A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Nine





Clay grinned at Vivian’s red-streaked cheeks. Lizzie’s praise pleased her—and him, too. He’d worried whether Vivian would be more hindrance than help in Alaska, but she was obviously impacting this Gwich’in woman. With a relationship established, it would be an easy transition for Vivian to tell Lizzie about God’s love.

Jealousy struck so hard his knees almost buckled—he’d wanted to be the one to tell Lizzie about Christ. Reeling, he turned to Lizzie. “I . . . I can’t stay.” Real disappointment swept over him, but he gave himself a mental kick—for what purpose had he come to Alaska? Vivian was making progress in reaching Lizzie. He had an entire village waiting for his preaching. “I have work to do. You teach Vivian, and she’ll be able to serve rabbit for me another time.”

He drew Vivian to the edge of the clearing and lowered his voice. “As soon as you’ve finished preparing the rabbit, come straight back. I may need your help getting the stovepipe up. And we’ll need—”

She pinched his arm, bringing his rush of words to a halt. “What is your hurry? You could take a little time, stay for a bit, and get to know Lizzie better. She invited you—doesn’t that mean we’re building her trust? But if you run off . . .” Her brows rose, allowing her expression to complete her thought.

Clay glanced toward Lizzie. She’d crossed the yard to the dog pen. He watched her scratch the ears of one dog, then the ruff of another, seeming to give a portion of attention to each. His heart caught at the sight. Were the dogs her only friends? The desire to remain—to truly reach out to Lizzie and to get better acquainted—welled up in him again. But God’s work called.

Reluctantly, he turned back to Vivian. “After I get everything finished at the mission school, I’ll be able to take time for visits. But I have to complete the school first.”

A feeling akin to panic filled his chest. He’d already spent a month on the building, and he still needed to chink the walls, build a door, order windows, portion off sleeping areas for each of them, and more. So much to do before he could open the doors of the mission for classes and services. Each day of delay could mean a lost opportunity to win a soul. He took another step toward the woods.

“Viv, enjoy your time with Lizzie.” He tipped forward and delivered a brotherly kiss on her cheek. “Save me a piece of fried rabbit. I’ll see you later.” Before she could voice another excuse to hold him, he whirled on his heel and strode into the woods.

His mind raced ahead to the waiting tasks. Had it taken his father so long to get the mission school on the reservation running? When Clay was twelve, not quite a year after Pa remarried, Pa had moved him and Vivian’s mother to the Kiowa reservation in Oklahoma Territory to minister to the people displaced by government mandates. Try as he might, he couldn’t recall lengthy delays. It seemed Pa had begun his ministry immediately. And effectively.

Clay kicked at the decaying leaves under his feet, wishing he could scatter the unpleasant feelings of incompetence that arose when he compared himself to his father. For as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to be like Pa—strong, confident, capable. Judson Selby had been mother and father all through Clay’s growing up, and somehow he’d filled both roles so well Clay never missed a mother’s presence.

As an itinerant preacher, Pa had carted Clay all over Minnesota and the Dakotas, and Clay had grown up listening to his father’s booming voice deliver messages of faith and inspiration. Pa had enough faith—and muscle strength—to move mountains. As a boy, Clay had believed there was nothing his pa couldn’t do. As an adult, he still believed it. And Clay wanted to be just like him.

But first he had to get his mission built. Envisioning the day he’d finally be able to stand behind a podium and preach from the Bible, he sped his pace. By the end of the day, he’d have Vivian’s stove in place. Then he’d turn his hands to chinking, and then building a door, and then—

A bird swooped over his head, chirping a shrill warning. Clay grinned. Then he would preach. Boldly, and vehemently. Just like Pa.

When he reached the village, he headed straight for the mission school. Two dozen or more Gwich’in gathered at the corner of the building with their backs to Clay, their jabbering voices raised in curious excitement. Clay had discovered anything new fascinated the villagers, and he had to watch to be certain the youngsters didn’t run off with his tools. If they’d discovered the crate holding the stove pieces, he might already be missing some parts.

