A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Vivian tugged her skirts aside and pushed to her feet. “It must be noon. My stomach is growling. Should we eat?”

  Clay managed to hide a grimace. Vivian, despite her best efforts, still hadn’t managed to conquer the challenge of cooking over an open flame. Everything was either underdone or charred. But he’d eat whatever she fixed. He needed food to keep up his strength to finish building the school. “Sure.” He slapped his belly and forced his lips into an eager smile. “What’re we having?”

  “Stew.” She scurried across the cleared ground to her hut.

  Clay followed and peeked into the pot that held their dinner. A thick grayish broth burped up lumps of potatoes, carrots, and—judging by the smell—some kind of fish. Clay’s appetite fled. Vivian approached with two tin bowls and a ladle. Spoon handles poked out of her apron pocket. She pressed the bowls into his hands and dipped the ladle into the stew. Steam rose as she lifted a scoopful and filled one bowl. She scooped a serving for the second bowl then dropped the ladle into the pot.

  She looked at the felled log where they’d sat to eat all of their meals so far, and she pursed her lips. “I wish we at least had a decent table and chairs at which to sit.”

  Clay stared at the bowls’ unappetizing contents, his nose twitching at the strong fishy odor rising with the steam. “Would that help the food taste better?” He hadn’t intended to voice the thought, and he instantly regretted his slip of the tongue.

  Vivian snatched up her skirts and stormed to the hut. She gave the blanket that covered the opening a fierce toss and disappeared. If there had been a solid wood door to slam, Clay felt certain his ears would be ringing. He heard a couple of deep chuckles, and he glanced over his shoulder to find two native men watching. Clay’s cheeks burned with humiliation. He set down the bowls and scurried to Vivian’s hut.

  “Viv, can I come in?” He kept his voice low, aware of listening ears.

  “No. Go away.”

  Another rumble of chuckles from the men behind him squared his shoulders. Even though he knew he’d face Vivian’s ire, he said, “I’m coming in.” He pushed the blanket aside and stepped into the hut. With a blanket guarding the door and no windows to allow in light, murky gray shrouded the small room. Only a few thin bands of sunlight sneaked between tiny cracks in the walls and ceiling. He blinked a few times before making out Vivian’s stiff form in the opposite corner.

  She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “I told you to go away.”

  Clay took two steps into the room, nearly closing the gap between them. A scuffling noise came from outside the hut, and Clay knew the men had drawn near, eager to hear his exchange with Vivian. He wanted to be gentle with her, as his father had directed before they’d left home, but would the men think him weak and therefore lose respect for him? Inwardly praying for his stepsister’s cooperation, he said, “I heard what you said. But my going away won’t change anything.”

  Her chin jerked upward, her lips forming a grim line of irritation. Before she could form a retort, he leaned forward and whispered, “We can’t talk here—let’s take a walk in the woods where we’ll have privacy.”

  Mutterings and another chuckle sounded from outside. Vivian’s gaze zipped to the doorway, then returned to Clay. She gave a brusque nod and moved past him to push the blanket aside. The two Gwich’in men jumped back in surprise. Clay hurried after Vivian, with the men’s chortles ringing in his ears. He waited until they were well away from the village before he grabbed her arm and drew her to a halt.

  “Vivian, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Her expression remained stony. He sighed. “I know you’re trying. Maybe we should see about having a stove shipped to us here in the village.”

  Her lips twisted in derision. “A stove takes up room, Clay. I hardly have the space to turn around in my little hut without bumping my elbow on something.”

  She was right—their huts, although they provided shelter, were much too confined to accommodate even a small cooking stove. Eventually, after they’d established themselves well with the natives, he hoped to build each of them a large log cabin, but it might be a full year before he had the time to spare. “What if we put it in the mission school? And I could build a work counter where we could pull up a couple of stools and take our meals.”

  Hope flared in her eyes. “Truly? That would be lovely. Even such a small measure of civility would—” Her head jerked sharply toward the west, her eyes widening.

  Clay’s heart gave a jolt, and he looked in the same direction, fully expecting to see a bear or some other predator advancing. What else could have brought about such a strong reaction? But only trees, shrubs, and ferns greeted his eyes. He looked at her again. “Viv, what—?”

