Chapter One
Flagstaff, Arizona, A.D. 1936
John Reid looked up from his copy of the Book of Mormon as a light tapping came from the door of his office at Arizona State Teacher's College of Flagstaff, where he served as a professor of archaeology. He was also, as those few familiar with his current reading material could have guessed, a devoted member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; a “Mormon”. But few if any other Mormons got sucked into their own trademark book the way he did. Any well-written book about the past had that effect on him, but it was never a substitute for the real thing – while working in the field, sometimes he imagined himself taking part in history's pivotal events.
He slipped a bookmark into place, set the book down on a pile of other books that wobbled precariously as he did so, and answered the door. His colleague, an athletic, middle-aged man named Frank Henderson, gave him a polite nod and entered without asking. He looked at the clutter throughout the office and the untouched brown paper bag on the desk and said, “I guess you still don't get the concept of a lunch break, do you, John?”
Reid shrugged. “No students. That's enough of a break for me.”
Henderson picked up the Book of Mormon from the top of the stack, which nearly collapsed at his touch, and opened to where the bookmark had been placed. His eyes skimmed the pages and he smirked. “This Nephi character, he's better company than me and the guys?”
“Yeah, but it's nothing personal,” Reid said. “What can I say? Archaeology is my lifeblood. My best friends are people who have been dead for at least a couple centuries.”
Henderson replaced the book and rolled his eyes. “You're not seriously mixing this with your career, are you? I thought I warned you last year.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Look, I don't care, no one cares if you want to believe this stuff. But you'd better keep it well and truly separate from real, provable history. Just because you have tenure now doesn't mean that's changed. If our fortuitous financial circumstances here should take a turn for the worse like everyone else's -”
“You worry too much,” Reid said. “I'm not quite that naive.”
“I hope not. I just got back from arguing with James Martin, the new guy from Georgia. Southern Baptist preacher. He thinks that because Ninevah's been excavated, he can use the Bible as a textbook. When I told him otherwise he acted like I was a pawn of Satan or something.”
“I'll try not to go that far,” Reid said with a chuckle. “As a matter of fact I am using this book for my career, but only in my spare time. It's just an inspiration, a starting-off point if you will. I've made some real breakthroughs because of it. Here, have a look at this.” Reid rummaged through the papers on his desk and came up with a stack of about twenty, handwritten, with many cross-outs, smudges and carats. He handed it to his colleague.
Henderson read the title. “‘Human Bloodshed and Weaponry in Ancient Israelite Law and Culture’.” He frowned and squinted. “That's all I can read. I do hope you're going to type this up.”
“Of course. I’ve been working on this all summer when I wasn’t busy on the dig, and I'm nearly finished. Basically it's about how the Law of Moses defined justifiable and non-justifiable homicide, and its ramifications on the people; and also about the symbolism of swords. And it's all legitimate, secular research, but I was inspired by this book here, the Book of Mormon, from a passage where Nephi lops off a drunk guy's head.”
Henderson made a face. “I take it that's supposed to be the justifiable variety?”
“Yeah, but there's a lot of other factors involved. For instance –”
“Spare me, Professor, I'm on my lunch break. Come on, get some fresh air with us. It's not healthy to be cooped up in here all the time.”
“All right, all right.” Reid took back the papers and returned them to his desk. “This once, since it’s the first day. But let's get one thing straight – I will not have a drink with you.”
“How could I forget? Old Joe Smith says Prohibition is still on.”
“Not him, actually,” said Reid as they entered the hallway and he carefully locked the door behind them. “We have Joseph F. Smith, his nephew, to thank for enforcing that since 1915. Before him, the Word of Wisdom was mostly just a guideline of sorts, a –”
“I said spare me, Professor. I don’t like thinking on an empty stomach.” They exited the college doors into the sunshine. The dry Arizona heat radiated down from the sun and back up from the ground, roasting them twice as much, but both men were used to it.
They walked down a few blocks to a small café where a trio of other professors sat at a small table beneath an umbrella eating a cheap but satisfying meal. Reid had never felt comfortable around them or anyone else who worked at the college. Most of them were amiable enough, but they looked at him as if he were something out of a freak show, something less than human. Though he had enlightened them regarding all of the false and malicious rumors about “Mormonism”, and himself by extension, were still too bizarre for their tastes even if they were too polite to say so.
It was dreadfully ironic, he often mused, seeing as most of Arizona's first settlers had been Latter-day Saints. They still thrived in communities like Mesa, down south, which held one of only two Latter-day Saint temples outside of Utah. But here in Flagstaff, the “Gentiles” were a majority now.
“’Allo!” called Paul Clousseau, waving them over. “You have gotten Monsieur Mormon to join us, I see, Frank. My congratulations.”
Next to him the new professor, James Martin, visibly blanched at the word “Mormon” but said nothing.
“This being the first day, I’ll play along,” Reid said, ignoring Martin and pulling up a chair. “But don’t count on it being a regular occurrence. I have things to do.”
“But of course.”
“How was your first day, Johnny boy?” asked Richard Snedley, a corpulent butterball of a man with sweat running down his whiskered jowls. “Freshmen give you any trouble?”
“Why you –” Clousseau half jumped to his feet.
“Simmer down, old chap,” Snedley said, holding up his chubby hands. “I said freshmen, not Frenchmen. I’ve got nothing against Frogs.”
“I should hope not,” Clousseau said, grinning broadly as he sat back down. “I would hate to have to defend my honor at the cost of your life. So how about it, Reid, how were they?”
“I’ve had worse,” Reid said. “I’ve never had much trouble handling them. I just lay all my cards out to begin with, tell them straight up that I’m in this for myself and I don’t give two shakes if they pass or fail because it’s their money going into it.”
“Good show,” Snedley said.
“It’s not entirely truthful, I’m afraid. I really enjoy trying to convey my passion for the subject matter to my students. But I have to make sure they’ll take it seriously. Oh, yes,” he said to the waiter who had approached them, “I’ll just have a grilled cheese sandwich and some water, please.” Henderson placed his order as well, and the waiter left them.
