A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Unpleasant aromas—stale tobacco smoke, yeasty beer, and men’s body odors—assaulted his nose as he stepped into the rough wood structure. He breathed as shallowly as possible as he made his way to the bar, where the doctor hunched over a tall mug of amber liquid. He cleared his throat to gain the man’s attention. The doctor turned his bleary gaze in Clay’s direction and grunted.

  “Sir, I wondered if I could purchase some medicine from you.” Clay explained the malady spreading from one villager to another. “I fear there will be deaths if we’re not able to bring the fever under control.”

  The doctor took a swig of his drink and backhanded his lips. “Have it here in Fort Yukon, too. Somebody brought it in and it’s been bouncing all around town. Spreads like a bad habit.”

  “So you have a medicine that works?”

  “Nope.” The man pushed off the stool and stood before Clay, wavering slightly. “Just been telling everybody to keep to themselves—less likely to catch it that way.”

  Clay restrained a snort—the doctor might be telling people to keep to themselves, but based on the number of folks he’d just seen working at the docks and frequenting the stores, they weren’t listening. “So there’s no treatment?”

  “Treatment’s simple—ply ’em with whiskey for the cough, keep the patient cool, and hold off on feeding them ’til the fever’s run its course.”

  Considering how long some of the villagers had suffered from the fever, they might very well starve the victims to death if he followed the doctor’s advice. Clay scowled at the man. “Are you sure this is what you’re telling everyone, or is the treatment only for the natives?”

  The doctor scowled back. He pointed a stubby finger at Clay. “Don’t be hurling insults at me, young man. I took a pledge to treat all folks the same. I’m telling you what I’d advise anybody, and that’s a fact.” The man whirled toward the barkeeper. “Sell this fellow the biggest bottle of whiskey you got.” He squinted at Clay. “Tablespoon as needed to stop the cough. That’s the best I can do for you.”

  ———

  Even though Clay knew he should hurry back to the village—he’d left Etu and Naibi in the care of an older Athabascan girl named Nayeli—he decided to make a stop at Lizzie’s cabin and check on her well-being. Vivian hadn’t mentioned Lizzie coughing or seeming ill, but he’d seen how quickly the sickness could strike. He’d rest easier if he knew she was all right.

  As he approached her clearing, he heard her dogs bark in warning. Having had a bullet bounce off his skull once, he didn’t care to repeat the experience. He paused and cupped his hands beside his mouth. “Lizzie! Lizzie Dawson! It’s me—Clay. Can I come onto your yard?”

  A shrill whistle pierced the air, and the dogs fell silent. Then he heard her call, “Come ahead.”

  His pulse immediately sped. He pressed his palm to his chest, willing his heart to settle down. The threat of being fired upon was gone—so why the racing heartbeat? He pushed through the brush to enter her yard. And when he caught sight of her, his heart fired into his throat and lodged, making it difficult for him to draw a breath.

  Lizzie stood just outside her cabin, attired in a buttery, swoop-skirted gown bedecked with layers of frothy lace. The pale yellow accented her glimmering hair of darkest night and made her eyes appear even more vividly blue. He came to a stumbling halt, staring in shock at the change. Vivian had worked a miracle in transforming the earthy native woman into a lady of culture.

  “Y-you’re beautiful.” Clay spoke without thinking.

  Lizzie toyed with a stray strand of hair that lay along her long, graceful neck. “Th-thank you.” She drew her hands down the length of the gown, her expression bashful. “I was missing Vivian, so I tried on one of the dresses she gave me. I . . . I did not realize I would have anyone visit.”

  Clay gulped, happy he’d taken the time to stop by. He wouldn’t have wanted to miss seeing Lizzie in such finery. He whistled through his teeth, shaking his head in wonder. “You will certainly set the city of San Francisco on its ear when you arrive.”

  She took a step closer, revealing a bare foot beneath the gown’s hem. Her dusky toes poking out from the flurry of lace amused him. “I don’t care about the city. I only care about one man.”

