A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  His lungs nearly exploded with his gasp at the asking price for twelve-inch square panes of glass. The merchant expressed no more sympathy than the livery owner had. “Any idea what I pay for freight for fragile items like glass? Mister, these here’d be a bargain at ten dollars apiece, an’ that’s a fact.”

  Clay had hoped to put glass in all five window openings, but after seeing the prices he decided they’d make do with oiled paper. At least for their first year. Maybe the Mission Committee could find the funds for windows later. He purchased iron hinges and a door latch, cringing at the amount of money he had to hand over even for such basic items that couldn’t possibly be considered fragile.

  The ramshackle mercantile next to the hardware store offered a surprisingly wide selection of fabrics, including a snow-white batiste Clay knew would please Vivian. But bleached muslin was less than half the price, so he asked for it instead. After the owner cut the fabric, he said, “Hey, ain’t you one o’ them missionaries what took up residence at a siwash village north o’ here?”

  Clay gritted his teeth to hold back words of admonition and nodded.

  “Some mail come for you.” The man lifted a crate from under the counter and pawed through it. “Had a whole passel o’ mail this month—pret’ near a dozen letters! Two of ’em’s for you an’ your woman.” He withdrew the crumpled envelopes and thrust them across the counter at Clay with a big grin. “There ya go, mister. Two of ’em.”

  “Thank you.” Clay glanced at the envelopes—a letter for Vivian from her mother, and one for him from Pa. His fingers itched to tear into his immediately, but he needed to get back. The reading would have to wait. He slipped them into his shirt pocket, tucked his paper-wrapped parcels under his arm, and returned to the borrowed canoe.

  His jaw dropped and feet stumbled when he spotted three ragtag urchins sitting on the crates, munching raw potatoes. Where was the boy he’d paid? Righteous indignation filled Clay’s chest and exploded from his mouth as he broke into a run. “You there! What do you think you’re doing? Get away from my things!” He’d never spoken so harshly to children, but he’d never had his patience tried to such extremes.

  The boys hopped from the canoe, the smallest one losing his hat in his scramble to escape. He spun to retrieve it, but Clay glared at him, and he took off after the others, bareheaded.

  Disgusted, Clay gave the tattered hat a toss after the fleeing child and then wedged his packages between crates.

  Taking up the paddle, he rowed with all his might, expending some of the frustrations of the day. By the time he rounded the bend that hid the town from sight, his aching shoulders begged for respite. Drawing a deep breath, he slowed the pace of his paddling and allowed his racing pulse to calm. He passed a small group of rafting otters. Their bright eyes followed him. On another day Clay would have chuckled at the animals’ lazy curiosity, but today he couldn’t manage so much as a tired smile.

  “Everything that could go wrong went wrong,” he said, snorting with disgust. “Supplies stolen. Items priced beyond any reasonable means.” He gave the paddle a vicious swipe, his ire mounting again. He left the otters behind, but he continued to speak to the passing landscape. “Fifty cents squandered on a boy who proved untrustworthy. An entire day spent away from the mission school. And—” He clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to voice the most distressing of all—his failure to convince Lizzie that God loved her.

  Clay pushed the paddle through the water, propelling the canoe along, while his thoughts drifted backward in time. For Clay’s first eight years of life, his pa hadn’t stood behind a pulpit in a church building—they’d traveled all over the Dakotas on horseback. Town to town, homestead to homestead, Pa preached wherever God called. Sometimes he opened his Bible in the middle of a busy street, sometimes in schoolhouses or barns. He preached to crowds so large he had to holler to be heard, and he shared just as exuberantly one-on-one in the dirt yard of a sod house while the housewife snapped peas and chickens pecked in the dirt around his feet. Wherever Pa went, he reached folks.

  Passionate. Sincere. Zealous. Clay applied all of those words and more to Judson Selby. The man drew people like a magnet drew steel, and not once in all of his years of observing his father had Clay seen anyone turn his back on Pa’s teachings. Maybe Pa’s size—six foot four in his stocking feet—discouraged folks from ignoring him. But Clay suspected it was more than Pa’s intimidating size that kept ears attentively tuned—it was his presentation. When Pa spoke, folks listened and accepted, and that was that.

