Rees has taught English in the US, China, India, and Nepal. Her studies include nutrition, gerontology and adult development. Currently, she is involved in interfaith, humanitarian, and environmental work. In addition to writing midrash, she is co-editing a collection of essays by Latter-day Saints titled Pillars of my Faith.

Robert A. Rees is a scholar, poet, and humanitarian. He is the author of “Toward a Mormon Feminist Midrash: Mormon Women and the Imaginative Reading of Scripture,” Sunstone (2012) and “The Midrashic Imagination and the Book of Mormon,” Dialogue (Fall 2011). His most recent book is Imagining and Reimagining the Restoration (Kofford Books, 2025).

Art by Brooke Bowen.

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(For my Bapuji and Beiji)

I’m going to tell you a secret. Because I think you’re ready to understand.

When you kneel down at night to say your prayers, when you bow your head to bless your food, when you’re driving in the winter and hit a patch of ice and instinctively cry out for someone to steady the car as it slips toward a spin—God doesn’t actually understand the words you are saying.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying you shouldn’t pray. God loves it when you pray. God loves the sound of your voice. God loves seeing that you’re turned in his direction. His heart turns back to you every single time. But the God you’re praying to is the God of Israel. He’s a God who feels quite at home while watching over ewes, helping them safely birth their lambs. God is not originally from the world you live in now.

He’s a bit of a stranger here. His sense of time is still synced to the sprouting and swelling of barley and wheat, of dates and olives and grapes. He’s been content enough to follow the winding paths of faith out of his old patch of hill country by the sea, but God speaks a forgotten dialect of Hebrew. He can feel when someone calls him father, and he’s fascinated by the rhythms of all the languages his kids have picked up, but he’s an immigrant in all the places we’ve called him.

You tell me that doesn’t make sense, that God is omniscient? Well, the word omniscient is Greek. It’s not in his vocabulary at all.

God’s real gift is attention. Maybe he’s leaned on it a little too much. He gets by so well paying attention to what we’re doing and how we’re feeling that he doesn’t have to figure out what we say. Maybe a less attentive God would have learned at least a few major languages by now, so that he could argue with us in Latin and classical Chinese and seventeenth-century French. A different God would probably just learn English. That’s what the world economy expects.

Our God knows you’re never too old to learn. And he could definitely take lessons. But it’s not like he needs a job. And he’s been so busy. When he hears you cry out in panic on that icy road, he sees the ice. He guides your hands back into a path where you have traction. And he doesn’t need to understand your self-justifications to notice when other parts of your life are spinning out of control. If you let him, he’ll always nudge you back into some stabilizing friction.

He knows when you’re sick. Long before the day when you’ll complain to him about that pain in your abdomen, he’s already trying to prepare you for the moment when doctors will perform a scan, find the tumor, share the diagnosis. You speak English and the doctors’ words will sound strange and distant even to you. God won’t tell you in words that you’ll make it through this. But it’s not language that’s going to get you through the worst times anyway. It’s someone who loves you, reaching out to take your hand.

God knows when you’re lonely. You usually don’t. You think you’re not hardworking enough or talented enough, likeable enough, virtuous enough, attractive enough. You go on and on to God about your goals and your weaknesses and your silent shames. He doesn’t understand all that. But he understands you. He knows what you need before you try in vain to ask.

The times when God most wishes he spoke English are the times when he wouldn’t know what to say. The times when you’re praying so hard for something but it’s just not meant to be. The times when a wish you held dear is shriveling and he can see it’s going to die and he can see it’s going to take a piece of you with it. The times when someone hurts you, terribly, and you go over it all in your mind again and again wondering what you could have done differently—and that’s exactly the wrong question but it’s also the only question that gives you any sense of control. In many of these moments, God is as silent as the ashes left when the fire dies down. If he could, he would be silent in English, in your language, so that you could know that it’s not an absent silence but an active silence. A stilling of the soul of the universe in solidarity with your distress. A witness. God is never quite so focused on you as when he doesn’t speak.

And when the hardest times are over, when your dark nights pass into new dawns? God doesn’t want to leave. So he doesn’t study English. He hangs around with you instead. He strokes your hair when you pour your heart out at night. He sits beside you while you do your homework because sometimes you just need someone else around to keep at it. He smiles when you turn to him and babble incoherently after winning a game or taking a test. And when you cook, he’s basking in the aromas that drift across your kitchen. He likes watching your mind and hands at work; his joy makes the whole meal holy.

The part when you bow your head is just a chance for you to catch up to the blessing God already left there.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Art by Kazimir Malevich, “Prayer,” 1913.

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They had been the only group foolish enough to build a campfire in the canyon park that chilly autumn evening, and Brian kept looking to the sky in fear that the mist of rain would transform into snow, making for a treacherous descent down the winding road they had taken to get there. A nearby creek, bloated by the falling rain, gurgled in the deep dark, and high canyon walls loomed invisible above them. The clouds above them were black and impenetrable, and the night pressed in around them undiluted by even the cool, distant glow of the parking lot streetlights. The wet cold crept through coats and skin and leeched the heat from their bones.

A shudder convulsed through Maggie, and her eyes flitted toward the little silver hatchback that sat alone in the parking lot. “Would you hurry up with the fire,” she said. “We’ve been out here five minutes and I feel like I’m going to freeze to death.”

There was a sudden flicker of light as Jared coaxed a little flame from the dry tinder and newspaper into the damp wood, albeit with the help of a little gasoline. Under other circumstances, Maggie would have chided him for the irresponsible use of propellant, but at the moment she was simply grateful for the warmth. The four of them crowded around the jumping flames and put their hands over it as if in worship.

“In Boy Scouts we called that ‘cup o’ gas,’” Jared said with a laugh.

“In my Scout troop we called that ‘cheating,’” Brian said, as he tore open a bag of marshmallows. “One match, Jared, that’s the standard, but I guess I wouldn’t expect a mere Life Scout to know that.”

“My standard is not freezing my a—”

“Did you guys ever roast Starbursts in Scouts?” Maggie interrupted, with her long-honed instinct for heading off Jared’s vulgarity. “We roasted Starbursts every summer at Girls Camp. I don’t know what it is about them, but I swear they are seriously the best.”

“No way, I brought a bag of Starbursts with me for exactly that!” Connie said, laughing.

The conversation went on in that direction for an hour, the rain and cold forgotten in the warm blanket of youthful reminiscence and the freshly earned nostalgia of young adulthood.

When the topic of church youth activities had worn itself out, Brian, Jared, and Maggie defaulted to swapping mission stories in the friendly but obviously one-upping manner typically characteristic of such conversations, while Connie feigned interest. There was a discussion of who had gotten engaged at the end of last semester, a list long enough to provide a third hour of fodder for jealousy, gossip, and the collective, awkward, deep-seated knowledge that neither couple would see such an engagement in their future.

“It’s 11:55,” Maggie said, looking at her phone. “Should we head down? I’ve got work in the morning.”

“I brought my laptop,” Brian said. “You guys want to watch a movie? I’ve got Princess Bride or Napoleon Dynamite in my DVD case in the car.”

“That’s the opposite of heading down,” said Maggie.

“You don’t have work until like . . . nine,” Jared said. “Let’s watch a movie. We can go over to the gazebo, even, and I’ve got a couple dry blankets in the car.”

“It’s getting pretty late,” Connie said.

“What,” Brian responded, “are you worried the Spirit’s going to go to bed at midnight and we’ll start sinning?”

Connie rolled her eyes. “No, Brian,” she said with exasperation, “I’m worried that Maggie has work in the morning.”

Maggie sighed. “It’s fine. Whatever. Brian, go grab the laptop and . . . Napoleon Dynamite. I haven’t seen that since it was in theaters.”

Brian smirked triumphantly. As he turned to walk to the car, Connie resolved that this would be their last weekend as a couple. “Grab the blankets,” Jared called after him, standing up and drawing one last bit of heat from the embers into his hands. He turned to Maggie and kissed her. The rain had stopped but invisible clouds still blanketed the sky, drowning out the moon.

Connie could see Brian rummaging through the car under the warm yellow lights of the parking lot, a pocket of light in the vast surrounding darkness. Jared took Maggie’s hand, and they started off through the darkness toward the gazebo. Connie sat alone by the fire and stared into the coals, entranced by their orange glow. She picked up a marshmallow, the last in the bag, and brought it to her lips. Just as she was about to take a bite, she heard the loud, wet, smacking sound of lips being licked right next to her ear. “What is the taste of sweetness?” a voice whispered.

“Ugh, Brian what is—” she began, but when she turned she saw that he was still a hundred feet away, walking back from the car with a bundle of blankets under one arm and a laptop case in the other. She stood up. “Did you guys hear that?” she called into the darkness.

“Hear what?” Maggie responded from the gazebo.

“What is the taste of sweetness?” the voice whispered again. The sound seemed to have a physical presence, a little gust of wind that blew in her ear, spinning through her skull like a cold whirlwind and bursting through her body. Her limbs suddenly flailed, and she dropped the marshmallow into the sodden grass, then found herself pouncing upon it with the greed of a starving beast. She yipped with delight to hold the little ball of congealed sugar in her hands and lurched toward the fire, each awkward, toddling step threatening to send her hurtling into the wet ground.

“Connie, what are you doing?” Brian yelled at her as he crossed from the parking lot toward the gazebo. She turned to look at him, her eyes flashing emerald as they reflected the distant lights. Brian stopped and stared. Her face contorted into something between a grimace and a grin, and she held the marshmallow with a strange gentleness, as though it were a small, fragile creature. She took one more step toward the dying fire, her green eyes locked onto Brian’s, then turned and plunged her hands into the glowing coals. “Connie, stop!” Brian shouted, dropping the blankets and sprinting toward her.

Connie shrieked in pain. Her body spasmed and rebelled against the sudden agony, but her arms seemed to have a will of their own, and she drove her hands, still clutching the marshmallow between them, deeper into the embers. Just as Brian reached her, she pulled her cupped hands from the firepit, palms and fingers blistered and smoking, filled with glowing cinders and the blackened marshmallow. Brian watched with horror as Connie shoveled the cinders into her gaping mouth, then began to howl. “Where is the taste of sweetness?!” she wailed as Brian took her by the shoulders and wrenched her away from the fire. Agony and rage and a fevered madness mingled in her eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks. She tore at Brian’s face with her long nails and charred fingertips as he struggled to control her. Maggie and Jared, hearing the chaos, ran toward them.

Connie shoved Brian away from her, and he stumbled backward toward the firepit. He fell, striking the back of his skull against a cinder block with a wet crack, and lay still. Maggie screamed. Jared froze and stared at the limp form of his best friend, then turned to look at the creature that had killed him. Not five minutes ago, she had been a beautiful young woman. Now—her eyes running with tears and ablaze with inhuman fury, her mouth bleeding and blistered, her hands charred—she had transformed into a monster.

“Connie?” Maggie asked from several steps behind Jared, her own eyes streaming with tears.

Connie’s voice, when it came, was a pained croak stilted by her thick, blistered tongue. “Where is the taste of sweetness?” she rasped. “He gives us pigs.” She took a step toward Jared, who took a step backward in turn. “He gives us pigs and we drown,” she shrieked and leaped at Jared with her black hands, then fell face forward into the damp, dark grass. She did not move. Maggie was sobbing and Jared took slow, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating.

“Is she . . . dead?” Maggie asked. Jared leaned down and shook Connie gently, lovingly, a lump in his throat and tears welling up in his eyes. He stepped past Connie’s prostrate body and over to Brian, whose neck was bent at an impossible angle and whose open eyes were fixed on the parking lot.

“I don’t know. Maybe? We need to call 911.” But before he pulled out his phone, he took Maggie in his arms and drew her close. “It’s going to be okay.” He pressed his cheek against hers and kissed her comfortingly. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated, holding her head in his hands. Then he stepped away and reached into the pocket of his jeans to fish out his Blackberry.

“What is the feel of warm flessssssshhhhhhhhhhh?” whispered a voice in his ear.

He whipped round to look at Maggie, who gazed back at him in confusion. Icy tendrils began to seep into his toes, ran up his legs and flowed through his veins and seized his heart in a cold grip, and he looked at Maggie with a fevered, hungry look. He snapped his teeth and then snapped them again, gouging into his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, though he did not seem to notice.

“Jared, are you okay?” Maggie asked, stepping away from him. He did not respond, but his breathing became heavy and he leaned forward awkwardly. He pounced, and Maggie screamed and turned to run. Jared caught her by the hair and yanked her backward, and she fell to the ground and flailed at him as he snapped his teeth. He knelt beside her and bent his face down toward hers, teeth still snapping continually, blood pouring from his ragged lips as he pursed his mouth as though to kiss her cheek.

Maggie grabbed hold of a fallen roasting skewer and whipped it with all her might against Jared’s face. The skin above his eye split open, and he howled with animal pain and clutched at the wound. When he stood, blood poured thick and warm from the gash on his forehead, covering half his face in a crimson sheen. His eyes were filled with pain and pleading and hatred, and his teeth clacked together again and again. “Jared, please don’t,” Maggie begged. “Please stay away from me.” But Jared leaped again, animalistic and flailing. Maggie closed her eyes and swung the skewer with all her might, and the thin metal rod struck his windpipe. She could feel the cartilage collapse, and when she opened her eyes again, Jared was clutching his throat and staring at her with disbelief.

Gurgling, he fell to his knees, then sideways into the grass. The rain started again, not a mist this time, but cold, heavy drops that washed the scarlet from his cheeks, the blood running from the wound in his eye down his temple and into the lawn. Maggie stepped toward him and knelt by his side. Her tears landed on his face, warm where the raindrops were cold.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said and took his hand in hers.

He looked up at her. The madness remained in his eyes, even as they were dulled by the lack of oxygen. He held one hand to his ruined trachea and reached out clumsily to her with his other. Despite herself, she took it. “He gives us pigs,” came a gurgling murmur, “and we drown.” Tears poured down from her blue eyes. “I only wanted to feel.” Jared did not move, and Maggie fell over him and sobbed and sobbed, and the cold rainwater ran into her shirt and down her spine.

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“Pigs” was originally published in the short story collection, A Thin Black Veil.

Henrik Sorensen is a novelist, essayist, and short story writer with an interest in science fiction and horror and the ways in which they overlap with Mormon cosmology, theology, and culture. His new collection of Mormon horror stories, A Thin Black Veil, is available on Amazon.

