Frozen Faith Gusts blasted through the log chinks, subzero.

The husband felt that God had forgotten them in this desert of Utah Territory, desolation. With much effort, the husband repositioned the bed closer to the small flame so that his wifes feet would not freeze under the ragged quilt. Still, the heat was minimal and little reached the foot of the bed. The whole frame of the bed, and the house it seemed, shook with her intense fever, but her feet were ice. He had to worry about her extremities, but her hands and arms seemed felt warm to the touch. He sat down in her rocking chair and scooted close to the fire and bed. He gently rocked a rhythm of compulsive worry. Two head shaped rocks warmed by the fire, oblong, smooth from water erosion. He thought they were almost ready, but time was lost to him. He couldnt remember exactly when he set the rocks in and had no idea how long it would take them to warm, if they were even heating. The cold and starving were getting to him and he felt death, sensed it like the feeling that someone is watching you. Not enough light entered through the gaps in the house to tell the time of day other than day and night. Even this was difficult because the snow fell so hard as to distort the light, and ice coated some of the spaces. At times, the man knew it was day but could only see darkness. His wife had been near death before, but this fever was brought on by the death of a still born. The infant girl had fled to the cold universe outside, or perhaps she was the presence the man felt. She was their first, and they had been trying since before leaving Missouri. The child emerged a cold, glowing blue, contrasting the white, shaking legs of the mother, the cord wrapped around the girls throat like a blue snake constricting. She could not have lived long anyway in this hellish cold, not meant for humans. The stones must be ready. His hands were numb, but the rocks felt warm to the touch, maybe hot even. He hoped they carried enough heat that they would prevent frostbite on her feet and toes. He grabbed each with a flour sack and slipped them under the quilt near her feet. She stirred, mumbled, but did not wake. She had not regained consciousness since the birth. Her fever fluctuated, sometimes

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sweating with intense heat, other times her soft cheeks feeling cool and dry. He could not get much water down her and feared she would dehydrate. The fetus and afterbirth were still present in the cabin as their only exit was frozen solid with the weight of drifted snow and about four inches of ice at the threshold. The baby lay wrapped in a flour sack in the furthest corner of the small cabin, preserved well below zero. Thankfully, his wife was not conscious of this fact. The only warmth came from the hearth of the small fireplace. They were without wood, food, and water had to be melted from the snow he could gather as it blew in. He chipped ice that seeped in underneath the threshold, trying to separate it from the dirt floor. Supplies were just 20 yards away in the shed and cellar, frustrating the man. The hellish, early storm had caught them unprepared and would not let them go. Normally, winter stores would have been moved into the house before a storm like this, but snow and cold were unprecedented. He had no knowledge of the needed preparation. The man suffered knowing that salvation was so close and yet unreachable. He bludgeoned himself with the knowledge that things could be different. If he had somehow planned ahead. But, in the midst of harvest he had little thought for the winter. Getting the hay in took precedence over preparation for an unlikely cold front. As it ended up, he only got in about half his crops. This meant that, if they made it to the spring, conditions would be difficult. He would have to mortgage the property which he dreaded. The wind was fierce, and while the husband had chinked in between the logs of the cabin with mud and straw during in August, a blowing rain preceding the winter storm had weakened his work, and the man could see air between the logs on the north, wind side. The cabin provided only weak shelter. He thought how much their situation would be improved if they had made it down to the cellar. There would be a certain amount of warmth, no wind, and plenty of food and water. Not much room, but in a storm like this, the smaller the shelter the better. Sweat returned to the face of his wife which he took to be a positive sign that her feet were warming and she had sufficient fluids. He whispered words into her ear that were muted by the howling 2|Page

wind. She did not respond. The man loved his wife intensely and could not conceive of life without her. Somehow she had to make it through. He was never one to be alone for extended periods, and the love of his live was something he could not live without. He returned to the rocking chair, the worn floorboards creaked rhythmically with his motion. An orange uneven glow flickered on the walls about the room. The room was otherwise unlit as he had no fuel for the lamp that sat on the table, the only other fixture they owned along with its two chairs. He had constructed all the furniture the year of their arrival, but the rocking chair he had built during the spring, in anticipation of the birth. The cabin was old and in disrepair. They had purchased it for a good price from an old, hardened farmer who decided that he wanted to be closer to Salt Lake City. He was alone and could no longer take the harsh winters and desert summers. I aint goin to lie to you good folks. I wont do that just to rid myself of the wretched place. This here property is hell. And, thats the truth. The husband suspected that he could find no better deal, however. The old man was willing to trade the whole farm and outbuildings for the mans two best oxen, a horse, and a handful of gold coins. This left the husband and wife with little to get started, but they plugged away on the farm with two strong oxen, two horses, and various livestock. Just you two, are yous? Yes sir. We have no children as yet. Well, dont mean to mettle in your business, but yous better off without children. Hard enough to keep your own self alive. I think we can manage sir. Well, dont say I aint told you so. I mean to speak the truth to my fellow men. Are you a member of Josephs church, sir? Ill tell you something about that there. I believed in Joe more than any man alive. And, thats the truth. But this place done took it out o me. I cant see no God no more, Joseph or otherwise. You folks Mormon are you? Yes, sir. We are just arriving from the Saints in Missouri. 3|Page

