She reached the exit.
He didn’t want her to leave.
“Would you have shot me?” he asked.
A rhetorical question, for sure, asked more as a matter of hope than for an answer.
She turned back and stared at him.
Uncertainty filled the air between them. Her eyes were as hard and brilliant as granite, her face a death mask of emotions.
Then she left.
SALAZAR KNELT ON THE WOOD FLOOR OF HIS SUITE. THE intense pressure to his knees reminded him of the hardness the pioneers endured to make their journey west, escaping persecution, seeking safety and freedom in Salt Lake. It was important that Saints never forgot that sacrifice. They existed today thanks to what all of those brave men and women endured, many thousands dying along the way.
“We were not compatible with the social, religious, and ethical mores of our neighbors,” the angel said to him.
The apparition floated on the far side of the room inside a brilliant halo. He’d been praying before sleep when the messenger appeared, worried that Malone might be right. Cassiopeia’s theft of the book, and his retention of it, might be sinful.
“Know this be the truth, Josepe. A certain nobleman had a spot of land, and the enemy came by night, broke down his hedge, felled his olive trees, and destroyed his works. His servants, affrighted, fled. The lord of the vineyard said unto the servants, Go and gather your residue and take all my strength of my house, which are my warriors, my young men, and go straightaway and redeem my vineyard, for it is mine. Throw down their tower and scatter their watchmen. And inasmuch as they gather against you, avenge me of mine enemies that by and by I may come with the residue of my house and possess the land.”
He absorbed the parable and understood its meaning.
“What was done was necessary. The redemption of Zion will come only by power. That is why Heavenly Father raised unto his people a man to lead them, as Moses led the children of Israel. For ye are the children of Israel, and of the seed of Abraham, and ye must be led out of bondage by power with a stretched-out arm.”
“My servants have been amassed and they are ready for battle.”
“All victory and glory is brought to pass through diligence, faithfulness, and prayers of faith.”
So he prayed harder, then said to the angel, “I allowed my anger to take over with Malone. He taunted me with the deaths of my men and I became boastful and said more than was necessary.”
“Do not lament. That man shall dwell in darkness, while you enjoy eternal light. The book is ours now. The gentile had no right to possess it. He did so to cause you harm.”
He should have atoned Malone, but Cassiopeia’s appearance made that impossible. But he wondered, had she heard all that he and Malone had discussed?
“It matters not,” the angel said. “She is of Zion and her purpose is your purpose. If she be repulsed by what had to be done, then she would not have interfered.”
Which made sense.
“She is your ally. Treat her as such.”
He stared at the vision and asked what he’d never before possessed the courage to say. “Are you Moroni?”
Nothing would exist but for Moroni. He’d lived on earth around A.D. 400 and became the prophet who buried a record of his people on golden plates. Centuries later, he appeared to Joseph Smith and led him to the spot where the plates rested. Under the divine inspiration of Heavenly Father, with Moroni’s help, Prophet Joseph had translated the plates and published them as the Book of Mormon.
“I am not Moroni,” the angel said.
He was shocked. He’d always assumed that to be the case. “Then who are you?”
“Have you ever wondered about your name?”
An odd question.
“I am Josepe Salazar.”
“Your first name is one of long standing in Hebrew. Your last from the Basque heritage of your father.”
He knew that, the surname originating from a medieval town in Castile where a noble family adopted the identity as their own.
“You are Josepe. Joseph in English. Joseph Salazar. As with the prophet, Joseph Smith, whose initials you share. J. S.”
He’d long noticed that coincidence, but thought little of it. His father had intentionally chosen his first name to honor the prophet.
“I am Joseph Smith.”
He did not know what to say.
“I am here to aid you in the battle ahead. Together, we shall reclaim the freedom that belongs to Zion. Know this, Josepe. Heavenly Father has promised that, before the generation living has passed, we shall defeat the gentiles and fulfill all His promises. It will come to pass. Elder Rowan will soon lead the church, and you shall be at his side.”
He felt so unworthy. Tears welled in his eyes. He fought the urge to cry, but then succumbed, allowing his emotions to spew forth. He hinged his spine forward and extended his arms to the floor.