Art by Shari Lyon

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Ahora bien, yo, Nefi, he decidido confeccionar estas nuevas planchas, no por mandato del Señor, sino para dar cuenta de los misterios de Dios que acompañaron nuestro viaje por las grandes aguas a la tierra prometida. Y esta narración no se encuentra en los anales de mi padre ni tampoco en las planchas de metal que contienen el ministerio y las profecías. Por tanto, la escribo para volcar las cosas de mi mente y de mi alma y maravillarme en ellas. Nunca verán la luz, salvo que el Señor así lo desee. Pero yo, Nefi, creo que, en el debido tiempo, irán a los gentiles que entienden las palabras de los libros, y ellos manifestarán su significado pleno, que yo desconozco . . .

Pues, he aquí, que, al abandonar la tierra de Abundancia e internarnos en Irreantum, fuimos impelidos por el viento por el espacio de muchos días. Y aconteció que Lamán y Lemuel y los hijos de Ismael, junto a sus esposas, comenzaron a holgarse, sí, con bailes y cantos y a hablar groseramente. Por tanto, yo, Nefi, les hablé duramente para que recordasen el Poder que nos sustentaba, no fuese que termináramos hundidos en el fondo del mar. Mas, he aquí, que se irritaron y me ataron con cuerdas a un poste del barco para que no pudiese moverme. Y aconteció que la esfera o director dejó de funcionar, y una tempestad fuerte y terrible comenzó a dirigirnos hacia atrás.

En esas circunstancias me pareció escuchar un canto precioso que provenía del mar. Mis hermanos también lo escucharon y deseaban arrojarse al agua por el influjo de sus bellas armonías, más he aquí, a pesar de estar atado, les pedí que colocasen cera de las abejas en sus oídos y soportasen la tentación, pues de otro modo chocaríamos contra las rocas para perecer ahogados. Por fortuna, me obedecieron. Y, he aquí que yo, Nefi, también deseaba tirarme por la borda para acercarme a ese canto, pero las fuertes ligaduras lo impidieron. Y, así, arribamos a la playa de una gran isla . . . 

Lamán y Lemuel soltaron mis ataduras pues temían a los posibles habitantes de esta tierra y deseaban que los liderase con la espada de Labán. De modo que subimos por una región escarpada hasta encontrar vestigios de civilización. Los pobladores nos recibieron en paz, y, cuando logramos comprendernos unos a otros, supimos que al sitio donde nos hallábamos llamaban la Tierra Media. Se identificaban como númeróneanos pues originalmente provenían de Númenor. Estaban especialmente admirados por mi espada, pues les recordaba a Narsil, la llama roja y blanca de sus tradiciones. También nos mostraron el Arbol Blanco, que proviene de Nimloth, el Bello, cuyo fruto es de plata. Este árbol, al que también se referían como Recuerdo de los Eldar y Luz de Valinor, era de tal blancura y brillantez exquisita, que me hizo recordar al que mi padre viera en su sueño y el Espíritu me mostrara en lo alto de la montaña. Para los numeróneanos representaba el derecho a reinar de los descendientes de Isildur.

Poseían también unas piedras que eran esferas perfectas y, cuando estaban en reposo, parecían de vidrio o cristal, de un profundo color negro. Con ellas podían ver cosas aún no ocurridas o que estaban a una gran distancia. Me recordaron a nuestra esfera o Liahona. Las denominaban palantiri, y los que dominaban su manejo eran los sabios Istari, una especie de profetas. Creo que si nuestro padre Lehi hubiese vivido entre ellos habría llegado a ser un buen Istari, como los Gandalf o Saruman que ellos ensalzaban.

La Tierra Media no sólo estaba habitada por estos hombres, sino también por elfos, enanos y unos llamados “medianos”, aunque nunca llegamos a verlos. Había preparativos de guerra contra una fuerza oscura que avanzaba sobre ellos. Cuando Lamán supo que el ataque podría involucrar orcos, nazgules y dragones, no quiso ya permanecer allí y comenzó a instarnos a retornar a la nave. De modo que así lo hicimos, luego de aprovisionarnos de suficiente agua fresca.

A pesar de los ruegos de Lehi y nuestra madre Sariah, mis hermanos volvieron a atarme a uno de los maderos labrados y continuamos la jornada.

Cuando nos disponíamos a partir, arribó otra nave al pequeño puerto gris. Portaba una flecha de grandes dimensiones en la proa, unida a una larguísima cuerda que se enrollaba en la cubierta. Por lo poco que pudimos saber, su capitán, de figura alta y ancha, como si fuese de bronce macizo, igual que las planchas traídas de Jerusalén, estaba obsesionado con capturar a un gran pez o monstruo marino que había devorado una de sus piernas, por lo que utilizaba en reemplazo una tallada en hueso. De cabello gris y mirada taciturna, una lívida cicatriz le surcaba el rostro . . . 

Más atrás en el barco divisamos a un jovencito y a su acompañante de tez oscura y con dibujos en todo el cuerpo. Al cruzarse las naves, el jovenzuelo, con tristeza en sus ojos, nos gritó “llamadme Ismael”. Jamás olvidaré su imagen y el nombre pronunciado, ya que es el mismo del padre de mi esposa, quien nos acompañó en nuestro peregrinar por el desierto.

Al llegar a mar abierto, nuevamente la tormenta nos alejó con violencia de nuestra ruta. Y así transcurrió el primer día . . .

Tras una noche de mucho viento y oleaje y poco sueño, descubrimos, al disiparse la niebla, que habíamos encallado en una nueva playa de arenas blancas. Al ser desatado nuevamente por mis hermanos, vimos a lo lejos algunos moradores que nos observaban extrañados. Vestían insólitos ropajes y no pudimos evitar distinguir la presencia de una bella mujer de cabellos dorados. Estaban rodeados de singulares mecanismos cuyo uso no podíamos descifrar. Mientras intentábamos hacernos comprender por ellos, detrás de una alta empalizada surgió gran número de nativos con actitud amenazante, portando toscas jabalinas y rudimentarios arcos y flechas. Se llevaron a la mujer sin que ninguno de nosotros pudiese evitarlo, debido a la cantidad y velocidad de sus movimientos. Mientras sus compañeros discutían sobre las posibles acciones a tomar, un sonido de tambores comenzó a crecer desde la selva seguido de un cántico lúgubre e incomprensible del cual se desprendía una sílaba cada vez más acentuada: ¡Kong! ¡Kong! ¡Kong!

Lo que ocurrió a continuación permanece un poco confuso en mi mente. Por un lado, descomunales arañas huían hacia la playa, mientras una gigantesca forma simiesca se abría paso entre los árboles, haciendo retumbar los puños sobre su pecho. Tanto el gruñido de la bestia como el lejano grito de terror de la mujer nos helaron la sangre. No era un lugar para quedarse mucho tiempo . . .

Todos nuestros hombres empujaron la nave con desesperación, ayudados por la marea alta y nos hicimos nuevamente a la mar.

Saliendo ya de la pequeña bahía donde habíamos encallado nos cruzamos con otro barco de extenso velamen. De su castillo de popa surgía un desordenado estribillo de hombres bajo el influjo de cierta bebida espiritosa:

Quince hombres sobre el cofre del muerto,
¡Yo, ho, ho! ¡Y una botella de ron!
La bebida y el diablo se encargaron del resto
¡Yo, ho, ho! ¡Y una botella de ron!

Un joven, que se identificó como Jim, alcanzó a decirnos que se encontraban a la búsqueda de un tesoro y nos señaló a Long John Silver, cocinero de mar devenido capitán, a quien también faltaba una extremidad inferior que había sustituido por una pata de palo y una muleta. Llevaba un loro sobre su hombro.

Intenté explicarles que no era aquella una buena isla para buscar tesoros, pero, estando aún yo atado al mástil, probablemente no me oyeron e hicieron caso omiso de mi advertencia.

Atrapados nuevamente por un torbellino que nos conducía hacia atrás, cayó la noche. Y así finalizó el segundo día . . . 

He aquí, que el alba nos halló empujados hacia las costas de una nueva y misteriosa isla. Siguiendo el proceder que ya habían establecido, mis hermanos me liberaron momentáneamente para ayudar en la recolección de probables frutos silvestres. La isla estaba parcialmente habitada. Conocimos extraños seres con también extraños nombres: Cyrus Smith, Pencroff, Harbert y su sirviente Nab. Supimos que habían llegado por el aire desde un conflicto entre el Norte y el Sur de su nación. El espíritu me indicó que provenían de un tiempo futuro de la tierra de promisión hacia dónde nos dirigíamos, y que el vidente que sacaría a luz la historia de mi pueblo también profetizaría sobre esa guerra.

Conocimos su Casa de Granito y las grutas en las entrañas de la tierra. Nos fue dado saber sobre una embarcación de metal que navegaba bajo el agua. Y conocimos a su creador y conductor, el capitán Nemo. Penetré al interior de la fantástica embarcación y vi una sala ricamente adornada que conducía a una biblioteca cuyo techo luminoso vertía un torrente de luz. Una ancha puerta daba paso a un vasto salón donde se acumulaban toda clase de tesoros de la naturaleza: el oro, la plata y las piedras preciosas, en mayor variedad y abundancia que las que habíamos perdido en manos de Labán, allá en Jerusalén.

Al retornar al exterior, sentimos temblar la tierra y alcanzamos a divisar la fumarola de un volcán que entraba en erupción. Trozos de roca encendidos y denso hollín nos rodeaban y, a duras penas, logramos retornar al barco, para partir nuevamente.

Nuestra trayectoria nos puso en contacto con otro navío. Lamán y Lemuel no deseaban ya interactuar con otros navegantes, y mucho menos con éstos, que nos amenazaban con espadas y hachas. La negra bandera con una calavera, tampoco presagiaba nada bueno.

Su capitán tenía ambas piernas, pero donde debería estar una de sus manos aparecía un amenazante garfio de metal. En la otra mano blandía un látigo de varias puntas con el que amenazaba a unos amedrentados niños que se acurrucaban sobre cubierta. La tripulación entonaba grotescamente:

Ya-jú, ya-jú, el gato que araña,
nueve son sus colas, ya lo sabéis,
su marca dejarán en vuestra espalda . . .

El último verso nunca llegó a saberse, pues, he aquí, que del aire surgió una especie de ángel, seguido de otro más pequeño y con alas. Descendió frente a los niños y los protegió con su espada. El hombre del garfio palideció . . . 

- Peter Pan! – gritaron los pequeños.

El viento nos apartó y no los vimos nunca jamás, pero nuestro padre Lehi, alcanzó a divisar que la embarcación era seguida por un inmenso cocodrilo, similar a los que él había visto en el Nilo.

Y así acabó la tercera jornada . . . 

Ahora bien, al cuarto día, la tempestad empeoró y estábamos a punto de ser tragados por las profundidades. Al ver los juicios de Dios sobre ellos, mis hermanos se arrepintieron de su iniquidad y me liberaron finalmente. Mis muñecas y tobillos se encontraban hinchados y doloridos. Oré al Señor, los vientos cesaron y la tempestad se aplacó. La brújula comenzó a funcionar nuevamente de modo que dirigí el barco para retomar la ruta hacia la tierra prometida.

El resto de la historia de mi pueblo se encuentra en las otras planchas de metal que he preparado previamente. He aquí que, encontrándome yo, Nefi, cerca del final de mis días, no sé cuándo el Señor me llevará junto a su seno.

Las aventuras vividas en esas tres jornadas han sido motivo de reflexión y asombro todos los días de mi existencia. Pasado el tiempo, he llegado a preguntarme si en realidad ocurrieron. Si fueron sólo sueños y visiones con un significado que ignoro. Tal vez mis ataduras y la falta de agua y alimento afectaron mi entendimiento. Sin embargo, algunos de los recuerdos son muy reales. Aún percibo los olores, las texturas, los sabores, de muchos de esos momentos. He tenido visiones y sueños a lo largo de mi vida, pero éstos han sido distintos.

Concluyendo este registro, he tenido la sensación de que no he escrito las planchas, sino que ellas me han escrito a mí. También la creciente impresión de que, en ocasiones, las planchas de oro conversan entre sí, como si no necesitasen del contacto de los mortales para ser interpretadas. Tal vez es otro misterio para develar en los tiempos venideros . . .

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Mario R. Montani vive en Bahía Blanca, Argentina. Ha estudiado Licenciatura en Letras en la Universidad Nacional del Sur. Su relato “Y no preguntes más . . .” (Irreantum 17.2) fue seleccionado como el mejor cuento corto de 2021 por la Asociación Mormona de Letras. También ha publicado en Wayfare y el Mormon Lit Lab. En 2009 presentó “El Castillo Gris y otros cuentos” publicado por Editorial Dunken. Desde 2016 forma parte de la Cofradía de Letras Mormonas, un grupo que promueve la literatura entre los Santos de los Ultimos Días. También administra el blog mormosofía (https://mormosofia.wordpress.com/).

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Now, I, Nephi, have decided to make these new plates, not at the commandment of the Lord, but to record the mysteries of God that accompanied our journey across the great waters to the promised land. And this account is not found in the records of my father, nor in the metal plates containing the ministry and the prophecies. Wherefore, I write it to record the things of my mind and soul, and to marvel at them. They shall never see the light of day, save it be the Lord’s will. But I, Nephi, believe that, in due time, they shall come unto the Gentiles who understand the words of the books, and they shall manifest their full meaning, which I know not . . . 

For behold, as we left the land of Bountiful and went into Irreantum, we were driven about before the wind for the space of many days. And it came to pass that Laman and Lemuel and the sons of Ishmael, and their wives, began to rejoice themselves, even with dancing and singing and speaking rudely. Wherefore, I, Nephi, did speak harshly unto them that they might remember the Power that sustained us, lest we should be sunk in the depths of the sea. But behold, they were irritated, and they tied me with cords to a post of the ship, so that I could not move. And it came to pass that the sphere or director ceased to operate, and a mighty and terrible tempest began to drive us back.

Under these circumstances, I thought I heard a beautiful song coming from the sea. My brothers also heard it and desired to throw themselves into the water because of its beautiful harmonies. But behold, although I was bound, I ordered them to place beeswax in their ears and endure the temptation, for otherwise we would be dashed upon the rocks and drowned. Fortunately, they obeyed me. And behold, I, Nephi, also desired to throw myself overboard to draw near to that song, but my strong bonds prevented me. And thus, we came upon the shore of a great island . . . 

