The man came to a startled halt, the last note slowly wheezing into nothing. He swung one arm outward, as if to hold back the woman following him, but she peeked around his shoulder. When her eyes met Lizzie’s, she released a little gasp and clutched the man’s arm with a very white, very thin hand.
For as long as Lizzie could remember, white folks had poured into Alaska Territory to seek their fortunes. These two didn’t look like they would last long. Dressed in fine clothes similar to ones designed for the paper dolls Pa had given her for Christmas one year when she was small, they stood out like a single stalk of purple lupine in a meadow of yellow aster. They didn’t even have the sense to put their bundles on a travois and allow dogs to do the work. The woman bowed beneath the weight of a bag strapped to her back, and the man’s face glowed red while moisture dotted his forehead. The wooden case on his back must tax his strength.
But she didn’t care about the people as much as the music-making box. She pointed. “What is that?”
The man’s brows rose. “You speak English?”
What a ridiculous question. Hadn’t she just spoken in English? Lizzie pointed again, jabbing her finger with emphasis toward the box.
He patted the instrument. “This?”
Lizzie nodded.
A smile curved the man’s lips. The wary expression he’d donned when Lizzie stepped from behind the tree disappeared. “It’s a piano accordion. It plays music.”
Lizzie slashed her hand through the air, dismissing his last statement. She had surmised its purpose. “How does it work?” She moved forward two small steps, maintaining enough distance that she could escape if need be. He seemed harmless and was well weighted with encumbrances—he wouldn’t be able to give chase easily—but she should be cautious. Both Mama and Pa had emphasized that some white men couldn’t be trusted.
The man flashed a smile, but his woman held back, uncertainty lining her features. “When you force air through the bellows and then you push on the keys, it—” He shrugged. “Here. I’ll show you.” He began pumping the box in and out, creating a low hum. Then his fingers moved along the row of keys. A lovely melody floated over the hum. Lizzie stared, amazed that something so awkward looking could create such beautiful sounds.
The man stilled his hands, and the accordion sighed into silence. “Would you like to try?”
Lizzie’s fingers itched to touch the shiny white rectangles and create a pleasing melody. She closed the distance between them. He pumped the accordion, and Lizzie pressed three side-by-side keys. A sour note blared. She jumped back.
The man laughed softly, his teeth as straight and white as the row of keys on the instrument. “Try pushing one key at a time.”
Lizzie gazed with longing at the accordion, but she shook her head. Obviously only white people could coax beauty from the ungainly box. Only white people could do a lot of things. Saddened, she backed away.
The man’s smile didn’t dim. “I am Clay Selby, and this is Vivian.” He held his hand toward the woman, who gave a quick nod of greeting. “What’s your name?”
“Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi.”
“White Feather,” Clay Selby translated. “It’s a beautiful name.”
Surprised by his knowledge of the Athabascan language, Lizzie blurted, “But I’m called Lizzie.” She clamped her lips together, aghast to divulge something so personal to strangers.
Clay Selby caught the woman’s elbow and drew her to his side. “Vivian and I are here to start a mission school in Gwichyaa Saa.” His smile grew broader, his eyes crinkling in the corners the way Pa’s had when he laughed. He was handsome like Pa, too, with thick brown hair that curled over his ears and collar and a square-jawed face toasted tan from the sun. “We’re going to teach the children to read and write in the English language.”
Lizzie’s stomach twisted into a knot. She’d been right—this man was up to no good. She inched backward.
“Are you from Gwichyaa Saa?”
“No.” Lizzie moved another few feet, keeping her eyes trained on the white man named Clay Selby.
“Are we near it?”
She couldn’t lie—her mother had taught her to be honest—but she pushed the reply through clenched teeth. “Yes.”
“What’s the name of your village?”
Pain stabbed so fiercely her body jolted. “I don’t have a village.” She whirled and darted between the trees, quick as a jackrabbit escaping a fox. The man with the musical box called after her, but she ignored him and raced for home.
“Well . . .” Vivian stared after the retreating native woman. “What an interesting encounter.”