“Doesn’t Joe Smith even let you have a Coke?” Clousseau asked. Martin blanched at the mention of that name, as well.
“'Joe Smith' doesn't care,” Reid said, “but in the heat I prefer water. I’ve developed quite a fondness for the stuff over my summer digs.”
“Oh yes, I was going to ask,” Henderson said, “how was your trip to Palestine?”
“Splendid, thanks. We found plenty to keep us busy, but nothing to revolutionize history. I'm much more excited about the conversations I was able to have with several Hebrew scholars. They were able to tell and show me a lot of neat things that form the basis of the paper I'm writing.”
“You said you were writing it while you were out there. How much sleep did you get?”
“Two hours a night, more or less.”
“And no coffee,” Snedley marveled.
“Not a drop. It only takes the right physical conditioning.”
“Reid, my uptight Mormon friend, you must relax a bit, yes?” Clousseau said. “Life is passing you by while you absorb yourself in work. You need to do some fun things, find yourself a few lovely wives, and settle down.”
“Oh, funny. I never get tired of that one, you bet.”
“That is exactly what I mean! You need to learn to take a joke and respond with your own, like the rest of us. I am serious about the wife thing, though. One will do, but she will not wait forever.”
“He's right, you know,” Henderson said. “Your house is desperately lacking a woman's touches. Heck, it's lacking your own touches. You don't even live there.”
“What about that Injun squaw who's always following you around?” Snedley said, licking his fingers.
“Native American, Hopi to be exact,” Reid corrected. “You mean Eliana? What about her?”
“She's a nice little piece of meat, ain't she?”
“New subject,” Reid said, growing uncomfortable. He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking, but he wasn't sure why – because he anticipated the subject matter growing cruder, or some other reason entirely.
The others knew him well enough to know that he meant it, so they complied. “Did you catch the Olympics, Johnny boy?” Snedley asked.
“Ha! Even if I wasn’t completely busy with more important things, which I was, I’d sooner die than act all buddy-buddy with the regime of an arrogant, racist dictator. Shame on our President, and all other world governmental leaders who did so. But I did hear about Jesse Owens kicking the German runners’ Arschbacken. I’d give a month’s salary to have seen Hitler’s reaction afterward.”
“The Germans still won the most medals,” Clousseau said, “so I imagine he got over it.”
“And Owens kicked everyone’s Arschbacken, not just theirs,” Snedley said. “Assuming, of course, that Arschbacken means buttocks. Cripes, that nigger can run.”
Instantly Reid was on his feet, and he slammed his fist on the table with such force that the men were spattered by their own drinks. “I've told you before,” he said, “never use that word in my presence again.”
The men looked at him, stunned speechless except for Martin, who appeared bemused. They managed a few feeble nods, and Reid slowly returned to his seat, still glowering. Excessive racism was one of his pet peeves. It dated back to his proselytizing mission in England, where his eyes had been opened to how backwards and uncivilized certain Yankee traditions really were. Though Snedley himself was British, he had been badly corrupted by his time in the States.
“Another thing I heard,” Reid continued as if nothing had happened. “Jesse Owens was treated like a king over there, by everyone. Sure, on the Nazis’ part it was most definitely a public relations scam, but that doesn’t explain German athletes and average citizens acting like he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Then he gets home, and has to ride the service lift to his own welcoming party. FDR, who invites all the white athletes to meet him, doesn’t even send a telegram to Jesse or any of the blacks. I love this country, gentlemen, you know that, but when we take a silver medal to Nazi Germany in race relations, that is sad. That is sad.”
An awkward silence continued to reign over the table. The waiter returned with Reid's and Henderson's orders and pretended not to notice anything unusual going on. Reid bit into his sandwich, but it tasted like nothing.
“I'm sorry, I completely forgot about your problem with that word,” Snedley mumbled. Reid eyed him but remained silent.
Henderson took a few bites of his meal and looked at his gold pocket watch. “My word,” he said, “I just realized I haven't prepared for my next class. See you around, fellows.”
***
A few days later, John Reid was again functioning as a teacher, this time for a small congregation of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Their Sunday meetings had just ended on a gorgeous though still rather hot autumn day, but many were sticking around, arranged in whatever shade was offered by the trees in Brother and Sister Davis' backyard. Reid stood at the front beside a wheeled chalkboard that hadn’t been washed since the turn of the century. He was pleased to have everyone’s undivided attention. Wonderful people, they were, so humble and faithful in spite of all the Depression had thrown at them. Even before the Church had introduced a welfare program a few months ago to help them out, they had never once turned their backs on the Lord.
“In my spare time,” he began, “I've really been scrutinizing the Book of Mormon from my academic perspective. Though I've realized it's an endless task that I could and might devote my life too, I've already reached some interesting conclusions that might surprise you and change the way you read it.”
He paid special attention to Eliana, a Hopi from the nearby reservation who had been coming to church for a few weeks at his invitation. He had met her during a dig a few years ago, where she had been immensely helpful in teaching him about her people's culture. She herself, though, was the product of two cultures; her name was Spanish, derived from the Hebrew “My God has answered me”.
Her ruby lips contrasted sharply with her lightly tanned skin stretched to just the right tautness over prominent cheekbones, and her brown eyes held a vitality that had not been dimmed by the oppression of her ancestors whose bodies were now essentially buried in foreigners’ soil. Her jet black hair was put up into an elaborate Danish-shaped bun on either side of her head, in traditional Hopi style, and she wore a simple dress that she had woven herself and died with native plants.
She smiled at him, and he smiled back. She seemed to like it here well enough.
“Traditionally we assume the narrative takes place on both the North and South American continents, with Central America being the 'narrow neck of land' between them. But, after months of having examined the text, I believe it indicates a rather more limited geography, one that probably did not extend much beyond northern Central America and Southern Mexico.” He sketched that landmass’s rough shape on the chalkboard. “I have reached this conclusion by painstakingly matching geographical descriptions –”
“Brother Reid,” interrupted Brother Cowan, a grizzled, middle-aged cowboy, “I don't mean to question your expertise, but Joseph Smith himself believed the book covered both continents. Are you refuting his judgment?” Brother Cowan was never afraid to speak his mind and even let slip a curse word once in a while. The other branch members were fond of him because he reminded them of J. Golden Kimball, a prominent church leader who was similarly rough around the edges, human like the rest of them.