Laman and Lemuel untied my bonds, for they feared the possible inhabitants of this land and wished me to lead them with Laban’s sword. So, we climbed through a rugged region until we found vestiges of civilization. The settlers welcomed us in peace, and when we came to understand one another, we learned that the place where we were was called Middle-earth. They called themselves Númenóreans, for they originally came from Númenor. They were especially amazed by my sword, for it reminded them of Narsil, the red and white flame of their traditions. They also showed us the White Tree, which comes from Nimloth, the Fair, whose fruits are silver. This tree, which they also called the Memory of the Eldar and the Light of Valinor, was of such exquisite whiteness and brilliance that it reminded me of the one my father had seen in his dream and the Spirit had shown me on the mountaintop. For the Númenóreans it represented Isildur’s descendants’ right to reign.

They also possessed stones that were perfect spheres and, when at rest, seemed like glass or crystal, of deep black color. With them, they could see things that had not yet happened or that were a great distance away. They reminded me of our sphere or Liahona. They called them palantiri, and those who mastered their use were the wise Istari, a kind of prophets. I believe that if our father Lehi had lived among them, he would have become a good Istari, like the Gandalfs or Sarumans they exalted.

Middle-earth was inhabited not only by these men, but also by elves, dwarves, and some called “halflings,” though we never saw them. There were preparations for war against a dark force that was advancing against them. When Laman learned that the attack might involve orcs, nazgûl, and dragons, he no longer wanted to remain there and began urging us to return to the ship. So we did, after providing ourselves with plenty of fresh water.

Despite the pleas of our father Lehi and our mother Sariah, my brothers tied me back to one of the carved timbers, and we continued our journey.

As we were about to depart, another ship arrived at the small, gray harbor. It carried a large arrow in its bow, attached to a very long rope coiled around the deck. From what little we could gather, its captain, tall and broad, as if made of solid bronze like the plates brought from Jerusalem, was obsessed with capturing a large fish or sea monster. This creature had devoured one of his legs, so he used one carved from bone instead. Gray-haired and gloomy, his face was marked by a livid scar . . . 

Farther back on the boat, we spotted a young man and his peculiar companion, dark-skinned and with drawings all over his body. As the ships passed, the young man, with sadness in his eyes, shouted to us, “Call me Ishmael.” I will never forget his image and the name he spoke, as it is the same name as my wife’s father, who accompanied us on our journey through the desert.

Upon reaching open sea, the storm once again violently blew us off course. And so, the first day passed . . . 

After a night of strong winds, waves, and little sleep, we discovered, as the fog dissipated, that we had run aground on a new white-sand beach. Being untied again by my brothers, we saw, in the distance, some locals watching us in surprise. They were dressed in unusual clothing, and we couldn’t help but notice the presence of a beautiful woman with golden hair. They were surrounded by strange mechanisms whose use we couldn’t decipher. While we were trying to make ourselves understood, a large number of natives emerged from behind a high palisade, bearing crude javelins and rudimentary bows and arrows. They carried the woman away, and none of us could prevent it, due to their quantity and speed. While the woman’s companions discussed possible courses of action, the sound of drums began to grow from the jungle, followed by a mournful and incomprehensible chant, from which one syllable grew increasingly accentuated: “Kong! Kong! Kong!”

What happened next remains a bit hazy in my mind. On one side, enormous spiders fled toward the beach, while a gigantic apelike form tore through the trees, its fists pounding on its chest. Both the beast’s growl and the woman’s distant scream of terror chilled our blood. This was not a place to stay long . . . 

All our men rushed back to the ship and pushed the ship forward desperately, aided by the rising tide, and we put out to sea again.

As we left the small bay where we had run aground, we crossed paths with another boat with a broad sail. From its sterncastle arose a disordered chorus of men under the influence of some spirit from bottles:

Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

A young man, who identified himself as Jim, managed to tell us they were searching for treasure and pointed out Long John Silver, the sea cook turned captain of the boat, who was also missing a lower limb, which he had replaced with a wooden leg and a crutch. He was carrying a parrot on his shoulder.

I tried to explain to them that this wasn’t a good island for treasure hunting, but, as I was still tied to the ship’s mast, they likely couldn’t hear, and ignored my warning.

As we were caught again in a whirlwind that was driving us back, night fell. And so ended the second day . . . 

Behold, dawn found us driven toward the shores of a new and mysterious island. Following the procedure they had already established, my brothers temporarily freed me to help in the gathering of probable wild fruits. The island was partially inhabited. We met strange beings with equally strange names: Cyrus Smith, Pencroff, Harbert and his servant Neb. We learned that they had arrived by air from a conflict between the North and the South of their nation. The spirit told me that they came from a future time, from the promised land toward which we were headed, and that the seer who would bring to light the history of my people would also prophesy about that war.

We saw their House of Granite and the caves in the bowels of the earth. We were given knowledge of a metal vessel that sailed underwater. And we met its creator and pilot, Captain Nemo. I entered the interior of the fantastic vessel and saw a richly decorated room leading to a library whose luminous coverage poured in a torrent of light. A wide door led into a vast hall where all kinds of natural treasures were stored: gold, silver, and precious stones, in greater variety and abundance than those we had lost at the hands of Laban back in Jerusalem.

Upon returning to the surface, we felt the earth shake and could see the fumaroles of a volcano erupting. Burning chunks of rock and thick soot surrounded us, and we barely managed to return to the ship, ready to set off again. And I was tied up once more.

Our trajectory brought us into contact with another sailing craft. Laman and Lemuel no longer wanted to interact with other sailors, and less with these, who threatened us with swords and axes. Besides, that black flag with a skull didn’t bode well. The captain of the vessel had both legs, but where one of his hands should have been, a menacing metal hook appeared. In the other hand, he brandished a multi-pronged whip, which he used to threaten some frightened children huddled on deck. The crew grotesquely intoned:

Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat,
Its tails are nine, you know,
And when they’re writ upon your back . . . 

The last line was never known, for behold, a kind of angel appeared from the air, followed by another, smaller one with wings. He descended before the children and protected them with his sword. The man with the hook turned pale . . .

“Peter Pan!” cried the children.

The wind blew us away just as the battle began, and we never saw them again, but our father Lehi managed to see that the boat was being followed by an immense crocodile, similar to those he had seen in the Nile.

And so ended the third day . . . 

Now on the fourth day, the storm worsened, and we were about to be swallowed up by the depths. Seeing God’s judgments upon them, my brothers repented of their wickedness and freed me for good this time. My wrists and ankles were swollen and painful. I prayed to the Lord, the winds ceased, and the storm subsided. The compass started working again, so I steered the ship back on course for the promised land.

The rest of the history of my people is found on the other metal plates I have previously prepared. Behold, as I, Nephi, near the end of my days, I know not when the Lord will take me to his bosom.

The adventures of those three days have been a source of reflection and wonder every day of my life. As time has passed, I have come to wonder if they really happened. If they were only dreams and visions with meanings I don’t know. Perhaps my bonds and lack of food and water impaired my understanding. However, some of the memories are very real. I can still perceive the smells, the textures, the tastes of many of those moments. I have had visions and dreams throughout my life, but these have been different.

As I conclude this record, I have had the feeling that I did not write the plates, but that they wrote me. There’s also the growing impression that, at times, the golden plates converse with each other, as if they didn’t need the contact of mortals to be interpreted. Perhaps this is another mystery to be unraveled in the times to come . . . 

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Mario R. Montani lives in Bahía Blanca, Argentina. He studied art at the Universidad Nacional del Sur. His tale “So Ask No More . . .” (Irreantum 17.2) was selected as the best short story of 2021 by the Association for Mormon Letters. He has also published in Wayfare and the Mormon Lit Lab. In 2009, he produced “The Gray Castle and Other Stories,” published by Editorial Dunken. Since 2016, he has been a member of the Cofradía de Letras Mormonas (Mormon Literature Fellowship), a group that promotes literature among Spanish-speaking Latter-day Saints. He also manages the blog mormosofía (https://mormosofia.wordpress.com/).

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At rise: two middle-aged women sit in camp chairs on a hot afternoon. They don’t talk. After a period of time, they do.

JANIE: I’m tired of being alone.

AL: What am I? Chopped beef?

JANIE: Chopped liver.

AL: Don’t correct my charming idioms.

JANIE: Don’t be charming when I’m melancholy.

AL: Don’t be melancholy when I’m charming. You’ll scare the Young Women.

JANIE: They should know. They should enter the world with eyes wide open.

AL: We do need more cynical teens.

JANIE: Not cynical. Aware. Braced. Not thinking romance is as easy as eighth grade graduation.

AL: You had a graduation for eighth grade?

JANIE: It’s a milestone.

AL: So you’re thinking of a panel of divorced women for the next activity?

JANIE: And widows.

AL: And old maids.

JANIE: Language!

AL: And sweet spirits.

JANIE: Why did I accept this calling? All of these chipper children who think the world owes them a happy ending.

AL: The world does.

JANIE: Then the world is heavily in debt.

AL: The world owes you a happy ending. And a happy middle.

JANIE: Super not true.

AL: You don’t find their energy refreshing?

JANIE: As refreshing as a fire hose. At least in Relief Society the cheerfulness is tempered by aging and sleep deprivation.

AL: We should have gone on the hike.

JANIE: Who would keep our camp chairs from flying away?

AL: God.

JANIE: Do not make me be sacrilegious.

AL: We pray. The chairs are saved. Or the ground is softened.

JANIE: Or our tushes are hardened.

AL: Exactly.

JANIE: Your object lesson needs to be workshopped.

AL: I’m going to use it next Sunday.

JANIE: Every time I look at them I want to say, “Keep your last name, don’t compromise, maintain your humanity, don’t listen to a Bishop that smooths over abuse—”

AL: Don’t let the bastards get you down.

JANIE: Now you’re going to get us both released. Keep it up.

AL: This is my favorite calling!

JANIE: You’ve eaten too many cupcakes.

AL: You can tell them all of that, you know. Even an edited version of what I said.

JANIE: I don’t believe in censoring quotes.

AL: You just want me to swear again.

JANIE: No. It offends my soul.

AL: My deepest apologies.

JANIE: I know I can say all that. No one will believe me.

AL: I do.

JANIE: Then where is your existential angst?

AL: I’m fresh out.

JANIE: I swear—

AL: Don’t swear!

JANIE: I swear there are moms who put their hands over their daughter’s ears as I walk by. Metaphorically.

AL: Glad you clarified.

JANIE: The divorcée.

AL: Better put their hands over their husband’s ears too. And eyes.

JANIE: Some of them would.

AL: Who?

JANIE: The imaginary person in my head.

AL: Oh yeah, she’s terrible. Bigoted. Sexist. Ageist. Body shaming! Doesn’t floss.

JANIE: It’s just the feeling I get. Like nobody knows how I got my foot in this trap. Or, actually, nobody wants to catch whatever contagion I’ve got.

AL: I think that’s the sister in your head again.

JANIE: No, really. They want to paint a specific picture about How Life Works and I’m a counterargument.

AL: You’re a happy little tree.

JANIE: This is a Bob Ross painting. Happy little wives. Happy little houses.

AL: And the cutest little babies.

JANIE: Yeah . . .

AL: Next fast and testimony meeting I’m going to ask for a raise of hands. (To the imaginary congregation) “It has been proposed that Sister Janie Grant is a contagion upon our congregation. All in favor?”

JANIE raises her hand.

AL cont.: Put your hand down! “Any opposed by the same sign.”

AL raises her hand.

JANIE: Come on, Al. No one will say it outright.

AL: Then it’s none of your business. Let them figure themselves out.

JANIE: You should write a book.

AL: A picture book. Baby’s First Emotional Boundary.

JANIE: When are they getting back?

AL: Maybe never. Sue Ann isn’t very good with directions.

JANIE: We’re going to be a headline. You shouldn’t have stayed with me.

AL: And miss the existential angst?

JANIE: That would be the idea. And keep the girls alive. That too.

AL: I thought I was maybe keeping you alive.

JANIE: That’s quite dramatic.

AL: I’ve been practicing.

JANIE: I’m fine. Just tired.

AL: And hot.

JANIE: Why are we camping in August???

AL: To build character.

JANIE: I have enough.

AL: Too much, really.

JANIE: My cup runneth o’er.

AL: Would you have believed you?

JANIE: Absolutely not.

AL: (in mock shock) It’s you! You’re the imaginary sister! I wondered why no one but me could hear you talk.

JANIE: I’m the ghost of the first year who died at this very campsite.

AL: That we’ve never used before this year.

JANIE: Irrelevant.

AL: And what message do you have for us? What keeps you tethered to this earth?

JANIE: (spooky ghost voice) Keeeeeep youuuurrrr laaaaaast naaaaaaame.

AL: (similar spooky voice) And donnnn’t lettt the bleeeeep gett you dowwwwn.

JANIE laughs.

JANIE: That was heartwarming. And camp appropriate language.

AL: I don’t want to get sent home.

JANIE: When I was in Young Women’s I made a list of 25 qualities I wanted in my future husband.

AL: Oh, hey, that’s a good idea—and then we challenge them to develop those qualities in themselves.

JANIE: Yeah, that wasn’t the take-away then. Anyhow. My ex-husband had 24 of the 25 qualities. When I met him, at least.

AL: I guess our powerful ability to change cuts both ways.

JANIE: The girl who wrote that list could never have imagined the last 15 years of my life.

AL: Let her have her childhood!

JANIE: No. She needed to not be naive. She should have made better choices. She should be celebrating her 25th anniversary with the love of her life.

AL: She should have all the happiness and all the love.

JANIE: My kids get so mad at me when I say I’m going to die alone. Because they will be there.

AL: Exactly! And I’ll be there too, with a pillow, in case you need a little help getting over the finish line.

JANIE: Please don’t smother me in my sleep.

AL: Oh, I would wait until you were awake.

JANIE: That’s kind of you.

AL: So you would know you weren’t alone.

JANIE: I’m pouring my heart out to you!

AL: You know as well as I do that romance is not all it’s cracked up to be. And you are, and always will be, surrounded by love.

JANIE: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everybody loves me.

AL: Not everybody.

JANIE: (Emphatically) My cup runneth o’er. It’s not the same and you know it.

AL: I do. And I know I’m sitting here, a woman who hit the jackpot as far as husbands are concerned, telling you to chill out on the husband thing. But we don’t get to choose what sort of love we have in our lives. We just get to be thankful for the chance to love in as many ways as we can. I’m tired of not having the love of a child in my life.

JANIE: Oh, Al, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—

AL: I love your kids so much. But that’s not the same either.

JANIE reaches out—a hug? A hand?

JANIE: The world is heavily in debt.

AL: Not really.

JANIE: Sometimes I see all the flowers in the world and sometimes I see all the weeds.

AL: Oh, I know. I’ve seen your yard.

