A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She’d sell the furs and the dogs and use the money for transport to California—to her father. Her heart caught when she considered the loss of the dogs. They provided a service, but more importantly, they were her companions. Her only companions.

  Her gaze drifted to the pen where the dogs gathered, some stretched out in sleep, others sitting up, peering with bright, adoring eyes in her direction. She examined each by turn—George, Andrew, Martin, John, Abigail, Thomas, Dolly, William, and Zachary. Pa had allowed her to name them, and she’d given them names of American leaders, straight from the history book he’d left behind. Her chest tightened in agony at the thought of handing them to another owner.

  She reached again for Martha. She curled her arms around the dog’s thick neck and kissed the top of her head. Martha returned her affection with several wet kisses. Lizzie laughed, but the sound ended with a strangled sob. “I won’t sell you to just anyone,” she promised, sealing the vow in her heart. “I’ll specially choose your new owners—only those who will treat you kindly.”

  Just as she finished speaking, a dog’s bark sounded from a distance. Martha didn’t react, so Lizzie knew the bark carried from one of the village dogs rather than from an unfamiliar team. Was the animal warning the village of Clay and Vivian Selby’s approach?

  An image of the two white people flooded her mind. It was evident from their appearance and speech that they were familiar with the ways of white men. Of refined white men, like Pa. And they’d come to teach the children white men’s ways. Thoughts rolled through her mind so rapidly she had difficulty grasping them before one faded to another. She must go to her father, yet she had no knowledge of the white men’s world. The white people came to teach . . . so might they be willing to teach Lizzie how to be white?

  Her fingers tightened on Martha’s ruff. She pushed the idea away. The white people were teaching in the village. And she wasn’t welcome there. The white man and woman would be of no use to her. Burying her face again in the dog’s muscular neck, Lizzie murmured, “I can’t stay here, yet I don’t fit anywhere else. What should I do?”

  Vivian stood a few feet away from the partially constructed school, her hands clasped at her throat, and peered over the building’s log ribs. Clay straddled the center roof beam, deftly strapping a cross beam in place with a length of rope. He whistled while he worked, and a group of native children clustered near Vivian. Their giggles and excited exclamations contrasted with the fear that wiggled through her heart.

  A silent prayer winged upward: Keep him safe. She’d been useless in the face of past disasters. If her stepbrother tumbled from his perch and was hurt or killed, what would she do? She cupped her hands beside her mouth and called over the children’s chatter, “Are you nearly finished up there, Clay?”

  He grinned and waved, swinging his feet in a careless manner that sent shivers of fear down Vivian’s spine. “Two more beams to tie, then I’ll start layering on the pine boughs we collected to hold the sod roof. See if the children will help you drag the boughs close to the school, where they’ll be easier for me to retrieve.” He began scooting his way toward the next crosspiece.

  Vivian, unwilling to witness his topple, spun to face the children. Using her limited Athabascan speech—thankfully, it was similar enough to the Kiowa language she needn’t be mute before the natives—and many hand gestures, she eventually communicated her wishes for the children’s assistance. They scampered eagerly toward the pile of boughs, their laughter ringing. Vivian wished she could summon as much enthusiasm as Clay and the children displayed. Where did Clay find his energy?

  In this land of long days and short nights, he worked more hours than he had in Oklahoma. He’d accomplished a great deal in their first three weeks in the village. Of course, he’d had help. After the village leaders decided knowledge of the English language in both spoken and written word would benefit the tribe, they’d offered assistance in constructing the mission school. Several Athabascan men had helped fell trees and transport the logs to the village. Others had erected huts—mere eight-foot-square shelters of twigs and bark—to serve as temporary homes for Clay and Vivian.

  But for every hour others contributed to the mission, Clay contributed two. He expected her to work twice as hard as anyone, also. That’s why she’d come—to be his helper. Mother had said Vivian would be his Timothy, referring to the young man who’d accompanied the biblical missionary Paul on his journeys. Oh, how Vivian wanted to be useful . . . but exhaustion plagued her, and her feet dragged as heavily as the pine bough she tugged across the ground.

