Whoever had sneaked up behind her had taken perhaps four salmon. She could recover that number in a half hour’s time, so it wasn’t a devastating loss, but it angered her that someone would be lazy enough to simply take what she’d worked hard to gain. Based upon the size of the footprints, the thieves were young—perhaps no more than eight or nine years. But even a child of that age knew stealing was wrong. They should be reprimanded, perhaps punished, so they wouldn’t choose to take something that didn’t belong to them again.
Leaving her dip net on the bank, Lizzie took the time to strap the morning’s remaining salmon onto a travois and cover them with pine boughs to mask the scent of the fish, as she’d done with the previously caught fish. She moved Martha, her most trustworthy dog, closer to the line of birch travoises. “Down, Martha. Stay.” The dog whined low in her throat, but she hunkered down and rested her chin on her paws. “Good girl.”
Lizzie then untethered Andy—the fiercest looking of all her dogs with his bent ear, two-toned eyes, and a scar on his forehead from a tussle with George when he was still a pup—and set her lips in a grim line. “We’ll catch those little thieves, Andy, and you can give them a good scare when we do.”
Coiling the end of Andy’s tether firmly around her hand, she allowed him to lead her into the brush. It wasn’t difficult to follow the trail—broken branch tips on bushes and trampled leaves showed the course the thieves had taken. Their carelessness proved their youth and inexperience. When she and Andy were no more than two dozen yards into the woods, Andy’s ear perked up. Lizzie heard it, too—giggles. The dog curled his lips to show his teeth, but she gave a gentle tug on the tether, silencing any growls.
Lizzie tiptoed forward, holding Andy close at her side, and peeked between leafy branches into a small clearing. Two children, a girl and a boy, had gathered the makings for a fire. The boy sat on his haunches, striking a flint against a stone to light the pile of dry leaves. The girl sat off to the side, busily skewering a salmon with a sharpened stick. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth and her little brow puckered in concentration. Clearly, they’d cooked fish over an open fire before.
Lizzie looked past their expertise to their clothing. Could these children be from Gwichyaa Saa? Neither child wore the typical buckskin tunics of the Gwich’in tribe. Instead, the boy had on a shirt similar to the one worn by Clay Selby. The shirt, man-sized, hung below the boy’s knees, with the sleeves rolled into bulky wads at the child’s elbows. The girl’s dirty bare legs stuck out below the hem of a brown dress printed all over in little yellow and orange flowers.
Curiosity overcame Lizzie, and she stepped from the brush with Andy bristling beside her. Both children lurched to their feet, their frightened gazes fixed on Andy. The girl dropped the fish on top of the tiny flame. A sizzle sounded, accompanied by a thin coil of smoke as the fire died.
Lizzie pointed at the boy—the taller of the pair—and asked in Athabascan, “Where did you get those clothes?”
The boy licked his lips, his gaze darting back and forth between Andy and Lizzie. “From Clay Selby—a white man who lives in our village.”
Lizzie’s silly heart gave a jump at the sound of Clay’s name. She squelched the happy reaction. She should be angry with Clay for putting the children into white man’s clothing. Were their buckskin tunics not good enough? Yet, despite her best effort, she couldn’t conjure up indignation.
The little girl added in a shrill voice, “He gave them to us. We did not steal them.”
Lizzie frowned, partly because of their answers and partly because evidence of their thievery lay at their feet in the leaves. “But you stole my salmon.”
“Only three.” The fearful look fled the boy’s eyes, replaced by defiance. “You have many fish, but you are only one person. You have no need of them all.”
Lizzie dismissed his excuse with a wave of her hand. “You are here with one of the fish camps?”
Both children nodded.
“Then eat your own fish. Leave mine alone.”
The boy’s lip curled in derision, and he tugged the girl tight against his side. “Our vitse is old—she cannot catch as well as you.”
“It is only three fish,” the little girl challenged, her chin sticking out stubbornly.
Lizzie stifled a frustrated sigh. They’d wronged her. Why couldn’t they understand? She should talk to their grandmother, who apparently was raising them without teaching them principles. She took a step closer to the pair. “Where is your vitse?”