  Clay’s chest tightened, a familiar worry rising to choke him. He didn’t have his pa’s size—he wasn’t a small man, but he lacked his father’s unusual height and muscular build. He didn’t have his pa’s booming voice, either. He believed he had his father’s zeal and desire to point lost souls to their Savior, but he lacked the element of magnetism his father possessed. An ache built in the center of his chest. What good was it to have a desire to preach if folks wouldn’t listen?

  He gave the paddle a firm sweep that sent the canoe onto the bank. He tugged it well away from the water’s edge so the current couldn’t carry it away. The travois waited, right where he’d put it that morning, along with a coil of rope to secure the supplies to its willow-and-deer-hide frame. He’d need to make more than one trip to get everything to the village, so he loaded the things he thought they needed most—the half-emptied gunnysacks of potatoes, onions, and carrots, the oiled paper and metal door workings, and Vivian’s muslin—on the travois and left the other items in the canoe.

  As he tucked a square tarp over the crates in the canoe’s belly, he prayed it wouldn’t be bothered by curious animals or thieving humans. “I can’t afford anything else getting lost.” Lost . . . The word taunted him. Raising his eyes to the cloud-dusted sky, he held his arms out in a gesture of supplication. “I came here so the native people would find their way to You—so they won’t be lost eternally. I came to do right, God. So why are so many things going wrong?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vivian paced outside the mission school, watching for Clay’s return. Even during the hours she’d stayed busy—hoeing and watering the garden, picking the first plump pea pods, and sweeping the mission school’s floor with a handmade willow broom until it practically gleamed—she’d caught herself looking toward the break in the brush where he’d disappeared that morning, pulling an empty travois behind him.

  She leaned against the corner of the building and gnawed on a hangnail. Although no stars showed in the sky, nighttime had arrived—the little pendant watch Aunt Vesta and Uncle Matthew had given her their last Christmas with her proved it. And still no Clay. What if something had happened to him? The fretful thought wouldn’t leave her head.

  She tried so hard to resist living with a cloud of fear haunting her, but no amount of effort successfully held the worries at bay. So many unpleasant things could befall a person. He could have been attacked by a bear or a moose. Perhaps his canoe overturned and the river carried him away. In town, might he have met with some unsavory fellows who accosted him to steal his supplies? Vivian’s imagination conjured one tragedy after another until her heart pounded so hard it hurt to draw a breath.

  Simply waiting was too difficult—she needed to stay busy. She’d already completed the chores Clay had left for her, as well as a few of her own choosing. A fresh pan of corn bread waited for Clay in his hut, she’d stacked a good supply of wood inside the school for the stove, and she’d even ventured into the deeper brush to set her snare. What else could she do? She clapped her palms together. Washing! Clay wore the same trousers and shirt every day for work, but he’d donned clean clothes before leaving for town. She could retrieve his dirty clothing and wash it.

  She carried bucket after bucket from the river until she’d filled the rusty tin washtub that sat outside her hut. As she’d come to expect, a small number of native women gathered to watch her. Each time she or Clay used the wash bucket to clean their hands and faces
or Vivian prepared to launder their clothing, the natives stood nearby, jabbering and chortling to themselves. Vivian had grown accustomed to having an audience, even if the lack of privacy occasionally frustrated her.

  Tonight, however, she appreciated their presence. They unwittingly offered a welcome distraction.

  Vivian shaved a bit of lye soap from a bar into the water and stirred it with her hands, managing to create a few dismal suds. She plunged Clay’s shirt into the water again and again, glancing up to acknowledge her grinning audience every few seconds. When she felt she’d removed the majority of the grime, she shook it out, spraying the watching crowd with water droplets, then draped the shirt over a bush to dry.

  She reached for Clay’s trousers, but a little girl with round, rosy cheeks and two missing front teeth thrust a little calico dress at her. “Missus Viv-ee-an, ngideloy ton-gilax?”

  Vivian mimed placing the dress in the washtub and repeated the child’s request in English. “Wash your clothes?”

  “Wass,” the child said, and the women broke out in a fresh round of guttural murmurs.