JANIE: You’re welcome to weed whenever it bothers you.

AL: I don’t mean to undercut your very justified rant—

JANIE: Not a rant.

AL: Your very justified not-a-rant. But I’m always going to point out the flowers. Because I love you.

JANIE: (She’s touched, but still cheeky) Everyone does.

AL: Not everyone.

JANIE: But enough everyones.

AL: Glad you clarified.

JANIE: Flowers over weeds.

AL: 4-ev-ah.

AL instigates some sort of silly, dated thing like a fist bump that turns into the hand mimicking an explosion. JANIE reciprocates.

JANIE: And don’t let the bleeps get you down.

THE END

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Marianne Hales is a poet, essayist, and playwright living in Springville, Utah. She has been published in Dialogue, Segullah, The Hong Kong Review, Helicon West, and Rocky Mountain Runners. Her plays have been produced across the U.S. and adapted for film. She is honored to influence writers at Brigham Young University and Western Governors University and co-founded Provo Poetry, a non-profit dedicated to bringing poetry into the community at large in unusual ways, and Speak For Yourself, a creative writing open mic.

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(The stage is empty—bathed in the yellow-blue warmth of sunrise—except for a single, short tree stump Center Stage. As the lights come up, EVE enters, holding a bright red apple, and sits.

A few moments later, ADAM enters from Stage Right, scratching his rib. He looks at EVE, then Doesn’t Look At Eve. He saunters across the stage, checking every few seconds to see if she’s noticed him yet—she hasn’t—then wanders over behind her tree stump.)

ADAM: Oh, hey! I didn’t know you were here. I hope I’m not interrupting or anything.

EVE: You are.

ADAM: Oh.

(Silence. He fidgets.)

ADAM: So . . . How you doing?

EVE: Considering we just got kicked out of Paradise? Not bad. Been better. It was almost worth it. The apple’s good.

ADAM: You bring any more of those?

EVE: Yep.

(He waits for her to offer him one. She doesn’t.)

ADAM: Mind if I have a seat?

EVE: Go ahead.

(ADAM sits on the ground and looks around, trying to find something to say next.)

ADAM: Yeah, so about that whole be fruitful and multiply thing—

EVE: Adam!

ADAM: Hey, I’m just saying—

EVE: We fell from innocence a half hour ago.

ADAM: Okay, I was just trying to make conversation. Forget it.

(Silence.)

ADAM: You want to talk?

EVE: No, I don’t want to talk.

ADAM: You okay?

EVE: I’m fine.

ADAM: You don’t sound fine.

EVE: Then why did you ask me if I was fine? If you’re not going to believe what I tell you then why are you asking?

ADAM: I don’t know, I’m sorry.

EVE: I’m just upset.

ADAM: Yeah.

(He reaches over and holds her hand. She looks at it, baffled.)

EVE: What are you doing?

ADAM: I’m holding your hand.

EVE: Why?

ADAM: I don’t know. It seemed like a good thing to do.

EVE: It’s weird. Stop it.

ADAM: Okay.

(He does.)

EVE: How would you like it if I held your kneecap or something? Would that make you feel better?

(He thinks about it.)

ADAM: It might.

(She doesn’t look at him. Another silence.)

ADAM: What’s wrong?

EVE: Nothing’s wrong.

ADAM: Something’s wrong, what is it?

EVE: I told you, I’m just upset. I don’t know why. Sometimes this happens to me, I don’t really get it.

ADAM: You get upset and you don’t know why?

EVE: Yeah.

ADAM: That’s messed up.

EVE: Thanks.

ADAM: No, I mean, you have to know why, you’re just not telling me.

EVE: I told you. I don’t know why.

ADAM: That doesn’t make sense.

EVE: Sue me!

ADAM: Is it the whole apple thing?

EVE: I don’t know, all right? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.

ADAM: Maybe it comes with mortality. Emotional instability, I mean.

EVE: I just need some alone time right now. Okay?

ADAM: Okay.

(ADAM exits.

EVE sits down on the ground. In spite of her best attempts to stifle it, a single, ugly sob escapes. She holds the rest of her tears back, sniffs, clears her throat, wipes the moisture from her eyes, and pauses to collect herself.

ADAM enters.)

ADAM: Hey.

EVE: Go away!

ADAM: You know, I don’t feel good about leaving you alone like this.

EVE: Adam. You don’t know anything about women.

(ADAM thinks about that.)

ADAM: You’re right.

(He doesn’t move.)

EVE: Are you going to go?

ADAM: I don’t know. Should I?

EVE: I don’t know.

ADAM (nervous): I like you a lot, Eve. You know that?

EVE: Yeah.

ADAM: I don’t know if that helps any.

EVE: Yeah. Me neither.

(ADAM goes to hold her hand, then stops himself. She doesn’t notice.)

EVE: I mean, I like you a lot, too, but . . .

ADAM: But what?

EVE: But . . . I don’t know.

ADAM: I’m not your type?

EVE: No, that’s not it. I don’t know.

ADAM: What’s wrong?

EVE: I just . . . If I wasn’t the only woman on Earth, would you still want me?

(He thinks.)

ADAM: That’s a good question.

EVE (standing): I’m going.

ADAM: I mean, yes.

EVE: You’re awful, you know that?

ADAM: Really, I would!

EVE: Goodbye!

ADAM: I would! I just had to think about it for a second.

EVE: Yeah you did.

ADAM: Yeah!

EVE: Yeah.

ADAM: Hey. Out of the billions and billions of other women who might have been here, you’re not even allowing me a second to consider any one of them?

EVE: Nope.

ADAM: Come on, Eve.

EVE: This isn’t going to work. Sorry, God, but this isn’t going to work.

ADAM: You’re beautiful.

EVE: Ha!

ADAM: And wonderful.

EVE: Shut up.

ADAM: Really. You are.

EVE: Shut up!

(She exits.)

ADAM: Fine. Okay!

(Pause.)

ADAM: You know, I’m glad you had the apple. Maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe I’m not supposed to be. But I am. You really are beautiful. I never really saw how beautiful you are til . . . after.

(EVE re-enters. She stands there, looking at ADAM sitting on the other side of the stage.)

EVE: I don’t know if you’re just making all that up or if you really mean it. I want to think you really meant it.

ADAM: I did. I do.

(Silence.)

EVE: Who does that? “Don’t eat from the tree,” “go forth and be fruitful.” Who does that?

ADAM: Yeah, I don’t get it either.

EVE: It doesn’t make sense at all. At all. You’ve got more sense than that.

ADAM: Thanks.

EVE: I didn’t mean—okay, I’ve got more sense than that. Better?

ADAM: Better.

EVE: I just feel guilty . . . I don’t know.

ADAM: Sex?

EVE: Yeah.

ADAM: Yeah.

EVE: . . . Yeah.

(A pause—then they both start talking at the same time.)

ADAM: I was wondering— 

EVE: What would you—

(They stop.)

EVE: You go first.

ADAM: No you.

EVE: Talk.

(ADAM struggles for a moment to work up the nerve to speak.)

ADAM: Do you think I’m . . . attractive?

EVE: I guess so.

ADAM: Ouch.

EVE: I mean, yeah. Yes, I do.

ADAM: Okay.

EVE (putting her hand on his knee): Really, I do.

ADAM: I believe you.

EVE: Okay, good.

(A moment. Then EVE notices their somewhat compromising position and moves away.)

EVE: It just feels so . . . base, you know? I mean, you are the only guy on Earth. It makes me feel, I don’t know—cheap, maybe? Does that make sense?

ADAM: Yeah . . .

(He thinks about it.)

ADAM: No, not really.

EVE: I mean, it’s so animalistic. I’m a girl and you’re a guy and we’re stuck here together so we make babies.

ADAM: Right.

EVE: No romance. Purely physiological. Isn’t that gross? Ew. That’s gross. We’re gross.

ADAM: Well, when you put it that way . . .

EVE: We’re gross.

ADAM: Okay, we’re gross.

(Pause.)

ADAM: But I’d like to.

EVE: I know.

ADAM: You would, too?

EVE: I didn’t say that. I just said I know.

(Beat.)

EVE: It’s weird. This whole wanting thing. I can’t decide how I feel about it.

ADAM: So you would?

EVE: Do what?

ADAM: Want to . . . you know, be The Mother of All Nations. That.

EVE: I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.

ADAM: I’m not trying to put words in your mouth, I was just . . . curious.

(Beat.)

ADAM: God told us to.

(Silence.)

EVE: You want a pet?

ADAM (somewhat taken aback): What?

EVE: Yeah. You know, a pet. A little animal. We could keep it around. Be nice to it. Play fetch.

ADAM: Oh. Why?

EVE: Just because.

ADAM: Okay . . .

EVE: We don’t have to, I was just asking.

ADAM: Like, what kind of a pet—animal?

EVE: I don’t know.

ADAM: The big guys are off limits, you know.

EVE: Right.

ADAM: Right. You saw that. We have our apples, a couple seconds later a lion is tearing off a gazelle’s leg. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty fond of my legs.

EVE (musing): Isn’t that a funny word?

ADAM: What? Leg?

EVE: Well, that, too.

ADAM: Which word?

EVE: Apple.

ADAM: Funny? I don’t see how it’s funny. How is “apple” funny?

EVE: I don’t know. Just listen to it. “Apple.” Apple apple apple apple.

ADAM (getting annoyed): Hey.

EVE: Apple.

ADAM: It’s a perfectly decent word.

EVE: Apple!

ADAM: Why is it all my words are stupid?

EVE: I didn’t say it was stupid, I just said it was funny.

ADAM: Okay, sure, “apple” is funny.

EVE: You don’t have to agree with me.

ADAM: Okay.

EVE: Stop it.

ADAM: Stop what?

EVE: Have you just been agreeing with everything I’ve been saying?

ADAM: I don’t know. Maybe.

EVE: Stop it!

ADAM: Maybe we just agree on a lot of things.

EVE: No.

ADAM: Maybe.

EVE: You’re just agreeing with everything I say and it’s ridiculous.

ADAM: All right, I’ll stop it.

(Beat.)

EVE: I’m sorry.

ADAM: Why?

EVE: Because I’m crazy.

ADAM: I don’t think so.

EVE: I am.

ADAM: I don’t think so.

EVE: You’re just trying to be nice.

ADAM: Well if I can’t agree with you and I can’t be nice, what am I supposed to say?

(EVE thinks about this, then laughs.)

ADAM: What?

EVE: That’s funny.

ADAM: Apple.

(She laughs again.)

ADAM: Apple apple apple.

EVE (laughing): Stop it!

ADAM: Apple!

EVE: I can’t breathe!

ADAM: Aaaaaapppllle!

(EVE laughs til she cries. She finally calms down—then she takes one look at ADAM’s face and starts laughing again. He waits for it to end and finally it does. EVE takes a deep breath.)

EVE: Hey.

ADAM: What?

EVE: You know when you held my hand a little while ago?

ADAM: Yeah.

EVE: That was weird.

ADAM: Yeah. I know.

EVE: But I kinda liked it.

(ADAM looks at her. He holds her hand.)

EVE: I wish God was here.

ADAM: You miss Him?

EVE: Yeah.

ADAM: Me, too.

EVE: Well, a little. I don’t know. I feel like I should. Maybe it’s just so recent it hasn’t really sunk in yet, you know?

ADAM: Yeah.

EVE: It doesn’t feel like He’s really . . . It feels like He’s still around.

ADAM: It does.

(They sit together. She leans her head on his shoulder.)

EVE: Are you scared?

ADAM: A little.

EVE: Me, too.

(They think about this.)

ADAM: That’s okay.

(And it is. Lights down.)

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Davey Morrison is a writer, filmmaker, actor, and professor of film at Utah Valley University. Davey has written and directed features (Trolley Problems, WWJD, Forty Days in the Desert), short films, commercials, music videos, web series, and more; his work has screened at dozens of film festivals, including SXSW, Austin Film Festival, Brooklyn Film Festival, Cinequest, and The Palm Springs International Film Festival. His feature-length scripts have been recognized by the Austin Film Festival (finalist) and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Nicholl Fellowship (semifinalist). Davey received an MFA in screenwriting from The University of Texas at Austin.

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Open on SARAH sitting at a table. She wears semi-professional attire and has an open laptop with her. After a few moments, GRACE nervously enters stage left, also in semi-professional attire. SARAH looks up, and upon seeing her face, GRACE seems surprised, though only for a moment.

SARAH (standing): Hi, I’m Sarah King. You must be Grace.

GRACE: Yeah, hi. (They shake hands.) I know I’m a little early, but your receptionist said I could come in?

SARAH: Yes, that’s fine. Take a seat. We’ll have to wait for my partner before starting the interview, he just texted me and said he was running late. You don’t mind waiting a bit?

GRACE: Not a problem.

Both women take a seat. GRACE looks like she’s trying to figure out how to say something. After a few beats of silence, SARAH speaks.

SARAH: This isn’t part of the interview, but why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? Where are you from?

GRACE: Ohio.

SARAH: Oh, I was born there. Which part?

GRACE: Orient.

SARAH: Oh, small world. That’s where I grew up. Your resume said you were studying at Ohio University?

GRACE: Yeah, I wanted to be close to home. Have you, uh, when was the last time you were in Ohio?

SARAH: A couple decades ago, it’s been a long time.

GRACE: Really? Haven’t gone home for a visit?

SARAH: No.

GRACE: Would you ever . . . want . . . to visit soon?

SARAH (hesitant): I don’t think so.

An awkward pause. SARAH is trying to pretend that it isn’t, going back to her laptop. GRACE is thinking over her next words very, very carefully.

SARAH: So what are you doing here in California? It wasn’t just for this interview, was it?

GRACE (unsure): No? I’m, uh, visiting family.

SARAH: And you applied for the internship here because you have family in the area, or . . . ?

GRACE: It would be nice to work somewhere I already know people.

SARAH: Ever come to California before?

GRACE: Not this area, no. It’s pretty nice, though, I like it. What . . . uh . . . do you have . . . family in the area?

SARAH: No. I haven’t spoken to my family in some time.

Another awkward pause. This one stretches even longer than the first.

GRACE: Do you miss them?

SARAH: That seems like a very personal question.

GRACE: They miss you.

Beat. SARAH shuts her laptop.

SARAH (longingly): You know them?

GRACE: I’m from Orient, remember? I . . . lived on the same street as your parents, actually—James and Wendy? My dad would ask them to watch me if he had to work late or something, I spent a lot of time at their house as a kid. You look a lot like m—like Wendy, actually.