“Technically, yes, but not in the sense you're probably thinking,” Reid said. “Joseph once said ‘A prophet is a prophet only when acting as such’, and I believe that is quite applicable here. Remember that he was the book's translator and not its author. He didn't receive revelation on everything and often formulated his own opinions, which were just as limited by the knowledge of the time as anyone else’s.”
Brother Cowan grunted. “Then, are you saying he didn't read the book as carefully as you?” His voice held a hint of challenge.
“Not at all. But he wouldn't have been looking for the same things, and, like I said, with the knowledge of the time and himself not even being particularly educated, he wouldn't have known what to make of them if he was. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Brother Cowan said, settling back into his chair. “All right then, carry on. Sorry.”
“Don't be. I always encourage my students at school to question what they are being told.” Reid thought a minute to regain his place. “Right. So, assuming this limited geography theory to be correct, that means we have a much smaller area to work with. Unfortunately, it carries the implication that perhaps not all Native Americans are directly descended from Father Lehi after all.” He looked at Eliana again, hoping not to offend her, but she simply seemed absorbed with interest. He continued, “Most if not all would still have his blood in them, but there would have to be other peoples in North and South America who contributed as well.”
“So we shouldn't be calling them 'Lamanites'?” Sister Bradley suggested.
“I don't know. I don't see the harm in it. It's a pretty unnecessary distinction, in my opinion, since we're all brothers and sisters and children of the same God. But if Heber J. Grant sees fit to call them that and refer to the temple in Mesa as the 'Lamanite temple', then don't let me contradict him.”
“Even though he's probably just making his own opinion based on the knowledge of our time,” Brother Cowan said, with perhaps a trace of mockery.
“Maybe, maybe not. It's probably easier to tell this sort of thing in hindsight. Anyway, I'd like to emphasize that this is only a theory, and it leaves many questions unanswered. But Mesoamerican archeology is still in its infancy. I'd like to go on an expedition there myself very soon, but even my university has to be frugal with money these days, and I don't think this would be a convincing rationale for them.”
“For us, either,” Sister Grey said. “You're speaking blasphemy. Who do you think you are to contradict the prophet?” A few murmurs of agreement followed her.
“It isn't my intention –” He could see the crowd growing restless and not interested in his explanation, so he decided to change the subject. “All right, we can come back to that some other time. Meanwhile, the Old World is wide open. It's a place we know, a place we can examine. And while I was there, in Palestine as most of you know, my Jewish colleagues shed some light for me on the 'Laban question'. In other words, why was a 'good guy', Nephi, commanded to kill an unconscious man?”
Eliana stared at him, and he gave her a quick grin. She had asked him that question right before he left on his expedition, and he had kept it in mind for her.
“On that note,” he continued, going into a story he had already told her, “a friend of mine told me how he was teaching a Book of Mormon class at BYU a few years back to a bunch of Muslims, and as he recounted this story he could see they were quite a bit more disturbed by it than most people. They were frowning, whispering to each other, and shaking their heads. Finally, near the end of class, one of them could clearly stand it no longer and, speaking for the group, he said, ‘Professor, something about this story just isn’t right. Why did this Nephi wait so long to cut off Laban’s head?’”
There was some subdued laughter from the congregation.
“When I heard that, it was my first inkling that the story would have far different connotations in its native east. If Joseph Smith made this book up and wanted to convince people it was scripture, it was rather stupid of him to have one of its protagonists engaged in what appears to be cold-blooded murder. But my Jewish colleagues showed me that when placed in the context of ancient Israelite law this incident suddenly takes on new meaning and depth. I'll show you where you can even find a taste of it right in your own Bible.”
As he spoke he wrote each scripture reference on the chalkboard, but he had no Bible in his hands to read out of. His was a nearly inhuman talent for memorizing exact quotes. It was a useful skill with ancient documents of any sort, for more often than not crucial details were lost in even the most careful paraphrase. Having to translate something from its native tongue was bad enough.
“First,” he began, “Nephi was not considered a murderer. Exodus 21:12-24 says: 'He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. And if a man lie not in wait, but God deliver him into his hand; then I will appoint thee a place whither he shall flee. But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour, to slay him with guile; thou shalt take him from mine altar, that he may die.' Now, Nephi clearly fits into the category that deserves 'a place whither he shall flee', because God delivered Laban into his hand and the killing was certainly not premeditated. 1 Nephi 4:6 reads, 'And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do'.
“And may I just add, also, that Laban was very wicked, and had undoubtedly earned the death penalty under the Mosaic Law anyway. He attempted to kill Nephi and his brothers. He would not hearken to the commandments of the Lord, which was a direct violation of the covenant in Deuteronomy 7:9-10 under which the Jews were permitted to live in Jerusalem and for which the penalty was destruction. By accusing Lehi of being a false prophet, he was in essence saying that the old man deserved death, according to the rule for false prophets in Deuteronomy 13:5 and 18:20. Therefore, according to the rule of false witnesses in Deuteronomy 19:18-19, Laban himself should have faced this penalty. Well, in a sense he did, right? It wasn’t a small matter, either, when he falsely accused Laman of being a robber, which could also merit death according Ezekiel 18:10-13. In fact, Laban himself qualified as a robber for taking Lehi’s treasures without compensation and threatening to kill his sons.
“Then, consider the parallels to a couple of Biblical accounts in which the deaths of wicked men are commanded in order to preserve the lives of righteous ones. I am thinking specifically of 2 Samuel 20, which mentions a rebellious Israelite named Sheba, not to be confused with the queen of that title, who led all the tribes except Judah away from King David. The innocent citizens of the city of Abel, where he goes into hiding, must deliver him up to be executed or David’s general, Joab, will have to destroy all of them.
