Thorns of Glory, page 11
By this we may conclude that the final phrase of Joseph’s statement—that “a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book”—meant that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book because of the correctness of its principles, its consistency in doctrine, and its conveyance of the fullness of the gospel. This doesn’t mean it must discuss every teaching of the restored Church but that it contains the fullness of the “good news” of salvation through Christ’s Atonement.
Most Church members are aware of various changes to the text of the Book of Mormon in subsequent editions since the first edition was published in 1830. Most of these changes relate to spelling, grammar, punctuation, and clarity of phrasing. Many changes were made by Joseph Smith himself during his lifetime. The purpose of the Book of Mormon has been to clarify God’s will concerning the welfare and salvation of His children. In the frontier of western New York in 1830, readers of English were less concerned with perfect grammar, punctuation, and spelling than we are today. This mindset included that of Joseph Smith. He would have thought it petty indeed to think people might reject the Book of Mormon over something as frivolous as a grammatical error. He’d have expected readers to focus on its content, and thankfully, most do. He’d have been bemused to learn that some might reject its authenticity over a misplaced comma. Also bemusing might have been the fact that critics would mock the book for emulating the style of the King James Version (KJV) Bible or that his translation of the gold plates incorporated phrases attributed to Shakespeare or idioms that postdated 600 b.c. Jerusalem. Who could have anticipated that some readers would be so narrow-minded as to think the translation process—even under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit—was immune from human error or did not permit the incorporation of colloquialisms or aesthetic choices based upon what was familiar to Joseph in his own world?
Latter-day Saints have never adhered to the Protestant idea that scripture is infallible or error-free. Joseph made this abundantly clear from the outset of the restored Church. He included this concept in the eighth Article of Faith. This Article, much like the language that Moroni uses in Mormon 9:33, admits that the process of translation is, by its very nature, imperfect and that these imperfections may lead to misunderstandings and errors. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has applied this principle to every volume of scripture it has published. As time goes on and the meanings of certain words and phrases transform over time, our leaders who possess the proper keys of authority are permitted to make further clarifications and corrections whenever and wherever appropriate.
Although critics of the Church will use this bar of perfection to judge the veracity of the Book of Mormon, they often ignore this same bar as applied to the Bible. For example, critics of the Church delight in labeling as an anachronism bows made of “fine steel” (1 Nephi 16:18) or sword blades of “precious steel” (1 Nephi 4:9). It’s true that today’s steel—defined by a combination of specific iron alloys—did not exist in 600 b.c. What these pundits fail to mention, or notice, is that the KJV also mentions “steel,” including steel bows (see 2 Samuel 22:35; Job 20:24; Psalm 18:34; Jeremiah 15:12), despite the fact that modern steel similarly did not exist in 1611, when the King James scholars released their English translation. The smelting process for modern steel was not invented until the 1740s and underwent other essential modifications in 1855 (see “Iron and steel industry,” Encyclopædia Britannica, 2007; K. C. Barraclough, Steel before Bessemer: II Crucible Steel: the growth of technology [The Metals Society, London: 1984]; James Moore Swank, History of the Manufacture of Iron in All Ages, 1892).
It may be more surprising to find the word steel in the Bible than in the Book of Mormon. This is because various types of ancient steel were not found in Europe but were found in the Middle-East. The oldest examples of high-carbon iron smelting with any similarity to modern steel date to 1800 b.c. in Anatolia in modern Turkey (“Ironware piece unearthed from Turkey found to be oldest steel,” The Hindu [Chennai, India], March 26, 2009), while the mass production of wootz steel (sometimes called Damascus steel) dates to Sparta, India, and the Far East by 650 b.c. (Borst, Lyle B., “Steel Secret of Spartans Well Kept,” Spokesman-Review, Oct. 12, 1961; “Noricus ensis,” Horace, Odes, i. 16.9). The Hebrew word that King James scholars used to translate steel in the Old Testament was nehosh or nehoshet, a word that refers to copper and its alloys, most notably, bronze (Tvedtnes, John A., http://www.fairmormon.org/perspectives/fair-conferences/2002-fair-conference/2002-the-mistakes-of-men-can-the-scriptures-be-error-free).