Clay berated himself, remembering the way Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi had tensed when he asked the name of her village. He’d pushed too hard too fast and inadvertently inflicted discomfort. His pa wouldn’t have scared away one of his prospective converts. Clay needed to rein in his enthusiasm if he hoped to establish relationships with the Gwich’in people.
“She startled me when she stepped out of the trees.” Vivian shivered. “So quiet . . . sneaky, almost. Who knows how long she’d been watching us before she made herself known?” She glanced around, as if seeking other natives in the bushes. “Unnerving . . .”
Clay shook his head. “We might have heard her if I hadn’t been playing the accordion.” He slipped to one knee and allowed the box on his back to slide free. Bits of dry leaves drifted upward, making him sneeze.
Vivian frowned as he plucked the carpetbag from the accordion’s case and placed the instrument inside. “You aren’t going to keep playing? But what about bears?”
At Vivian’s request, he’d played the accordion since they left the canoe. He wasn’t sure he appreciated being asked to use his music to scare away wild animals, but it had given his uneasy stepsister a measure of assurance. He closed the latch on the case and heaved the box onto his shoulders. “We’re close to the village—the native woman said so.” He bit down on his lower lip, sympathy for the woman called Lizzie welling in his chest. If she didn’t have a village, how did she survive? He added, “It’s unlikely we’ll encounter a bear if humans are nearby.” Clay pushed to his feet and staggered a bit finding his balance on his tired legs.
Vivian shook her head, peering in the direction the woman had disappeared. “I hope the next Gwich’in we meet is friendlier than she was.”
Clay chuckled. Catching the handle on the carpetbag, he set off again. “Didn’t Pa tell you the people might have difficulty accepting us at first? Unfortunately, many of the white people who intrude on native lands don’t treat the Indians well.” Was that why she’d run? Had someone mistreated her in the past?
Vivian huffed along beside him, stirring up dried pine needles and decaying leaves with her skirts. “But the Indians at the reservation talked to me—to all of us. They treated our family as if we were part of the tribe.”
“They were used to us there, Viv.” Vivian couldn’t know how hard Pa had worked to earn the trust of the Kiowa people. After Pa and Vivian’s mother had wed, they’d sent the girl to live with an aunt and uncle in the East rather than subject her to the harshness of reservation life. She’d returned to Oklahoma a little over a year ago at her mother’s request, but she’d never really settled in at the reservation. Why she’d begged so hard to be allowed to accompany Clay to Alaska, he couldn’t begin to fathom. Did she think living on the frontier would be less stressful? If so, she was in for some rude surprises.
Clay paused and examined the telling moss climbing a tree trunk. He adjusted his steps accordingly. “By the time you moved in with us, Pa and Ma had worked for several years to establish relationships with the Kiowa. So they accepted you as a part of our family without question. It will take some effort to gain a connection with the Gwich’in people.” He frowned, voicing the same warning he’d given her before they’d left the reservation. “Setting up the mission school won’t be like hosting a tea party. It’ll take a lot of work and—”
She held up
her hand. “I know, Clay, I know. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She squared her shoulders and heaved a mighty sigh. “Contrary to my mother’s opinion, I’m not a hothouse pansy in need of constant cosseting. I’ll do my fair share of the work.”
Clay suspected Vivian didn’t have an inkling what her fair share of the work would encompass, despite Pa’s lectures and her mother’s warnings. But Vivian could be as stubborn as a mule when she wanted to be, and he was too tired to argue. So he trudged onward, forcing his weary legs to carry him the rest of the way.
Chauncy Burke had said a two-mile walk, but slogging through the woods made it difficult to determine how much distance they’d covered. He hoped they’d reach Gwichyaa Saa soon. His arms ached from the weight of the accordion, and his back ached from the weight of the carpetbag. Vivian dragged her feet. She wouldn’t hold up much longer. He didn’t fancy spending the night in the woods without any kind of shelter.
A delicate sigh left Vivian’s throat, and Clay braced himself for a complaint. But she said, “I thought when that Gwich’in girl stepped out of the trees, we’d found the village. But—” She came to a sudden halt, her eyes flying wide.