“Likewise in 2 Kings 24 and 2 Chronicles 36:5-8 we have Jehoiakim” – he wrote the name out for them – “the king of Judah, who burned Jeremiah’s prophecies, disobeyed the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar” – he spelled this out as well – “while Jeremiah had told him to submit to Babylon so they wouldn’t destroy Jerusalem. And he ‘filled Jerusalem with innocent blood, which the Lord would not pardon’. It isn’t clear from the Bible what happens next, but the Lord endorses his removal for Jerusalem’s sake. With these two precedents it becomes more plausible that ‘the Lord slayeth the wicked,’ Laban in this case, ‘to bring forth his righteous purposes’, and that ‘it is better that one man should perish than that a nation should dwindle and perish in unbelief.’ Any questions?”
Somewhere, a cricket chirped. “So what you’re saying, then,” Brother Alford said, “is that we don’t need to be concerned about this.”
“Yes, exactly, and also that the scriptures support each other and that the Book of Mormon’s complexity is that of a real history. While we haven’t found, say, the weapon that took Laban’s life, we have evidence at our fingertips that validates the incident. And, as a matter of fact, I have also learned a great deal regarding swords in the ancient world as a symbol of divine power, birthright, conquest and stuff. Time doesn’t permit me to go into that today, but it’s all in my research paper which should be published soon. Of course I had to leave out any mention of the Book of Mormon, but the connection should be obvious.”
He continued speaking for a few minutes, but people began to lose interest and wander away. As they did he listened for their comments to one another. Opinions varied, but most seemed a bit taken aback by what they had heard. The loudest was Brother Cowan's complaint, “The guy thinks 'cause we're a captive audience, that he can push everything on us that the college won't let him get away with.” That stung a little.
He turned instead to see Eliana standing nearby and patiently waiting for him. “Well?” he said.
“Interesting,” she said in a voice like butter melting as it was spread over hot toast. “That was so confusing, and yet made so much sense. You are so smart. More importantly, I think I really felt the Spirit in the meetings today. I think I’m ready to meet with the missionaries now.”
“Not so smart, just well-read, but thanks. And, that’s excellent,” he said, meaning it. “Most of what they’ll teach you, I’ve already taught you. But they’ll do a better job; they’re trained for it.”
“You’ve done fine,” she said, but he was already losing interest in their conversation. She looked at the pure blue sky. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk,” she said.
He looked at the sky as well, thinking only of how it had presided identically over countless people of countless cultures on countless days in the past. “Yes, yes it is,” he said.
She waited for him to say something else, but he clearly wasn’t going to. “Er, would you like to go for a walk?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I suppose. Yes, that could be nice.”
They left the Davises’ backyard and walked along the sidewalk for a distance in silence. A pleasant fall breeze drifted through once in a while and cooled their roasted flesh more efficiently than the shade of occasional trees.
“Thanks for getting me away from temptation,” Reid said abruptly.
Eliana blinked and stumbled in her tracks. “What?”
“Sundays drive me crazy,” he said. “Part of this whole ‘keeping the Sabbath holy’ thing is that you’re not supposed to treat it like any old regular day, so I shouldn’t really be working on my paper or anything like that. But I want to so badly! If I was at home right now, I don’t know if I could resist.”
“You’re very strange,” she said. “Most people love to escape their work.”
“It isn’t work, to me. Or rather it is, but I’d do it for free if it came to that. I love learning about the past. It’s my passion. I guess if this religion didn’t force me to take a break occasionally, I would be consume. More than a slight blessing there.”
“Would you attribute this directly to God?”
“Oh, indubitably. And more than that. Enrollment at the college has actually increased since the Depression started, and I’ve been able to keep this job at a time when most people are only concerned with the essentials of survival. As much as I love archeology, I won’t pretend it isn’t a waste of resources when the going gets too tough, but through God’s grace I haven’t reached that point yet.”
“I wish I had your faith. Life on the reservation is – rough. I think we’ve assimilated all the vices of the white man’s culture, with few of the benefits. We’ve brought it on ourselves, but we didn’t really know better. If we each had a personal relationship with God, a higher power to govern us, unify us and give us hope for the future, then things would be a lot easier to cope with.”
“This book is the place to start,” Reid said, holding up his Book of Mormon. “How far have you gotten in it?”
“The beginning of Alma.”
“Cool. He’s an inspirational guy. Proves there's always hope for lives to change.”
“John, what you were saying, about my people and all the others not actually being Lamanites –”
“It's just a theory, and really that part depends on your definition of the word. It's just a word, you know.”
“Well, what am I supposed to make of it? The Lamanites in the book seem like pretty nasty people.”
“Keep reading. Things change. And there’s nothing to be ashamed of, heritage-wise, either way. You are who you are, Eliana, and who you are is an amazing woman regardless of what your great-great-whatever grandparents or even your parents have done. Heck, even if they taught you to run around half-naked drinking blood and trying to wipe out the neighbor tribes, that wouldn’t really be your fault, now would it?”
“No,” she said. “I was just wondering what sort of implications there would be for us as a culture.”
“None of any consequence. This book is true, and that’s all that matters – for Hopi Native Americans, for Bedouin tribesmen, for Maasai warriors; the Gospel is the same. Of course, the Bedouins and Maasai haven't heard it yet, but I imagine they will someday.”
They walked in silence for a while longer. Eliana mulled over his words and them moved on to other things. She said, “We are having some of our traditional women’s basket dances next week, to celebrate the harvest with wishes for health and prosperity. I would be honored if you would come to watch me.”
Reid considered this a moment, then smiled apologetically. “Thanks, but I don’t think I need to learn anything more about Hopi culture for the time being,” he said. “Besides, I’ve sort of switched gears this year.”
Her face fell like a watermelon in an elevator shaft. “I meant – just for fun.”
He broke into a broad grin. “In that case, thanks even more,” he said. “I would love to, but my schedule doesn’t look promising. I’ll probably be busy, busy, busy. Dreadfully sorry.”
“No, that’s perfectly all right,” she said softly. “I understand, everyone’s busy. With stuff.”
“Yeah, but who knows. Maybe I’ll make it out there.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She looked around. “Um, I guess I’ll be heading home now,” she said. “Got to have lunch.”
