A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Clay held out his arms. “I was only trying to help. Something’s happened between Lizzie and the villagers. Perhaps God brought us here to reunite them. Look at where she lives, away from everyone . . .” His gaze roved the rustic yet neat cabin. “She must be lonely here.” He curled his hand through Vivian’s elbow. “We’ll go because she asked us to, but I want you to come back, as often as possible. I think she needs companionship, and I believe you’re the perfect one to reach her.”

  Vivian gaped at Clay. He saw her as capable of reaching Lizzie? Her heart gave a happy skip.

  “You seem to be near the same age, and you’re a woman, therefore not a threat.” Clay led Vivian through the woods. Leaves crunched beneath their feet and slender, leaf-dotted branches waved in the light breeze, catching Vivian’s hair. She crowded closer to Clay as he continued. “She asked for your help. If you abide by her request to come to her, then eventually you should be able to convince her to come to the mission school. That will be your goal.”

  Vivian dug in her heels, drawing Clay to a stumbling halt. He sent her a puzzled look, and she offered her sternest frown. “Clay Selby, I will not befriend that woman simply to persuade her to come to the village. It’s dishonest.”

  “But—”

  “I intend to help her, just as she asked. Hopefully she’ll be willing to help me in return. But I’ll not pressure her to enter the village.” Vivian recalled the expression that crossed Lizzie’s face when she’d said she offended the villagers with her presence. The woman carried a deep hurt, and Vivian would not rub salt in the wound by insisting she visit the place of her pain. Memories from her own personal place of pain tried to rise, but she pushed them aside. Hadn’t she come to Alaska to forget?

  “Then how will she hear the good news we’ve come to share?” Clay sounded more concerned than irritated, which removed Vivian’s defensiveness. However, his question pricked.

  “Can I not be trusted to speak of God to her without your assistance? I know Him, too, Clay.” Vivian’s heart panged. She didn’t know God as intimately as her mother, stepfather, or stepbrother, but she’d been exposed to His teachings her entire life. She could share her faith even if a part of her questioned the reality of God’s unconditional love and grace.

  Clay hung his head. “Of course you can. I’m sorry if I sound as if I don’t trust you. I need to remember . . . this ministry is ours rather than mine alone.”

  His comment was exactly the confirmation Vivian had been seeking since they’d set out on this journey together. Yet as he ushered her toward the village and the mission school, a weight seemed to press down upon her. Did she have the right to be an equal partner in a ministry when she held so many doubts herself?

  Clay left Vivian at her little hut with the promise he’d wake her from her nap an hour before suppertime. He headed for his own hut, but before he reached it, he turned around and walked through the center of the village instead. Perhaps one of the village leaders would be willing to talk to him about Lizzie.

  She hadn’t expressed a desire to join the village, but he sensed her loneliness. An image of her flicked through his mind—proudly angled shoulders and raised chin, blue eyes alight with passion. His heart rolled over his chest. Such a lovely woman. And so secluded. Bringing her into the village would give her an opportunity for companionship as well as protection. How did she survive out there all by herself? Couldn’t whatever had transpired to separate her from the tribe be forgotten for compassion’s sake?

  He passed rows of sturdy log cabins with grass and wild flowers sprouting on the sod roofs. People nodded, offering lazy greetings that he returned in their native tongue. Although he hoped Vivian would eventually teach the villagers enough English for them to communicate in his language, for now he used his own mix of Kiowa and Athabascan as a means of developing relationships. Some people seemed amused by his attempts to master their tricky pronunciations. Others held their distance, as if uncertain of his trustworthiness. But none had openly ignored him. He viewed their hesitant reception as a positive step toward complete acceptance.

  As he’d hoped, two of the band’s elders sat outside their cabin. Shruh puffed on a hand-carved pipe and his wife, Co’Ozhii, busily stitched flowers formed of tiny beads onto the shank of a buckskin boot. They both looked up and nodded as Clay approached.

  The man held his leathery palm to the spot of ground beside him. “Sit, Clay Selby. Smoke?” He held out the pipe in invitation.

