“Why are you hiding in the bushes?”
Chapter Sixteen
Lizzie clutched her chest, nearly toppling in surprise at the sound of a childish voice right behind her. She whirled and found herself face-to-face with the two children who’d stolen from her pile of salmon at the river. The little girl opened her mouth to speak again, but Lizzie hissed, “Shh!” She glanced at the villagers. None turned in her direction. She blew out a breath of relief. Then she grabbed each child by the fronts of their white-man’s clothing and pulled them down next to her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in Athabascan.
The boy pulled loose and straightened his shirt. “What are you doing?”
Lizzie ignored his challenging tone. “I brought food.”
The girl’s eyes brightened. She jabbed her brother with her elbow. “See? She is nice. Just like she let us keep the fish—she brought us food.”
Lizzie shook her head. “Not for you. For Clay and Vivian Selby.”
The child’s face fell. “Iy, not for us . . .”
Despite her aggravation at being accosted by these two scamps a second time, Lizzie’s sympathy stirred. “Y-you are without food?”
“We have some,” the little girl said, “but—”
The boy grasped her arm and gave her a silencing look. He lifted his chin and faced Lizzie. “We are fine.”
Lizzie nibbled her lip, uncertain. She needed to return to her cabin before her grandfather or one of the tribal leaders caught sight of her lurking outside the village, but how could she leave these children if what she suspected was true? Their vitse was old—they’d said so. Pride would keep the old woman from asking for help, and the children would continue to go hungry.
She had an idea, but she couldn’t talk to the children so close to the village where they might be overheard. Gesturing for them to follow, Lizzie inched backward, staying low. Without hesitation, the girl followed, and the boy—his face wreathed with uneasiness—skittered after his sister. Lizzie led them well into the trees. When she felt they were safe from listening ears, she crouched to their level. “What are your names?”
The girl grinned, showing a gap where her front teeth should be. “I am Naibi. My brother is Etu.”
“Naibi and Etu, I cannot give you the food you saw in the bushes—it does not belong to me. It belongs to the missionaries, Clay and Vivian Selby.” Their dark eyes stared at her, reflecting hopelessness, and Lizzie’s heart constricted. Would her next words encourage them? “The food is for the mission, but the mission is for the village. I am sure they will share with you and your grandmother.”
Naibi released a happy squeal and brought her pudgy hands together. She beamed at her brother, but the boy didn’t look assured.
Lizzie turned to Etu. “Will your vitse accept food from the mission?”
The boy, his face too old for his young years, offered a slow shrug. “She is afraid to let others know she is having trouble gathering food for us.”
Naibi added, “She does not want to be seen as useless.” Her bright voice contrasted the sadness of the statement.
Lizzie didn’t know the children’s grandmother, but she understood the woman’s concern. There was no worse designation than useless among the Gwich’in people. “Your parents . . . they do not help her?”
Naibi hung her head, and Etu answered. “They are dead. As is Vitsiy. It is just Vitse and us now.”
“Etu is getting bigger. He is nine years already.” Naibi’s chin bounced up, her expression cheerful again. “He can plant squash, and fish, and even hunt if someone will teach him.”
Lizzie nodded thoughtfully, looking Etu up and down. Although young, he appeared to be an intelligent, sturdy boy, capable of helping his family. But boys learned from their fathers, and Etu had no father. Who would teach him the skills he needed?
Naibi touched Lizzie’s hand. “We watched you at the river. You are good at fish catching. You caught many more fish than Vitse.” She tipped her head, her tangled hair spilling across her round cheek. “Will you teach Etu to fish?”
Lizzie warmed at the innocent question. These children didn’t know her, yet they trusted her. She wished she had time to teach Etu to fish, to hunt, and to trap. But she was preparing to leave this place—she had no time to spare. “No.” Her voice carried the heavy tone of regret, and her remorse doubled when the little girl’s face fell. “But I have much food at my cabin.”