“Indeed," Reid said. "See you around.”
“Bye.” She started off in the direction of the reservation. After about ten paces she glanced back. Reid was heading for his own home and did not once slow or look at her.
Next: Chapter Two
He slipped a bookmark into place, set the book down on a pile of other books that wobbled precariously as he did so, and answered the door. His colleague, an athletic, middle-aged man named Frank Henderson, gave him a polite nod and entered without asking. He looked at the clutter throughout the office and the untouched brown paper bag on the desk and said, “I guess you still don't get the concept of a lunch break, do you, John?”
Reid shrugged. “No students. That's enough of a break for me.”
Henderson picked up the Book of Mormon from the top of the stack, which nearly collapsed at his touch, and opened to where the bookmark had been placed. His eyes skimmed the pages and he smirked. “This Nephi character, he's better company than me and the guys?”
“Yeah, but it's nothing personal,” Reid said. “What can I say? Archaeology is my lifeblood. My best friends are people who have been dead for at least a couple centuries.”
Henderson replaced the book and rolled his eyes. “You're not seriously mixing this with your career, are you? I thought I warned you last year.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Look, I don't care, no one cares if you want to believe this stuff. But you'd better keep it well and truly separate from real, provable history. Just because you have tenure now doesn't mean that's changed. If our fortuitous financial circumstances here should take a turn for the worse like everyone else's -”
“You worry too much,” Reid said. “I'm not quite that naive.”
“I hope not. I just got back from arguing with James Martin, the new guy from Georgia. Southern Baptist preacher. He thinks that because Ninevah's been excavated, he can use the Bible as a textbook. When I told him otherwise he acted like I was a pawn of Satan or something.”
“I'll try not to go that far,” Reid said with a chuckle. “As a matter of fact I am using this book for my career, but only in my spare time. It's just an inspiration, a starting-off point if you will. I've made some real breakthroughs because of it. Here, have a look at this.” Reid rummaged through the papers on his desk and came up with a stack of about twenty, handwritten, with many cross-outs, smudges and carats. He handed it to his colleague.
Henderson read the title. “‘Human Bloodshed and Weaponry in Ancient Israelite Law and Culture’.” He frowned and squinted. “That's all I can read. I do hope you're going to type this up.”
“Of course. I’ve been working on this all summer when I wasn’t busy on the dig, and I'm nearly finished. Basically it's about how the Law of Moses defined justifiable and non-justifiable homicide, and its ramifications on the people; and also about the symbolism of swords. And it's all legitimate, secular research, but I was inspired by this book here, the Book of Mormon, from a passage where Nephi lops off a drunk guy's head.”
Henderson made a face. “I take it that's supposed to be the justifiable variety?”
“Yeah, but there's a lot of other factors involved. For instance –”
“Spare me, Professor, I'm on my lunch break. Come on, get some fresh air with us. It's not healthy to be cooped up in here all the time.”
“All right, all right.” Reid took back the papers and returned them to his desk. “This once, since it’s the first day. But let's get one thing straight – I will not have a drink with you.”
“How could I forget? Old Joe Smith says Prohibition is still on.”
“Not him, actually,” said Reid as they entered the hallway and he carefully locked the door behind them. “We have Joseph F. Smith, his nephew, to thank for enforcing that since 1915. Before him, the Word of Wisdom was mostly just a guideline of sorts, a –”
“I said spare me, Professor. I don’t like thinking on an empty stomach.” They exited the college doors into the sunshine. The dry Arizona heat radiated down from the sun and back up from the ground, roasting them twice as much, but both men were used to it.
They walked down a few blocks to a small café where a trio of other professors sat at a small table beneath an umbrella eating a cheap but satisfying meal. Reid had never felt comfortable around them or anyone else who worked at the college. Most of them were amiable enough, but they looked at him as if he were something out of a freak show, something less than human. Though he had enlightened them regarding all of the false and malicious rumors about “Mormonism”, and himself by extension, were still too bizarre for their tastes even if they were too polite to say so.
It was dreadfully ironic, he often mused, seeing as most of Arizona's first settlers had been Latter-day Saints. They still thrived in communities like Mesa, down south, which held one of only two Latter-day Saint temples outside of Utah. But here in Flagstaff, the “Gentiles” were a majority now.
“’Allo!” called Paul Clousseau, waving them over. “You have gotten Monsieur Mormon to join us, I see, Frank. My congratulations.”
Next to him the new professor, James Martin, visibly blanched at the word “Mormon” but said nothing.
“This being the first day, I’ll play along,” Reid said, ignoring Martin and pulling up a chair. “But don’t count on it being a regular occurrence. I have things to do.”
“But of course.”
“How was your first day, Johnny boy?” asked Richard Snedley, a corpulent butterball of a man with sweat running down his whiskered jowls. “Freshmen give you any trouble?”
“Why you –” Clousseau half jumped to his feet.
“Simmer down, old chap,” Snedley said, holding up his chubby hands. “I said freshmen, not Frenchmen. I’ve got nothing against Frogs.”
“I should hope not,” Clousseau said, grinning broadly as he sat back down. “I would hate to have to defend my honor at the cost of your life. So how about it, Reid, how were they?”
“I’ve had worse,” Reid said. “I’ve never had much trouble handling them. I just lay all my cards out to begin with, tell them straight up that I’m in this for myself and I don’t give two shakes if they pass or fail because it’s their money going into it.”
“Good show,” Snedley said.
“It’s not entirely truthful, I’m afraid. I really enjoy trying to convey my passion for the subject matter to my students. But I have to make sure they’ll take it seriously. Oh, yes,” he said to the waiter who had approached them, “I’ll just have a grilled cheese sandwich and some water, please.” Henderson placed his order as well, and the waiter left them.
“Doesn’t Joe Smith even let you have a Coke?” Clousseau asked. Martin blanched at the mention of that name, as well.
“'Joe Smith' doesn't care,” Reid said, “but in the heat I prefer water. I’ve developed quite a fondness for the stuff over my summer digs.”