  Clay sat but didn’t reach for the pipe. He’d tried smoking his uncle’s pipe once as a boy. Fifteen years later, he still remembered how his stomach had roiled afterward. He smiled and shook his head. “Ęhę’ę, dogidinh—thank you, but no.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. One of the things Clay had learned long ago about the natives was they had no urge to fill time with unnecessary words. The few social events he’d attended away from the reservation—necessary events to gain financial support for his undertakings here in Alaska—had worn him out with the ceaseless chatter for chatter’s sake. Even Vivian had a tendency to speak endlessly, as if she found silence distasteful. Although he had things he wanted to say to the man who contentedly puffed his pipe, he’d wait for his host to speak first rather than be considered discourteous.

  Eventually, Shruh tapped out his pipe and fixed Clay with a steady look. “Your building nears completion. You have done well.”

  “I have had help,” Clay replied in the man’s native language. “Many of the village men have assisted.”

  Shruh nodded, as if approving Clay’s humility. “They have assisted. But you led them. You have made buildings of logs before?”

  Clay had helped his father construct their home on the Kiowa reservation. While the Kiowans lived in homes of mud bricks, Clay’s father had used timbers as the foundation for the large building that served as both a home and church building. He nodded. “Once.” He tapped his temple with one finger, smiling. “But I remember well.”

  Shruh chuckled, his eyes crinkling with humor. “You remember well.” Then he faced forward, seeming to drift away in thought.

  Clay cleared his throat, garnering the man’s attention. “It is such a pretty day, Vivian and I went for a walk in the woods.”

  “A walk?” Co’Ozhii shot Clay an interested look.

  “Yes. Walk.” Clay searched for words to explain what he meant. “Not for the purpose of going anywhere. For enjoyment.”

  The older couple exchanged amused glances. Clay understood the reason for Co’Ozhii’s interest in their activity. When a Gwich’in couple went walking, they were courting. He’d need to make it clear he and Vivian held no such affection for one another, but right now he had something more important to discuss. “We came upon a cabin and sat at the table of a woman named Lizzie. She is alone there, and I wondered if you might invite her to live in the village so she would have the protection of the band.”

  The warm amusement disappeared in an instant. The man stiffened, and the woman sucked in a sharp breath. Anger flashed in both pairs of dark eyes, and Clay felt as though they skewered him with their disapproving glares.

  Co’Ozhii stabbed the bone needle through the pliant leather with force. She muttered, “Ts’egid.”

  Heat filled Clay’s face at the contemptuous tone. Co’Ozhii had called Lizzie trash. The younger woman must have done something horrible to deserve being discarded.

  Shruh leaned toward Clay slightly, his demeanor challenging. “That woman is not welcome here.”

  Clay held out his hands in supplication. “The mission . . . it should be open to all who—”

  Co’Ozhii rose, her movements stiff. She scooped up her handiwork and stormed into the cabin, leaving the two men alone. Shruh shook his head, his brow pinched into furrows of displeasure. “It will be open to all of Gwichyaa Saa. Our council agrees learning the English language will benefit us. Many white men would cheat us with confusing talk. What we learn from you will protect us. But Lu’qu
l Gitth’ihgi does not live here. Her mother—our daughter—made her choice, and Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi must honor that choice. She is no longer of our band.”

  Clay inwardly reeled. Lizzie was Shruh’s granddaughter? How could he disown his own flesh? “But—”

  “We will speak of this no more!” The man lurched to his feet and stood glaring down at Clay. “You have come to teach. This you must learn—traitors are banished. And if you choose to befriend a traitor, you become one yourself.” He spun on his heel and entered his cabin, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Clay recognized the action—he’d been dismissed. Trying to speak to Shruh or Co’Ozhii again today would only cause conflict—conflict he didn’t dare stir if he hoped to win the tribe’s trust.

  His heart heavy, he scuffed his way to his own dwelling. Vivian had committed to teaching Lizzie. If she went back on her word, it would set a poor Christian example to the native woman, but if she honored her promise, the band might very well reject Vivian and him. He looked at the sky and held his arms outward, just as he had to Shruh. Father, what should we do?

  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.