If she left for California before winter set in, she wouldn’t need all of the meat and fish she’d stored. She’d intended to sell the surplus, along with her furs, but perhaps it could be put to better use right here in Gwichyaa Saa. Why she cared about these children—children who’d stolen from her!—she couldn’t explain, yet the thought of them going hungry created an ache in the center of her heart. “The missionaries know how to find me. If you have need of more food than what is in those bags, you tell them. They will come to me, and I will give them food for you.”
Naibi flashed a happy smile at Etu, but the boy remained solemn.
“I need to go now. Will you tell the missionaries where to find the bags of food?” She gave the pair a stern look. “Remember, it is their food, not yours. Stealing is wrong.” She softened her tone. “But the missionaries have come to help. They will share their food with those who need it.”
Naibi nodded. “We will tell them. Come, Etu!” She grabbed her brother’s hand and tugged him toward the village. Etu trotted behind his sister, but he kept his face angled toward Lizzie, his eyes seeming to beg her for . . . something. But Lizzie had nothing to offer these children. She’d done all she could. She hardened her heart and turned away from Etu’s seeking eyes.
After three days of lying on his pine-needle-and-blanket bed, Clay told Vivian, “I’m getting up, and nothing you say will stop me.” She begged and threatened and almost cried, but he pulled on his boots, buttoned his shirt, and headed for the mission with Vivian scampering along at his heels.
The sunlight hurt his eyes—he’d grown accustomed to the hut, where only dim streaks of light penetrated the bark walls and ceiling. The headache that had plagued him unceasingly for the past few days intensified. He shielded his eyes with his hand and ducked his head, wincing.
Vivian caught his arm and drew him to a stop. “I told you it was too soon. You’re hurting—I can tell. ” She glowered at him, but then her expression turned pleading. “Please, Clay. Go back to your hut. Just one more day. If you are up too soon, you might open the wound. I worry it might start bleeding again.” She flicked a glance toward the village, her brow puckering.
He stifled a frustrated sigh. “Viv, I’ve been lying around for too many days already. Is the clay going to march from the riverbank and fill the gaps between these logs?” She flinched, and he regretted that his sarcasm hurt her, but she had to let him work. The mission building had to be completed. He needed a place to teach and preach—his ministry depended on this structure. “Who else will do the chinking if I don’t do it?”
He pulled loose of her light grasp and entered the mission. Stepping over the threshold brought a rush of emotion he didn’t quite understand. He turned a slow circle, examining the room by increments while a mighty lump welled in his throat. He mentally calculated the time he’d need to finish chinking the walls, build the sleeping rooms, and construct benches. Another two weeks? A month? Fingering the bandage on his head, he silently lamented the injury that had prevented progress on the building.
He strode to the northwest corner, where the gunnysacks, crates, and barrels containing their food supplies lay in a disorganized heap. “I need to build a small storage loft for our supplies.” He sent a weary look in Vivian’s direction. “I’m grateful to Lizzie for retrieving these and bringing them to the village for us.” A reparation for bouncing a bullet off his head, perhaps.
“She took a terrible chance, coming into the village.”
Vivian had sung Lizzie’s praises repeatedly over the past days, remin
ding Clay again and again he might not be alive if Lizzie hadn’t broken the excommunication edict and brought him to the village. What she neglected to remember was he wouldn’t have been hurt at all if Lizzie hadn’t mistaken him for a prowling animal. He didn’t want to feel angry at Lizzie, but the emotion welled up against his will. Lord, help me forgive her—she didn’t deliberately harm me and slow my progress.
Vivian sent a glance out the door, her eyes flashing in apprehension. Her expression raised questions that had plagued him for the past several days. Clay moved to her side and touched her arm. She jumped, casting the frightened look on him. Something unpleasant had transpired while he lay, half-asleep and unaware. Now that he was on his feet again, it was time for answers.
“Viv, while I was recovering, Shruh visited frequently. You and he argued.”
Vivian scuttled backward a few inches. “You heard us?”
“I heard your voices, but never the words. What was the disagreement about?” Clay waited, but Vivian drew in a breath and stared at him in silence, her eyes reflecting worry. “Viv?”