“Oh yes, I was going to ask,” Henderson said, “how was your trip to Palestine?”
“Splendid, thanks. We found plenty to keep us busy, but nothing to revolutionize history. I'm much more excited about the conversations I was able to have with several Hebrew scholars. They were able to tell and show me a lot of neat things that form the basis of the paper I'm writing.”
“You said you were writing it while you were out there. How much sleep did you get?”
“Two hours a night, more or less.”
“And no coffee,” Snedley marveled.
“Not a drop. It only takes the right physical conditioning.”
“Reid, my uptight Mormon friend, you must relax a bit, yes?” Clousseau said. “Life is passing you by while you absorb yourself in work. You need to do some fun things, find yourself a few lovely wives, and settle down.”
“Oh, funny. I never get tired of that one, you bet.”
“That is exactly what I mean! You need to learn to take a joke and respond with your own, like the rest of us. I am serious about the wife thing, though. One will do, but she will not wait forever.”
“He's right, you know,” Henderson said. “Your house is desperately lacking a woman's touches. Heck, it's lacking your own touches. You don't even live there.”
“What about that Injun squaw who's always following you around?” Snedley said, licking his fingers.
“Native American, Hopi to be exact,” Reid corrected. “You mean Eliana? What about her?”
“She's a nice little piece of meat, ain't she?”
“New subject,” Reid said, growing uncomfortable. He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking, but he wasn't sure why – because he anticipated the subject matter growing cruder, or some other reason entirely.
The others knew him well enough to know that he meant it, so they complied. “Did you catch the Olympics, Johnny boy?” Snedley asked.
“Ha! Even if I wasn’t completely busy with more important things, which I was, I’d sooner die than act all buddy-buddy with the regime of an arrogant, racist dictator. Shame on our President, and all other world governmental leaders who did so. But I did hear about Jesse Owens kicking the German runners’ Arschbacken. I’d give a month’s salary to have seen Hitler’s reaction afterward.”
“The Germans still won the most medals,” Clousseau said, “so I imagine he got over it.”
“And Owens kicked everyone’s Arschbacken, not just theirs,” Snedley said. “Assuming, of course, that Arschbacken means buttocks. Cripes, that nigger can run.”
Instantly Reid was on his feet, and he slammed his fist on the table with such force that the men were spattered by their own drinks. “I've told you before,” he said, “never use that word in my presence again.”
The men looked at him, stunned speechless except for Martin, who appeared bemused. They managed a few feeble nods, and Reid slowly returned to his seat, still glowering. Excessive racism was one of his pet peeves. It dated back to his proselytizing mission in England, where his eyes had been opened to how backwards and uncivilized certain Yankee traditions really were. Though Snedley himself was British, he had been badly corrupted by his time in the States.
“Another thing I heard,” Reid continued as if nothing had happened. “Jesse Owens was treated like a king over there, by everyone. Sure, on the Nazis’ part it was most definitely a public relations scam, but that doesn’t explain German athletes and average citizens acting like he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Then he gets home, and has to ride the service lift to his own welcoming party. FDR, who invites all the white athletes to meet him, doesn’t even send a telegram to Jesse or any of the blacks. I love this country, gentlemen, you know that, but when we take a silver medal to Nazi Germany in race relations, that is sad. That is sad.”
An awkward silence continued to reign over the table. The waiter returned with Reid's and Henderson's orders and pretended not to notice anything unusual going on. Reid bit into his sandwich, but it tasted like nothing.
“I'm sorry, I completely forgot about your problem with that word,” Snedley mumbled. Reid eyed him but remained silent.
Henderson took a few bites of his meal and looked at his gold pocket watch. “My word,” he said, “I just realized I haven't prepared for my next class. See you around, fellows.”
***
A few days later, John Reid was again functioning as a teacher, this time for a small congregation of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Their Sunday meetings had just ended on a gorgeous though still rather hot autumn day, but many were sticking around, arranged in whatever shade was offered by the trees in Brother and Sister Davis' backyard. Reid stood at the front beside a wheeled chalkboard that hadn’t been washed since the turn of the century. He was pleased to have everyone’s undivided attention. Wonderful people, they were, so humble and faithful in spite of all the Depression had thrown at them. Even before the Church had introduced a welfare program a few months ago to help them out, they had never once turned their backs on the Lord.
“In my spare time,” he began, “I've really been scrutinizing the Book of Mormon from my academic perspective. Though I've realized it's an endless task that I could and might devote my life too, I've already reached some interesting conclusions that might surprise you and change the way you read it.”
He paid special attention to Eliana, a Hopi from the nearby reservation who had been coming to church for a few weeks at his invitation. He had met her during a dig a few years ago, where she had been immensely helpful in teaching him about her people's culture. She herself, though, was the product of two cultures; her name was Spanish, derived from the Hebrew “My God has answered me”.
Her ruby lips contrasted sharply with her lightly tanned skin stretched to just the right tautness over prominent cheekbones, and her brown eyes held a vitality that had not been dimmed by the oppression of her ancestors whose bodies were now essentially buried in foreigners’ soil. Her jet black hair was put up into an elaborate Danish-shaped bun on either side of her head, in traditional Hopi style, and she wore a simple dress that she had woven herself and died with native plants.
She smiled at him, and he smiled back. She seemed to like it here well enough.
“Traditionally we assume the narrative takes place on both the North and South American continents, with Central America being the 'narrow neck of land' between them. But, after months of having examined the text, I believe it indicates a rather more limited geography, one that probably did not extend much beyond northern Central America and Southern Mexico.” He sketched that landmass’s rough shape on the chalkboard. “I have reached this conclusion by painstakingly matching geographical descriptions –”
“Brother Reid,” interrupted Brother Cowan, a grizzled, middle-aged cowboy, “I don't mean to question your expertise, but Joseph Smith himself believed the book covered both continents. Are you refuting his judgment?” Brother Cowan was never afraid to speak his mind and even let slip a curse word once in a while. The other branch members were fond of him because he reminded them of J. Golden Kimball, a prominent church leader who was similarly rough around the edges, human like the rest of them.