  Clay nearly staggered. “Do . . . do you have a beau in San Francisco?”

  “A beau?” Her brow puckered for a moment, then cleared. “No. My father is there.”

  Clay’s jaw dropped. “You know your father?” He regretted his impulsive outburst when she folded her arms over her chest and gave him a stony glare.

  “Of course I do. He built this cabin. He lived here with my mother and me until my twelfth year.”

  Clay gentled his voice. “And you’ve been in touch with him over the years? He wants you to come to California?”

  Lizzie’s face didn’t change expression, but something akin to desperation flickered in her eyes. “Why would he not? He is my father. Would not any father want his child to be with him?”

  Clay wondered why her father hadn’t taken her with him in the first place, but before he could ask, she continued.

  “My mother wished me to go to him. I intend to honor her request.” She turned her gaze to the side, releasing a sad sigh. “I have nothing holding me here anymore.”

  Clay wished he could gather her in his arms and ask if he might be a reason to stay. But he jammed his fists into his pockets and pushed the desire aside. It would be selfish to ask her to change her plans. Yet worry nibbled at the back of his mind. “Lizzie, have you been in contact with your father? Does he know you’re coming?”

  Lizzie set her lips in a firm line. She smoothed a few dark tendrils of hair from her cheek and raised her chin. “Did you come today for a reason?”

  Clay blinked twice, scrambling for the initial purpose of his call. He rubbed his finger beneath his nose to rein in his galloping thoughts. “I wanted to make sure you were well. We have a sickness in the village.” He patted the bag that hung from his shoulder, made bulky by the rectangular whiskey bottle. “If you need medicine, I’ll leave some for you.”

  Lizzie’s eyebrows flew high. “The doctor—he gave you medicine for the Gwich’in people?”

  Clay made a face. “Well, not medicine exactly. He said there wasn’t medicine for this sickness. But . . .” He slipped the bottle free and held it up. “This should help with the cough.”

  The gown’s gentle movements made Lizzie appear to float as she glided across the grass to reach him. She leaned forward and read the bottle’s label, then pulled back with a sour look on her face. “Spirits. That isn’t medicine. It steals a man’s intelligence.”

  Did she think he would be foolhardy enough to encourage drunkenness? Under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn’t offer whiskey to anyone, but the sick people needed relief. “I’ll only give a small amount to anyone who has the cough.”

  Lizzie didn’t look reassured.

  Her lack of confidence pierced him. He slipped the bottle back into his bag. “Now that I know you’re all right, I suppose—”

  She held her hand to him. “My grandmother . . . she is one of the sick ones?”

  Clay nodded. “Yes, Co’Ohzii was one of the first to fall ill.” He wouldn’t tell Lizzie how worried he was about the older woman. Even though she refused to allow him to visit, he’d gotten a glimpse of her thin, pale face when he’d knocked on the door and Shruh opened it wide enough for him to peek in. He didn’t approve of drinking alcohol, but if the liquid in the bottle would stifle her cough and allow her to rest and recover, he’d make sure Shruh gave it to her.

  Lizzie looked to the side. Clay watched a myriad of emotions—fear, anger, worry, and finally grim resignation—play across her features before she jerked her gaze to meet his again.

  Her expression turned pleading. “Send Etu and Naibi to me. Here, away from the village, they will be less likely to fall ill, too.”

  Clay worried his lip between his teeth. Her suggestion made
sense, but he didn’t relish losing the children’s companionship. Besides, Shruh had entrusted them to him. If he sent them away, to a woman banished from the tribe, the man would have further reason to condemn Clay. “I . . . I’m not sure that’s wise. . . .”

  Lizzie’s brow pinched. “You do not trust me to care for the children?”

  “I trust you,” Clay assured her. He explained his hesitation.

  Lizzie’s expression gentled. She offered a nod that made her hair bob up and down. “But would they not be safer away from the sickness? Surely Shruh couldn’t fault you for trying to protect the children he placed in your care.”