Clay stopped, frowning in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I just realized . . .” She took a couple of gulping breaths. “The girl in the woods—I assumed she was native. But her eyes . . . did you notice?”
Clay crunched his forehead, trying to picture the girl in his mind. He recalled moccasins, a buckskin tunic and leggings, dark braids hanging alongside her serious, brown-skinned face. A pretty face. “What about her eyes?”
“They were blue, Clay.” Vivian shook her head, her tangled hair sweeping across her dirty cheek. “Have you ever seen a native with blue eyes?”
All of the Kiowa on the reservation had brown eyes. “No, I haven’t.”
“It certainly raises questions, doesn’t it?” Vivian adjusted the straps holding the valise on her back and started walking again. Clay fell into step with her as Vivian continued in a pensive tone. “She said she wasn’t part of a village and took off as if bees pursued her. Could it be she’s merely pretending to be a Gwich’in?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe so the natives will make better trades with her? Or maybe to escape the law?”
Clay resisted laughing. Vivian had an overly active imagination. At least she was moving at a good pace again, her tiredness apparently forgotten. “I suppose anything is possible. All kinds of people have made their way into Alaska in the past few years.”
Vivian went on as if Clay hadn’t spoken. “Or maybe she is Gwich’in, but she was exiled because of her eye color.”
Clay sent Vivian a startled look. She fell silent, seemingly out of ideas. But Clay’s brain ticked through possible reasons for a young native woman to live separated from the protection of a village. Her blue eyes could mean she wasn’t native at all. But more likely, she was of mixed heritage. He couldn’t imagine the Gwich’in rejecting a member of their tribe over something as insignificant as eye color. Why blame a child for something outside of her control? But perhaps she’d done something else—something against tribal law—to earn eviction.
The sound of voices reached his ears. Vivian stumbled to a stop, her gaze searching ahead. She sent him a questioning glance, and he nodded. “I hear it, too. It must be the village.” He pushed aside his musings about the blue-eyed woman and curled his hand around Vivian’s elbow. “Come—let’s go meet the people we’ve come to serve.”
And once we’re settled, I’ll explore how to minister to the woman in the woods.
Chapter Four
Lizzie burst into the clearing behind her cabin, her lungs burning from her race through the trees. The dogs awakened, barking in surprise, but when they recognized her, they immediately calmed. She stumbled to the pen and reached over the top of the wire enclosure. Martha rose on two legs, offering a gentle whine while nuzzling her owner’s hand. Lizzie ran her fingers through the dog’s thick ruff. The warm contact soothed her, and her gasping breaths slowly returned to normal.
“There was a white man in the woods . . . and his wife.” Lizzie spoke into the dog’s floppy ear, her voice raspy. “They are going to Gwichyaa Saa to teach the children white men’s ways.” An ache rose in her breast. “They’ll confuse the children, make them uncertain of who they are. I know all too well . . . white and red, they don’t mix. What should I do?” Martha gazed at Lizzie attentively, her mouth open in a tongue-lolling grin. But she offered no advice.
Lizzie stroked the dog’s head, her mind seeking a way to prevent Clay and Vivian Selby from harming the children in the village. Her gaze turned toward the peak of Denali, the High One, the place her mother had sought when in need of answers or support. Mama had believed the tallest mountain looked over her and offered strength and wisdom. But today, like so many other days, the peak was blanketed by gray clouds. Neither the dogs nor the mountain could offer assistance.
Defeated, she whirled away from the pen, but Martha’s pleading whine drew her back. Opening the gate a few inches, she allowed Martha to slip through. The other dogs stormed the gate, eager to be released as well, but she ordered, “Stay!” They whimpered in complaint but obediently retreated.
“Come, Martha.” With the dog trotting happily at her side, Lizzie returned to the lean-to where the moose hide waited. Martha flopped onto her stomach and rested her head on her paws. Her eyes—one brown like Mama, one blue like Pa—followed Lizzie as she picked up the scraping tool.
“I’m not going to worry about Clay Selby and his woman. Why should I care if they change things in the village? The villagers don’t care about me.” Lizzie forced a flippant tone, but deep down, the truth of her statement stung. Gliding the scraper along the hide, she continued talking to the attentive dog. “I’ve never had a place with them. They rejected Mama the moment she chose to marry Voss Dawson, and they’ve never accepted me. So let the white man and his woman do whatever they wish.”