Well, best o luck to yous. Believing in God aint goin to hurt yous none. Not a bit. Might not help neither. Thank you sir. Well get on fine. That was two years ago now, and the man had contented himself in proving the old man wrong. His first crop was a great success, and this summers would have been better. How quickly the world shifts. He now had lost a child, his wife on her death bed. God was far away. The man worried about his animals too and feared that all would be dead by the time he could get to them. How would he run the farm without them? Where was God hiding? The three feet of snow that had fallen in the county a week before had crusted hard the night of the storm in the clear, windy skies that followed. Snow drifted high around the door and window sides. Much more snow came on and off, blowing constantly. Clear nights were the enemies of warmth, especially when the fierce gusts did not ease. The man found he preferred snow to clear skies. Sitting there in the rocking chair, he could feel the tiny hairs of his nose stiff with moisture as he exhaled. This meant subzero. His beard and moustache were roughly crusted with ice and icicles. Wind drove the freeze into the cabin, penetrating the chinks, the boarded shutters, and the gaps between the door. The man hadnt noticed all the air spaces until cold hell blew in through them. So many spaces. The mans coat was a ragged linen shirt, feeling naked the constantly whistling wind, letting up a little, then blowing even harder. He had a thin blanket that he wrapped around him but gave all other cloth to his wife. He rocked the chair, huddling in a ball. He tried to keep moving as much as possible. He suspected that he had frostbite on his fingers and toes. They were already in trouble going into the winter because the one cow that produced much milk keeled over dead for no apparent reason in late August. Whatever the ailment, it infected the two others, leaving them alive but milkless. The birth and death of the baby coincided with the first of the storm, and the husband could do nothing but care for his wife and the child to come. Of course the cold spell could break, but he had seen 4|Page

no signs of it. Surely in the month of October, the harsh winter would relent for a period. The previous year, severe cold had not hit until mid December, and it was nothing like this. He tried to keep his conscious mind focused on small tasks at hand because thinking of death would surely bring it. His instincts, in the back of his mind, told him that they were dead already. But he only contemplated this on a basic level, lacking energy and intelligence to contemplate abstractions. Anyway, he had to be positive and active if they were to have a chance at survival. His fear and need to keep moving manifested themselves in his over attending to his wife, moving the bed back and forth, rolling her from side to side to prevent frostbite and bed sores, repositioning the quilt, cleaning the excrement which was piled in other corner of the cabin, frozen. The thick cotton squares of cloth, intended for the child, were used instead as a diaper for his wife. There were quite a few of them and he tried as best he could to clean them. She had finally stopped bleeding on the fourth day. He had been by his wifes bed for seven solid days now, if he had counted correctly, awake, alert and rocking. He didnt sleep. Couldnt sleep. His mind had become fuzzy of late from the cold, hunger, and lack of sleep. Mysterious visions overcame him and were actually welcome relief from the rocking and caring. Personages would appear and disappear, but they never spoke to him. Because of this state of mind, he worried about making an error with the care of his wife. He worried obsessively about it. He had nothing else to do. He rocked gently and sat back against the chair. For just a moment he dozed off, not for long because the rhythm of his rocking had not been interrupted when he woke. In the seconds of sleep, he dreamt of a huge glowing blaze in the cabin that quickly got out of control and caught the hearth on fire. He woke with a start. A wheezing moan, different than the whirring of the wind, isolated itself in his ears, and the mans heart began to beat rapidly. He stood from the chair and caught the whiff of a pungent odor, odd because the cold concealed even the stench of the excrement in the corner. The stink was familiar, like when branding cattle. His mind was on fire, wild, and chaotic. Ideas bounced around his brain without 5|Page