“Technically, yes, but not in the sense you're probably thinking,” Reid said. “Joseph once said ‘A prophet is a prophet only when acting as such’, and I believe that is quite applicable here. Remember that he was the book's translator and not its author. He didn't receive revelation on everything and often formulated his own opinions, which were just as limited by the knowledge of the time as anyone else’s.”
Brother Cowan grunted. “Then, are you saying he didn't read the book as carefully as you?” His voice held a hint of challenge.
“Not at all. But he wouldn't have been looking for the same things, and, like I said, with the knowledge of the time and himself not even being particularly educated, he wouldn't have known what to make of them if he was. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Brother Cowan said, settling back into his chair. “All right then, carry on. Sorry.”
“Don't be. I always encourage my students at school to question what they are being told.” Reid thought a minute to regain his place. “Right. So, assuming this limited geography theory to be correct, that means we have a much smaller area to work with. Unfortunately, it carries the implication that perhaps not all Native Americans are directly descended from Father Lehi after all.” He looked at Eliana again, hoping not to offend her, but she simply seemed absorbed with interest. He continued, “Most if not all would still have his blood in them, but there would have to be other peoples in North and South America who contributed as well.”
“So we shouldn't be calling them 'Lamanites'?” Sister Bradley suggested.
“I don't know. I don't see the harm in it. It's a pretty unnecessary distinction, in my opinion, since we're all brothers and sisters and children of the same God. But if Heber J. Grant sees fit to call them that and refer to the temple in Mesa as the 'Lamanite temple', then don't let me contradict him.”
“Even though he's probably just making his own opinion based on the knowledge of our time,” Brother Cowan said, with perhaps a trace of mockery.
“Maybe, maybe not. It's probably easier to tell this sort of thing in hindsight. Anyway, I'd like to emphasize that this is only a theory, and it leaves many questions unanswered. But Mesoamerican archeology is still in its infancy. I'd like to go on an expedition there myself very soon, but even my university has to be frugal with money these days, and I don't think this would be a convincing rationale for them.”
“For us, either,” Sister Grey said. “You're speaking blasphemy. Who do you think you are to contradict the prophet?” A few murmurs of agreement followed her.
“It isn't my intention –” He could see the crowd growing restless and not interested in his explanation, so he decided to change the subject. “All right, we can come back to that some other time. Meanwhile, the Old World is wide open. It's a place we know, a place we can examine. And while I was there, in Palestine as most of you know, my Jewish colleagues shed some light for me on the 'Laban question'. In other words, why was a 'good guy', Nephi, commanded to kill an unconscious man?”
Eliana stared at him, and he gave her a quick grin. She had asked him that question right before he left on his expedition, and he had kept it in mind for her.
“On that note,” he continued, going into a story he had already told her, “a friend of mine told me how he was teaching a Book of Mormon class at BYU a few years back to a bunch of Muslims, and as he recounted this story he could see they were quite a bit more disturbed by it than most people. They were frowning, whispering to each other, and shaking their heads. Finally, near the end of class, one of them could clearly stand it no longer and, speaking for the group, he said, ‘Professor, something about this story just isn’t right. Why did this Nephi wait so long to cut off Laban’s head?’”
There was some subdued laughter from the congregation.
“When I heard that, it was my first inkling that the story would have far different connotations in its native east. If Joseph Smith made this book up and wanted to convince people it was scripture, it was rather stupid of him to have one of its protagonists engaged in what appears to be cold-blooded murder. But my Jewish colleagues showed me that when placed in the context of ancient Israelite law this incident suddenly takes on new meaning and depth. I'll show you where you can even find a taste of it right in your own Bible.”
As he spoke he wrote each scripture reference on the chalkboard, but he had no Bible in his hands to read out of. His was a nearly inhuman talent for memorizing exact quotes. It was a useful skill with ancient documents of any sort, for more often than not crucial details were lost in even the most careful paraphrase. Having to translate something from its native tongue was bad enough.
“First,” he began, “Nephi was not considered a murderer. Exodus 21:12-24 says: 'He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. And if a man lie not in wait, but God deliver him into his hand; then I will appoint thee a place whither he shall flee. But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour, to slay him with guile; thou shalt take him from mine altar, that he may die.' Now, Nephi clearly fits into the category that deserves 'a place whither he shall flee', because God delivered Laban into his hand and the killing was certainly not premeditated. 1 Nephi 4:6 reads, 'And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do'.
“And may I just add, also, that Laban was very wicked, and had undoubtedly earned the death penalty under the Mosaic Law anyway. He attempted to kill Nephi and his brothers. He would not hearken to the commandments of the Lord, which was a direct violation of the covenant in Deuteronomy 7:9-10 under which the Jews were permitted to live in Jerusalem and for which the penalty was destruction. By accusing Lehi of being a false prophet, he was in essence saying that the old man deserved death, according to the rule for false prophets in Deuteronomy 13:5 and 18:20. Therefore, according to the rule of false witnesses in Deuteronomy 19:18-19, Laban himself should have faced this penalty. Well, in a sense he did, right? It wasn’t a small matter, either, when he falsely accused Laman of being a robber, which could also merit death according Ezekiel 18:10-13. In fact, Laban himself qualified as a robber for taking Lehi’s treasures without compensation and threatening to kill his sons.
“Then, consider the parallels to a couple of Biblical accounts in which the deaths of wicked men are commanded in order to preserve the lives of righteous ones. I am thinking specifically of 2 Samuel 20, which mentions a rebellious Israelite named Sheba, not to be confused with the queen of that title, who led all the tribes except Judah away from King David. The innocent citizens of the city of Abel, where he goes into hiding, must deliver him up to be executed or David’s general, Joab, will have to destroy all of them.