The word steel had a different meaning in Joseph Smith’s day. It could refer to anything that was hard and could apply to various types of material. One of the meanings for steel given in Webster’s 1828 dictionary was “extreme hardness,” while the verbal form means “to make hard,” as we might use in the phrase “steel one’s nerve.” In other words, all efforts to classify steel as an anachronism are red herrings, like many other supposed anachronisms in the Book of Mormon. (For a list of these alleged anachronisms and numerous articles that debunk them, see http://en.fairmormon.org/Book_of_Mormon/Anachronisms.)
In this chapter, it is suggested that the names of certain characters in Mormon 6:13–14 are found among the names of slain Nephite commanders. Josh and Gidgiddonihah were first introduced in The Tennis Shoes Adventure Series Book 3: The Feathered Serpent, Part 1. As described in this chapter, the name Gidgiddonihah is not mentioned, but the phonetic equivalency of the name in Mormon 6:13 is so striking that, for a storyteller, the correlation was impossible to resist. Some may wonder if I had a master plan behind this. I didn’t. I first noticed the names Josh and Gidgiddonah in Mormon 6 about the time I was writing Book 8: Warriors of Cumorah. At the time, I was as surprised as my readers. Some astutely pointed out this connection before I referenced it in Book 10: Kingdoms and Conquerors. By then I was already planning to exploit this coincidence. However, prior to writing Warriors of Cumorah, I hadn’t noticed it.
Some readers of Book 1: Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites have noted that in Alma 51:33, it says “Teancum and his servant stole forth and went out by night, and went into the camp of Amalickiah.” This also coincides with the events in my novel. However, no one should misunderstand. All of my novels are fictional. These coincidences are the consequence of good fortune, not careful planning. So far, I’ve never outlined one of my novels. This has been a deliberate artistic choice. As a writer, I’ve wanted to experience my stories in much the same way as readers. In other words, I don’t know what’s going to happen next either. This has been one way of trying to keep the stories fresh and unpredictable. Generally when my characters get themselves into serious binds or I’ve written my plot into a corner, I’ve had to walk around the block for days to figure out credible solutions.
This approach is not especially unique to the craft of storytelling, though perhaps it’s less common for a book series as complex as this one. Many authors carefully outline their plots beforehand. I applaud this approach and highly recommend it. If I’d done this, I might have experienced far less stress and produced volumes on a timelier basis. On the other hand, perhaps the stories wouldn’t have been as entertaining or enduring.
Admittedly, this way of writing novels has drawbacks. I’ve received no shortage of feedback from readers who’ve lamented that the volumes have become convoluted with characters and subplots. I feel bad when readers tell me they have to go back and reread the series to keep it all straight. I apologize that the complexities of life have kept me from publishing more punctually. I express deep gratitude to every reader who has stuck it out with me over the years—decades, as a matter of fact. I promise that the tale that began six books ago, with Warriors of Cumorah, will soon draw to a close. However, even as I write this chapter note, I have no idea how that will happen. I’m as anxious—and impatient—to find out as anyone else.
Chapter 4
Joshua
They told me they were giving me something to help me “relax.” I protested, or at least I think I protested. I hadn’t slept in a long time. It’d been even longer since I’d slept well. Just those few hours in the basket on Muskah’s back. I’d fought hard on the soggy plains east of Cumorah. I was bleeding in many places, particularly from wounds inflicted by tiny slivers of obsidian—the consequence of barrages unleashed by Lamanite slingers. Many slivers were embedded in my flesh, especially in my lower legs, my elbow, and even my ears.