  By the time she and the children had transferred a third of the boughs to the shelter, Clay had finished his overhead task and climbed down, using the logs that formed the walls as a ladder. With no mud chinking filling the gaps, the building resembled a huge bird cage. But Vivian had no doubt by the time Clay finished, it would be a lovely school. Her stepbrother’s abilities far exceeded her own. To waylay feelings of incompetence, she reminded herself that her turn to be most useful would come when the school was finally complete. She would teach. And she would teach well, thus proving her value.

  Clay threw his hands wide, indicating the pile of boughs, and beamed at the children. In Athabascan, he praised their fine work. They’d lived with the villagers less than a month, but Clay had picked up much of their vocabulary. The little ones danced in excitement, their round brown faces alight with pleasure. Then Clay turned to her. “I’m going to reward them with a song on the accordion. Keep bringing in branches while I play, would you?”

  Vivian wished she could sit and listen—to catch her breath and enjoy a cup of cool water from the stream that ran alongside the peaceful village. But she doubted Timothy ever disregarded Paul’s instruction, so she carted the pine boughs, one by one, and placed them next to the opening that would eventually hold a sturdy door while Clay played a lively tune and the children clapped along. Women and older men, drawn by the music, gathered near and created a barricade between the school and the pile of boughs. Although she’d intended to keep working, she stood on the outer rim of the circle and listened to Clay make music with the piano box. Was there nothing Clay couldn’t do?

  She didn’t want to be jealous of her stepbrother, but no matter how hard she tried, the bitter emotion wove its fingers through her middle. From the moment Clay’s father married her mother, Clay, three years older than Vivian, had assumed a position of importance in their family. Clay was strong and brave. He wasn’t afraid of spiders. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He could climb trees and chop wood and swing himself onto a horse’s back without clambering onto fence rails for a boost. When his father gave an order, his obedience was immediate and cheerful. He’d never let someone die, and there was never cause to send him away for his sins.

  “Viv?”

  Tangled up in thought, Vivian almost missed Clay’s query. She jolted and pushed her way through the gathered natives to reach Clay’s side, eager to escape the rush of guilt her inner reflections had brought to the surface. “Yes?”

  “Hand out some of the shortbread cookies. I think everyone would enjoy a treat.”

  Vivian hesitated, nibbling her dry lower lip. She’d hoped the shortbread cookies Mother had made from Aunt Vesta’s recipe would last a long time, giving her a little taste of home when she felt lonely. If she gave even just one to each of the people in the circle, the supply would be nearly depleted.

  “Vivian . . .” Clay’s tone took on a hint of impatience.

  Vivian nodded. “Of course.” She flashed a smile to the group of Gwich’ins and asked them, in a jumbled mix of Athabascan and English, to wait for her return. Then she dashed to the little hut where she slept and retrieved the tin container of cookies. She popped the lid and held the open tin toward the natives. They reached eagerly, and when all had cleared away, happily munching, only a few crumbs remained in the bottom. Vivian pressed the lid into place, determined not to cry and shame herself or Clay.

  Clay am
bled to her side and watched as the natives wandered back to their own duties. “We’re making progress, Viv. They wouldn’t have eaten your food if they didn’t trust you.”

  His words should have cheered her—after all, she wanted to be accepted here—but she couldn’t help mourning the loss of the small piece of home. She forced her quavering lips into a smile. “I’m g-glad they enjoyed the c-cookies.” She ducked her head, abashed by her stutter and the sudden sting of tears. Why couldn’t she be strong like Clay?

  Clay cupped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “What’s wrong?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  Vivian swallowed twice, bringing the irksome tears under control. “It’s silly. It’s just . . . they ate all the cookies, and the cookies reminded me of Boston and Aunt Vesta.” The reason sounded ridiculous even to her own ears. She jerked free of Clay’s loose hold and headed for her hut. “I’ll put the tin away and then—”

  Clay jogged to her side and caught her arm. She stiffened, prepared to be scolded for behaving childishly over something as insignificant as a tin of shortbread cookies. But when she looked into Clay’s face, she glimpsed compassion and a hint of remorse.