  Clay contemplated Lizzie’s reasoning. The children would be safer here, where the cough couldn’t reach them. He’d be lonely without them, but he’d also be free to work long and hard and finally finish the mission building. Of course he’d visit them daily to be certain they fared well . . . which meant he’d see Lizzie each day.

  He drew in a steadying breath. “It’s a fine idea, Lizzie.” Very fine. “I’ll bring them tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Missus Lizzie?”

  Lizzie glanced over her shoulder, and a fond smile pulled at her lips. Naibi, faithful as a puppy dog, followed Lizzie between the rows of corn. The child asked endless questions, but Lizzie didn’t mind. Over her week of caring for the children, they’d weaseled their way firmly into her heart.

  “Yes? What do you want now?” She fingered a plump ear, checking for signs of readiness.

  “Why do you live here all alone instead of in the village with Dine’e?”

  Lizzie jerked, the innocent question stabbing like a knife in her breast. How could she explain that the People had no use for her? It would be far too confusing for a girl of such tender years. “I . . . I like it here. It’s my home.” She moved to the next tall, rustling stalk.

  “But don’t you get lonely?” Naibi imitated Lizzie’s actions, gently pinching an ear while her face crunched in concentration.

  Lizzie drew in a deep breath. She wouldn’t lie to the child. “Sometimes.” But my loneliness will soon end. Soon I will be with my father. She forced a grin, tweaking Naibi’s nose. “But I have you and Etu.”

  The little girl pinned Lizzie with a serious stare. “But Etu and I will leave soon. When the sickness is gone, we will go back to the village and live in the mission building. So you will be alone again.” Her expression turned hopeful. “But you have George and Martha and Thomas and all the other dogs. So you will not be lonely, yes?”

  The child’s concern warmed Lizzie to the center of her being. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Naibi threw her arms around Lizzie’s middle and hugged her hard. She tilted her head back, her tangled bangs catching in her thick eyelashes. “And we will come visit you—me and Etu and Mister Clay.”

  Mister Clay . . . Her heart gave a happy skip at the sound of his name. He’d stopped by her cabin every day to check on the children. The exuberant pair always raced across the yard to greet him. With effort, she’d managed to suppress her desire to follow their example and run into his arms. It would be foolhardy to express her growing feelings for the kindhearted man who bestowed hugs and smiles on the children—he was here to serve the village, and she was preparing for a life far away from the village. Admitting the affection that blossomed ever greater with each visit would only lead to heartache.

  “That would be wonderful.” Lizzie returned Naibi’s hug. “But for now, Etu caught a rabbit in his snare—we need to fry it up. So let’s go wash our hands and prepare our lunch.”

  Naibi crinkled her nose. “You are like Mister Clay. Always wash, wash, wash.” She giggled and raced out of the garden, her bare feet pounding the grass.

  Lizzie followed more slowly. You are like Mister Clay. The child’s comment rang in her mind. Perhaps in that one way, she and Clay were alike. And in their shared fondness for the children. But in every other way? She envisioned his hair, the rich brown of a cattail’s skin threaded with strands of autumn gold—thick, curling hair that lifted at his collar and around his ears, so different from the black, straight hair of the Gwich’in. His skin had tanned brown under the sun, closely matching her own tawny color, but she’d glimpsed his throat when his top shirt button opened. Underneath, he was white.

  And he persisted in placing his trust in an invisible God who resided somewhere above the clouds. A God he called Father. At each visit, he shared from a black book supposedly written by this unseen God, his face fervent as he did his utmost to convince her she was loved, wanted, by his Father God who could be hers, too, if only she asked Him to be.

  Lizzie shook her head, blowing out a little breath of scornful disbelief. On the outside, she and Clay were different. And deep underneath, in their hearts, they were very, very different.

  She paused in her trek across the yard and examined the back of her hand. One would never guess she carried the white blood of her father or her great-great-grandfather. Her mother’s blood ran deeper, stronger, and colored her all the way to the surface. She rubbed her skin, but the color remained. Brown. Always brown.

