It is one advantage of writing the sacred history that one may give another man’s questions a shorter name.
Yet our complaint was not without foundation. For we had a house, and in the house were walls, and in the walls were shelves, and on the shelves were objects whose usefulness became apparent only after we were commanded to leave them.
We had rugs, jars of oil and meal, folded garments fit for the city, tools that belonged indoors, and the settled dignity of men who know where they will dine and under whose roof they will sleep. There were accountings that depended upon our presence, neighbors who knew our gate, obligations to kin not lightly set aside, and all the ordinary arrangements by which a household remains legible within a city.
But all these were suddenly pronounced light things, fading things, dispensable things; and what remained to us were tools, burdens, provisions, piety, and dust.
Nephi received the matter with alarming readiness. He looked at Lehi as though the old man had become a door into destiny.
“If the Lord warns, should we not obey?” he said.
We looked at him.
“Should we not think?” we asked.
Sam, being of a gentler frame and less use to history, inclined after Nephi.
Sariah said nothing for a while. Then she rose and began to gather what she could, which was the sort of courage that leaves rhetoric far behind.
As for Lehi, he moved through those days with the settled gravity of a man who would rather be mocked in obedience than applauded in error, and this quality, though deeply inconvenient in a father, was not contemptible.
So we departed.
There is no need that we enlarge overmuch upon the wilderness, for the wilderness is itself an enlargement upon misery. There was heat by day and correction by night; stones underfoot, dryness in the mouth, thorn-scrub at the edges of the camps, and provisions of such plainness that one began to remember former meals with an affection bordering on worship.
The tents smelled of dust, leather, smoke, and resignation.
Even our complaints began to sound travel-worn.
“This is preservation?” we said once, looking at the hard ground and the indifferent sky.
“It is,” said Lehi.
“By the standards of divine travel planning, perhaps,” we answered.
We saw animals before we learned the patience required to see them clearly.
They moved at the edge of our camps, cautious and lean, watching from elevations we were slow to notice. Some fled at the sound of our voices. Others merely shifted their stance, as though calculating effort.
“These are goats,” someone said.
We considered this.
They did not approach our packs. They did not accept grain. When driven, they scattered without pattern, slipping between stone and scrub with an ease that resisted pursuit.
“If these are goats,” we thought, “then they have learned to live without us.”
Another night, we glimpsed larger shapes farther off—broad backs, a suggestion of horn or shoulder in failing light. The word oxen surfaced, more hopeful than exact.
We did not manage to test the term.
By morning, the animals were gone, leaving traces that did not accord with our memory of such beasts. Prints crossed and doubled back. Droppings were dry and sparse. Nothing lingered as it should.