  “I should’ve asked if you wanted to share. The cookies weren’t mine to give.” He sighed, his gaze drifting from their side-by-side huts to the large, half-completed school building at the edge of the village. “I want to do good here, Viv—to give everything I’ve got so I can begin ministering.” Impatience flashed in his eyes. “Just getting the school built . . . it’s taking so long.”

  He grit his teeth, releasing a little growl. “I’m eager to follow my father’s footsteps, to stand in a pulpit and preach life-changing truths.” He faced her again, his expression softening. The gentleness in his eyes reminded her of her stepfather. “But I was wrong to expect you to give all. I didn’t realize the cookies meant so much to you.”

  He meant to comfort her—she recognized his sincerity—yet his words stung. Whether he realized it or not, he’d just accused her of selfishness. She blinked away the last vestige of tears. “I want to give all, too.” Her voice tightened with conviction. “I’m probably just . . . tired.” As if to prove her statement, her shoulders slumped. But she couldn’t be sure if weariness or defeat weighed her down.

  “Me too. We’ve worked hard.” Clay slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his gaze drifting to the log building. “But doesn’t it feel good to have so much accomplished?”

  Most of the accomplishments were his, but Vivian nodded.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday—our day of rest. We’ll enjoy it, hmm?”

  Clay always honored the Lord’s day, the way they had in Oklahoma, even though so much work awaited. Vivian sighed. “That sounds lovely.”

  He grinned. “We can read the Bible together, like we’ve been doing, but I think I’ll play some hymns on the accordion this time. And we can sing. The villagers will probably come listen—they’re so curious about everything we do. It’ll be their first church service, even if they don’t recognize it as such.”

  “Then maybe . . .” She paused for a moment, gathering her courage. “If the villagers will join us, should I prepare a larger meal? So we can . . . share?”

  She expected him to praise her for her thoughtfulness, but instead he laughed. “They might’ve enjoyed the cookies Ma baked for you, Viv, but I think we might scare them off with your cooking.”

  Vivian’s chest panged. Chauncy Burke had kept his promise to deliver their supplies to the river’s bank. A trio of Athabascan youths had willingly used their dogs and travoises to cart the crates to the village. But having pots, pans, and canned foods hadn’t transformed her into a suitable homemaker. She hung her head. “I know my cooking pales in comparison to Mother’s. But she’s had many years of practice. And Mother has a cookstove. It isn’t easy to cook over an open fire, Clay.”

  She cringed. Although she’d spoken truthfully, her reasons sounded like excuses, and excuses were for the weak.

  He patted her shoulder. “I know you’re trying.” He chuckled, leaning down to catch her eye. “I don’t reckon you learned open-pit cooking at Miss Roberts’ finishing school, huh?”

  Despite herself, Vivian released a soft giggle. Miss Roberts would be appalled if she saw Vivian right now with her broken, dirt-rimmed fingernails, filthy dress, and hair askew. “I certainly didn’t.”

  “Maybe you could ask one of the Gwich’in women to teach you,” Clay suggested. But then he shook his head. “Never mind. They probably wouldn’t be willing. They tend to protect themselves . . . not that we should blame them.”

  Vivian knew many white people didn’t treat the natives well. The Gwich’in had good reason not to trust Clay and her. She hoped she could win their trust before she wasted all of their precious food stores learning to cook—or before she starved Clay. She shuddered at the thought. Bearing the responsibility for the death of one person she loved was more than enough.

  “I’ll learn, Clay, I promise.” She turned and scurried into her hut. She sank onto the pile of pine needles covered by a wool blanket that served as her bed and closed her eyes, her heart pounding. She would learn. She would be a good missionary. She would save souls. She had to. It was the only way she could redeem her past sins.

