“Look, Etu—such nice beds! One for me and one for you!”
Clay’s spirits bounced between joy at their obvious delight and regret because they wouldn’t be able to enjoy the room. He felt as though he rode a teeter-totter.
Etu flopped onto the bed near the window and stretched out, folding his arms under his head. He grinned from ear to ear. Naibi clambered into the second one. She giggled, bounced on her bottom a couple of times, and then smoothed her hands over the now-rumpled blanket.
“Oh, it is so soft and nice, Mister Clay.” The little girl sent Clay a dimpled smile, her dark eyes bright. “I love this bed.” She curled on her side, using her stacked hands as a pillow. “I could sleep here for forever.” She yawned.
Clay looked at Etu. The boy’s eyes drooped. Clay said, “Are you tired?”
“Ayi—yes.” Etu gave a lazy shrug. “It is hard to sleep in our new home. The hides, they are scratchy, and little animals crawl on us at night.”
Clay tried not to shudder. He needed to talk to Tabu about ridding his house of mice. Maybe he didn’t mind sharing with the little pests, but the children deserved better. “Would you . . . like to sleep here?”
Both children’s eyebrows shot upward in happy speculation.
He added quickly, “Just a nap.”
Their expressions fell. Naibi said, “Not night?”
Clay thought his heart might break, but he had to be honest. “No, not at night. The village leaders said you’re to stay with your uncle Tabu.”
“He is not our uncle,” Etu groused, his brows pinching into a scowl. “He does not even want us. He said so.”
Etu’s comment didn’t surprise Clay. Why would an elderly man want to care for two young, active children? He crossed to the bed and curled his hand over Etu’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you and Naibi aren’t happy, but we have to do what the tribal leaders say. So you have to stay with Tabu. But you can come here for school every day, and if you like, you can use these beds to take a nap.” He gave Etu’s chin a little flick and winked at Naibi. “But I won’t let you sleep all day. We still have schoolwork to do.”
Both children pretended to groan, and Clay laughed. Then, in unison, they closed their eyes. They looked so peaceful, a lump formed in Clay’s throat. How he wished they could stay with him.
Clay closed the door, then pressed his forehead to the smooth sanded wood. His heart ached. For the children, who needed a better home. For Lizzie, who needed the love of God and the comfort of family. For the villagers, whose stubbornness held them back from hearing the message of God’s grace. And for himself. Even for himself.
Turning from the door, he moved to the front bench and sat, staring at the log wall in front of him. So many lofty plans had brought him to this place. And nothing had turned out the way he’d intended. Why had things gone so awry?
He pushed to his feet, planning to lay out the items needed for bread baking, but when he looked toward the work counter, another idea took precedence. More than he needed bread, he needed advice. And he knew who could provide it. After retrieving his writing paper, ink, and pen, he seated himself on a barrel and dipped the pen in the ink. Dear Pa . . .
Vivian paused, chewing the end of the pencil the telegrapher had provided for her to record her message on a small square of paper. He’d cautioned her to keep the message short—ten words or less. How could she condense the message and still express her heart’s desire? Years of pent-up confusion, hurt, and anger longed for release. She’d already written one word: Mother.
She stared at it, a picture of her mother forming in her mind. Tall, slender, a serious face graced with kind eyes. Eyes that had lost a bit of their sparkle with Papa’s death. Eyes that had watched Vivian from across the room the day of Papa’s funeral, so much pain reflected that Vivian couldn’t look at her for more than a few seconds at a time. Yet the remembrance was burned forever into her memory.
“Miss?” The man across the counter toyed with his little cap. “Train’s due to pull out in five minutes. You best get to writing. ’Less you changed your mind about sending a telegram?”
Vivian jerked, startled from her reverie. “No, I . . . I haven’t changed my mind. It’s just—” The train’s warning whistle blared. She needed to hurry. Pressing the rounded point to the paper, she scrawled a quick message: Need to talk. Will write long letter from Vesta’s. Her hand shaking, she finished: Love, Vivian.