The memory was foggy, but after I embraced Hamira the Jaredite, my cousin Melody, and my mother, someone pressed a vial to my lips. My throat was flaming with thirst, so I drank greedily. The substance was thick like cream but bitter. It felt good as it moistened my parched mouth. Finally, someone thrust toward me a ceramic pitcher of genuine H2O. I drained the whole thing. After my thirst had been quenched, questions gurgled outta me like a fountain, albeit a raspy fountain.
I vaguely recalled that I asked Hamira about the snakebite. A rattler had fallen from the ceiling and bitten her leg. I’d tried to carry her through the caverns, but it was hopeless. An onrush of enemy Jaredites had forced me to abandon her. I felt sure she hated me. I hated myself. Ever since that moment, I’d second-guessed my decision—whether I should have stayed by her side and faced the consequences. That choice would’ve probably caused my death, but guilt still tortured my conscience. After my reunion with Hamira, she’d said something about her brother, Nimrah. She’d also mentioned a scar on her leg. Then everyone started talking at once and the subject had changed.
Fronds and branches were swept over my uniform, knocking away razor-sharp chips embedded in the salt-soaked armor. Melody plucked at some of the more stubborn chips with her fingers, occasionally nicking herself. Mom drew slivers of black glass from wounds in my neck and elbow. Hamira examined the gash on my chin but found no additional pieces. Some of the locals assisted in the effort. An old man with a slick, oiled beard extracted a few slivers with tiny metal tongs like tweezers.
Who were all these strangers? Mom had said I was in Jerusalem. How did I get here? How did they get here? And how did they find me? Hamira said she’d been expecting me—waiting more than one morning for me to arrive. The answers they provided were short and unsatisfying, with promises to elaborate later. Euphoria began to overtake me. Apparently that creamy drink was having its effect. Pain drained out of me like water into desert sands. I remained conscious as Hamira and the man with the oiled beard took me under either arm and transported me to some unfamiliar destination.
The journey took forever. I remained awake but groggy. At some point, I noticed Mom walking at my right, teary-eyed. She was happy, I think, but her feelings were bittersweet. I recalled the look on Dad’s face when he first laid eyes on me, realizing he’d missed seven years of my life. Mom’s expression was similar. Wistful, I supposed.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked.
She smiled broadly, but a tear slipped out. “Of course not. I just . . . You’re a man now, Joshua. I wish . . . I’d been there.”
I wished that too. I wanted to tell her, but the words stuck in my throat. There was no going back. Years had blown by like a hurricane. I’d become the man I was—the warrior I was—without the guidance of parents. Without any family. I’d risen to a commander in Mormon’s army. What did that really mean? This thought filled me with panic.
“My men,” I said. “My division. I have to get back. How did I get here? Why am I here?” My mind raced: images of hundreds of dead and dying men on those soggy plains. I was too incoherent to resist those who carried me. I tried to look back at the place where the rift had “deposited” me—that canyon with the tents. It was no longer visible. I doubted I could’ve relocated the spot. Hamira knew it. She’d known I was coming. She could help me return. We could go back to Cumorah together. I just needed sleep. A good night’s . . . sleep.
When I reawakened, I was in a stable. At least it smelled like a stable. I was inside a building with crude stone walls patched by mud. I noticed pens filled with soiled straw, and a sod ceiling. At first I thought I was alone. The interior was cross-stitched, with narrow shafts of sunlight that penetrated the roof and walls. I heard breathing behind me and noticed two people at my feet. I’d been laid, stretched on my stomach, on a bench of sorts. Or a table. Clean linen had been spread beneath me.
Another odor invaded my senses. Perfume. And something else. Like turpentine. The two people—women—massaged this smelly substance into cuts behind and above my ankles.
I flinched. “What are you doing?”
The substance burned slightly. It also tingled on my ears, chin, elbow, and other places where obsidian chips had pierced me. The feeling wasn’t disagreeable. In most places, the burning had already faded, replaced by a soothing numbness.