  Chapter Five

  Lizzie groaned as she rolled out of her rope bed Sunday morning. She pushed her feet into her well-worn hand-sewn moccasins and shuffled to the window to peer out at the already bright day. Birdsong rang from the treetops, and the dewy ground glistened beneath the sun’s golden rays. No sign of the drizzle that sometimes accompanied the beginning of summer. She sighed in appreciation for the beautiful day.

  Her gaze wandered to the dog pen, and she released a soft giggle. The dogs were sitting up, their attentive faces aimed toward the cabin door as if they wondered why she hadn’t yet emerged. She smiled, grateful they hadn’t barked to rouse her. She’d slept hard and well last night—her first good sleep in weeks. She’d needed it after her hard work preparing the moose hide, its meat, and her garden plot.

  She yawned. Now that the seeds were safely in the ground, assuring her physical needs would be met, she could put her hands to work on Vitse’s coat. The moose hide had lain waiting, ignored, for too long. But today she could begin its construction. Her heart pounded in eagerness. A dog whined, reminding her the animals needed tending.

  She snagged the water bucket from its spot on the half-log bench beside the back door and headed outside. The sun’s brightness proved deceptive when she stepped into a damp, chill morning. She’d left her fur cloak on its peg and she considered retrieving it, but the dogs were already yipping and leaping against the fence in eagerness for their breakfast. She could ignore her discomfort long enough to feed and water her faithful companions.

  Swinging the bucket, she headed to the burbling creek. A rose finch swooped from its perch, its red plumage a bold splash of color against the green backdrops of pines. “Did you see that?” Lizzie gasped in delight, then sobered. Who was there to respond to her query? Sadness fell over her as she bent to fill her bucket. She glimpsed her reflection in the water—a solemn face, empty eyes. She straightened and headed toward the cabin, moving as quickly as possible without spilling the water.

  She filled the dogs’ water cans and then retrieved dried salmon for their breakfast, hardly mindful of their enthusiastic yips of pleasure. Even after living on her own for so long, the loneliness still took her by surprise at times. When she, Mama, and Pa all lived here, she hadn’t missed other people—her parents had served as friends and playmates as well as teachers and providers. But as much as she loved her dogs, they couldn’t replace the need for human companionship.

  “If I join Pa in San Francisco, I’ll never be lonely again,” she whispered to the dogs. Busy eating, none of them so much as looked up. Swallowing a sad sigh, she left the pen and fetched another bucket of water for her own use before returning to the cabin. She slipped inside and sat on the edge
of the bed, the cheer of the first morning minutes forgotten. “I miss you, Mama . . .”

  With thoughts of her mother, another longing rose. Sundays had been special days before Pa left—his one rare day of no work. They played games such as checkers, crokinole, or a matching game using a worn deck of cards. Mama always prepared an extra-special meal from the recipe book Pa had brought from his California home rather than cooking her traditional Athabascan foods. Pa loved sweets—any sweets—and Mama favored him with as many as she could bake in their tiny rusted cookstove. Lizzie’s mouth watered, recalling Pa’s favorite treat.

  Eager to grasp just one small piece of the happiness she once possessed, Lizzie dashed to the apple crate she used as a bookcase and pulled out the battered cookbook containing American recipes. She turned the pages with great care, and she let out a happy gasp when she came to a page with a turned-down corner. Setting the book aside, she hurried to her storage tins. Flour, sugar, baking powder, lard . . . She had everything she needed. Her mouth began watering in anticipation. The day suddenly seemed much brighter.

  Clay placed his accordion into the case and closed the lid. As soon as he buckled the case, sealing the instrument away, the villagers rose from their squatted positions and ambled toward their own huts. He winked at Vivian. He’d been right—the moment he’d begun to play, they’d gathered around, drawn by the music. When the mission school was completed, he’d add Bible-reading and a short sermon to the accordion playing. The natives were so fascinated by the accordion, surely they’d be willing to hear everything he had to share once he was ready to begin services.