A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Seven





Clay tossed and turned. The pine needles beneath his wool blanket shifted until there was a hollow in the middle. His backside connected with the dirt floor, and he grunted in frustration. Rolling to his knees, he tossed aside the heavy blanket and used his palms to sweep the needles into a pile again. Then he stretched the blanket over the mound and flopped down. He was more comfortable, but he still couldn’t sleep.

How long would it take to adjust to the sun sending forth its light well into the nighttime hours? He and Vivian had been in the village for almost a month now, and his body still didn’t seem to understand it must sleep, even though the sun remained awake. Vivian hadn’t complained, but dark circles rimmed her eyes, and he assumed her sleep was also affected by the lingering sunlight. Maybe he should go whisper at her hut door—if she lay awake, too, they could talk about the blue-eyed woman named Lizzie and try to find a way to reach out to her without angering the village leaders.

He slipped from the makeshift bed, tugged on his boots, then stepped outside. Were it not for the silence in the village, he would have thought it was early evening rather than close to midnight. He headed toward Vivian’s hut several yards east of his. A few dogs, tethered to stakes, lifted their heads as he passed by. Clay held his breath, but—apparently recognizing him as harmless—none barked or snarled. He heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to rouse the entire village. He reached Vivian’s hut and tapped lightly on the doorframe.

“Who’s there?” Her voice replied at once, confirming his suspicion that she couldn’t sleep, either.

“It’s me, Viv.” He kept his voice low, glancing toward the village cabins to be sure he hadn’t disturbed anyone. Rustling sounded from inside Vivian’s hut, and then she tugged the blanket aside. Her hair hung in unruly waves across her shoulders, but she was fully dressed. She flipped her hand, inviting him inside. He ducked beneath the short door opening, and she dropped the blanket back in place.

Hugging herself, she blinked at him in alarm. “Is something wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

She grimaced. “Me either. It never really feels like night, does it?”

Clay shook his head. He gestured to the low bench he’d built out of half a log and two chunks of wood. They sat side by side, and Clay shifted slightly to face Vivian. Soft light filtered through cracks in the bark walls, offering enough illumination for Clay to recognize tiredness etched into her forehead and unsmiling lips. She needed rest—he should go. He started to rise, but she put her hand over his arm.

“I can’t sleep because of the light. Why can’t you sleep?”

He sank back down, releasing a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about Lizzie.”

A funny little smirk appeared on Vivian’s face.

He frowned. “Not like that.” But his heart twinged in his chest, belying his statement.

“But isn’t she lovely?” Vivian yawned behind her hand, her voice dreamy. “And so graceful—she reminds me of a fleet doe or a delicate swan. If it weren’t for her dusky skin, dark hair, and buckskin clothing, she might pass for a woman of high society.”

Images of Lizzie played through Clay’s mind. He gulped, inwardly agreeing with his stepsister’s assessment. “Yes. Yes, she is . . . lovely.”

Another sly grin twitched the corners of Vivian’s lips. He cleared his throat, eager to abandon the topic. He was here to preach, not to woo. And wooing a woman branded a traitor would not endear him to the tribe he wished to serve.

“Viv, listen.” He repeated the troubling conversation he’d had with Shruh. Vivian’s face changed from amused to indignant as he spoke. “So,” he finished, “I’m not sure what to do.”

She balled one fist and placed it against her hip. “I can tell you what we aren’t going to do. We aren’t going to abide by that silly edict. I told her I would help her, and I’m going to help her.”

Clay bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. Despite his exhaustion and worry, it pleased him to see her so adamant about reaching out to Lizzie. Even so, they needed to consider the possible ramifications of going against the tribal leaders’ order. “But what’s the greater good, Viv? On one hand, we have an entire village of people who need to hear the gospel. On the other hand, we have an individual person who, for whatever reason, is all alone. If we can only reach one or the other, which direction should we go? Toward the village, or toward Lizzie?”

“Toward both.” Vivian set her jaw at a stubborn angle.

Clay blew out an impatient breath, shaking his head. “You aren’t listening to me. I just said—”

“I heard what you said. And I understand your concerns. But how can we not return to Lizzie after I’ve told her I’ll help her? She’s already been rejected by the tribe. We can’t reject her, too.” Her voice wavered with emotion.

Clay examined his stepsister with narrowed eyes. “You feel strongly about this.”

She nodded, strands of red-gold hair flying around her face. But she didn’t offer any further reason for her adamancy.

He gave her hand a pat and then leaned his elbows on his knees. “But we have to consider the consequences of going against the leaders’ wishes—being branded traitors could result in our removal from the village. After all our work on the mission building, I don’t want to start over somewhere else, do you?”

“Clay, you’re making excuses.” Vivian’s tone, though gentle, cut him to the core. “You know the right thing to do.”

Clay hung his head. Allowing Shruh’s bitterness to override his conscience was wrong. “I do know what’s right, Viv. You’ve given your word, and you have to honor it.”

“So we’ll visit Lizzie?”