The little girl’s eyes flooded with tears. She sent a frantic look to the boy. His face hardened. “Why?”
“I want to tell her she has thieves for grandchildren.”
The girl clutched her brother’s hands. He squared his skinny shoulders. “Take your fish—we do not want them anymore.”
Lizzie glanced at the dead salmon, their bright scales coated with dry leaves and dirt. Then she looked again at the children. Despite the boy’s brave posture, she sensed a real fear underneath his bluster. Her heart softened. What were three fish, anyway? “Come, Andy.” She turned to go back to her camp.
“Are you going to take your fish?” The boy’s voice called after her.
Andy released a little growl in reply, but Lizzie gave his tether a pull and continued walking without responding to the child. She ruffled Andy’s ears. “Hush now. They’re just children. And they’re hungry.” The boy was even younger than she’d been when Pa left her alone with Mama. She remembered hunger. She wouldn’t wish it on these children. “As they said, it’s just three fish.”
Clay wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sat back on his barrel chair, shooting a grin at Vivian across the table he’d built inside the school. “That was good, Viv. Really good.”
Vivian nibbled the last of the rabbit from the bone and offered a smile in reply. “It was good, wasn’t it? Although, I have to say, the rabbit I had at Lizzie’s cooked in bear fat was even better. But lard will have to do. Now that I’ve learned to use a snare, we’ll be able to enjoy fresh meat now and then.”
Clay wouldn’t have imagined his squeamish stepsister finding the courage to kill and prepare small game for their table. Yet she’d surprised him twice in the past three days, first with a fat grouse and today with a rabbit. Her time with Lizzie was bringing changes that would serve them well as they established a home in Gwichyaa Saa. Vivian might make a fine missionary after all.
She lifted her chin, sniffing the air. The enticing aroma of smoked fish lingered over the entire village and drifted through the door and window openings. “I’d hoped some of them might choose to share a bit of their catches with us, but I suppose we’re on our own.”
Clay toyed with the edge of his plate. He’d cleared a sizable piece of ground behind the mission school and instructed Vivian to plant a garden with the seeds they’d brought from home, but he needed to contribute to their food stores, as well. They’d managed thus far on the canned milk, dried beef, and dry goods they’d brought from home, but eventually those items would be used up. Vivian’s snare wouldn’t feed them all through the winter months.
“We need to provide for ourselves, Viv. Everyone is expected to carry his or her weight in the tribe. Besides . . .” He pointed at her with a well-gnawed bone. “We’re here to serve, not to be served, remember?”
Vivian sent him an impatient look. “You needn’t preach at me, Clay. I know our purpose. But when we open the school and have children here each day, are you going to ask them to bring their own lunches? Or do you intend to provide a meal for them?”
Clay grimaced. “I imagine we’ll need to feed them.” Which meant he would need a larger supply of food than he’d first imagined. The natives stored their dried salmon and other foods in log caches set on stilts, safe from dogs or other animals. Perhaps when he’d finally completed the mission school, he would build a cache for their use and then turn his attention to hunting. If he felled a moose or an elk, their needs would be met for several m
onths.
Of course, hunting would take him away from the village and its people. He nearly groaned. His heart ached with the desire to preach. But other tasks ate up every bit of his time.
“I worry about not having enough food this winter.” Vivian’s anxious voice cut into Clay’s thoughts. “I wonder when the supplies the Mission Committee said they’d send are going to arrive. I expected them before now.”
Clay wondered the same thing. The Mission Committee that arranged his placement in Alaska had assured him he’d receive support in the way of food—sacks of flour, sugar, cornmeal, potatoes, onions, and turnips—and school supplies such as paper tablets, books, and slates. But so far, the only items they’d received were the stove he’d ordered and the barrels of clothing sent by Vivian’s church friends.
He voiced an idle worry. “Maybe they arrived in Fort Yukon, and the folks on the docks peeked in all the crates and decided to keep the things they liked rather than send them on for the Indians to use.”
Vivian wrinkled her nose. “You sound like that awful man who gave us the canoe ride.” Then her face clouded. “But do you think it’s possible someone absconded with our supplies?”