He broke into a jog, covering the ground quickly. “Excuse me,” he said, working his way to the center of the group. To his relief, the stove crate remained untouched. Instead, two barrels—barrels he hadn’t seen before—lay on their sides, minus their lids. Various clothing items lay scattered on the ground or in the hands of grinning natives.

For a moment, confusion smote him, but then he remembered the letter Vivian had sent prior to their leaving Oklahoma to the members of the church she’d attended in Hampshire County, Massachusetts, with her aunt and uncle. She’d requested clothing items for the children who would attend Clay’s mission. Apparently, they’d honored her request. The mercantile owner in Fort Yukon must have sent the barrels with a trapper or trader who’d delivered them while he’d been at Lizzie’s cabin.

A little girl named Naibi tugged on Clay’s pant leg and held up a pink calico dress. Her brown eyes sparkled, her round face wreathed in a hopeful smile. “You give to me? I wear—look like Missus Viv-ee-an.”

Clay delighted in how many English words the child had already adopted. He took the dress and held it against Naibi’s front. He didn’t know much about children’s clothing, but it appeared the dress would swallow the child. He shook his head. “This is t’si chux—too big.” The child’s face clouded. He tweaked her nose and offered a soothing promise in Athabascan. “But we will find one that will fit.” Sweeping the group with a bright smile, he added, “We’ll find something for all of you.”

Like vultures on a fresh kill, the villagers pressed in, hands reaching, voices jabbering. In a few minutes, all of the clothing articles had been claimed by eager natives, and Clay was left with two empty barrels. He carried them inside the mission. With their lids intact, they could serve as stools until he could build something better. They would also provide much-needed storage. He hoped the church would send more barrels of clothing later.

Whistling, he set to work putting the stove together for Vivian. The pieces fit together like a big puzzle, although working with the heavy iron challenged him more than the wooden puzzles of his childhood. He spent more than an hour securely attaching the iron feet and scrolled door to the heating chamber and assembling the flue pipe.

Hot, dusty, and sweaty, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. The McClary Brandon black iron stove hunkered in the center of the large square room. The top angled downward on one side—the result of placing the stove on an uneven dirt floor. But if he waited until he had a wood floor in the mission, it might be next year—or even later—before Vivian would be able to make use of the stove. Crooked wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. Hopefully its ability to cook food and heat the room wouldn’t be affected by its slight list to the right.

He scratched his head, grimacing. He hoped Vivian would be satisfied. He’d not been able to afford a top-of-the-line model with warming hobs, a water reservoir, or even multiple heating chambers. This stove possessed an oven and three removable stove lids—a simple model, to be sure. But it should be a huge improvement from cooking over an open fire, and he hoped it would improve the taste of the food she prepared.

As if in response to his musings, his stomach growled, reminding him it was past time for lunch. He headed outside, placing a cut tree branch across the door opening of the mission to serve as a barrier. Oddly, the natives viewed the tiny obstruction like a closed door and wouldn’t enter without permission when the branch was in place. However, if it wasn’t there, they’d wander inside at will, younger ones climbing the unchinked walls and older ones examining every inch of the unadorned interior.

He entered Vivian’s hut and located the dried beef and corn bread in a small crate. Unwilling to eat inside the dismal hut, he carried the crate outside and sat on the log he and Vivian used as outdoor seating. He offered thanks for the meal and then ate his dreary lunch. While he chewed, his thoughts drifted through the woods to Lizzie’s lonely cabin. Were Vivian and Lizzie enjoying the fried rabbit? If it turned out half as good as the cookies Lizzie had given them, it would have been worth waiting for. The company would have been nice, too.

“I’ll bet Pa never had such selfish thoughts,” he muttered. He finished eating quickly, then returned the empty crate to Vivian’s hut. His stomach full, he wandered back to the mission school, eager to get Vivian’s stove ready for use so he could move on to other tasks.