SARAH: People used to tell me that all the time, growing up. I hated it.

GRACE: I’m sorry?

SARAH: No, it’s fine. I—did you apply here just because you knew my family?

GRACE: . . . Promise you won’t get mad?

SARAH: That’s a yes.

GRACE: That’s not why.

SARAH: Then why?

Pause. GRACE shifts in her seat.

SARAH: . . . Well?

GRACE: I’d be lying if I said it had no influence. (Beat.) I—I mean at first I wasn’t even sure if it was you, there are probably dozens of Sarah Kings around—King is a surprisingly common last name, have you noticed that?—and I couldn’t know for sure without seeing you, but I had to know—and actually I’m still kind of lying, I’m not here for an internship or job at all, I just had to know if it was you.

SARAH: All of that for a woman you don’t know? Why are you here?

GRACE exhales.

GRACE: Haven’t you figured it out? I haven’t exactly tried to hide anything. My last name is King, too. And—and I think I’ve been looking for you my entire life, even when I didn’t know what I was looking for.

SARAH: Why?

GRACE: Why have I been looking for you?

SARAH nods once.

GRACE: Because you’re my aunt. Because my dad and my grandparents miss you so much that some days you’re the only thing they can talk about. Because my middle name is Sarah as a way of remembering you. Because whenever my dad told me a bedtime story, it was always about some crazy thing the two of you did when you were kids. And . . . because you’ve been missing longer than I’ve been alive, but I think you’re what my family loves most.

SARAH: That’s not true.

GRACE: Yes it is.

SARAH: It’s kind of you to say that, really, but—

GRACE: How would you know if it was true or not? You haven’t seen any of them since you left.

SARAH: And did your dad tell you why I left, or was that left to your imagination?

GRACE (hesitantly): He didn’t, no. But grandma once told me that you left without saying goodbye. Without explanation.

SARAH: I didn’t think I needed to give an explanation.

GRACE: Does that mean I don’t need to explain why everyone wants you to come home?

SARAH inhales sharply, moves away from the table.

SARAH: What does it matter that we’re related? You don’t know anything about me.

GRACE: Sure I do. I know that your favorite color is pink—or it was twenty years ago—but you’d tell everyone it was red for reasons you refused to explain to my dad. You once spent three months learning how to make a decent scrapbook for grandma and grandpa’s thirtieth anniversary because you overheard them talking about how nice it would be to have pictures of their life together in one place. You lied about having a foot condition to get out of wearing heels one time, but then it spiraled and you didn’t wear heels for five years because you were too committed. I know plenty about you, you’re my family’s favorite thing to talk about.

SARAH: You still don’t know me.

GRACE: I don’t have to know you. (Standing). My dad knows you. You can consistently out-eat him at any restaurant, any time of day, he told me about it all the time.

SARAH: He got so mad about that, especially as we—I know what you’re doing. Stop it.

GRACE (confused): Stop what, exactly?

SARAH: Distracting me? Doing this—this thing!

GRACE: I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

SARAH: You can’t just waltz into my life and expect everything to be okay, to go back to how it was.

GRACE: I’m not.

It almost sounds like a question. SARAH looks at GRACE unconvinced.

SARAH: Really.

GRACE: Really. That’s not even what I want.

SARAH: Then what are you doing here?

GRACE (like it’s obvious): Inviting you back.

SARAH: And Isaac was okay with that?

GRACE: My dad? Why wouldn’t he be?

SARAH: What about your mother? What does she think about you finding me and coming here?

GRACE: She doesn’t know I’m here. No one knows I’m here, and even if they did, I wouldn’t tell them why I was here.

SARAH: So she’s not okay with it.

GRACE: She doesn’t get a say in how I live my life, she gave that up when she divorced my dad and refused custody. (Beat.) I was not going to tell you that.

SARAH: What.

GRACE: Not the point. The point is—

SARAH (overlapping): What?

GRACE: —the point is! No one knows I’m here except for you.

SARAH: You haven’t told them?

GRACE: I didn’t know if it was you until I saw you. Like I said, you look like Grandma, but prettier. (Beat.) Don’t tell her I said that.

SARAH: Flattery isn’t going to work.

GRACE: I didn’t even mean to say that! (More than slightly timid). Are you going to kick me out?

SARAH stares at GRACE.

SARAH: What—why—what?

GRACE: It’s a serious question!

SARAH: No it isn’t?

GRACE: It’s at least a valid question.

SARAH: No it isn’t! How did we jump from flattery to me potentially kicking you out?

GRACE: So you’re . . . not kicking me out?

SARAH (rubbing her temples): Well, now I’d feel guilty if I did.

GRACE (sitting on the table): Oh. Sorry. That wasn’t my intention.

SARAH (Sigh): Is there any way I could convince you not to tell your dad you saw me?

GRACE: I decided before I got here that the only one who was going to tell my dad or my grandparents or anyone about this conversation, was you.

(SARAH falls into baffled silence for several moments. She was not expecting that.)

SARAH: Get off the table, it’s not made for people to sit on.

GRACE (getting off the table, sounding a little unsure): I’m not saying you need to tell them now, or that you ever need to tell them. Not—not if you don’t want to. All I’m saying is we miss you, and we love you, and you’re always going to be part of our family.

SARAH: I don’t deserve to be. Not after what happened.

GRACE: It’s not about deserving.

SARAH: I killed your brother.

A pause. Neither of them were expecting SARAH to say it, or at least not expecting her to say it like that.

GRACE (slower): Dad said it was an accident. I believe him. Not much you can do when you’re backing up a truck and . . . and a little kid runs into your blind spot. You didn’t know he was there.

SARAH: I still did it. It’s still my fault. I’m the reason you never met your brother.

GRACE: It could have happened to anyone. Or, I guess, anyone could have done it. Yeah, it sucks that it happened at all, and we’re all going to be a little sad it happened, and of course I wish he hadn’t died before I was born, but no one blames you for it. Except for, well, you.

SARAH: That’s not true. Your mother blames me.

GRACE: That . . . explains a few things. (Beat.) But her opinion stopped mattering when she stepped out of my life. Even when it did matter . . . it was wrong. She was wrong for saying any of it was your fault.

SARAH: You make it sound so simple.

GRACE: From where I’m standing, it is. (Beat.) Will you come back? It doesn’t have to be forever, and it doesn’t have to be very long at all, but will you do it? Come home?

Pause, like GRACE is holding her breath.

SARAH: I can’t.

GRACE deflates, sitting back down. SARAH is leaning against the table, resigned. Neither of them can look at each other. After a pause, GRACE looks up.

GRACE: Do you want to?

SARAH: What?

GRACE: Do you want to come home? Because I want you to.

SARAH: Why?

GRACE: Because I love you.

SARAH: You don’t know me, how could you possibly love me?

GRACE: I love you because my dad loves you, isn’t that enough? (A pause.) So, do you want to come home?

SARAH (almost a whisper, breaking): I don’t know how.

GRACE: I can help you figure it out! Or I can do absolutely nothing. Or . . . here.

GRACE grabs her bag and pulls out a pen and a note card, hurriedly writes something on it.

GRACE: The first one is my number. And the second is my dad’s. And the only thing I’m gonna ask you to do is to text me in the next, like, two days, so I have your number.

GRACE offers the note card the SARAH. Slowly, SARAH takes it.

SARAH: The first one is yours?

GRACE: And the second is my dad’s.

SARAH: First number is Grace, second number is Isaac, got it.

GRACE: Text me soon so I have your number?

SARAH: I will. (Offering a small smile.) Can I . . . can I have a minute?

GRACE: Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll, uh. Do you want me to leave the building, or . . . ?

SARAH: Come back at noon. We can get lunch. My treat.

GRACE (smiling): That sounds great.

GRACE grabs her things, pauses. Hugs SARAH, and doesn’t move until SARAH, shocked, hugs her back. GRACE exits stage left. SARAH’s attention turns on the note card. Beat. SARAH digs through her purse, takes out her phone. She inputs one of the numbers, takes a breath. Exhales. Hits call. Brings the phone to her ear. Her face is pinched in worry and nerves and maybe something else. The phone rings for what feels like an eternity. Someone on the other side picks up.

SARAH: Isaac?

Blackout.

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Kristianne Harbaugh is a current student at Brigham Young University studying theatre arts and family history. Recently she presented on genealogy and kinship networks at the sixtieth annual Mormon History Association conference. In addition to writing, Kristianne enjoys reading, playing games with her family, music, and learning.

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A thirty-three-year-old man, in an extreme climate, a desert, fasting, scarce water, scant food, his a perfect body. It matters little whether he understood the instructions in advance, the pain he feels stretches beyond all he could imagine, is immense, has dragged since the early hours of the day. Even as he prays he wonders, bewildered, without losing consciousness, he gazes at the purple drop of blood on the palm of his hand, it is an image of the shadow of suffering. The trunks of the olive trees shudder, the leaves on the trees weep with him. Heaven and silence are condensed into a single breath. In the distance, the stars plead, flicker, light awaits expectantly and accompanies him. Everything senses the desecration, the bowels of the earth are wrapped in a tremor, and he sees the blood falling from his eyes, drop after drop, he watches: a kaleidoscope of horror, of screams, hunger, anxiety, unease, thousands of years under the purple shadow at Cain’s doorstep . . . the siege. He pauses twenty-one centuries ahead, voices break inside two giant trucks, they burst into shrouded screams, dozens of bodies wrapped in black plastic, children, men, women, the shouting strikes his belly, he weeps, they weep together. The jasmines about him shudder, the heavens moan. There is no time, everything is the same.

The wind blows with a scented perfume, the ritual is about to start, his atonement. Men sleep during this longest of nights. Beyond this time, the trailers stink with the stench of hyenas, the dead bodies multiply, in Africa, Palestine, Syria, Greece, Turkey, in the beaches of Italy, Spain, Brazil, Mexico, El Salvador, in the large window of time, every pain will become his pain.

He looks at his disciples, “wake up, wake up, wake up,” he utters three times, goes on his way. The men will awake. The bristling stars in this, the darkest of nights, proclaim the coming dawn. Prayers carry the sound of mercy, it reaches the consciousness of every mountain, rock, river, flower, and animal, of every one of the disciples in the coming centuries. A prayer is heard: because thou hast been faithful . . . so that thou will not be stained by the blood of this age . . .

The leaves fall slowly, the heavens and stars have their rhythm, the pain makes everything tremble. It has begun, the men are in a slumber still, they will awaken, HE knows, EL knows, they will awaken.

Blood falls, one drop at a time, on the ground, the birds shudder, the sea murmurs, beyond in another time: the lion dwelling with the lamb, the bear lying down with the horse, the asp and the child together. All pain, hatred, ungodliness will burn the transgressor, turn his face to stone, only those who hearken bear his name. Everyone heard, but even so not everyone hearkened.

This night stretches for centuries, and every step he takes is centuries long. . . . Only those who pricked up their ears bear his name. One step at a time, he walks through the garden, waits for the kiss on the cheek.

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Citlalli H. Xochitiotzin is a poet, storyteller, and philosopher. Her award-winning work spans fifty years and has been published in Europe and North and South America. A champion of culture and human rights, she is president of the Desiderio Hernández Xochitiotzin Foundation.

Art by Jorgo Cocco.

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Un varón con treinta y tres años, en clima extremo, desierto, ayuno, escasa agua, parco alimento, tiene un cuerpo perfecto, no importa si comprendió con antelación las indicaciones, rebaza toda su imaginación el dolor sentido, es inmenso, inició desde las primeras horas del día. Aún aturdido en su oración se pregunta, sin perder su conciencia, mira sobre la palma de su mano el color purpura de la gota de sangre, es la imagen de la sombra del sufrimiento. Los troncos de los olivos se estremecen, las hojas de los árboles lloran con él. Cielo y silencio se contienen en un suspiro. En la lejanía las estrellas imploran, tintinean, a la expectativa la luz le acompaña. Perciben la profanación, cubre de temblor las entrañas de la tierra y él mira la sangre caer de sus ojos, gota a gota observa: calidoscopio de horror, gritos, hambre, zozobra, desasosiego, miles de años bajo la sombra purpura en el umbral de Caín; el asedio. Se detiene veintiún siglos más adelante, quebrantadas voces en dos camiones gigantes, amortajados de gritos irrumpen, decenas de cuerpos envueltos en plásticos negros, niños, hombres, mujeres, el vocerío hiere su ombligo, llora, lloran juntos. Los jazmines de su entorno se sacuden, el cielo gime, no hay tiempo, todo es igual.

El viento se perfuma cuando se levanta, iniciará el ritual, su expiación. Los hombres duermen la noche más larga. Más allá de este tiempo los tráileres apestan, es el hedor de las hienas, se multiplican los cadáveres: África, Palestina, Siria, Grecia, Turquía, las playas de Italia, España, Brasil, México, El Salvador, entre el ventanal del tiempo, ningún dolor le será ajeno.

Mira a sus discípulos —despierten, despierten, despierten—, pronuncia tres veces, continua su camino. Los hombres despertarán, las estrellas erizadas en la noche más obscura anuncian el amanecer. Las oraciones entonan piedad, llega a la conciencia de cada una de las montañas, rocas, ríos, flores, animales, de cada uno de los discípulos por los siglos por seguir. Se escucha una oración: en vista de que has sido fiel…para que la sangre de esta época no te toque . . .

Las hojas caen lentas, el cielo y los astros tienen un ritmo, sacude todo dolor. Ha comenzado, aún los hombres están adormilados, despertarán, sabe EL, despertarán.

Cae la sangre gota a gota sobre la tierra, se estremecen las aves, el mar murmura, más allá en otro tiempo: El León junto al cordero, el oso junto al caballo, el áspid junto al niño. Todo dolor, odio, impiedad calcinara a su transgresor, petrificarán sus frentes, sólo el que escuchó tiene su nombre. Más sin embargo todos oyeron, no todos escucharon.

Esta noche tiene siglos y siglos en cada uno de sus pasos… Sólo el que aguzó el oído tiene su nombre. Camina paso a paso por el huerto, espera un beso en la mejilla.

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Citlalli H. Xochitiotzin es poeta, narradora y filósofa. Su obra, galardonada a lo largo de cincuenta años, se ha publicado en México, España, Perú, Chile y los Estados Unidos. Es defensora de la cultura y de los derechos humanos. Actualmente es presidenta de la Fundación Desiderio Hernández Xochitiotzin.

Art by Jorgo Cocco.

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What if you were called to serve in the restoration of polygamy? You could blog about it. An intimate look at first love, second wives, and last chances, PILOT PROGRAM is the story of Abigail Husten, a writer and professor whose life is turned upside down when she and her husband Jacob are called to participate in a pilot program restoring polygamy to current LDS practice.