The man took it from her and scowled at it for a moment. “Gotta cut a word for it to go at forty cents.” He pressed the paper against the scarred counter and drew a line through the word love. Vivian covered her quivering lips with her fingers. The man’s action served as a reminder of the change in her relationship with Mother after Papa died.
“Forty cents.” He held out his hand in expectation.
She withdrew four Liberty Head dimes from her little coin purse and dropped them in the telegrapher’s hand just as the train blared its whistle again—a long, piercing shriek.
“That’s the last ’un,” the man hollered over the shrill sound. “You best skedaddle!”
Vivian snatched up her reticule, dashed out of the office, and clattered across the wooden boarding deck. The train’s conductor stood outside the passenger train, obviously seeking someone. When he spotted her, he waved frantically. He hopped onto the little landing and held out his hand. She grabbed hold, and he hefted her up at the same time steam chug-chugged and the train’s big wheels squeaked into motion.
He opened the door to the passenger car and ushered Vivian through. She scuttled to her seat and sat, smoothing her skirts into place. She offered the conductor a relieved smile. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”
He tipped his hat, his mustache twitching with a grin. “Glad we got you onboard. I was afraid you were going to miss your last chance.” He shuffled between the aisles, requesting tickets.
Vivian sank into the seat, the man’s final words echoing through her mind. “Your last chance . . .” Might the letter she intended to write to Mother be her last chance to set things right? A second thought followed, one that made her mouth go dry. What if my last chance fails? Will I be forced to carry the weight of Papa’s death to my own grave?
Chapter Thirty
Lizzie gave a mighty, final tug to the ropes securing the cured hides to the travois. Nothing shifted. Nodding in satisfaction, she moved to the next travois. She could have filled four travoises with furs, but she only owned three. So she’d piled them high and tied them securely. At least two thousand dollars worth of furs awaited transport to the trading post in Fort Yukon. But she’d be lucky to get half that amount.
Pursing her lips with regret, she double-checked a knot on the final travois. She’d get more if she could take the furs to White Horse instead, but the dogs wouldn’t be able to drag the travoises that distance. If she wanted to sell in White Horse, she’d need to wait until the snows fell and she could mush the dogs with the loaded sled. Sailing over snow was much easier than dragging poles across the ground. But the snows were still months away. She had no desire to stay here by herself that much longer. Besides, a thousand dollars was plenty of money. More than enough to take her to California, with much left over to give to Pa. She admired the well-filled travoises, satisfaction puffing her chest. Wouldn’t Pa be proud to see how successful she’d become?
Raucous barking intruded in her thoughts. The dogs leapt against their enclosure, releasing excited yips. Lizzie laughed, shaking her head. The animals knew what the loaded travoises meant, and they were eager to work. She crossed to the pen and reached over the wire, scratching their ears by turn. “Yes, yes, I know you want to help me.” Her voice caught. Such good dogs. Such faithful companions. She swallowed tears. She would miss them. “We’ll go soon. Not yet, but soon. Down. Down.” Whining low in their throats, they obeyed.
Spinning on the soft heel of her moccasin, she headed for her cabin. She charged through the door, intending to grab the last two items she wante
d to take with her—the moose-hide coat and her pa’s rifle—and leave. But when she stepped over the threshold something made her pause. Weeks of anticipation and days of frantic preparation had led her to this moment of departure. Now that the time had arrived, she wasn’t ready to go.
She stood, looking into the single room that had been her home her entire life. Memories tumbled on top of one another in a dizzying explosion of thought and feeling. Everything in the room, from the ragged curtains of bleached muslin billowing gently in the breeze to the braided rag rugs on the floor held meaning and value. Her eyes skittered from one item to another, her mind flipping through memories. Mama had made this; Pa had used that. The back of her nose stung, and she sniffed hard.
It hurt to leave so many belongings behind, but of what use would her battered pots and pans, her traps, and her well-used books be in California, the land of extravagance? She’d decided to take only those things that could serve her well in the city—the dresses and underclothes Vivian had given her and small items of personal use, such as the silver teapot Pa had given to Mama their first year together and the beautiful beaded necklace Mama had made for her shortly before she died.