  She sniffed the air, her face lighting. “Do you smell that?”

  A delightful aroma found his nostrils. Saliva pooled under his tongue and his stomach rolled over in longing. He swallowed. Vivian took off. “Where are you going?”

  She paused midstep and shot him an impatient look. “I want to know where it’s coming from.”

  “But—”

  “Do we have work to do today?”

  “No. This is our day of rest.”

  A smile burst across her face. “Then let’s go!” She shot toward the trees.

  The delightful aroma enticing his senses, Clay decided not to argue. He trotted after her.

  Lizzie used a mitten made of rabbit fur to protect her hand as she removed the tray of cookies from the stove’s belly. Just as her fingers grasped the blackened tray, her dogs began a raucous chorus. She slid the tray to the top of the stove, slammed the door, and ran to the window. The dogs leapt against the fence, teeth bared, their angry barks mingling with snarls.

  A chill attacked her frame. Wild animals rarely ventured near enough to stir the dogs’ fury, but the occasional hunter, gold seeker, or trapper entered her clearing. Not all of them were good-hearted. She grabbed Pa’s rifle from its pegs on the wall and charged out the back door, the barrel aimed in the same direction the dogs faced. “Hush!” At her command, the barking ceased, but the dogs continued to snarl and growl low in their throats, straining against the fence. Lizzie called, “Who’s there?”

  The brush rustled, and two people emerged, both with white, wary faces. The same two people Lizzie had encountered a few weeks ago. The tip of the rifle barrel wavered as Lizzie considered lowering her weapon. But she’d better wait until she knew their intentions. She cocked the rifle, squinting. “What do you want here?”

  The man—Clay Selby, Lizzie recalled—held up both hands. His gaze zinged back and forth between her rifle and the bristling dogs. “We don’t mean any harm. We . . .” He licked his lips, showing his nervousness. “Vivian smelled something good, and—”

  His woman darted in front of him. “Are you baking shortbread?”

  Lizzie blinked twice in surprise. The woman had appeared meek at their first meeting, yet today she interrupted her man. No Athabascan woman would be so bold. Lizzie answered without thinking. “Sugar cookies.”

  The woman’s face fell. “Oh. I’d hoped . . .”

  Lizzie lowered her rifle. Slicing her arm through the air, she commanded, “Dogs, lie down!” Although they whined, they obeyed. Silence fell, lengthening as Lizzie stared across the small clearing at the pair of white people and they stared back. They’d received an answer to their question—why didn’t they leave? Lizzie turned to go inside, but as she reached her door, the same loneliness that had plagued her earlier returned. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to have someone to talk to? And they were harmless—a pair of cheechakos.

  She whirled around. “Do you want one?”

  They’d turned toward the woods, but at her abrupt question they halted in unison and peered over their shoulders at her. The man said, “One . . . what?”

  “A cookie.” Impatience sharpened Lizzie’s tone. “You said you smelled them. Do you want one?”

  The woman nodded eagerly. She
took hold of the man’s hand and pulled him forward. When they reached Lizzie, the woman’s gaze bounced to the rifle cradled in Lizzie’s arms. “We’d feel much more secure if you were to put away your weapon.”

  Lizzie felt more secure with the rifle in hand. What if they took advantage of her hospitality and tried to steal her furs? Unsmiling, she searched their faces, and a bit of her apprehension melted. They may have come to bring change in the Gwich’in village, but she sensed they didn’t intend her harm. “Come in.” She marched inside and placed the rifle on its pegs.

  They entered, and their gazes roved the cabin, seeming to examine every detail. Lizzie pointed to the rough-hewn table her father had constructed. “Sit.” As compliant as her dogs, they crossed the hard-packed dirt floor. Clay Selby pulled out a chair for Vivian before seating himself. An odd spiral of longing rose in Lizzie’s breast at his unexpected gesture. Did white men serve their women rather than waiting for their women to serve them? Pa was white, and she’d never witnessed him performing such a courtesy for Mama.