“Yes. But you’ll have to proceed carefully. If the village leaders suspect where you’re going—”

Vivian caught his hand and gave it a tug. “You mean where we’re going. You’ll need to come, too.”

His chest tightened in apprehension, but an element of eagerness to spend time with Lizzie also stirred within him. He assumed a defensive tone to hide the unexpected longing. “Why me?”

Vivian clasped both of Clay’s hands, her fingers digging into his palms. “The man’s position of leadership is valued by the natives. If you befriend her, it will help ease the pain of being cast aside by her grandfather.” A shimmer of tears brightened Vivian’s eyes. Her fingers convulsed on his. “You have to come, Clay. She needs you.”

Even though Clay wanted to explore the strange emotions that tugged at him when he thought of Lizzie, he set aside his own reflections to focus on Vivian. Her emotional reaction seemed to go deeper than tiredness. “And what do you need, Vivian?”

She jerked away from him, her eyes wide. “We aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about Lizzie.”

Clay lowered his voice to a gentle whisper. “But you seem to know her well, even though we’ve only spent a very short time with her. Are you sure—”

Vivian leapt up and strode to the hut opening. She lifted the blanket and pointed outside. “It’s late, and we both need our rest. In the morning we can discuss ways to spend time with Lizzie without alarming the villagers.”

Clay pushed to his feet and scuffed to the door. For now, he’d let it go. But he had to say one thing. “Viv? If you’re reaching out to Lizzie to make yourself feel better, you’ve got ministry all backwards. You need to reach out to her for her good, not yours.” Did he need to heed those words himself?

Her green eyes spit fire. “Good night, Clay.”

He sighed “G’night.” He returned to his hut, but sleep continued to elude him. He’d come to minister to the Athabascan people, but now he wondered if his most challenging task might be bringing an element of healing to Vivian’s heart.





Vivian folded her blue gingham dress over her arm and pushed aside the blanket that shrouded the hut’s doorway. Stepping from the dim light of her hut into the sun’s brightness made her squint, and she almost didn’t see the two women bending over her small fire pit. She let out a little squeak of surprise.

The pair straightened and fixed her with sober looks. “You fire—it go out,” one said in English as broken as Vivian’s Athabascan.

Vivian smiled, trying to alleviate their concern. “I will light it again at suppertime.” The days had warmed as June advanced—although when compared to the sweltering summer heat of Oklahoma, the temperature could still seem cool. Even so, Vivian’s shawl provided adequate barrier against the morning chill. She had no need to hover beside a flame to warm herself. Besides, keeping the coals alive was an endless chore—one neither she nor Clay relished. He’d finally suggested they light a fresh cooking fire at mealtimes. Since he’d had the foresight to bring a good supply of matches, they could afford the luxury of beginning anew as needed.

The women murmured to each other, shaking their heads in dismay. Outside each of the Gwich’in cabins, a pit held coals that were carefully tended by the women. Thanks to Lizzie’s tutelage, Vivian was beginning to feel more at ease in the village, but she wasn’t and never would be Gwich’in. There were some things the natives would simply have to accept her doing differently.

The second woman pointed to the dress hanging from Vivian’s arm. “You go to wash again, Viv-ee-an?” She extended Vivian’s flowing name into three distinct sounds, emphasizing the middle syllable. When the natives spoke her name, it sounded guttural. They also seemed amused by her frequent trips to the river for wash water. Vivian wanted to ask Lizzie why bathing was so humorous to the Gwich’in, but she didn’t want to offend her new friend.

She now contemplated how best to answer the women’s question. So far, she’d managed to keep her visits to Lizzie’s cabin a secret to avoid creating conflict with the villagers. More than half a dozen times over the past two weeks she’d slipped away without causing much concern—the natives assumed she was gathering berries, collecting firewood, or fetching water, since she always returned with something in hand.

Today, however, she wanted to take Lizzie the dress she’d modified to fit the native woman’s more slender form. If Lizzie wanted to learn to live in the white man’s world, the buckskin tunic and leggings would have to go. Vivian had brought three extra frocks from home, and she chose the one sewn from blue gingham for Lizzie because the color matched the woman’s unusual eyes.

She bounced the dress slightly, unwilling to lie to the curious native women but fearful of telling the truth. She finally settled on a simple reply. “No, no washing today.”

The pair shrugged and turned away, ambling toward the edge of the village where several other women worked in a communal vegetable garden. Blowing out a breath of relief, Vivian hastened in search of Clay. The sound of an axe connecting with wood alerted her, and she found Clay behind the mission school, turning fallen trees into firewood.

When she called his name, he set the axe aside, much to her relief. How she hated the sight and sound of an axe—it raised too many unpleasant memories. Despite the chill in the air, Clay’s forehead glimmered with perspiration, and sweat created damp circles under his arms. Fixing her eyes on his flushed face, she informed him of her morning plans. “I left dried beef and a pan of corn bread in my hut for your lunch.” Guilt panged when she considered how unsatisfying a cold lunch would be for a man who worked as hard as Clay did. She added, “Or you could come to Lizzie’s cabin at noontime. I’m sure she’ll fix something better.”