The furniture, her few tunics and leggings—except those she now wore for travel, and her cooking items must all stay behind. Lizzie moved to the bed and sat. The old ropes creaked with her weight, the sound as familiar as a lullaby. She smoothed her hand over the straw mattress, bare now since she’d used the blankets to protect her furs from the bite of the ropes. She’d been birthed on this bed. Probably even conceived on this bed. And now, with the cabin standing empty, passing trappers and traders would come in and sleep on it. Perhaps Athabascan hunters from other villages might choose to stay in her cabin rather than in the hunting shacks that peppered the woods—the cabin would be much warmer than the simple bark or hide huts, the bed more comfortable than a pile of pine needles covered with a blanket.
Curling her fingers around the edge of the mattress, she shifted her attention from the bed to the old rusty cookstove. In her mind’s eyes, she imagined strangers in her home, lighting a fire in her cookstove, making use of her things. Her chest tightened until she could barely draw a breath. She jumped to her feet. Where were the iron padlocks Pa had used to secure his fur caches? They must still be here somewhere. She should find the padlocks and put them on her doors to keep everyone away.
She gave herself a little shake. Drawing in a long, slow breath, she brought her racing pulse under control. She unclenched her hands and made a sweeping gesture, as if wiping the notion from her head. “You don’t want these things anymore. You’ll be living in a fine house with your father. Why shouldn’t someone else use this old cabin and these old things?” But she looked again at the bed fashioned by her father’s hands more than twenty years ago, and the jealousy pinching her heart didn’t release.
“Enough. Time to go.” Setting her jaw at a determined angle, she marched to the corner and grabbed up the coat she’d made for Vitse. She whispered her plans aloud, slipping easily into the Athabascan tongue. “One last visit to the village of my mother’s birth. I will see my grandparents and try, for the sake of my mother, to restore peace. Then I will offer the food stores in my cache to Clay Selby for his use.”
What pleasure she would find in offering Clay the supply of smoked moose and salmon, the bushel baskets of corn and squash and pumpkins. Knowing he wouldn’t go hungry thanks to her made her want to dance and sing. She hugged the coat to her chest, savoring the unique sensation of lightness and joy.
Then she released a little gasp. Still cradling the coat, she jerked her gaze around the room, examining her belongings again. The table and chairs, bureau, and kitchen breakfront cupboard, although well used, were all still serviceable. She much preferred thinking of Clay using her belongings—and perhaps remembering her with each use—than strangers putting their dirty hands on them.
An idea quickly formed in her mind. “Yes, yes . . .” She nodded, happy with the plan. It would mean at least an extra hour of work before she could visit the village, but what was an hour? She’d spend a hundred hours if it meant gifting the man who’d stolen a piece of her heart. She draped the coat over one of the rough-hewn chairs her father had built and then lifted the coat and chair together. She bustled toward the door, smiling, her moccasin-covered feet padding softly against the floor. One last task and then she could begin her new life.
“G,” Naibi announced slowly, sliding the square of bark bearing the letter into place between the squares marked with F and I, “and O.” She placed the final square with a broad, round O filling it, at the very end of the row of letters. Using her finger as a pointer, she bounced it along the squiggly line of squares stretched across the mission building floor. “A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, and O!” She clapped her hands in delight.
“Well done, Naibi—you remembered them all.” Clay captured her in a hug, wincing at the musty smell of the little girl’s hair. Over the past week, both Naibi and Etu had grown grimier in appearance. Apparently Tabu never required them to bathe. But despite their uncleanliness, their minds worked well. Their English vocabulary expanded daily. They’d learned the first half of the alphabet, the sounds the letters made, and were already able to write short words such as “man” and “dog.” Clay surmised by the end of the next week, with all the letters tucked into their knowledge banks, they’d be ready to begin real reading lessons.
Naibi wriggled loose and beamed at him. “I remembered!” Her bright smile faded to a look of uncertainty. “I am smart, right, Mister Clay?”