“Just plucking the last slivers from your skin,” said Hamira, concentrating on a cut above my heel. She probed with the same tiny tongs as that old bearded man. Balm had been applied, so I felt little pain. Or perhaps the hands that applied this balm—Hamira’s hands—were particularly skilled. The Jaredite princess still wore the darkly colored head shawl and cloak she was wearing when we’d first embraced.
The other woman, now standing at my left, was in her mid-twenties. She wore a light-blue cloak and a white head shawl. In one hand, she carried a tray with a ceramic jar—presumably containing the ointment. Other instruments sat on the tray—probes and blades and what looked like a needle with white thread. There was also a bloody cloth and a dozen or more obsidian chips, formerly embedded in my flesh. Two fingers of this woman’s free hand floated in mid-air, dabbed in balm, ready to apply as soon as Hamira removed the next sliver. She had hard, dark eyes and a prominent nose. Not long, just prominent. Aristocratic. She watched Hamira with the scrutiny of an instructor.
I became self-conscious. I wore a fresh mantle—a Jewish mantle. Where was my uniform?
“Where’s my Nephite regalia and weapons? Who changed . . . ?”
Hamira pretended oblivion. “Who changed . . . what?”
I pursed my lips in irritation.
She grinned crookedly. “Your mother changed your garb, if that satisfies your modesty. Your uniform is muddy and . . . rather tattered.”
The room started to spin. I was still dizzy from that narcotic.
“This is Perpetua,” Hamira said. “She is the wife of Shimon, ‘the Rock,’ one of the senior disciples. She is a healer.”
I craned my neck to scrutinize Perpetua again. The ache in my throat reasserted itself. “One of the senior disciples . . . of who?”
“The Master,” said Perpetua. “Shimon is the first senior disciple.” She looked down humbly, not wanting, I thought, to sound boastful.
I’d never heard of a Bible character named Shimon. I later learned that other time-travelers, when they heard Hebrew names, heard them as pronounced rather than the English-ized (or Anglicized) version. I don’t think I had that problem. I knew Shimon meant Simon in my own language. Not that this helped much. I didn’t know much about the Bible to begin with, so hearing it in my mother tongue made no difference.
Hamira extracted another sliver. Perpetua rubbed more ointment into the cut and also into surrounding nicks and wounds. I watched her deft hands.
“It’s called balm of Jericho,” said Hamira. “A resin from a sacred bush, carefully prepared. Perpetua says it will help your cuts heal swiftly. We have something similar in my land, but it doesn’t smell as pleasant.”
“Myrrh,” Perpetua explained. “Some women use it as perfume. Where I’m from myrrh is far too expensive for that use.”
“Where are you from?” asked Hamira.
“Capernaum,” said Perpetua. “Galilee. Only foreigners and Greeks in my country squander their denarii on perfume. True Galileans are not so frivolous.” She looked up at me. “I also applied two sutures to your chin. Another to the lobe of that ear.” She indicated the left.
“What day is it?” I asked. “What year?”
The women scrunched their foreheads.
“Year?” asked Hamira. To her, the question didn’t really make sense. She’d lived two years in the sagebrush of a region that looked to me like northern Wyoming. Having met me, Marcos, and now Mom and Melody, Hamira should’ve been well-acclimated to time travel and its paradoxes. I wondered, did she think of it as time travel? Or just being “carried” to a new, unique place? I wasn’t sure.
This thought jogged my memory. I had no idea how she’d gotten here. Or how Mom and Melody had gotten here. I looked around. Where were they?
Perpetua answered my question about the day. “It is the twelfth of Nisan, 3793. Tomorrow, at sundown, we sacrifice the Paschal lamb.”
I must have looked confused.
She asked me, “Are you . . . of the circumcision?”
“Of the what?” Instinctively, my hands went downward.
Perpetua had no inkling why this question ought to be sensitive. She glanced at Hamira. “Is he Greek? Latin?”