  Crooking her finger, Vivian gestured for the child to step between her and the washtub. Hunching her shoulders and giggling wildly, she complied. Vivian gave her the dress and then, holding the child’s hands, she pushed the dress and the little girl’s arms into the water. The child squealed, and Vivian laughed. Together, they gave the dress a thorough scrubbing while the watching women oohed and made clucking sounds with their teeth. The little girl hung the soggy dress next to Clay’s shirt to dry. Then she dashed away, her bare feet slapping the hardened ground and her delighted giggle filling the air.

  With the child’s departure, the others apparently decided it was time to turn in. They ambled toward their cabins, leaving Vivian to finish the final pieces of laundry. Alone again, her thoughts once more turned troublesome. How she wished she had someone to talk to—someone who would understand rather than judge her fearful thoughts. Mother, Aunt Vesta, even Clay’s father repeatedly lectured her that being afraid meant she didn’t trust God to take care of her and those she loved. But how could she completely trust God when He’d let her down before?

  Vivian dipped a bucketful of the murky wash water and carried it to the garden so it wouldn’t be wasted. Midstride, she paused and stared at the open spot in the brush, willing Clay to emerge from the thick growth. The hour neared ten o’clock—what could be keeping him?

  The rustle in the brush alerted Lizzie to an animal’s presence. A large animal, based on the amount of noise. She slowly separated the boughs of a thick rose-hip bush with the tip of her Winchester rifle and stared down the barrel, waiting for the creature to cross her path.

  Late at night or early in the morning—either were ideal times for hunting. It didn’t seem to matter to the creatures that light still shone rather than giving them the cover of dark. The thick trees offered the security of shadows. They were hungry, and so they ventured out to forage, giving Lizzie an opportunity to fill her cache with meat. Or to fill Clay’s—Vivian’s, she corrected herself—cache with meat.

  The thrashing grew louder. The animal was near. Lizzie hunkered low, her back stiff, one eye squinted shut, her senses alert. She cocked the hammer slowly, cringing at the muffled click. But when the animal—a bear?—showed itself, she’d be ready. Lizzie held her breath, her finger poised on the trigger. A lumbering shape, cloaked in gray shadows, emerged from the brush. She squeezed the trigger.

  A scream rent the air. The animal—but not an animal, Lizzie now realized—flailed, bringing up his head where a weak band of sunlight briefly illuminated his features. Lizzie bolted out of the bushes and raced for him, watching in revulsion as he crumpled and landed facedown in the fern-strewn forest floor.

  Panting, heart racing, she rolled him onto his back. She gasped and sank back on her haunches. A scream of horror built in her throat, and she covered her mouth with both hands to hold it inside. Clay! She’d killed Clay Selby.

  “Vivian? Vivian, wake up!”

  The frantic whisper cut through Vivian’s sleep-fogged brain. Tiredness had finally won out, and in spite of her worries concerning Clay’s continued absence, she’d crawled into her bed and fallen into a restless sleep. Now she sat up and groggily rubbed her eyes. Had she only imagined the voice?

  “Vivian!”

  She staggered to her feet, finally recognizing the caller. Pulling aside the blanket that covered her doorway, she looked at Lizzie. “What are you doing here?” She flung a frantic look across the quiet village.

  “Come.” Lizzie grabbed Vivian’s arm and dragged her behind the hut.

  Vivian stumbled on an exposed root, but Lizzie’s firm hold kept her upright. “Lizzie, what—?”

  Instead of replying, Lizzie pointed to a travois that lay in a gray triangle of shade. A still, bulky shape lay strapped to the conveyance. Vivian squinted through the dim light—what on earth? Then her knees buckled. She let out a cry of alarm. “Clay!”

  She dropped to her knees and placed her hand on Clay’s hair. Something felt sticky. Blood. Her stomach whirled. She looked into Lizzie’s grim face. “What happened to him?”

  “I shot him.”

  Vivian’s jaw fell open. She tried to speak—to ask why Lizzie would shoot Clay—but words wouldn’t form.

  “I was hunting for meat, as he asked me to do.”

  Buzzing filled the inside of Vivian’s head. Did Lizzie mean to blame Clay? She forced herself to listen to Lizzie’s words.

  “He sounded like a bear, dragging supplies through the brush. So I shot him.” Lizzie held her shoulders stiff. Her low voice held no emotion.