Clay hugged her again and repeated the assurance he’d already given twice since noon. He wished he could pinch Tabu’s lips shut. Daily, the old man berated the children for going to school. Just that morning, he had hobbled into the mission yard, pointed at them by turn, and stated, “Yigginh git’itadhit.” Clay had bitten down on the end of his tongue to keep from bellowing, “They are not stupid!” He’d held his temper partly because Tabu was old and probably needed their help during the day, but mostly because he was supposed to set a good example. If he yelled in anger at their caretaker, he’d set the poorest example.
But now he had a new responsibility—undoing the harm the old man inflicted with his careless tongue. “You are the smartest girl in school.”
Naibi stared at him for a moment, her lips slightly parted, and then she burst out laughing. She rose from her crouched position next to the letters and grinned at Etu, who straddled a bench and put together a simple wooden puzzle Clay had made by carving apart an old crate slat. “Etu, you smartest boy in school.”
Etu straightened his shoulders, his skinny chest puffing. Then he scowled. “You make joke at me. I am only boy in school.”
Naibi flipped her hands outward. “So you be smartest, yes?”
“Naibi, yigginh git’itadhit.” Etu spat the words.
Clay strode across the classroom and sat, facing Etu. Even though he knew Etu only repeated what he’d heard, he couldn’t allow him to wound his sister. He took the boy’s chin in his hand. “Etu, you should never call someone a name that will hurt them. And that goes especially for your sister. She looks up to you—admires you. You should protect her, not insult her.”
Etu tugged loose, twisting his face into a sneer. “She says stupid things. She makes me look dumb.”
“No one can make you look dumb without your permission.” Clay lowered his voice. “Etu, I know Tabu sometimes says things he shouldn’t. He’s wrong. But that doesn’t mean you can be wrong, too. Hurting someone is always wrong. What verse did we work on yesterday during our Bible time?”
Etu crunched his face, concentrating. He recited slowly, “ ‘Be ye kind one to another . . . ’ ”
“That’s right.” Clay wanted the children to memorize all of Ephesians 4:32, but he’d broken it into sections to make it easier for them. He needed to focus on the second half soon—he had a feeling that if the children remained with Tabu, they w
ould have need of the reminder to forgive. “Is calling someone stupid kind?”
The boy hung his head. “No.”
“Then what should you do?”
After several seconds of sullen silence, Etu finally sighed. “I should say sorry.”
“Good boy.”
Etu scuffed across the floor to his sister, his head low. The children whispered together, and finally they hugged. Etu remained with Naibi, playing with the bark alphabet letters.
Clay stayed on the opposite side of the room, allowing them to make their peace, his heart heavy. After only a short time with Tabu, the children had changed so much. He sensed a growing resentment in Etu, and Naibi had developed a penchant for whining. He berated himself for his stupidity in losing them to Tabu. If he’d exercised better judgment, they might still be with him.
“I can’t turn back time,” Clay murmured, half admonition, half prayer. “All I can do is try to abide by the village dictates from now on so I don’t give them further cause to mistrust me. Maybe Shruh and the other leaders will see how ill-kempt the children are and ask me to take them again.” His heart swelled with hope. A second hope quickly followed. “And maybe they’ll take pity on Lizzie, too, and welcome her into the tribe.”
And maybe I’ll grow wings and fly to the moon.
Why did he persist in trying to bring Lizzie into the village? She didn’t want to come—she was leaving. Would he never get that into his head? He sagged on the bench, his chin low. Could it be the problem wasn’t getting the realization into his head, but convincing his heart?
“Mister Clay?”
Etu’s concerned voice captured Clay’s attention. He stood and moved quickly to the children. “Yes? What is it?”
The children shifted to their knees and looked toward the open doorway, their faces pinched in concern. Etu said, “Something is wrong.”
Clay hurried to the door. Villagers milled in confusion, their mutterings carrying to Clay’s ears. They seemed to be looking toward the southwest, but from inside the building, Clay couldn’t determine what held their attention.
A Whisper of Peace Page 24