Yet she couldn’t deny the worry that gnawed at the fringes of her heart. The children in the village were accepted, were content. Why should white people be allowed to destroy their peaceful existence? Her hands trembled. She sank to her haunches, tossing aside the scraper and reaching for Martha. The dog rose up to meet her, and Lizzie buried her face in the dog’s neck. “Oh, Martha, why must things change?”
Despite her efforts to hold them at bay, buried memories from long ago awakened. How she’d loved the happy suppers in their little cabin, with Mama serving steaming bowls of fresh stew or slabs of succulent salmon while Pa teased and laughed. Behind her closed lids, she could easily envision Pa sitting in the yard at dusk, the stem of his beautifully carved pipe caught between his teeth. Lizzie would snuggle on his lap, giggling when his beard tickled her cheek. If she imagined hard enough, she could still catch the sweet aroma of his tobacco. Lizzie also conjured Mama’s smile—the smile that disappeared the day Pa returned to the white man’s world.
Tears stung, and she sniffed fiercely. Crying wouldn’t bring Mama back, and it wouldn’t make Pa change his mind about taking them with him. He’d said Mama wouldn’t fit in his world—that it would be cruel to make her try. “You’re an Athabascan, Yellow Flower. Your skills of moccasin making and salmon drying aren’t well respected in San Francisco. You’d feel out of place in my city. Your home is here, with your people.”
Pa’s deep voice echoed in Lizzie’s memory, competing with the heartrending sounds of deep distress that had poured from her gentle mother’s lips. But Pa had turned away from Mama’s tears, tugged Lizzie’s braid, and said, “Take care of your mama. Be strong for her. She needs you.”
Lizzie pulled back and cupped the dog’s face in her hands. “Until Mama’s dying day, I did what Pa asked of me. I hunted and trapped and fished so my mother would be clothed and fed. When Mama sang mourning songs in Pa’s memory, I offered words of comfort. When Mama knelt and prayed to the High One, I knelt beside her an
d prayed to Denali, too.” Her voice caught as she recalled her most fervent prayer—Bring my father back to us. But the mountain never replied.
Lizzie gulped twice. “I tended to Mama’s every need, Martha, except one. But I’ll do it now, in her memory.”
Martha whined and swiped Lizzie’s chin with her warm tongue. Lizzie hugged the dog, squeezing her eyes tight, her lips quivering with the effort of holding back her tears. On Mama’s dying day, she’d extracted a promise from Lizzie: “Make peace with your grandparents for me so I can rest without regret. Then leave this place, my daughter. You’re more white than Athabascan—you belong in your father’s world.”
Four years after her mother’s death, Lizzie still puzzled over Mama’s strange statement. How could she be more white than Athabascan when she’d lived her entire life a few hundred yards from the village of Gwichyaa Saa? She knew all she needed to know to be an Athabascan—canoe building, salmon trapping, fur skinning, and garment making. But while the books Papa left behind taught her geography and history, they didn’t tell her how to be a white woman. Mama’s words made no sense. Regardless, Lizzie would fulfill the promise that had given Mama a splash of joy before she crossed into the spirit world.
She whisked away her tears and pushed to her feet. Martha whined and wriggled, bumping her head against Lizzie’s hip. Lizzie absently petted the dog as she mused aloud, “A special gift—a lovely coat made by my own hands—will convince my grandmother of my mother’s desire to reconcile. I cannot leave without peace restored between my grandparents and my mother.” Her hand fell idle, and Martha sat on her haunches, her bushy tail gently sweeping back and forth.
Picking up the scraper, Lizzie returned to work, her lip caught between her teeth in concentration. How long to complete the coat—four months? She flipped her hand in dismissal. Probably six. By then, the snows would return. She gave a nod, sealing the time in her plans. The days of snow would be the right time to gift Vitse with a warm coat. The right time to load her travois with her cache of furs, hitch the dogs, and mush to Fairbanks.
A Whisper of Peace Page 3