  Confused by her reaction to Clay Selby’s kind action, she whirled to face the stove. She scraped the cookies off the now-cool pan onto a battered tin plate and carried it to the table. Placing it between the pair, she commanded, “Eat.” Then she returned to the stove to prepare another batch for baking. The dough had become sticky in her time away, but by flouring her hands she managed to form small amounts into balls and press them flat with the bottom of a tin can dipped in sugar. Soon the pleasant aroma of baking cookies filled the small cabin once again. Lizzie inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet scent that brought back equally sweet memories.

  “Ahem.” The sound of a clearing voice chased away her daydream. She turned toward the table, where her guests sat perched like a pair of otters watching guard from a flat rock. The man smiled, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes. “Are you going to join us?”

  His kindly worded invitation, coupled with the gentle smile on his tanned face, affected Lizzie in an unfamiliar way. Nervous, but uncertain why, she shifted her gaze from his friendly expression to the plate on the table. It remained untouched. Confused, she looked at the man again, and then the woman. “I thought you wanted a cookie.”

  The woman smoothed her skirt over her knees and tipped her head slightly. Even though her hands looked chapped and a smear of dirt marred her chin, she carried herself regally. She spoke in a soft, pleasant voice. “It is customary for the hostess to be seated before guests partake of any treat.”

  Lizzie sensed no recrimination in the woman’s tone or expression, yet defeat bowed her shoulders. No matter what Mama had said, Lizzie would never fit into her father’s world. She didn’t even know she should sit and eat with guests. She would bring shame to her father’s household if she went to him. Yet she had no other choice.

  Her gaze zipped from the man to the woman, her heart pounding so hard and fast her breath came in little spurts. They might deny the request that formed in her heart and strained for release, but for Mama’s peace, she had to ask. Stumbling to the table, she held out her hands to the pair of visitors. “Will . . . will you teach me all that is customary? Will you teach me . . . to be white?”

  Chapter Six

  The native woman wouldn’t have surprised Vivian more if she’d smacked her over the head with the cookie pan. For a moment, Vivian wondered if she had been whacked, because her world seemed to spin. She caught the edge of the table’s rough top and tried to calm her galloping heart.

  Did this woman truly want to learn to be white? Although Vivian had come to Alaska to be of service, she had few skills—she couldn’t cook, and she couldn’t construct buildings. It might be weeks before she had the opportunity to begin teaching the Gwich’in children the English language and then to read and write. But thanks to her attendance in Miss Roberts’ finishing school, she knew etiquette.

  The opportunity to be of use—to prove herself capable—stood before her dressed in a buckskin tunic, leggings, and beaded moccasins. It wouldn’t be easy to transform this native woman into a proper lady, but she could do it. She squared her shoulders and opened her mouth to voice her agreement.

  Clay cleared his throat. “Viv? Let’s have a cookie, and then you and . . .” He sent a sheepish look toward the Athabascan woman. “Lizzie, is that right?” He waited until the woman gave a curt nod. “You and Lizzie can discuss exactly what she’d like to learn.” Leaning sideways slightly on the stool, he added in a low tone, “Maybe you could swap lessons. Manners for cooking and trapping and so forth.”

  The woman stood staring at the pair of them with a stoic expression. Heat filled Vivian’s face. She and Clay talking to each other as if Lizzie wasn’t in the room was hardly proper protocol. What kind of a teacher modeled such a poor example? She indicated the open chair across the table with a graceful flick of her wrist. “Please, Lizzie. Sit and join us. While we partake of your gracious hospitality, we can discuss your specific needs.”

  Lizzie slid into the chair and stared across the table at Vivian. “My need is simple. I must be white.” She lifted a cookie and took a bite.

  Vivian examined Lizzie. Although she did everything abruptly, as if time was in danger of disappearing before her tasks were complete, she held an innate elegance of movement that Vivian couldn’t help but admire. With her dusky skin, glistening hair, and vivid blue eyes, she was a striking woman.

  “But you’re a lovely native woman,” Clay said, reaching for a cookie. “Why do you want to be white?”