“Likewise in 2 Kings 24 and 2 Chronicles 36:5-8 we have Jehoiakim” – he wrote the name out for them – “the king of Judah, who burned Jeremiah’s prophecies, disobeyed the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar” – he spelled this out as well – “while Jeremiah had told him to submit to Babylon so they wouldn’t destroy Jerusalem. And he ‘filled Jerusalem with innocent blood, which the Lord would not pardon’. It isn’t clear from the Bible what happens next, but the Lord endorses his removal for Jerusalem’s sake. With these two precedents it becomes more plausible that ‘the Lord slayeth the wicked,’ Laban in this case, ‘to bring forth his righteous purposes’, and that ‘it is better that one man should perish than that a nation should dwindle and perish in unbelief.’ Any questions?”
Somewhere, a cricket chirped. “So what you’re saying, then,” Brother Alford said, “is that we don’t need to be concerned about this.”
“Yes, exactly, and also that the scriptures support each other and that the Book of Mormon’s complexity is that of a real history. While we haven’t found, say, the weapon that took Laban’s life, we have evidence at our fingertips that validates the incident. And, as a matter of fact, I have also learned a great deal regarding swords in the ancient world as a symbol of divine power, birthright, conquest and stuff. Time doesn’t permit me to go into that today, but it’s all in my research paper which should be published soon. Of course I had to leave out any mention of the Book of Mormon, but the connection should be obvious.”
He continued speaking for a few minutes, but people began to lose interest and wander away. As they did he listened for their comments to one another. Opinions varied, but most seemed a bit taken aback by what they had heard. The loudest was Brother Cowan's complaint, “The guy thinks 'cause we're a captive audience, that he can push everything on us that the college won't let him get away with.” That stung a little.
He turned instead to see Eliana standing nearby and patiently waiting for him. “Well?” he said.
“Interesting,” she said in a voice like butter melting as it was spread over hot toast. “That was so confusing, and yet made so much sense. You are so smart. More importantly, I think I really felt the Spirit in the meetings today. I think I’m ready to meet with the missionaries now.”
“Not so smart, just well-read, but thanks. And, that’s excellent,” he said, meaning it. “Most of what they’ll teach you, I’ve already taught you. But they’ll do a better job; they’re trained for it.”
“You’ve done fine,” she said, but he was already losing interest in their conversation. She looked at the pure blue sky. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk,” she said.
He looked at the sky as well, thinking only of how it had presided identically over countless people of countless cultures on countless days in the past. “Yes, yes it is,” he said.
She waited for him to say something else, but he clearly wasn’t going to. “Er, would you like to go for a walk?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I suppose. Yes, that could be nice.”
They left the Davises’ backyard and walked along the sidewalk for a distance in silence. A pleasant fall breeze drifted through once in a while and cooled their roasted flesh more efficiently than the shade of occasional trees.
“Thanks for getting me away from temptation,” Reid said abruptly.
Eliana blinked and stumbled in her tracks. “What?”
“Sundays drive me crazy,” he said. “Part of this whole ‘keeping the Sabbath holy’ thing is that you’re not supposed to treat it like any old regular day, so I shouldn’t really be working on my paper or anything like that. But I want to so badly! If I was at home right now, I don’t know if I could resist.”
“You’re very strange,” she said. “Most people love to escape their work.”
“It isn’t work, to me. Or rather it is, but I’d do it for free if it came to that. I love learning about the past. It’s my passion. I guess if this religion didn’t force me to take a break occasionally, I would be consume. More than a slight blessing there.”
“Would you attribute this directly to God?”
“Oh, indubitably. And more than that. Enrollment at the college has actually increased since the Depression started, and I’ve been able to keep this job at a time when most people are only concerned with the essentials of survival. As much as I love archeology, I won’t pretend it isn’t a waste of resources when the going gets too tough, but through God’s grace I haven’t reached that point yet.”
“I wish I had your faith. Life on the reservation is – rough. I think we’ve assimilated all the vices of the white man’s culture, with few of the benefits. We’ve brought it on ourselves, but we didn’t really know better. If we each had a personal relationship with God, a higher power to govern us, unify us and give us hope for the future, then things would be a lot easier to cope with.”
“This book is the place to start,” Reid said, holding up his Book of Mormon. “How far have you gotten in it?”
“The beginning of Alma.”
“Cool. He’s an inspirational guy. Proves there's always hope for lives to change.”
“John, what you were saying, about my people and all the others not actually being Lamanites –”
“It's just a theory, and really that part depends on your definition of the word. It's just a word, you know.”
“Well, what am I supposed to make of it? The Lamanites in the book seem like pretty nasty people.”
“Keep reading. Things change. And there’s nothing to be ashamed of, heritage-wise, either way. You are who you are, Eliana, and who you are is an amazing woman regardless of what your great-great-whatever grandparents or even your parents have done. Heck, even if they taught you to run around half-naked drinking blood and trying to wipe out the neighbor tribes, that wouldn’t really be your fault, now would it?”
“No,” she said. “I was just wondering what sort of implications there would be for us as a culture.”
“None of any consequence. This book is true, and that’s all that matters – for Hopi Native Americans, for Bedouin tribesmen, for Maasai warriors; the Gospel is the same. Of course, the Bedouins and Maasai haven't heard it yet, but I imagine they will someday.”
They walked in silence for a while longer. Eliana mulled over his words and them moved on to other things. She said, “We are having some of our traditional women’s basket dances next week, to celebrate the harvest with wishes for health and prosperity. I would be honored if you would come to watch me.”
Reid considered this a moment, then smiled apologetically. “Thanks, but I don’t think I need to learn anything more about Hopi culture for the time being,” he said. “Besides, I’ve sort of switched gears this year.”
Her face fell like a watermelon in an elevator shaft. “I meant – just for fun.”
He broke into a broad grin. “In that case, thanks even more,” he said. “I would love to, but my schedule doesn’t look promising. I’ll probably be busy, busy, busy. Dreadfully sorry.”
“No, that’s perfectly all right,” she said softly. “I understand, everyone’s busy. With stuff.”
“Yeah, but who knows. Maybe I’ll make it out there.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She looked around. “Um, I guess I’ll be heading home now,” she said. “Got to have lunch.”
“Indeed," Reid said. "See you around.”
“Bye.” She started off in the direction of the reservation. After about ten paces she glanced back. Reid was heading for his own home and did not once slow or look at her.
Next: Chapter Two