Clay patted her hand. “Brother Mercer assured me he had a reliable contact in Fort Yukon who would be responsible for transporting any goods to us here in the village. You know how long it took the things we shipped from Oklahoma to arrive. I’m sure the goods are just delayed.”
Vivian sniffed and began clearing the makeshift table. “Well, if they don’t hurry, the potatoes might very well be rotten before they reach us. And I may have eaten a rabbit I skinned and gutted myself, but I refuse to eat a rotten potato!”
Clay laughed and rose. Over the past few days, the soreness from his fall had eased, but he still felt a catch in his right hip if he moved too quickly. He tried not to favor the leg too much, though, because his limp always brought a frown of concern to Vivian’s face. “I’m taking the bushel basket to the river for clay. I hope to have a good portion of the north wall chinked by bedtime.”
“Let me clear these dishes, and then I’ll go with you.”
Ever since his fall, Vivian had hovered near, as if afraid to let him out of her sight. While he appreciated her concern, her attentiveness was starting to feel cloying. He shook his head. “No, you stay here.”
“But—”
“I’d rather you weeded the garden.” He ignored her crestfallen expression and started out the door, but then he turned back. “When do you intend to see Lizzie again?” Oddly, mentioning the woman’s name raised a desire to see her himself.
Vivian brushed a few stray strands of hair from her face. “The day after tomorrow, probably. She said she would be at the river, fishing, for four days. Why?”
“Do you think she’d be willing to hunt for us? Something bigger than a rabbit—something that would feed us for a long time. Maybe we could offer her a bushel of potatoes or . . . or some cornmeal or sugar in trade . . . when the supplies finally arrive.”
Vivian stacked the dishes, her expression thoughtful. “I can ask. I don’t know that she’ll have need of a food trade, though. She’s planning to leave Alaska.”
Something akin to panic caught in Clay’s breastbone. “She’s leaving?”
“Yes. That’s why she wishes to learn to be white. She said she’s moving to San Francisco and won’t return.” Vivian’s lips puckered into a pout. “I’ll miss her. She’s so different than any of my friends from Hampshire County, but I’ve grown fond of her. I wish I could convince her to stay.”
“Do you know why she wants to leave?”
Vivian laughed softly, shaking her head. “I’ve asked her twice, and both times she’s changed the subject. She is quite secretive about her reasons.”
“When does she intend to go?”
Vivian banged dishes together. “She wants to be gone soon—before winter, certainly.”
Soon . . . The prick of panic grew. Clay needed to hurry even more. After visiting with Shruh and Co’Ozhii, he’d decided his first sermons to the Gwich’ins of the village must focus on the concept of forgiveness. If he preached it well, they might pardon whatever transgression Lizzie’s mother had committed and welcome Lizzie into their tribe. Surely the lonely woman would be grateful to receive their pardon and acceptance. Maybe it would be enough to make her stay.
He gave himself a little jerk that spurred his feet into motion. “I’m heading to the river now. Remember those weeds—they’re choking out our plants.”
Vivian released a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Clay, I’ll remember.”
He hustled out the door, rubbing his aching hip as a prayer filled his mind. Please let her change her mind and stay. Vivian relies on her friendship. His steps slowed, his thoughts rumbling to a halt. Did he want Lizzie to stay for Vivian’s sake . . . or his own?
Chapter Twelve
Lizzie hung the last of the salmon filets over the smoke-darkened beams of her smoking hut and closed the door. She had hoped Vivian might come and assist in preparing the salmon for smoking. Several times during the day, Lizzie had paused to search the break in the trees, eager for the white woman’s arrival, but the entire day had slipped by. Vivian must be with Clay. Desire for companionship stirred in Lizzie’s heart—to never be alone must be a glorious thing. And I will know that glory very soon.
Rubbing the base of her spine with both hands, she angled her gaze to the distance, where the proud mountain Denali disappeared into the clouds. Mama had always said they were never alone because they lived in Denali’s shadow. Mama found comfort in Denali’s presence, but Lizzie wanted more than a mountain as a companion.