coherence. The stench was so powerful that he choked with a gagging cough. He scanned the room in confusion, delirium from the fog of sleep and the lack of it. He searched for the source, knowing there could not be many causes. He kicked the rocking chair back. His eyes meticulously examined every inch of his tiny world. Her feet, the smell was coming from her feet, the moaning now louder, more insistent. As he was putting everything together, he saw anguish in his wifes eyes, too wide open after having been shut for a week, and her mouth opened wide, and she let out in wail like a dog when a trap bites into its leg. She snapped up, sitting upright in the bed howling. He moved quickly now and threw up the blanket exposing his wifes pale blue night dress, her white, slender feet, the slight haze of smoke. He fought back a wretch and raced to the head of the bed, pinning her back down to the bed and running his fingers gently through her hair. Youll be alright Lena. Im taking care of you. He slipped back down to her feet. He slapped his frozen cheeks, trying to clear his mind. He knew not how to act. His wife lay silent again, unconscious. He could not let her die. They were each the others only hope of salvation. She was his life, bound up into one. The smell wafted strong. He saw the two white sticks of his wifes feet, her legs damp with sweat. He gently pulled away one of the large rocks and saw her perfect white foot, a hot pink in the arch. He dropped the stone with a thud. The man knew the cause now and feared moving the second rock, terrified at what the smoldering foot might look like. How could he have done something so stupid and injurious? His carelessness was unforgiveable. The man grabbed the second rock and immediately felt the intense heat. Speed was best. He hefted it, the rock against her right foot, and heard a light cracking sound like the snapping of dry kindling. He hesitated. The rock had to come off, but he could see now the point at which the stone and fleshed merged. With the first tug, a tiny piece of the skin on her arch had peeled away, reminding him of a fish gill. He could see clearly where he had failed to wrap the flour sack completely around the rock. The blood 6|Page

and burnt flesh made him vomit, but there was nothing in his stomach. She began to stir again, her head moving from side to side, glistening with orange sweat from the fire light, groaning. Youre alright, honey. Im here. The man took a depth breath, gripped the stone firmly, placed his knee against her foot to keep it in place, and yanked upward, a roar from deep inside him tearing through the air. She rose partially and then fell back onto the bed, and he knew she had fainted. He dropped the rock which clanked against the other. The man did not hear the flesh and muscle tear away from the rock. But he had seen it. The meat on the rock, red and black with strands of muscle extending here and there like a roughly cut steak. And now the gaping wound where the arch of the womans foot had been, muscle exposed, white and pink. Blood did not immediately flow, but when it came, the liquid oozed red and thick. The seared flesh that would have prevented bleeding had pulled away with the rock. He fell backwards, flat on his back, and for a moment the ceiling, the orange light, and the blood swirled in his eyes. As he came to, he wondered what this would cost him and her, this unpardonable error. If only he could step back a few moments in time, long enough to wrap that second rock or take the rocks from the fire a few minutes earlier. Were he in his right mind, this would not have happened. He was excusing himself, and the man was not one to shed blame. He would not excuse himself or forgive his action. His wife was moaning now. Suddenly she sat erect again in the bed and let out a scream that nearly caused the man to fall back to the floor. The sound was of a dog dying in great pain, her eyes wide with an incoherent fear and pain, not seeing, an instinctual, animal reaction. The scream was hell fire and sulfur, his judgment and justice. They were animals in a primal, severe world. He pressed her back down into the bed. Youre going to be alright Lena. Im taking care of you. Hollow words these, but she did not know. The woman calmed and slept. Returning to her feet, he found the wound too deep, the blood too much. He rubbed sweat and tears from his eyes with the back of his hands. Panic gripped him, but he knew he must act without 7|Page

hesitation. He tore off a piece of the flour sack and pressed it into the fleshy, bloody hole. The woman did not react. The white cloth soon dotted with red spots. He could feel his heart beat in his throat, his hands shaking. He ripped a strip of cloth from the sack, wrapped it around her foot and tied it in a tight knot, holding the bandage in place. He sat back in the chair and observed. After only a few minutes the whole bandage was red and blood began to soak the bedding. She was going to lose the foot. She could not lose any more blood or she would die in moments, and these rags were stemming the flow. Sitting in his chair he ripped three long strips from the other flour sack and weaved them together tight. He pulled his wifes gown up just above her knee. His rope slipped easily underneath her light calf. He tied a square knot, tight, the rope closing around her calf, then ran to the kitchen area, grabbing a large wooden spoon. He slipped the end through the knot and turned the spoon slowly, securing it once he thought it tight enough to stop the blood flow. He turned to the foot to inspect his work, sitting down in the chair. He could not tell any difference at first, but after a few minutes the blood trickling ceased. He knew that this was not a permanent fix, but maybe it would keep her alive until they could free themselves from the cabin to get a doctor. And, the doctor would surely remove the foot. The man leaned back in the chair and began to rock rhythmically, staring out at nothing. He heard the gusts whistling through the cabin, but he no longer felt the cold. He heard his wife moan but did not move. He felt nothing but pain and guilt. He allowed his eyes to close, and the black felt good. Sights and sounds drifted away from him. He was a faithful man, but God drifted further away from him too, and he thought again that the Almighty had forgotten them. He remembered the words of the old man, the place taking God out of him. He wondered what the man had experienced here. He no longer cared about a God who did not care about him. He didnt have enough strength to expend any energy in faith. The couple had been faithful, attending church, praying, reading the Book of Mormon. He felt abandoned by the One they had devoted their lives to. A hollow developed in the pit of 8|Page