Her breath whooshed out, and she seemed to wilt. “I’d hoped he might change his mind, but . . .” Lifting her head, she fixed him with a resigned look. “Clay, Shruh is angry because—” Murmured voices carried from outside, and Vivian whirled to face the door opening. She clasped her hands at her throat. “Here he comes.” Her voice sounded strained. “I suppose he’ll tell you.”
Clay hurried to Vivian’s side. “He’ll tell me what?”
But Vivian, focused on the approaching cluster of men, didn’t answer. Clay stepped into the yard to greet Shruh, Da’ago, and several other tribal leaders. Although an unnamed worry seized him, he formed a welcoming smile and greeted them in Athabascan. “Ade’—hello. It is good to be up and working again.” He let his gaze bounce from one unsmiling face to another, his unease mounting, and forced a light laugh. “If any of you would like to assist me with chinking, I would accept your help.”
“We must talk.” Shruh spoke abruptly, as if Clay hadn’t offered any words of greeting.
Clay cupped his hand above his eyes. “Very well. Would you like to step out of the sun?” Even with his shielding hand in place, he had to squint. His head throbbed.
Shruh looked as if he would refuse, but then he glanced at Clay’s bandage and gave a brusque nod. He flipped his hand at the gathered men, and they surged across the threshold.
The villagers had explored the mission building on many occasions, but once more their faces angled this way and that as they examined Clay’s handiwork. The building wasn’t a work of art, but it was well built—strong enough to withstand rain and wind. It would serve the villagers well. Pride swelled. They wouldn’t find fault with his craftsmanship.
Shruh crossed his arms over his chest and set his feet wide. “Clay Selby, we must speak of the woman Lu’qul Gitth’ihgi.”
Clay glanced at Vivian, who had scuttled into the far corner and huddled there, wringing her hands. He gestured for her to join him, but she shook her head. Puzzled, he turned to Shruh. “I know she hurt me, but it was not intentional. We should not hold her accountable.” He spoke to himself as much as to Shruh. “I owe her my appreciation for bringing me to safety, where Vivian could see to my wound.”
Shruh sliced his hand through the air. “I do not wish to speak of what she has done, but of what Vivian Selby has done.”
Clay crunched his brow. “I—”
“I told you contact with this woman was forbidden. Yet Vivian admits making visits to her cabin—many visits. I warned you of the consequences, but she disregarded my warnings.” The elder’s lined face hardened. “Do you have words of defense?”
Clay licked his dry lips. His head pounded, and he wished Vivian would at least stand beside him. He felt terribly alone facing Shruh’s anger. “Our only defense, Shruh, is that God sent us to Alaska to share His love with the Athabascan people. Although Lu’qul Gitth’ighi does not reside within Gwchyaa Saa, she is an Athabascan, so our ministry extends to her, as well.”
Shruh’s eyes narrowed. “Have you, like the woman, sought her out?”
Although Clay hadn’t visited as frequently as Vivian, he couldn’t lie. “Yes, sir. I have.”
The men muttered to one another, sending disapproving glances in Clay’s direction. Shruh’s lips twitched. “As I told your woman, you are newcomers—unacquainted with tribal law. As such, I wish to grant you leniency and the privilege of residing within our village. But I cannot do so unless I am guaranteed you now understand the excommunication and will honor it.”
Shruh flung a sour look toward Vivian. “This woman has repeatedly refused to discontinue her relationship with Lu’qul Gitth’ighi. But you are the head of the mission, and she must abide by your decision. So I ask you—will you intentionally seek to spend time with the banished woman again?”
Chapter Seventeen
Clay’s head pounded with an intensity that made him queasy. Simple . . . it would be so simple to acquiesce to Shruh’s demand. After all, Lizzie was only one person . . . although she’d become an important person, intriguing him in ways he little understood. But what good would come of admitting his interest in her? She’d been banished from the tribe he’d come to serve. She planned to leave Alaska to reside in California. He’d have to say good-bye to her soon anyway, so what harm would there be in agreeing to stay away from her? By doing so, he’d secure a place in the village, where he and Vivian could minister to the entire tribe of Gwich’ins.