This performance is a dramatic reading of the play followed by a discussion with playwright Melissa Leilani Larson, director Shelley Graham, Wayfare fiction editor Jeanine Bee and Faith Matters executive director, Zach Davis.

You can find reviews of the play here.

When: Aug 02, 2025, 7:00 PM

Where: The Compass, 250 W Center St Provo, UT

GET TICKETS

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When the elders first saw Kim Kumi, they mistook her for a child. She walked down the bus aisle and sat in front of them, turning her body to engage Elder Kim in conversation. When Elder Charles inserted himself, she was amazed that this waygukeen spoke Korean. When it was time for the elders to get off the bus, Sister Kim had asked them to come visit her. They replied they would need to ask her parents’ permission but—

“My parents?”

And Elders Kim and Charles realized she was not a child, she was—

No, not even in her twenties. Those were gray hairs. She—

And then she stood and was not wearing the school uniform they had both remembered but a conservative, if worn, business suit. They laughed about it that night over poggumpop but, after prayers, as they lay on their yos, each stared into the darkness and wondered.

Their first meeting, she smiled too easily and sharp-toothed as she interrupted to ask about the elders’ homes and how long they had been out and how often they saw other missionaries and how often they were in contact with their mothers or their mission president. Finally, Elder Kim stood up and said, “Ma’am, we are alone in this world, no matter how often we see our parents or our friends or our fellow laborers. You too, I see, live alone. We all are alone. But no one was ever more alone than the great Jesus, who was abandoned by all. He, who could have lived forever, had he chosen, left it all behind to die in pain. He died that we do not have to be alone. I promise you that if you consider our message, you will feel his Spirit in your life, and you will never be alone again. Even when you are as far from home as is Elder Charles.”

“Thanks a lot,” muttered Elder Charles in English, but Kim Kumi was silent. And silent. Until, embarrassed, Elder Kim realized he was still standing and sat down, wondering how to apologize.

The elders sat there, brushing their pantlegs, until, finally, she nodded and looked to them, her eyes trapping them like rabbits before a lion. “You are right,” she said. “I am alone. And I have been alone a long, long time. Perhaps as long as your Jesus, who could have chosen to live.” She looked about her small house, at its barren, brown-stained walls. “I first heard of this Jesus from a Portuguese whose Korean was much less than yours, Teacher Charles, though he had lived here longer. He was a quiet man who stood with his adopted village against the Chinese... But this was long ago. And I did not listen to him. Instead, I—”

Another long silence until she asked them to teach her. When they left that afternoon, she was Sister Kim.

One month later, the morning of her baptism, the elders met Sister Kim at the church and waited for the district leader to come and interview her. Elder Park (American) and his companion, Elder Park (Canadian), were, as usual, about fifteen minutes late. But Elders Kim and Charles had planned for this. Sister Kim disappeared with Elder Park (American) into a small classroom and stayed disappeared for forty-five minutes. This also was not a great surprise, although not one of the three waiting elders could imagine how he could so draw out this simple sequence of questions. After forty minutes, President and Sister Walker appeared, this being the only baptism this month in the mission. When Sister Kim and Elder Park (American) appeared five minutes later, the elder pale and nervous, President and Sister Walker ebulliently welcomed them. After the boisterous hellos, Elder Park (American) pulled aside President Walker, who then invited Sister Kim into the room for a little chat of their own. Another forty minutes passed; the ward members were arriving and chatting. President Walker ushered Sister Kim from the room and called in Elders Kim and Charles. He sat them down and shut the door and asked them these questions:

How long have you been teaching her?

How often have you taught her?

How many members does she know?

Did you teach with the members?

Has she seemed of sound mind?

Was she ever, ah, violent in any way?

They answered these questions, tossing looks between them. Elder Kim’s English was as good as Elder Charles’s Korean, and so they caught about the same number of words from President Walker’s mumbles following their answers. Finally, he gave his head one sharp nod and said, “Well, if Bishop Kim thinks she’s fine, and Sister Lee has already assigned ministering sisters and that’s off to a good start, and your opinion of her is as firm as you say, then I can see no reason why we cannot apply the cleansing waters of baptism and, as she puts it, allow her to ‘join the together family of God.’” He slapped his knees and stood. “Thank you, Elders. Send your sister back in here, would you?”

They did, and this conversation was better measured in seconds. She came out, happy, and walked straight to the baptistry, straight to the first pew, before the font, her tiny body weaving between the members. She greeted them all, but her direction never wavered. She sat, held her hair ribbon tightly in her hands, and bowed her head, hiding her face in her hair. Whether she prayed or wept or merely breathed, the elders could not say. They only knew that no matter how they’d inquired, Sister Kim could think of no friends or family to invite today, outside the ward members she had met the past three Sundays. 

The elders nodded and shook hands and found their way to Sister Kim’s side. They were filled with something they knew to be Spirit but which was unfamiliar in form or volume. It was warm and viscous and intense, such that it affected what they saw. Although they had said the words many times, they knew, as they looked around the room, that the men and women and children in this room were their siblings from before this life—and that they loved them now as they had loved them then. 

Members glanced over but quickly looked away, happier, having seen the elders’ faces. Sister Lee gave the opening prayer and one of the ministering sisters gave a brief talk on baptism, making a point to promise Sister Kim three times that, in just a few minutes, as she came from the water, she would be a new person, born into a new life. Sister Kim nodded intensely but did not look up.

The time came. She stood and walked with Sister Lee toward one side of the font. Bishop Kim walked to the other. They walked toward each other, into the font. Bishop Kim reached out his hand and Sister Kim took it. The elders watched and knew that Bishop Kim was one of those noble and great ones chosen in the beginning to be rulers in the Church of God. They looked at Sister Kim and saw her as she was, her nine tails sticking out from under her dress, lifting the fabric in the water, her vulpine face hungrily staring into the eyes of the bishop, all her focus spent in not consuming him, body and soul.

Elders Kim and Charles gripped hands.

The bishop said, “Kim Kumi. Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” And he buried her in the water. And when he lifted her back out, her tails and ears and whiskers dripped with water. She turned to the elders and smiled a large and carnivorous—but peace-filled—smile.

Later, as the ward gathered in the gym to bowls of mul-naengmyeon, Sister Kim walked away from her new friends in the Relief Society and sat beside the elders.

“I thank you,” she said. “I have been alone these many years and finally, finally, finally—I am no longer hungry.”

“That,” said Elder Kim, more calmly than he felt, “is the miracle that comes of allowing your Heavenly Parents into your life.”

Sister Kim smiled. The gray was gone from her hair. She was their own age. She nodded at the elders and walked back into the noise and familiarity of her new ward family.

“Elder Charles?” said Elder Kim.

“Yes,” said Elder Charles.

And they both knew it was so.

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Theric Jepson is an author, teacher, critic, and general annoyance based in the Bay Area.

Art is named “Seated Woman by a Vase of Lotus” from the Harvard Art Museum.

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Please enjoy the following excerpt from PILOT PROGRAM by Melissa Leilani Larson. If you'd like to find out what happens next, mark your calendars for August 2, 2025, when the Roadshow Theater Company will produce a reading performance of PILOT PROGRAM in its entirety. Visit thecompassgallery.com for tickets

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ABIGAIL writes another blog post.

ABIGAIL: I called Heather and left a voicemail. Just like that. I couldn’t help myself. She was working in San Francisco, at a publishing house where I’d helped her get an internship during grad school. It was less than an hour before she called me back, and the next thing I knew she was on a plane. I didn’t know what I expected her to say. I didn’t even know what I was going to ask her. I just thought, if there needs to be someone else— Why not someone just like me?

The doorbell rings.

HEATHER enters.

HEATHER: Oh my gosh, it’s freezing.

ABIGAIL: Yeah, it’s terrible. Ice on everything. I’m amazed you made it up the walk. We keep waiting for the icicles to drop and kill someone.

HEATHER: They’re huge.

ABIGAIL: Right? Anyway, come on in.

The two women regard each other.

HEATHER: Wow. Hi.

ABIGAIL: You’re here. I can’t believe it.

HEATHER: Why are we being awkward? So strange. Come here.

They hug.

ABIGAIL: It’s so good to see you.

HEATHER: It’s good to be seen.

ABIGAIL: Come in. Have a seat. Jake will be home any minute.

HEATHER: Thanks.

ABIGAIL: You’ve been busy.

HEATHER: So have you. I love your blog. It’s my sanctuary. I read it every day and think, “Wow, I know her.”

ABIGAIL: Hush.

HEATHER: It’s true. I’ve converted people to reading your stuff. You’ve made me start my own.

ABIGAIL: AmidTheHeather.com. It’s clever.

HEATHER: Not too precious?

ABIGAIL: It’s perfect. What else could you possibly call it?

HEATHER: I’m just getting started, of course. Nowhere near your level. Oh, Abby. Your book—

ABIGAIL: It’s not that big a deal.

HEATHER: It’s an amazingly big deal. A huge deal. It’s colossal.

ABIGAIL: It’s just a book.

HEATHER: Right. It’s just a book published by Vintage. Abby, the early reviews are killer.

ABIGAIL: I don’t dare read them. I get too nervous.

HEATHER: Still?

ABIGAIL: I don’t write for other people to read it; that’s just a lucky by-product. I write because I have to. To clear my head, or work through a problem. It’s just how my mind works. It’ll probably always be strange to know someone other than me wants to read something of mine.

HEATHER: I hadn’t realized how much I miss this place. You have the same lamps. This rug—

ABIGAIL: I’m sure everything is pretty much the same. More books, if such a thing is possible. How was your flight?

HEATHER: Fine. Quick, which was a blessing. Feels like it’s been ages since I’ve been in Salt Lake.

ABIGAIL: Almost three years.

HEATHER: And yet everything feels the same.

ABIGAIL: That’s the funny thing about this place. It always feels like home. I’m sorry, I should have come to get you.

HEATHER: Oh, no. I got a rental. I have to drive myself. I’m guessing the trains are still running blithely on their own timetable.

ABIGAIL: At least you can take the FrontRunner from Ogden to Cedar City. If you’re so inclined.

HEATHER: Abby— Are you— Is everything okay?

ABIGAIL: Yes. Why shouldn’t it be?

HEATHER: The other night on the phone. You sounded distant. Away. I mean, I was thrilled to hear from you. But it felt so out of the blue.

ABIGAIL: I know. I’m sorry. Things have been so busy lately. The book has been taking up a lot of time. I’ve been exiling poor Jake while I’ve been working. But I don’t think he minds too much since he got his new Playstation.

HEATHER: Are you and Jake . . .?

ABIGAIL: Jake and I are fine. Promise. I just wanted to see you. Tell me about you. About work.

HEATHER: Oh, work is work. I don’t think anyone really understands how satisfying it is to copyedit a manuscript. And when the book hits its second printing, you can point out the pages where you fought tooth and nail for those paragraph breaks and say, “I did this.”

ABIGAIL: That’s great. Really. I’m very proud.

HEATHER: I have you to thank for it. Your recommendation opened so many doors.

ABIGAIL: You deserve everything good that’s come your way. Once they met you it was just a matter of time before they made an offer.

HEATHER: How’s the department?

ABIGAIL: Oh, political and dramatic. As per always.

HEATHER: Always.

ABIGAIL: Teaching is— I mean, it’s always rewarding. But there are days when you wonder if any of them are even listening.

HEATHER: When your book takes off, you can retire from teaching all famous and independently wealthy.

ABIGAIL: A likely story.

HEATHER: It’s going to happen. And then you can hire me to be your assistant and help with your memoirs.

ABIGAIL: Ha!

HEATHER: You think I’m joking.

ABIGAIL: It’s a very pretty possibility. Prettier for its unlikelihood.

HEATHER: Well, if you ever needed me, you know I’d drop everything to run over. You know I would.

ABIGAIL: I know.

HEATHER: I mean it. I should have called.

ABIGAIL: Sorry?

HEATHER: When I read your post about your miscarriage. I should have called.

ABIGAIL: Oh. Yes. Which one?

HEATHER: Which—?

ABIGAIL: I’ve had three.

HEATHER: Abby—

ABIGAIL: Don’t. I didn’t say it to—Don’t feel bad. It’s no one’s fault. I want you to know. I don’t want us to have any . . . secrets.

HEATHER: I had no idea.

ABIGAIL: I didn’t post about all of them. It’s a stupid reason, but . . . They all sounded the same. The same words all came out in the same order. How many different ways can you say “heartbreak”? English is funny that way. A dozen ways to say something is wonderful but the ways to say “sad”. . . They all sound the same. Heartbroken. Heartrending. Heartsick. Everything comes back to the heart. No one ever says, “I’m heart-happy.” Anyway, I was sad. What else is there to say? I was frustrated that I couldn’t write about it differently. I didn’t want to repeat myself. Didn’t want to think about it anymore.

HEATHER: I wish you had told me sooner.

ABIGAIL: I didn’t want to distract you. You have your own life to lead. Your own projects, your own path. I just— Oh, this was a terrible idea.

HEATHER: What is?

JACOB enters, just home from work.

ABIGAIL: Jake.

JACOB: Hey.

He kisses her. It’s nice. He tries for another, but—

ABIGAIL: Jake . . .

JACOB: What?

ABIGAIL: Heather’s here.

JACOB: Oh. Right. Sorry. Heather. Hi.

We could possibly have one of the most awkward handshakes of all time happening right now. Just saying.

HEATHER: Hi.

JACOB: Hi.

Silence.

ABIGAIL: He remembers.

JACOB: I remember. I didn’t think—Thanks for coming.

HEATHER: Of course. I’m glad for the excuse to visit. If there was ever a professor who changed my life, it was Abby.

JACOB: I’m not surprised.

ABIGAIL: Heather’s very talented in her own right.

JACOB: She would have to be. To keep up with you.

ABIGAIL: Don’t.

HEATHER: It’s true.

JACOB: I knew it.

ABIGAIL: Stop it. Both of you.

JACOB: Sorry I’m late. Can I get you anything, Heather? Water? Pellegrino?

HEATHER: Sure, that’d be great. Whatever’s easiest.

He exits into the kitchen.

HEATHER watches him go.

HEATHER: You guys. You two. You don’t look like you’ve changed a bit.

ABIGAIL: I don’t know that we have.

HEATHER: That’s fabulous.

ABIGAIL: You think so?

HEATHER: So many people get married for the wrong reasons. Too fast, outside pressure . . . You guys are the real deal.