  Lizzie shot Clay a stern look. “You came to teach white man’s ways to the children of Gwichyaa Saa. Will you withhold the same teachings from me?”

  Vivian snatched up a cookie and nibbled it to hide her smile. Vivian often exhibited spunk, but hers was manufactured to mask her insecurities. This Gwich’in woman had genuine spunk. Perhaps she would learn a great deal from Lizzie.

  Clay offered Lizzie one of his disarming grins. Mother had laughingly said Clay could charm the stripes from a skunk, but Vivian sensed he’d met his match in this feisty Gwich’in woman. “Of course you’re welcome to learn the same things we came to teach the children.” Clay brushed crumbs from his shirt front and picked up a second cookie. “But I think you’ve misunderstood our purpose here. We don’t intend to teach the children white man’s ways—we’ve come to teach them God’s ways.”

  Lizzie’s fine eyebrows lowered. Her lips puckered, as if she found the flavor of her cookie unpleasant. “The ways of the white man’s God are for white men. You’ve come to change the children. But the children are happy as Athabascans. They have no desire to change.” She aimed her thumb at her chest. “I desire to change. Teach me instead. Leave the children alone.”

  Clay shook his head, his jaw jutting into a stubborn angle Vivian recognized all too well. “We’ve come to teach the children, and to preach God’s Word to the entire village. We’re happy to invite you to join us, but—”

  The scent of scorched sugar filled the cabin. Lizzie jumped up and dashed to the stove. She whisked the tray from the heat chamber and smacked the pan onto the iron top. A tinny clang assaulted their ears. She shook her fingers, hissing through her teeth.

  Vivian jumped up. “Did you burn your hand? Shall I fetch some cold water?” She spotted a water bucket on a low bench right inside the cabin’s back door and moved in that direction.

  “I’m fine.” Lizzie’s sharp retort brought Vivian to a halt in the middle of the floor. She stood, uncertain, while Lizzie glared at the burnt, broken cookies in the pan. Suddenly, Lizzie balled her hands on her hips and whirled, turning the seething look on Clay. “You will teach me here.”

  Clay chuckled softly. “But we’re teaching in the mission, which is in the village.”

  “The village isn’t open to me.”

  Clay rose and crossed the brief expanse of floor to reach Lizzie’s side. “Why not?”

  Vivian leaned forward slightly, eager to hear Lizzie’s response. Over the past weeks of
working in the village, she’d often pondered why Lizzie lived separate from the village. Now her curiosity would be satisfied.

  Lizzie turned her back and began scraping bits of cookie from the tray. “That isn’t your concern. But I can’t go there. You’ll have to come here.” She looked past Clay, locking eyes with Vivian. “You’ll come here . . . won’t you?”

  Vivian glimpsed a deep longing—almost a desperation—in the woman’s unusual blue eyes. She knew she would be subjected to a reprimand from Clay later, but she couldn’t refuse. “Of course I will.” She sent a warning look at Clay, daring him to contradict her. He set his lips in a grim line and remained silent. Turning back to Lizzie, Vivian added, “And while I’m here, you can teach me, too.”

  Lizzie’s eyebrows flew high. “What could I teach you?”

  “Athabascan customs, so I don’t offend the villagers.” She chose not to mention cooking in front of Clay. She’d talk to Lizzie privately at another time.

  Lizzie shook her head. “I am not the one to teach you how not to offend the villagers. I offend them with my presence.”

  Although her tone was harsh, Vivian believed pain underscored the fierce statement. How well she understood feeling unwanted. She’d been cast from her home, too. But what sin had this lovely, lonely Athabascan woman committed to earn the village’s scorn?

  Clay intervened. “I’m sure you’d be allowed to come to the mission. I’ll speak to the village leaders and—”

  “No!” Lizzie’s face blazed red. She pointed to the open door. “You’ve eaten some cookies. Go.”

  Clay gulped. “But I didn’t mean to—”

  “Leave.” Lizzie yanked up the crusty pan and pushed past Clay. She charged through the door and whirled around the corner, disappearing from view.

  Clay and Vivian stood staring at each other in the quiet cabin. Vivian cocked her head and offered a sardonic look. “That went well.”