Ye Saints who dwell on Europe’s shore,
Prepare yourselves with many more
To leave behind your native land,
For sure God’s judgments are at hand.
“THE HANDCART SONG”
New worlds for old,” Famke whispered. It was a phrase she had read in one of Herr Skatkammer’s English newspapers, and she’d remembered it because it reminded her of Albert: building, upon the ruins, a new and perfect world. “Nye Verdener for gamle.”
A dark wind swallowed her words; but they did not sound so good in Danish anyway. She had never known such a wind: It seemed to come from some deep part of the sky, well away from any known world; for it was an effortless wind that carried none of the heat that propelled the ship forward. Rather, it buffeted the steam engines, forcing them to chug and labor for every inch they won from the constantly shifting waves.
Beneath that blast and under an arc of star-pricked, moon-tinted blue, the earth had become a flat plane of deep black; when she stood at the rear of the steerage deck and looked backward, she was the only figure in the landscape. Out of its braids, her hair made a tunnel over the water; and overhead, against the dark canvas of the sky, that wind hurled the white engine smoke straight back, like an arm reaching toward its home port. Nonetheless, Famke, with plain pink hands clenched around a ship’s iron railing, was being carried forward, to America.
America: where Albert had gone in search of new mythologies, colorful new mysteries for his art. Mountains, goldmines, deserts. Savages. It was a printed fact.
Back in Hellerup, Famke had been on the rear stairwell with an armful of Herr Skatkammer’s foreign newspapers, which were needed in the kitchen, when a small paragraph in English caught her eye:
. . . The passenger list of the S. S. Lucrece will include one lately a student at the Royal Academy, so nonplussed by the Academy’s return of what he had hoped would hang in its annual Exhibition that he has determined to try his fortunes in the farthest reaches of the land to the West. Claiming that the flames of inspiration have suffocated in our cold climes, he has, we are told, exchanged the rejected work for his passage to the desert. It is to be hoped that, on shores less known for artistic achievement, the miners and ranchers of his eventual destination will be more receptive to Albert Castle’s style and subject matter . . .
The name leapt from the page as if inscribed in red letters; as if it were itself a picture of Albert’s green eyes, his thin hair, his cheeks flushed with excitement.
Famke sat weakly down on the stairs, newspapers sliding away from her in a great fan. So Albert had gone to America, left England and his father and the hope of joining the Brotherhood. She barely noticed that Nimue (she, Famke) had been sold to some ship’s owner or captain.
She dropped to her knees and scrabbled through the newspaper’s scattered leaves until she found the Lucrece’s date of embarkation: June 29.
Today was June 30.
Famke refused to feel dismay. If she could not sail on the same ship as her love, she would take one soon afterward. This was the sign she had been waiting for, the kind of message that prompted people to do great deeds.
She ran up to her room to put on the despised stays, which she thought gave her an air of respectability, tied up her few possessions in her yellow shawl, and began the walk into Copenhagen, to the address printed inside the Mormon tracts.
Heber Goodhouse was palpably surprised to see her. “Ursula! Do you have a message from Herr Skatkammer?” he asked hopefully. He spoke English, and Famke realized she might not hear her native tongue again for a long, long time.
“No.” She stared into his peculiar beard, which was full of the crumbs from his dinner. At the last moment she was having some qualms. But she reminded herself of Albert’s dear amphibian eyes, drew a deep breath, and announced, “I want to come with you! I am Mormon!”
Goodhouse ushered Famke into the mission office and seated her at the table that served as his desk. He even brought her a cup of rice tea, clanking against its saucer.
But what was this trembling in his hands? He folded and clenched them, and the tremors retreated deep into his bones. Of course the housemaid’s conversion was a boon to the mission. Women were still somewhat scarce in the American West, and many young Saints found wives difficult to come by; the un-Saintly men who paid for women often paid very dear—or so Heber had heard. Yes, any female convert was welcome, especially one used to a life of labor. As Brother Jedediah M. Grant had written in one of the tracts now in Heber’s luggage, new arrivals had to expect “to leap into the mire and help to fill up a mudhole, to make adobes with their sleeves rolled up, and be spattered with clay from head to foot.”
Heber imagined Famke working in this way: dress tight over her bent back, hands slapping adobe into the wooden molds, muddy from crown to toe. Despite the girl’s pallor and slenderness—to him, she looked as breakable as glass—he had seen her hard at work on many occasions, and this imaginary picture was a pretty one. He reflected that in Utah, along with the mud, she might also stain her white hands green, chopping mulberry leaves to feed a hatching of silkworms, or wrap herself in a gossamer web as she carefully, slowly unwound the cocoons that would make the Saints’ fortunes. Yes, as a model of industry, she would be an asset both to the Church and to his hometown, Prophet City, which he had instantly decided would be the best placement for her.
“It is a fairly recent settlement,” he told her as he stirred the gummy fluid in his own cup, “just ten years old, and much of the land has yet to be worked. There have been troubles with certain crops, but Brother Young’s writings suggest an answer: silk. The climate in our corner of Zion is ideal for the mulberry trees on which the worms feed. I had just started to plow the orchard when I was called to this mission, and while abroad I ordered one hundred seedlings for my sons to plant. The leaves are now profuse enough to feed a hatching of good Chinese silkworms—white mulberry, you see, produces the finest fiber—”
“Is your farm near a train?” Famke asked when she could stand no more.
He looked slightly hurt but answered nonetheless: “My property is five miles from Prophet itself, and approximately twenty miles beyond that lies Salt Lake City. The railroad passes through there. You will not have to walk, if that is your concern . . .”
“Så.” Famke looked down at her hands, chapped and callused from cleaning for Herr Skatkammer. Once she knew where Albert was, she’d be just half a day from the means of travel to him. She allowed herself a slender, happy smile, a smile she thought was hers alone.
“. . . the future of the Saints, then, is in threads!” Clearly thinking the smile was meant for him and his clever phrase, Heber Goodhouse topped up her cup; but as she became aware of him once more, the smile faded: She had been rude to him, and she needed his help. With a pang of guilt just slightly outweighed by cunning, she pretended interest: “How many children have you?”
He answered with pride. “Three sons. Ephraim, Brigham, and Heber the younger. And there are four daughters. They all earn wages under the United Order . . .”
He didn’t name the girls, and Famke didn’t ask. She didn’t ask what he meant by the Order, either; she was much more interested in a question she had long wanted to pose him: “How many mothers?”
“One,” he answered calmly, as if he’d been asked this many times before. “Sariah, my wife of seventeen years. We have been very blessed.”
Seven children out of one woman, Famke thought, looking down at her own squeezed-in waist. What must the poor thing look like?
“In any event”—Heber was returning to the matter more immediately at hand—“we will have to arrange for your passage.” He gave a delicate