ABIGAIL: Have you—Is there someone? In your life?

HEATHER (Lightly): That trail of shattered dreams goes off in a direction I no longer choose to travel.

ABIGAIL: Really.

HEATHER: I have things to do. Places to visit. I’m doing three months in the Alps come June. Just me, Margaret Atwood, and Switzerland.

ABIGAIL: Sounds lovely.

JACOB re-enters with water glasses for all.

HEATHER (To JACOB): You know, I used to have the biggest crush on you.

JACOB and ABIGAIL exchange a look.

JACOB: Did you know about this?

ABIGAIL: I did not.

HEATHER: I remember days you would come to campus. Just to say hi, or drop off lunch, or bring flowers . . . I used to think about what it would be like to date a guy like you.

Awkwardness.

HEATHER looks at JACOB; the look is loaded. But she is the first to break it off.

HEATHER: I’m sorry. That was a crazy thing to say.

ABIGAIL: Don’t worry about it. We were—I was thinking about something else, is all. I got distracted.

What happens now? All three take a sip.

Such a silence.

ABIGAIL looks at JACOB, a little pleading. He moves to sit closer to her. Takes her hand. She prompts him with a look.

JACOB: . . . Heather.

HEATHER: Yeah.

JACOB: You’re a fine editor, Abby tells me.

HEATHER: Well, that’s a bit of flattery.

JACOB: Congrats.

HEATHER: Thanks.

JACOB: Yes. Well.

ABIGAIL: Well.

HEATHER: . . . Well?

JACOB looks to ABIGAIL.

ABIGAIL: Um. Well. We’re so glad you’re here. We have something to—ask you.

HEATHER: Really.

ABIGAIL: Yes.

HEATHER: Okay.

ABIGAIL: We—Jacob and I—we’ve been asked to a part of something potentially—

JACOB: Unprecedented?

ABIGAIL: Oh, there’s precedent.

HEATHER: Now I’m intrigued.

ABIGAIL (To JACOB): Do you want to—?

JACOB: You’re doing just fine.

ABIGAIL: But shouldn’t you— Shouldn’t it be you? Who asks?

JACOB: It’s coming from both of us. I think it has to.

ABIGAIL (To HEATHER): What would you think about coming back to Salt Lake? Permanently?

HEATHER: I’m pretty sure I would loathe it.

JACOB: Not exactly what we were hoping for.

ABIGAIL: It could wait. Until after your trip. After Switzerland. When you’re ready.

JACOB: We’d want you to be ready.

HEATHER: What exactly— You said “hoping for.” And you’re both so on edge. What’s going on?

ABIGAIL: A really awkward question, and a peculiar request. Margaret Atwood would probably love to write about it.

HEATHER: Not like I haven’t already scored points in the awkward department.

JACOB: Well, there’s the baby thing.

ABIGAIL: We’ve been thinking about how to—About other things to try.

JACOB: And we’ve tried. We’ve tried so many. I worry that we—
(ABIGAIL shoots him a look.)
I can’t help it. I worry about hurting you. How much experimenting can a body take?

ABIGAIL (To HEATHER): I bruise easily.

HEATHER: I’ll do it.

ABIGAIL: You will?

HEATHER: You want to have a baby. And you need a surrogate. I can do that. I think I can, anyway.

ABIGAIL: No—I mean, thank you, but—

JACOB: I didn’t even think—Wow.

HEATHER: Isn’t that what you want?

ABIGAIL: Not exactly.

JACOB: It’s very thoughtful.

ABIGAIL: Yes. Incredibly sweet. But nine months—
(To JACOB) I don’t know if I can say it.

JACOB: Of course you can.

HEATHER: Moving back to Salt Lake, though. That’s another thing altogether.

ABIGAIL: Heather, I’m asking—we’re asking—for something considerably more.

HEATHER: . . . More?

ABIGAIL: We’ve been asked—Jacob and I have been called to be part of a new program in the Church. We want you to do it with us. I guess—What we’re asking is if you’d be interested—willing, I suppose—to, um, marry us. Him. But it would also be me.

HEATHER is at a loss.

ABIGAIL: We don’t need an answer now.

JACOB: You can think about it.

ABIGAIL: We would rather you thought about it.

JACOB: Of course. Take your time.

HEATHER: You’re saying—What you’re saying—It’s not possible.

(She laughs; she can’t help it.)

I just—You’re asking me to marry you? Both of you? That’s nuts.

ABIGAIL: It is what it is.

HEATHER: . . . So this is happening.

ABIGAIL: Pretty much.

HEATHER (To JACOB): And you’re all right with this? I’m assuming they asked you first.

JACOB: They asked us together. We decided together.

HEATHER: You decided together. That must be nice.

JACOB: We thought—

HEATHER: You thought I was desperate. Lonely.

ABIGAIL AND JACOB: No—

HEATHER: What makes you think I want to be your second wife? Anyone’s second wife?

ABIGAIL: I thought it would be better to ask someone I knew. Someone I already loved and admired.

HEATHER: You admire me?

ABIGAIL: Of course I do. You have ambition. Drive. You’re a force to be reckoned with. It’s only a matter of time before you have a book contract of your own.

HEATHER: He’s your husband.

ABIGAIL: I’m not giving him to you.

HEATHER: Then what are you doing?

ABIGAIL: Sharing. Him.

JACOB: Still in the room.

HEATHER: How does this work exactly? I’ll tell you, I was the kid on the playground who didn’t want to take turns on the swings. I’d run out of class first to claim mine, and then I wouldn’t give it up, all recess long, until someone pulled me out of it. I suck at sharing.

ABIGAIL: I don’t know. I guess that’s what we have to figure out.

HEATHER: What do you mean, you don’t know?

ABIGAIL: I mean, I don’t know.

HEATHER: You’re asking me to—How can you not have a plan?

ABIGAIL: This is all new to me too. All right? We all know what the ideal would be, and that this is not it. I thought, What can I do to make this situation more tolerable?

HEATHER: And the answer was to call me.

ABIGAIL: I can’t explain it. But yes.

JACOB: Look. We know how crazy this all sounds. I don’t know that we’ve completely come to grips with it ourselves. But you’re the closest thing Abby has to family. Her students are her children.

HEATHER: . . . I used to wish you were my sister. I looked for excuses to visit you in your office almost every day. Coming here was like—Are you saying this is my only chance? To get married?

ABIGAIL: Of course not.

HEATHER: I wanted it a long time ago, when I was an undergrad and a fairy tale wedding was what everyone wanted. But finishing BYU single was liberating in a way. I didn’t need to get married to be whole. I was—I am me. I have a job. I support myself. I go to church on Sunday and I think how blessed I am to be in complete control of my life. To only have to worry about what I want. Sometimes, though, there is that little nagging feeling that something—someone is missing. I’ll come home late from work, and my apartment is dark and quiet. Most days, I relish the quiet. But now and then I can’t help but wonder what those floors would sound like with more than one person walking across them. I sit on the couch and pull a blanket around myself and wish I could be—held.

ABIGAIL: Honey—

HEATHER: It’s nothing new. I’m fine. Marriage is not part of my plan right now. It hasn’t been for a while. I’m thirty-three. So what? There’s nothing wrong with being single at thirty-three.

JACOB: No. Of course not.

ABIGAIL: This was a bad idea. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have presumed. I was being selfish. I didn’t think—I didn’t mean to insult you.

JACOB: Not at all. We were trying to figure out who would work best with us. Abby thought of you first.

ABIGAIL: I miss you. I miss our talks. I thought that if we were crazy enough to do this thing, Jacob and I, then you were the natural choice to do it with us. The thought just came into my head, an item to check off on a to-do list. Like it was ordinary. Expected.

HEATHER: “Kindred spirits.” That’s what you used to call us.

ABIGAIL: Yes. I still believe it.

HEATHER: It’s always been a comfort to me. . . . I should go.

But she stops, her expression thoughtful.

ABIGAIL: You’re exhausted, I’m sure. Where are you staying? We have a spare room upstairs. I should have told you that in the first place.

JACOB: We’ll pay for the room.

HEATHER: . . . Abby . . .
(ABIGAIL looks up at her tone.) Abby, I— What happens if I say yes?

ABIGAIL: Are you— Did you—feel something? Just now?

HEATHER sucks in a breath. She is blinking back tears. Somehow she manages to nod.

ABIGAIL takes HEATHER’S hand in both of hers.

ABIGAIL: Okay, then. Okay.

Still holding hands, they sit on the couch together.

HEATHER: . . . Wow. Can we, I don’t know—Go to dinner or something? Catch a movie, maybe? Are there rules? For dating?

ABIGAIL: I guess we make them up.

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*Please contact the playwright for permission before producing this play.

Melissa Leilani Larson is a mixed-race Filipino American writer based in Salt Lake City. Her work has been produced nationwide. Plays include Relative Space; A Form of Flattery; Sweetheart, Come; Gin Mummy; Pride and Prejudice; Bitter Lemon; Mestiza, or Mixed; Persuasion; The Post Office; Little Happy Secrets; Pilot Program; and Martyrs’ Crossing. Film: Jane and Emma and Freetown. Mel was a contributing writer on Saints. In 2019 she was honored with the AML Smith-Pettit Foundation Award for Outstanding Contribution to Mormon Letters. She’s a member of Plan-B Theatre’s Lab, Honor Roll!, and the Dramatists Guild. MFA, Iowa Playwrights Workshop.

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You don’t notice it until the paint dries: the ceiling isn’t a crisp line. It’s hard to tell if the green stretches too high or the white reaches too low, but it’s off. It could be charming. It could be the imperfection that makes this all feel homey. More likely, it will be forgotten and slip into the background noise like the 1 p.m. train whistle.

Does anyone look up there except when they are in bed and unable to sleep? What if these almost imperceptibly squiggly lines are the last thing I see in this world? I’m not dying. Just asking the inevitable question. When my family leans in for one last bit of wisdom, will I ask them to please repaint my bedroom?

I love this color, but paint never stays the same over the years. You can’t touch up with the original paint because it’s not the same as that original paint plus life experience. This house is less than half my age, and we have lived here for over half of its time. I had thought of moving but realized the ceiling probably isn’t straight anywhere (in my price range), and the undiscovered problems may be worse than the problems I have known. Every year I settle deeper into the foundation. 

For the first part of this house’s life (and well before it was a twinkle in some builder’s eye), I was a serial renter. I never changed batteries in fire alarms or filters in furnaces. I was a series of short stories instead of a novel. I blame it on youth. When you can pack up your life in a day, the ratio between hassle and adventure is much more favorable.

But inevitably you own couches and tall dressers, and staying sounds better and better. All of this, of course, hangs on a person like a persistent middle-age spread: soft and comfortable until you catch it at the wrong angle. Oh, to be youthful and see the world! Oh, to be still and actually see the world.

The sunset changes the color of the walls ever so slightly—the Whipped Avocado is more of a Fresh Avocado (deeper at the edges and so mysterioso). I’m not sure which I like better. (Not that it matters. It’s as finite as I am—more so, really.) My kids think I’m asleep, so they sneak in like it’s past curfew, illustrating why they never got away with it in their misspent youth. When I open my eyes they lean in, all anticipation.

Whatever you do when I’m gone, I say, don’t repaint the bedroom.

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Marianne Hales is a poet, essayist, and playwright living in Springville, Utah. She has been published in Dialogue, Segullah, OyeDrum, and the Hong Kong Review. She is honored to influence writers at Brigham Young University and Western Governors University and co-founded Provo Poetry, a non-profit that brings poetry into the community in unusual ways, and Speak for Yourself Open Mic. She is also a member of the Rock Canyon Poets and the inaugural cohort of the MoLitLab’s Book Mentorship program.

Art by Paul Klee.

Further Reading

• Faith and Progress

• Expand Enough and You’ll Go Global

• Exiles on Earth

• Journeys of the Spirit

• The Priest Who Was Imperfect but Decided to Accept God’s Love Anyway

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Early one morning, the fog reached high enough to cover the lower branches of The Forest. Faish saw it clearly, resting still and ominous below him as he ate breakfast seated on one of the limbs of his home branch. Only about one day in thirty did the fog reach this far up, and it stirred his ever-present anxiety like a cluster of butterflies shaken from a limb. He finished his last bite of fruit and placed his hands on his thighs, fingers spread wide. He inhaled slowly, held it a moment, and began to pray.

“O Forest, provider of all, protect me this day. Catch me if I fall. Catch my wife and children. Bless the work I do today to provide food for my family. And . . . please help me to not fear. My thanks.”

Faish kissed the fingertips of his right hand and touched them to the limb on which he sat. He rose carefully, winding his way back to the main branch and over to the limb where he had slept. His wife still lay there on their platform, drowsy eyed and smiling as he crawled over her to retrieve his glasses.

“Have a good day, flower,” Faish said before kissing her.

“You too, sweet nectar.” Her face looked crisp and clear, though discolored by the amber lenses of his glasses. He pulled away and rose smoothly to his feet. Then he turned and made his way back down the branch. At the trunk, Faish glanced down again at the fog, now only an indistinct amber-gray through his glasses. With the surface of the fog indiscernible, he no longer saw exactly how near it was. 

But still it unnerved him.

The fog always hovered down there, somewhere. Usually it stayed low enough that Faish couldn’t even see it through the branches. Now, though, the fog enveloped the people living farther down the tree. What would that be like? Few people ever went below their home branch. The lower you went, the greater the risk that if you fell there’d be nothing below to grab onto, and you’d simply be gone. Forever.

That unnerved everyone a little. Most people like Faish—who not only had The Fear but also the birth defect of being able to see too far—wore these glasses that made nearby branches appear crisp and everything else a blur. They kept you focused on your next step or two and took your mind off of falling. Because, whether you fell a few feet to the next branch down or fell all the way through to the fog below, it was all bad. Injury from a short fall might make you unable to work, which would make you unable to pay rent, and you’d have to move to a lower branch, which meant . . .

Faish took a deep, slow breath before starting out away from the trunk, heading for work in the fruit trees.

The glasses were supposed to keep you focused. But the endless possibilities for falling always hung at the bottom of Faish’s thoughts. Falls waited a single mistake away—not only for him, but for his wife and children as well—with each step, each swing around a trunk. So the lenses didn’t help much. The Fear was always there. Faish couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t have it. 

There were others with The Fear, of course. Faish was far from alone. His own wife sometimes had it, but Faish suspected that his anxiety rubbed off on her. And their kids already showed the classic signs of The Fear—not wanting to go out and play with the other kids, clinging a little too tightly to their parents. He’d destined them to a life of worry. Faish felt bad about that.