his stomach that resembled homesickness. Sorrow and loneliness overpowered him. He did not know what to do next. He had not prayed to God a long time, and he no longer waited on an answer from him to his unspoken prayers for help. He had left Missouri at the command of a prophet of God. If God was out there, this was his fault. The fire was dying down, just orange and black embers. He began the work of dismantling one of the chairs as the firewood had run out the day before. The furniture would burn quickly, but he hoped that it would only last long enough for the cold to break. He tossed in the chair and sat back into his rocking chair to await the heat. He woke to the sound of his wifes mumbling, surprised to find her conscious. Leaning over the arm of the chair, he pulled the quilt up to see the wound. He pushed on the crimson cloth and found the blood was cold and drying, a frozen crunch as he prodded a little deeper. He read this as a positive sign that he had stemmed the blood flow. Still, somehow he had to keep her feet warm, and he would need to change the bandaging at some point, but that could wait. He moved to the head of the bed. The womans jabbering was incoherent, her eyes still closed, no sweat on her forehead. He grabbed a mug of frozen water and placed it near the fire to thaw. Once liquid, he offered her sips which she was not coherent enough to take in. He trickled a little on her lips, not wanting her to choke on larger quantities. Water trickled down the corners of her mouth like a small creek in a desert plain. He rubbed some water on her lips, her scalding forehead, and into her hair, not too much as he feared it might freeze. She seemed to settle a bit. Shes going to die, he thought, and then I can go to hell. He set the cup of water back on the table, which would soon be consumed as firewood. He stammered toward the door, opened the latch and pushed with all his strength against the thick boards. The mass behind it was solid, all the way up, and he wondered what he would do if he could open it. More than likely the horses were dead from cold and lack of water and food. If he could get out, he could gain access to the stores in the shed maybe, if they were not to frozen in, but the woman needed a doctor urgently. It would take him a good day to get into town 9|Page

on foot, a bit less to return in the doctors buggy, assuming that it would make it through to their cabin on the outskirts of the wooded area, which it would not. Still, he felt a masculine obligation to do something. The shutters he had nailed tightly shut only a few weeks ago would not budge, and the man imagined the drift behind it that probably exceeded the height of the rafters. He could see snow in the gaps. There were no tools in the house to work on the boards. Even if he got out, he could not leave his wife for long. What would he do? His thoughts returned to death, and he realized he did not fear. He doubted the existence of God now, and when he passed, either there would be the devil, God, or nothing. He increasingly believed in the latter. Nothing. He worried more for the life of his wife than his own. He feared pain, not death, and he knew that exposure was not a bad way to go. His friend Jim had died in a blizzard when they were fourteen. They had found him in the spring about a mile from his clothes and traps with a smile frozen on his face. He had removed every stitch of clothing. A person turns mad, the doctor had said, when hypothermia sets in. Jim ended his life in a paradise of warmth, the doctor had said. There is just a letting go into a fantasy world. The brain is funny that way, the cold escorts a person into a mad paradise where other ways of dying are hell. Last spring Fred Langley had caught a fever and died howling with blood shooting out his eyes and mouth. Exposure would be a nice way to go for the both of them. And they would pass together into whatever there was out there. The thought that he would move beyond with his wife eased the loneliness of death. He wondered what Fred thought in that final scream, hot blood shooting everywhere. If the man feared anything it was passing before her, leaving her alone and suffering. She would think that he had left, abandoned her in the final moments. In his rocker, he thought of prayer. He had prayed for hours in the past days, having no one else to talk to, but he would pray no more. His words could not be heard by anyone above the howl of the wind. God did not answer. Would not answer. If he was out there somewhere, he chose to remain silent and the man felt angry and empty. That was what he felt when he prayed, fury.