Tiredness washed over her, and she longed to enter her cabin and crawl into bed until her aching arms and shoulders found relief. But she had one more chore that must be tended—burying the fish bones and skins between the rows in her vegetable garden. With a sigh, she retrieved her shovel. The stench of the rotting pile drew insects and soured the air around her cabin. No matter how tired she was from her days of fishing and then preparing the meat, she would put that detestable mess underground where it would serve as fertilizer.
With the shovel propped on her shoulder, she trudged to the garden plot between the cabin and the dog pens. Her father had carved away all the wild growth years ago, leaving a clear expanse where the sun could spread its warmth on the corn, squash, pumpkins, cabbages, and carrots. Wearily, she pressed the shovel’s blade into the dirt and turned the soil, creating a shallow ravine all along the garden’s edge. Then, her feet dragging, she plopped shovelful after shovelful of salmon remains into the ravine before scooping the dirt back into place.
Her dogs slept, tired from dragging the huge cache of fish to Lizzie’s cabin. They’d dozed the day away and would probably sleep until tomorrow morning. Lizzie envied their ability to drop to the ground, curl into a ball, and drift away.
She had just begun digging the fourth and final ravine when a rustle in the brush caught her attention. Two of the dogs lifted their heads in curiosity, but after sniffing the air, they lay back down. Lizzie kept her gaze aimed at the place she’d heard the sound, waiting. Moments later, Vivian stepped into the clearing with a basket swinging on her arm.
Lizzie’s spirits lifted at the sight of her friend. Then she looked past Vivian, searching for a glimpse of Clay. She pushed aside the brief pang of disappointment that Vivian was alone and moved to greet the white woman. “You’ve come in the evening? You always come in the morning.”
Vivian smiled. “I know, but it doesn’t grow dark, so I can find my way.”
“But it isn’t as safe,” Lizzie chided. Clutching the shovel with both hands, she said, “Animals hunt in the evening hours. You shouldn’t come alone.” If she frightened Vivian enough, perhaps next time she’d bring Clay with her.
Worry briefly flashed in Vivian’s eyes. “I’ll remember for next time.” Then her expression cleared, a smile chasing away the concern. “I missed you while yo
u were gone.” She wrinkled her nose, waving her hand in front of her face. “But, phew, you smell of fish.” Then she put her hands on her hips. “And you aren’t wearing your dress.”
Lizzie ducked her head. “It gets in the way of fishing.”
Vivian laughed. “I suppose you’re right.” She reached into the basket and lifted out a bundle wrapped in a piece of burlap. “I brought you something. Clay got my stove working, so I was able to bake this afternoon. I made cookies. Shortbread—like the ones my mother baked for me before I left Oklahoma.” Her eyes misted with tears, and she blinked rapidly. “I hope you’ll enjoy them.”
Lizzie dropped the shovel and reached for the package. No one had given her a gift since she was a little girl. She wasn’t sure how to react. So she stood silently with the little bundle balanced on her palms, staring into Vivian’s face. After several seconds, she blurted, “You love your mother.”
The tears reappeared, deepening the green of Vivian’s eyes. “Yes, I do.”
“She’s alive—you’ve told me so. If she is alive, why aren’t you with her?” If Lizzie’s mother were alive, nothing would compel her to go somewhere else.
Vivian sighed. “It’s hard to explain, Lizzie. I love my mother, and I know she loves me, but I lived away from her for many years. Ever since my father . . . my father . . .” She gulped, and one tear trickled down her cheek. “Since he died.” She sucked in a great breath, as if saying the words robbed her of air. “Now my mother and I are . . . strangers. It’s somehow easier to be apart.”
Lizzie frowned. Being apart from her mother and Pa had never gotten easier.
Vivian went on. “So I came here to help Clay. This is my home now.” As she spoke, her voice gained strength. “From now on, I’ll be an Alaskan.”
Lizzie curled her hands around the package of cookies. “This is what you truly want? To stay here, away from the mother you love?”
For a moment, Vivian looked off to the side, as if traveling somewhere in her mind. Then she gave a brusque nod. “Yes. This is where I must remain.” Her chin jerked, and she faced Lizzie again. “Are you leaving because your mother is gone? Or is it because of your grandparents?”
A Whisper of Peace Page 10