It’s for the best, isn’t it, Lord? He drew in a fortifying breath, ready to assure Shruh that he and Vivian would abide by the excommunication, but a wave of weakness attacked him. The ground beneath him seemed to tip, and he lost his balance. Vivian dashed to his side and slipped beneath his arm, preventing him from toppling onto the mission’s dirt floor.
Vivian snapped, “Someone help me!” Da’ago stepped forward and grabbed Clay’s other arm. Vivian glared at Shruh, surprising Clay with her defiance. “Talk later. My brother needs to rest now.”
She aimed Clay for the doorway, and she and Da’ago assisted him back to his hut. Although less than half an hour ago he’d insisted on leaving his bed, he sank back down willingly, his eyes falling closed of their own accord. To his relief, now that he wasn’t on his feet, the dizzy feeling eased.
“Thank you, Da’ago.” Vivian’s voice lost its sharp edge as she addressed the tribal elder. “I appreciate your help.”
“You are welcome, Missus Vivian.” Footsteps retreated, signaling the man’s departure.
A cool hand touched Clay’s brow, and he opened his eyes to find Vivian looking at him with both exasperation and concern. Despite the throbbing pain in his temple, he released a light laugh. “I guess I should have listened to you when you said it was too soon.”
She grimaced. “I knew the moment you appeared, Shruh would swoop down like a vulture. He’s been waiting to talk to us ever since he found Lizzie in your hut the night you were hurt.”
“You mean the night she hurt me.” Clay hadn’t intended to voice the thought, but maybe it was best if he made his feelings known. Holding resentment inside was much like letting a closed sore fester. Breaking it open led to healing.
“Surely you don’t blame her.” Vivian gaped at him in dismay.
He rubbed his aching head. “I know she didn’t mean to shoot me, but the fact remains she fired her rifle and hit me. She might have killed me, Viv. It’s hard to forget that.”
Vivian hung her head. “I know.” She fiddled with the edge of the blanket, chewing her lower lip. “Does this mean . . . you aren’t willing for us to spend time with her anymore?”
Sleep beckoned—his brief venture out had tired him more than he thought possible. Or maybe facing Shruh’s ire had exhausted him. Clay sighed. Most likely, it’s the thought of never seeing Lizzie again that creates such a heaviness in my heart.
“I want to see her,” he admitted. A part of him pined for tim
e with the beautiful woman with raven hair and sky-blue eyes. “But our seeing her angers the villagers. Especially Shruh. The Mission Committee sent us here to minister to the tribe. I don’t want to be branded a failure.” The pain in his head stabbed, but a greater pain pierced his heart. He didn’t want to cast Lizzie aside, the way the villagers had done. But he couldn’t lose the opportunity to minister to the Gwich’in. Pa would be so disappointed if Clay failed in his attempts to establish a mission in Gwichyaa Saa.
Tears pooled in Vivian’s eyes. “But, Clay, think of all the Bible stories about Jesus dining with those rejected by the Pharisees. Shouldn’t we set an example of forgiveness and acceptance to everyone, the same way Jesus did?”
If it weren’t for the pounding in his head, Clay would have laughed. He’d questioned whether Vivian would make a good missionary, but there she sat, preaching a sermon. One he couldn’t ignore. “You’ve given this much thought.”
“I’ve thought of little else since the night Shruh found Lizzie in your hut.” She caught his hand between hers, the fierce grip expressing the depth of her emotion. “If you succumb to Shruh’s rules about excommunication, how can you ever teach about acceptance and love? Your words would be a farce.”
Clay’s head hurt too much to think. “I need to sleep, Vivian.”
She sighed. After a moment, she released his hand and pulled the blanket across him, her face sad. “All right. But as soon as you’re awake and set foot outside, Shruh will be here demanding an answer.”
Clay ground his teeth together, eager to block out Vivian’s ominous prediction. “Viv, I promise . . . before I go to sleep, I’ll ask God to tell me what He would have me do. All right?”
A Whisper of Peace Page 14