He slid his hand across the shiny top, his eyes traveling the distance from the stove to the roof’s peak twelve feet above his head. He could use some help in putting up the flue pipe, but who should he ask? Vivian hadn’t yet returned. Half of the villagers had gone to their summer fishing camps to catch and dry salmon, taking the older children with them, and those remaining stayed busy with gardens and constructing articles of clothing from the caches of fur caught during the cold winter months. He didn’t want to take others from their duties.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, he made a decision. This was his mission, and he would be responsible for it. He gathered the remaining lengths of pipe and connected them, piece by piece, ascertaining the bands were tight enough to hold without crimping the tin. Then, his muscles quivering, he held the joined length straight up and down and tried to force the end between the branches that held the sod roof in place.

He grunted with the effort, holding back exclamations of frustration. After several tries, he finally managed to find a crack wide enough to accept the pipe. He said through gritted teeth, “C’mon, go through . . .” Chunks of dirt and bits of bark fell, peppering his hair, face, and shoulders. He blinked rapidly, crunching his face against the onslaught, and pushed harder. But it wouldn’t penetrate the thick sod.

Panting with exertion, he propped the bottom end of the pipe into the opening on the stove. He lifted his shirt tail to clean the grime from his sweat-dampened face and then looked again at the ceiling. He’d have to break a hole from the outside in rather than the inside out. Hopefully, a small portion of the pipe would show through on the roof.

For a moment, he paused. Should he pull the pipe down and move the stove closer to the wall? It would be easier to keep the pipe secure if it weren’t in the center of the room, and it would require less climbing on the roof. But Vivian’s observation had been right—the stove would do a better job of projecting heat to the entire space in its present location. He’d leave it in the middle. Somehow he’d get that pipe through the roof.

He picked up the tin cap for the pipe. It was too large for his pocket, so he tucked it inside his shirt. It rubbed against his ribs, an unwieldy distraction as he wedged his fingers and toes between cracks on the log wall and climbed upward. He reached the roof and paused to examine the expanse of sod. There, just a few inches from the peak, he located a small bulge of dirt—displaced by the pipe.

Nodding, he gritted his teeth and heaved himself onto the roof. On hands and knees, he inched his way to the bulge. The scent of the grass-covered sod filled his nostrils, a fresh scent that made him want to smile. When he reached the bulge, he pulled several tufts of grass loose and scooped out the sod. A circular tin pipe peeped out, and Clay nearly shouted in exultation. He shifted fully to his knees and grasped the pipe with both hands. Slowly, firmly, he pulled until he’d freed a suitable length of pipe.

With one hand stabilizing the pipe, he used his other hand to reach beneath his shirt for the cap. His weight shifted to his right knee with the movement, and the sod beneath his knee dipped. Alarmed, Clay angled his body the opposite direction. To his horror, the sod beneath both knees crumbled. He dropped the cap and reached to support himself, but his knees broke through the sod and caught in the branches that held the sod in place. He wriggled to free himself, but the movement only resulted in more sod breaking loose.

He forced himself to hold perfectly still, but his heart pounded as he peered through the opening in the branches to the floor of the mission school below. Would the branches give way and send him plummeting? His mouth dry and chest heaving, he searched the village grounds, seeking anyone who might be able to assist him. The only people within shouting distance were a few women working in the garden and a group of giggling children playing a chasing game.

He’d have to depend on himself. He drew in several calming breaths, bringing his erratic pulse under control. Then, gingerly, he began working his left leg free of the tangle of branches. Hope soared when he managed to release his leg, but the elation was short-lived when the shift in weight pushed his right leg deeper into the roof. His leg twisted in the branches, and pain shot from his knee to his hip. Grunting with frustration, Clay planted both palms on the sod and tried to arch his back to release his right leg.

Sharp points of branches tore his pant leg, digging into his flesh, but he gritted his teeth and pulled again. Several smaller branches broke, their cracks sounding above the pound of his heartbeat in his ears. One more pull and—

The branches gave way. Clay plunged through the narrow gap.