But what could he do? The danger was real. It wasn’t natural not to think about it or fear it, no matter what anyone said. He wasn’t the unhealthy one. If people really wanted to cure The Fear, they’d do something to prevent falls.

Nevertheless, Faish navigated the branches with skill. He planned ahead, taking the less popular routes. He took his time, placing his feet carefully, finding the rough bark with the most traction. 

But he never felt comfortable doing one particular maneuver—the swing pass. Perhaps the involvement of another person, often a stranger, unnerved him. The swing pass allowed two people to pass each other on a branch too narrow to walk side by side. They would approach, judging the other person’s weight relative to their own. Usually without slowing down, they would turn their right shoulders toward each other, link right arms at the elbow, plant right feet adjacent on the branch, and swing around each other. Then they’d unlink arms and regain their balance, continuing on their way.

It required trust in yourself and the other person—trust in their skill, strength, and attention. The weight balance had to be centered around a point between them, or someone could lose their balance and fall. It happened, occasionally. Each swing pass could be your last.

But people did it all the time. Unless there was another branch nearby thick enough to support weight, the only alternative was for one person to back up to the nearest trunk and move to another branch. That slowed you down. Usually, it only slowed Faish down, because most people were willing to do a swing pass more often than he was.

But Faish was tired of being the backtracker. He resolved, once again, to not let The Fear hold him back. The faster he got to work, the more fruit he could pick, the more money he’d make, and the more secure his family would be.

And he’d use the swing pass if he had to. He was good at it, after all. Or at least average. There was nothing to fear.

It wasn’t long before his determination faced its first test. A man a few inches taller, but slight of build, met him at almost the dead center of a branch about a pace across. They locked eyes. Neither slowed, though Faish’s breath caught in his throat. They linked arms, planted feet, took a nauseating swing into open air, and then it was over. No wobbling, no drama, and Faish continued on his way.

But his heart played a drumbeat in his chest.

The second pass came on the very next branch, extending from the same trunk. Faish’s heart sank into his gut. It hardly seemed fair. This one was a middle-aged woman a few inches shorter than Faish, but stocky of build. Once again, his breath caught as they locked eyes. She gave him a relaxed smile, and he felt a little jealous. But the pass was over in a second, and they continued on. She probably never gave it another thought. Faish panted to catch his breath.

Fortunately, the next passing came where two branches overlapped, so they were able to walk normally past each other. 

And then, just as Faish neared the trunk end of a large branch, a woman dressed in pale yellow, with white hair and a lined face, appeared from nowhere, moving quickly toward him. She didn’t appear to see him at first, and Faish slowed slightly. Finally, she looked up and they locked eyes. She wore glasses, too. Her eyes widened slightly. Then they reached each other. Faish extended his arm. She extended hers. The linking of elbows felt slightly off, and it wasn’t only the size difference.

They swung, and the balance was wrong. She weighed next to nothing, and Faish’s weight pulled her toward him. Time slowed. Faish straightened his right arm, unlinking from hers. He bent at the waist, extending both arms, straining opposite the direction his weight kept shifting, slowly, inexorably. With horror, he realized he couldn’t prevent a fall. He was going over.

Something hard struck his tailbone. His body twisted, crunching twigs and leaves as he flailed to get an arm around the small limb he’d landed on, before he fell farther. And he succeeded, but only just.

Faish found himself dangling in the air, his left arm wrapped around a wrist-sized limb extending from the branch off which he’d fallen. He kicked his legs. A whimper escaped his throat.

Suddenly, another man was there, reaching out from the larger branch and grabbing hold of Faish’s flailing leg. 

“I’ve got you,” he said.

He helped Faish hook his ankle over the limb and maintained a grip while Faish scooted toward the main branch.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” the man said again.

Another man joined him, and they lifted Faish easily back onto the branch.

“Are you hurt?” the second man asked.

Faish gasped for air. His heart thumped like a hammer. “I’m well,” he said. “I’m well.” He looked around. The two men who’d helped him stood on either side of him. Behind them, more people were gathered. The white-haired woman he’d tried the swing pass with wasn’t among them. 

His heart seemed to stop. “Where is she?” he asked hoarsely. “The woman I . . .”

The first man, still holding Faish lightly by the arm, shook his head.

Faish looked down to the branches below. They still hung in the misty fog; he could barely make them out. But he saw nothing. He crouched down, feeling dizzy. What had he done? He closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands, and felt his glasses. He tore them off, useless things. Faish looked down into the branches again.

Everything became clear as his eyes adjusted. He saw through the distance and the mist, picking out branches and leaves below. Faish scanned the area carefully.

“She’s gone,” a woman said in a soothing voice. “It wasn’t your fault.”

But Faish saw something below, a patch of pale yellow among the green and brown. “No!” he said. “She’s there. I see her.”

He heard movement and quiet exclamations from the people standing above him as he crouched on the branch.

“I don’t see anything,” someone whispered.

“Hello!” Faish called loudly. “I see you!”

He still couldn’t make out anything specific, but it was definitely the same color as the woman’s clothing. And it moved.

“I don’t think that’s her,” someone whispered.

But Faish was sure.

“I can’t move,” came a voice from below. “I might fall.”

“I’m coming down,” Faish shouted. He rose to his feet, looking to either end of the branch for the best way down. The nearest tree had a branch below that he could probably jump to, if he dared. “Let me through, please.”

The shocked onlookers moved back toward the nearest trunk. “It’s too far,” a man said. “You’ll never get down there.”

“And if you do, you’ll never get back up,” a woman said.

“Does anyone know where some rope is?” Faish asked. That would be the way back up.

“I do!” a woman called from behind him. “I’ll get it!”

Faish reached the trunk quickly, then turned to look back toward where the woman lay clinging to small limbs. Without his glasses, he saw clearly. But he still couldn’t see a path down to her unless he made a leap for a branch about eight feet below, a dizzying drop, farther than he’d ever jumped in his life.

He sat down on the upper branch, dangling his feet over the side.

“What’s he doing?” someone asked. “I don’t see—”

“No!” someone else yelled, just as Faish leaned forward and slid from the branch.

The fall felt so long and made Faish’s stomach lurch. But his feet landed squarely on the branch below and he sank into a crouch, perfectly steady.

He took a deep breath and stood up.

“Are you hurt?” a woman called from above. 

“I’m fine!” he replied, feeling a little giddy, not only from the adrenaline but also from the thrill of landing a jump that few people ever attempted. Even better, from here he saw a clear path ahead.

The branch was unworn, rarely if ever used for walking because the only other branch near the same height was the one in which the woman was tangled. Twigs and leaves covered the branch’s round top—the worst kind of branch for walking. But Faish moved deliberately down it, placing each foot with care, feeling for traction with the soles of his feet.

“I’m coming,” he called.

“Please hurry,” the woman said.

Faish stepped more quickly, fighting years of instinct by reminding himself of his years of experience. Sometimes, one didn’t have time to be careful. Sometimes, one simply had to act and hope for the best.

Suddenly, the fog swirled up from below, enveloping Faish. He froze, expecting to lose sight of everything. But that never happened. He could still see the branch, the nearby limbs and leaves. In fact, his vision wasn’t any worse than when he wore his glasses. Faish continued on.

“Are you well down there?” a voice called from above.

“I’m well!” Faish called.

“We can’t see you! The fog!”

“It will pass!” he said.

And then he was there, beside the elderly woman in yellow whose fall he had caused. She lay in a thick patch of leaves, her arms hooked around separate limbs, her legs dangling below. It was a miracle that she hadn’t kept falling.

Faish positioned himself carefully behind her. “Are you injured?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But my arms are numb and shaky.”

“I’m Faish,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Araila. Nice to meet you, Faish.”

Bracing himself against the branch with his legs against the limbs holding Araila, Faish reached forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pulled her body closer, gently, until his face was buried in her back. Then, with his hold on her secure, he lifted.

Araila freed her arms from the branches and transferred her grip to Faish’s arms as he leaned back, pulling her to the branch. Maneuvering was awkward, but she was light, and Faish soon helped her to sit on the branch next to him.

“Thank you, Faish,” she said, breathless. “Such a nice name. My late husband’s best friend had that name. Not many people do, nowadays.”

“I’m so sorry I made you fall,” Faish said.

“It was only an accident, Faish,” she said, linking one arm around his elbow and holding tight. “No one’s fault; they’re part of life.”

Faish shrugged.

“You have The Fear, don’t you?” Araila asked.

Faish glanced over at her. She gazed intently back at him through a pair of amber-lensed glasses. It wasn’t a subject of normal conversation.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “Do you also?”

“You could say that, but I wouldn’t. You were wearing glasses up there. How far can you see without them?”

Faish hesitated. “No one’s ever asked me that. I can see everything.”

“Everything? Now that’s something special.”

“What about you?” Faish asked. “I assume you wear glasses to give you near sight?”

Araila smiled. “I have a friend who also asks unusual questions. He asked, ‘What if I curved the lenses the other way?’”

Faish leaned forward. “Did it make him see farther?”

Araila reached up and removed her glasses. “I wasn’t blessed with far sight like you were. I can see about ten paces without these glasses.” She replaced them on her face. “With them, almost as far as you can.”

“But why would you want to see farther?”

Araila’s smile faded. “You were exactly right when you said it’s hard to see past The Fear, Faish,” she said. “It clouds everything, just like this fog. But there are gaps, like the gaps between branches as you walk. And when those gaps appear, you can’t be focused only on the branch right in front of you. You have to be ready to see everything. And what you see . . . well, it can make a difference. Look.”

She pointed past the limbs that had caught her fall to a wide clearing in the trees. The fog dissipated before their eyes, burned away by beams of sunlight plunging down through the canopy. The Forest spread out before them, brilliant green and brown, with surprising splashes of gold and crimson, deep blue shadows, and pure white sparks of reflected sunlight.

“Oh,” Faish said softly.

Araila remained silent for a long moment, and they simply stared out at the world together. 

“What do you see?” she finally asked.

“The Forest.”

She waited for more.

“Colors, so many colors. Textures. Distance.”

The silence spread for another long moment, until Faish broke it.

“Beauty,” he said, “and danger.”

“Does The Forest hear your prayers?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Faish whispered.

Araila stayed silent again. Faish felt that she was waiting for him to say more. Or maybe see something else. Something he’d missed . . .

And suddenly he saw.

People.

They appeared as flashes of movement, changes of color through the leaves. When he tried to pick out movement, he saw them everywhere.

“There are so many people,” he finally said.

“Yes,” Araila replied, and Faish heard the smile in her voice. “So many people. And all part of The Forest.”

They watched the clearing teeming with life for a long moment before Faish remembered their predicament—they couldn’t get back up. The Fear sprang up inside him again, which in turn made him wonder why it had ever left in the first place.

Then a voice called out from above. “I brought rope!” a woman said. “Are you well?”

“Yes, we are well!” Araila called back, her voice strong.

“Can you get to the nearest trunk? We’ll lift you back up from there!”

“Yes!”

The rope was lowered. Faish helped Araila secure herself in the loop at the end. A moment later she rose up into the air.

Faish stood alone on the lower branch, watching the resplendent morning scene Araila had pointed out to him. He felt warm and thankful that the disaster had ended well.

Soon, the rope was lowered again, and he placed the loop around himself. The rope pulled tight, and Faish ascended easily. On reaching the top, he was surprised by the number of people who had assembled to help. He didn’t recognize any of them, but they had postponed their activities to help him and Araila.

As the crowd dispersed, and Araila was led away home by a relative, Faish found himself alone. He would have quite a story to tell his wife that evening. For now, he still had the day’s work to do.

Faish sighed and stood up. He would not be swing passing anymore today. Maybe not ever again. Taking a risk to save a little time and make a little more money no longer held any value in his mind, no matter what everyone else thought.

He pulled his glasses from his pocket and put them on. Then he remembered Araila’s strange glasses and what she had said. He looked around at the beauty of The Forest, and he felt a part of something larger than himself. And that did seem to make a difference. Maybe he would never be brave, bold, or wealthy. But he could be The Forest’s eyes.

Faish returned his glasses to his pocket and walked carefully to work.

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Ben Spendlove is the author of The Freezer, a novel about parenting at the end of the world published by BCC Press. He enjoys traveling both near and abroad. Some of his favorite places are Yellowstone, Moab, and Australia. He also enjoys hiking, riding his bicycle, watching TV (especially Star Trek), and just spending time with his family.

Art by Beki Tobiasson.

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i have pieced many quilts in my fifteen years, my fingers calloused and red from the work, my eyes used to tracing careful stitches between separate cuts, used to spreading the fabrics around the livingroom floor and my bedroom floor and the kitchen floor and the back porch deck, because Grandma liked the way it made our floor look like joseph’s colored coat or noah’s thriving ark, but i’ve never pieced a quilt down here, in the dark, in Grandma’s cellar, my work weaving beneath the watchful eyes of all her carefully placed preserves, jellies and jams and pickles and olives, pears and peaches and onions and beans, their reds and yellows and greens and blacks mirrored in the reds and yellows and greens and blacks of the calico fabrics I snip and place, and it’s here that i piece them, place them, cut them, fold them, because down here there’s no uncle james to move my cutting board from the table while he talks about choosing foster care, down here there’s no aunt marjean to unplug my iron while she tells him they’ll lose the money from the will if they do give me up, down here there’s no little cousins running through my scrap pile yelling “you can buy a nicer quilt for cheaper at the store, half-brain!”, down here there’s no older cousins, their paws reaching for the handles of my scissors and the round edge of my rotary blade, holding them to my hair, threatening to cut off my braids if i don’t give them the fabric money Grandma pressed into my palm last week, down here is where i do it because before, each time when i handed a finished

quilt to Grandma, her eyes lit up, and she pulled it in for a heavy deep breath, and she told me she could smell my pricked fingers and careful placing and midnight sweat, and it smelled like love, she said, and it smelled like me, she said, her golden girl, and she hasn’t breathed like that since she fell and broke her spine, and she hasn’t smelled like that since her body seized up and died, but maybe, just maybe, since this quilt will wrap her up while she’s settled in the grave til kingdom come, maybe this’ll be the first thing she breathes in when jesus reaches for her hand, and maybe it’ll make her think of me, and maybe she’ll ask jesus to reach for me, too, wretched child that i am, because no one’s ever wanted me but her, not even mom, and maybe he will take convincing, too.

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Mikayla Johnson works as editor in chief at Inscape journal. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Evermore Review, AWE (A Woman's Experience), and Dialogue.

Art by M. Alice Abrams

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