She hoped the promise of a good lunch would entice him to visit Lizzie. Despite her frequent prodding, he hadn’t been to Lizzie’s cabin since the day they’d sampled her sugar cookies. Each time she’d requested he accompany her, he frustrated her by making an excuse—he needed to work on the mission, or he needed to gather more firewood, or he needed to attend to some other pressing task. She didn’t doubt the validity of his reasons, yet she grew impatient with them at the same time. When he’d finally completed every detail of the mission, would he find the time to visit Lizzie with her, or would he allow fear of retribution from the tribal leaders to dictate his actions? She wished she had the courage to confront him.

Clay reached underneath his shirt and removed the pistol he carried in the waistband of his trousers. “Take the gun.”

Vivian disliked carrying the gun Clay’s father had sent with them, but she understood the necessity. She held no hope she’d actually be able to hit anything at which she fired, but the noise should be enough to scare away any creature that might consider attacking her. The loud pop certainly frightened her. She took it gingerly and held it by the grip, aimed away from her body.

“That thing’s loaded,” Clay reminded her, his eyebrows high, “so be careful.”

Vivian resisted rolling her eyes. Sometimes Clay fussed worse than a mother hen. “I will. ’Bye now.” She shifted the folded dress to conceal the weapon and wove her way into the trees, skirting the village to avoid encountering any other villagers.

Humming, she followed the now-familiar path to Lizzie’s house. Even though she’d traversed the woods safely several times, her heart still pounded in trepidation. Her gaze darted everywhere, her fingers twitching on the gun in case she needed to use it. Walking through the trees reminded her too much of a journey into the woods in the Dakota Territory many years ago. Clay had assured her no snakes lived in Alaska—it was too cold—yet she still feared a snake might slither through the leaves at her feet, as it had that day.

“Keep going,” she urged herself, forcing her feet to move forward. “There are no snakes in Alaska—Clay said so, and Clay knows. I’m safe. I’m safe.” But she knew a part of her would never be safe again.

To her relief, she reached the clearing beside Lizzie’s cabin without incident. The dogs—accustomed to her presence by now—didn’t even bark. They sat in their pen, looking at her with their tongues lolling from the sides of their mouths, almost as if they were smiling. For a moment, Vivian considered approaching the pen and trying to pet some of the beasts. How she desired the comfort of a warm, welcoming touch. But Lizzie had warned her to avoid the pen because the dogs’ protectiveness might cause them to attack. Looking at their pointed teeth, Vivian decided not to test Lizzie’s theory.

She glanced around, seeking the native woman, but she was nowhere in the yard. She peeked in the cabin’s back door, which was propped open, as always. Empty. Had Lizzie forgotten that Vivian promised to visit this morning? Vivian cupped her hand beside her mouth and called, “Lizzie?”

Seconds later, Lizzie stepped from the trees at the back of the property. She moved with graceful ease, once again awing Vivian with her natural beauty. If attired in a velvet gown, with her hair in a sleek chignon, Lizzie would easily match society’s most aristocratic members in appearance. Then Vivian noticed what the woman held, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. No aristocrat would carry a fat rabbit by its ears in place of a beaded handbag.

Lizzie lifted the hare aloft as she approached, a sign of triumph. But she didn’t smile. Lizzie rarely smiled. “I caught him in one of my snares.” Although Lizzie had taught Vivian a few Athabascan words, she always addressed Vivian in English. “I’ll show you how to skin and gut a rabbit and then cook it. You’ll be able to please Clay with a fine meal.”

Vivian’s stomach roiled. She’d eaten rabbit before, but she’d only seen it after it had been cut into unrecognizable pieces. She had no desire to observe the process by which a rabbit was made ready for the frying pan, even if it would please Clay.

Lizzie, seemingly unaware of Vivian’s discomfiture, pointed to the dress on Vivian’s arm. “What did you bring?”

Vivian carefully placed the gun on the ground before straightening and shaking out the dress. “Remember when I took your measurements? I wanted to make sure I had a frock that would fit you. I had to tailor it.”

Lizzie’s forehead crunched. “Tailor?”

“Adjust its size,” Vivian explained. “Your hips are narrower than mine.” She didn’t add that she’d needed to let out the seams at the bust. There were some topics best left unaddressed. She waited for some sort of response, but none came, creating a small niggle of discomfort within Vivian’s chest. Although she’d spent several hours with Lizzie, she still hadn’t found a place of complete ease with the native woman. Lizzie’s stoicism held Vivian at a distance.

Lizzie dropped the rabbit, enticing a chorus of whines from the dogs. She clicked her tongue on her teeth, and they fell silent. Gliding forward on moccasin-covered feet, she reached for the dress, then held it at arm’s length and looked it up and down. Her sober expression divulged nothing of her thoughts. Then, still holding the dress in front of her like a shield, she spun toward the cabin. “Bring the rabbit and come inside.”

Too surprised to do otherwise, Vivian pinched the rabbit’s nape between her index finger and thumb and snatched up the pistol with her other hand. With the pistol low against her thigh and the rabbit held well away from her body, she scurried after Lizzie.