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He slept for a time, waking in a morning he could tell by the angle and tint of the sun through the slats. The woman was mumbling and he moved to the head of the bed. He could make something out in her jabbering. It was his name, spoken through her dry, crusted, bleeding lips. Jeremiah. Yes, dear, its me. I am here. Water. He fetched the cup, warmed it by the small coals in the fireplace, brought it to her, lifting her head enough to trickle drips into her mouth. He poured to fast and she hacked, spraying a mist of water. He tried again, but she had taken all she wanted. He could barely see her, and he became aware of the intense cold, the fire dying down through the night to almost nothing. Are you cold? She nodded her head no. He tore apart the second chair quickly, crushing it with several blows from his foot. It took a bit, but the fire rekindled. He had not heard her voice in several days and felt less alone with someone speaking to him. He was encouraged that she was conscious. He approached her again. My leg. Its alright. Im taking care of it. Hurts. I know. Im so sorry. He apologized knowing that she had no idea what for. My leg. I know. Im here honey. Both had trouble getting words out of their mouth as if the wind had blown them dry. Their faces touched for instants as he leaned in to her. He grabbed the cup and trickled precious drops of water onto her leather lips, took a sip himself. He longed for something more to ease her pain. He would do anything to comfort her. 11 | P a g e

Jeremiah. Im here honey. You must heal me. Im doing all I can, all I know to do. Heal me through Jesus. He paused, shocked by her request. Anything but this. His belief in God wavered and he had no words to speak through Jesus. Her request opened a wound somewhere deep within him. She had always been more faithful than him, and she truly believed that he had the priesthood power within him to call upon God and make her whole. He did not. God was a distant star out there in the fozen night, one of those stars that you can barely see, a vague dot in the black sky and you blink and the star is gone. God would not speak through him, and he did not want to utter a lie into the face of death. He could not utter a word. Jesus. Why this, honey? Im doing all I can. Jesus will heal me. How could she believe this now, after all they had been through? They were abandoned. A prophet had sent them to their death. But what else could save them but a god? Death hovered about them. Death was the cold and the hunger and the pain. Death was real, present and he could believe that. Where was God? I cant dear. I cant speak the words. Jesus will fill your mouth. Anoint me with the sacred oil and open your mouth. He did not want to dishearten her, and he had performed blessings of healing before to positive effect. When she was struck with a fever shortly after their marriage, she had recovered. He had also blessed her before she birthed the dead fetus, pronounced that the baby would be healthy. He had spoken a lie through Jesus. 12 | P a g e

He felt as if the moment would tear him apart like a huge black wolf taking him at the jugular. His wife would win him over, he knew. If she wanted this, he could not deny it to her. Love had no heart sometimes. It would ask him to betray his desire, his soul. True love builds up through small sacrifices, but could he give this? Love should not ask two paths of him. He forced his agnostic thoughts down and would not allow them to bubble up. He could do this for her. Kneeling by her, he reached his thick hands to her matted hair. No, Jeremiah. What? The sacred oil Jeremiah. The man slumped to the shelf and picked up a small vile of olive oil, sausage fingers fumbling with the tiny bottle, shaking, forehead wet with sweat. He walked back and kneeled at the head of the cot. Placing a drip on the tip of his stubby index finger, he touched the oil to her white, hot scalp. He called her by name and mumbled mouthfuls of jumbled words, his heart in her but not in the prayer. All he could think as he mumbled gibberish was lie. He sweated out the words, body contorting with the pain of self-betrayal, his head bobbing up and down rhythmically, sweat dripping into to the dry white face. His shaggy locks and beard flew with the bouncing blessing. He closed In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen, and collapsed to the floor in the lump of rags that covered him. His body was nearly that of a carcass. He slept there, crumpled on the dirt floor of the cabin, a dreamless sleep. He awoke disoriented, believing at first that he had been stricken by God for what he had done, or Satan. He felt altogether in a different world, sharp streaks of light blinding him, angels seeming to ride the beams of light. He was dizzy and confused. The betrayal, the dilemma was behind him, and he didnt care anymore. The whole thing seemed trivial now. Once navigated, moral quandaries seemed less important like when one gets better from an illness, health forgets the sickness.

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He picked himself up, rubbing hands across hair and bones and skin. He felt no frostbite, no change in the winds or temperature. He examined his wife, motionless on the ragged cot, her face tinged a little blue in the dim light entering through the chinks. He built up the fire with the table legs which satisfied him as they would burn for a moderate length of time. With the brighter light, he moved back to the head of the cot, fearful with knowledge of something already determined. He touched her forehead which was dry and cold, lifeless. He could not help but think that he was to blame for his blasphemous actions. He returned to the rocking chair, sat back, and awaited the inevitable.

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