Post by Hem:
To my friends and kin of Zarahemla. I write this account with a weary hand but a full heart, in a land far from home. I am Hem, one of the those sent by our good King Mosiah—alongside Helem, Amaleki, and Ammon—to seek out the people who left our city years ago under Zeniff’s banner. What we found was beyond what any of us could have foreseen, and I feel compelled to share this tale with you, that you might know of our lost brethren and the mercies of providence.
Our journey began with hope but little certainty. The wilderness stretched before us like an endless scroll, its paths worn only by beasts and time. We carried provisions, our tools, and the words of Mosiah ringing in our ears: “Find them, if they yet live.” Days turned to weeks, the sun scorching our backs by day and the stars guiding us by night. Helem, ever the optimist, kept our spirits high with tales of his youth, while Ammon’s keen eyes spotted trails where I saw only dust. I confess there were moments when I doubted we would find anything but bones bleaching in the sun.
Then, as we crested a ridge, we saw it—a city, smaller than Zarahemla but fortified with walls of stone and timber. My heart leapt, though caution tempered my joy. We approached not as conquerors but as seekers, yet the guards of that place mistook us for foes. They seized us swiftly, binding our hands and leading us before their king. I’ll not soon forget the weight of those ropes or the murmur of the crowd as we were brought into his presence.
His name was Limhi—King Limhi, grandson of Zeniff—and his face bore the marks of a man burdened yet resolute. At first, he regarded us with suspicion, for his people had suffered much under the yoke of the Lamanites, a tale he later shared in full. But when Ammon stepped forward and spoke of Zarahemla, of Mosiah, and of our purpose, the air shifted. Limhi’s eyes softened, and he ordered our bonds loosed. “You are of our kin,” he said. “We had thought ourselves forgotten.”
What followed was a marvel to behold. Limhi gathered his people, and we learned their story—a saga of ambition, hardship, and survival. Zeniff had led them here to reclaim a land of inheritance, but peace had turned to bondage under Lamanite rule. They were a people worn by tribute and battle, yet their spirit endured. Limhi showed us records etched on plates of metal, a testament to their trials, and asked for our aid to free them from their oppressors.
I am no orator, but I spoke what I could of Zarahemla’s strength and Mosiah’s wisdom. Ammon, with his gift of words, pledged that we would help them. The people wept—some with joy, others with disbelief—and I felt the weight of their hope settle upon us.
Now, as I write this, we trek back toward Zarahemla, our steps lighter despite the miles ahead. I am but a humble man, yet I have seen a miracle—the reuniting of a scattered people. Limhi and his folk are not lost; they are found, and I pray our Lord will guide us to bring them home. If you read this, my friends, offer a prayer for their deliverance and for our safe return. The wilderness is vast, but our bonds are stronger still.