  Vivian jerked her attention to Clay. Although he hadn’t moved, his flesh felt warm to the touch. His chest rose and fell in slow but steady breaths. He wasn’t dead. A flicker of hope ignited in her breast. “Help me get him into his hut.”

  They each grabbed one support on the travois and dragged it across the brief expanse to Clay’s hut. Vivian panted with exertion. How had Lizzie managed to tote Clay all the way to the village by herself? They weren’t able to maneuver the travois through the doorway, so they lifted Clay by his arms and legs and carried him to his bed.

  He lay on the blanket with his arms outstretched and his head lolling to the side like a discarded ragdoll, completely unaware. Vivian knelt beside him. “I need a lantern. There’s one in the corner there. Would you light it, please? You’ll find a tin of matches on that little shelf.” She didn’t shift her gaze from Clay.

  Squeaks, a soft skritch, and then a flare of light let Vivian know Lizzie followed her directions. A soft yellow glow lit the cabin. Lizzie set the lantern on the floor next to Clay’s head and crouched beside Vivian.

  “I thought I’d killed him.” Lizzie’s voice still held no emotion, yet Vivian sensed a deep agony beneath the woman’s surface. “But he breathes. . . .” She pointed at his softly rising chest.

  “Yes, I see.” Vivian didn’t add she hoped he would continue to breathe. The comment would only add to Lizzie’s guilt, and what good would it do? She pulled the lantern closer, examining Clay’s head. An ugly wound, four inches long and almost a half inch wide, glared up at her, but to her relief it appeared the bullet had skimmed alongside his skull rather than penetrating the bone.

  She had never treated a bullet wound, but she’d tended Clay’s scratches when he fell through the mission roof. Those scratches were healing well. Surely this wound would, too, with the same ministrations. She swung her gaze to meet Lizzie’s stoic expression. “Will you fetch some water and heat it on the stove in the mission school? I want to clean his wound, but the water should be boiled first.”

  Lizzie’s face pinched with uncertainty. “I need to leave, Vivian. It will not serve you well if others awake and find me here.”

  Vivian grabbed Lizzie’s hands. “Please, Lizzie. He’s unconscious, but if he wakens he might try to get up. He could start the wound bleeding again. He’s already lost much blood—
I can see it in his hair and along his face.” The sight repulsed her, and she had to swallow before continuing. “He shouldn’t be left alone.”

  Lizzie chewed her lip for a moment. Then she pulled Vivian to her feet. “You get the water and heat the stove. I’ll stay here with him. If the others see you out moving around, they won’t be alarmed. But . . .”

  Although Vivian preferred to remain at Clay’s side, she understood Lizzie’s apprehension. Arguing would only prolong seeing to Clay’s wound. “All right. Stay very close.” Her voice caught. “And call me if . . .” Lifting her skirt, she raced out of the hut.

  Vivian ran to the river, grateful for the murky sunlight. She scooped up a pan of water and spun toward the village, sloshing water over the rim. Hissing through her teeth, she slowed her pace—she didn’t want to make a second trip.

  In the mission building, she added wood to the coals in the stove and placed the pan on top, then dashed to the hut to check on Clay. As she’d directed, Lizzie sat near, her hand on Clay’s shoulder.

  “Any change?”

  Lizzie shook her head, her braids swinging with the movement. She turned her tortured face to Vivian. “I am so sorry, Vivian.” Her voice broke.

  In her weeks of visiting the native woman, Vivian had never seen her express such sorrow. She couldn’t allow Lizzie to carry a burden of guilt—she understood far too well that agonizing weight. Vivian curled her hand over Lizzie’s shoulder. “It wasn’t deliberate. I don’t blame you. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Lizzie nodded, shifting her head to look back down at Clay. “Is the water heated?”

  Vivian hustled to the school to check the pan. The water wasn’t boiling yet, but steam rose in a wispy cloud. It would do. Using her skirt to protect her hands, she carried the pan to Clay’s hut and then shifted Lizzie out of the way. She retrieved Clay’s shirt—the cleanest piece of fabric she could locate quickly—from the bush outside and dipped it in the water. The heat stung her fingers, but she ignored her pain and gently brushed the wadded cloth across the wound. Clay groaned, rolling his head away from her touch.