They hadn't taken their first baby on the honeymoon, if you could call three nights in a strip motel in Charleston a honeymoon, but they had certainly brought her back with them. She was born dead, barely seven months into the pregnancy. Emma, sobbing, had said that she looked like a little bird without feathers that had fallen out of the nest too soon.
Then Emma had gone through a crisis, believing that this was some kind of divine punishment for the elopement—a punishment which she associated with not having honored her parents. Willard worked at the Home Center, sent her to college, and hung in there with great determination, studying LDS materials on his own. When Emma discovered that she was pregnant again, the same week that she received her M.Ed. degree and seven years to the day after the first baby's death, she had interpreted this as a sign of divine forgiveness and joined the LDS. In which, she admitted to herself, she often still felt rather like a fish out of water, even after more than a dozen years of membership.
Willard was drawing a deep breath. She knew that he had always hated the parts of school that involved standing up in front of the class and saying something.
"You know how we've talked and prayed about how the events in the Book of Mormon are unlikely to happen that way in this timeline. And we've agreed they were inspired by God, and are as relevant to this timeline as to the old. We're ready. The German version of the Book of Mormon is at the printer's. We were certainly blessed that Howard Carstairs was stationed in Germany and kept all his materials after he came home. We're ordering more of the little pamphlets we've been handing out to the refugees here, inside the RoF. The branch has to start its missionary program here, down-time, some time. It looks like the time is now. And, well, Howard wants me to be the one. It's going to be one, to start with. Full time. There's no one else who can go with me, to make a pair. But I'm not an eighteen-year-old kid, either. They can count on me to be responsible. Howard said that once I've sort of, well, pioneered the thing. Tested the water. After that, he said, they can send the boys out. We should pray about it."
Emma looked at her husband. In her heart, she thought that she knew what Howard Carstairs must be thinking. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints in Grantville—LDS, as it was generally called—had served a much wider geographical area than the Ring of Fire. It had come back in time with all of its buildings, but with only a small portion of its members.
Howard was into conservation. He was going to change the way they do things. He wasn't going to risk the young unmarried guys until they'd had a chance to marry; not until after they'd had their families. Willard . . .
Was expendable.
No, that's mean, Emma chided herself. But Howard knew that she could support the kids and that Harold and Arthur, Willard's father and brother, would give her backup if the boys got out of hand. He could spare Willard. Everyone on Emma's side of the family would say: "I told you so." And Willard knew that never, in front of the children, would she break the united parental front.
Oh, damn, damn, damn!
"Well," she said. "If you've been called to your missionary service, then you should do it . . . We'll all miss you while you're gone."
While, not when. Never when. Furiously, she stamped down the remembrance of Benny Pierce's voice, as it lived in her mind, rendering, "Will You Miss Me When I'm Gone?" at the fairgrounds last fall.
While you're gone. While. Willard Thornton, if you do not come back to me in Time, you're going to regret it for every moment of the Eternity for which they sealed me to you. While.
May, 1633: Fulda
Willard thought that, at least from a distance, Fulda was a pretty place. Getting there had been a pretty decent hike, though, for a guy who wasn't as young as he used to be. At least, the branch had bought him one of Steve Jennings' down-time bicycles. He couldn't ride it a lot of the time, though it did surprisingly well on these plain dirt roads when they were dry and packed. Mud and ruts were different problems, but even then, it was a lot easier to push the thing than it would have been to carry everything he had brought with him on his back.
Willard was transporting a hundred copies of the Book of Mormon. Plus quite a lot more paper, all carefully wrapped in waxed canvas. He didn't have much more than that, but it was enough. Especially on the up-hill grades. If I had all this in a backpack, he thought to himself, I'd have had a heart attack at least twenty-five miles ago.
The bicycle was good. But a grocery cart would have been even better. Willard could be trundling all his worldly goods with him, like some homeless person in the streets of Charleston.