A Whisper of Peace

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 and 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.

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 ambled 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.