  Scuffing forward again, she allowed her thoughts to look into the future. If she joined with a white man—a likely happening when she entered her father’s world—would her children carry the dark skin of her mother’s people, or would they be gifted with their father’s paler hue? How she hoped the pure white of their father’s heritage might wash out the muddied blood of her mixed heritage, resulting in white-skinned children. If they showed white on the outside, no one would look at them with derision. White meant acceptance.

  Inside the cabin, she found Naibi and Etu busily setting plates, cups, and spoons on the table in readiness for their noonday meal. They laughed together, their round faces beaming and dark eyes sparkling. Their obvious cheerfulness raised a coil of envy. She reminded herself she, too, would experience unfettered bliss when her father welcomed her into his house.

  Her time in the garden had proven the vegetables neared their time of harvest. Which meant Lizzie’s moment of joy waited just around the bend. Her heart pattered with hope. But then a grim reminder chased the patter away. How could she feel truly joyful unless she fulfilled her mother’s wish for reconciliation with her grandparents? Her shoulders sagged in defeat. It would be wiser to simply accept that joy did not exist for her—not here, and not with her father.

  Vivian sank into the delightful softness of the hotel’s featherbed and released a sigh of pleasure. Her week of train travel and sleeping in a hard berth had created a permanent ache in her lower spine. From Fairbanks, through Canada, the American Northwest, and then to Carson City, Nevada, she’d traveled steadily south. And tomorrow she would begin her eastward trek across the vast United States to Massachusetts and Aunt Vesta. But tonight—for one glorious night—she would savor a hotel room, a bath, and the luxury of a bed.

  She fingered the paper money wired to the hotel by her dear aunt, grateful for the security it provided. The telegram accompanying the packet of cash had included an outline of her carefully laid itinerary and tickets for every remaining leg of the journey. Vivian returned the money to the same little pocket in her reticule that held the tickets, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude for her aunt’s diligent planning. She had merely to follow the directions at each depot, and in a little over two weeks, she’d be under the roof of Aunt Vesta and Uncle Matthew’s stately townhouse.

  As much as she anticipated reuniting with her aunt and uncle, she couldn’t cast off the cloak of regret that had fallen over her from the moment she’d made the decision to leave Alaska. Were the villagers recovered from the bout of sickness? Had any of them succumbed to the fever? And Clay—was he keeping a careful watch over Etu and Naibi? Had he completed the mission so he could begin the ministry of his heart? Was he visiting Lizzie, as she’d requested, so the native woman wouldn’t feel so alone? So many questions—and no way to find answers.

  She pushed
off the bed and crossed to the window. She looked out at a busy city scene. Just gazing at the dusty, crowded streets filled with various conveyances and people bustling here and there made her feel hemmed in. She missed the openness of the Alaskan wilderness, the slower pace of the natives who resided in the quiet village. Her brow puckered in confusion. How had only a few short weeks created such a change within her? She would never have imagined the city stifling her. She’d need to adjust her thinking before she reached Hampshire County.

  “The amenities of Huntington are preferable to the rugged conditions in Gwichyaa Saa,” she reminded herself, her fingertips on the glass as she peered outward. “I shall have opportunities to visit the opera hall, engage in delightful teas with Aunt Vesta and her friends, and partake of carriage rides with the other young people. . . .” She shifted slightly, gaining a better view of a passing horse-drawn, well-fringed surrey. A whiff of her own musty body odor reached her nose, and she grimaced. “And I shall enjoy the convenience of indoor plumbing.”

  She whirled from the window and charged to her valise. After withdrawing a clean gown and the other items necessary for bathing, she stepped into the hallway. A bathing room specifically for female guests waited at the far end. When she’d checked it earlier, someone else was making use of it. But surely by now the woman would have left and Vivian could enjoy a leisurely soak. Her skin prickled in anticipation. Vivian attempted to turn the knob.

  “Occupied!” A frantic voice screeched from behind the closed door.

  Vivian tipped her face close to the raised-panel door. “Will you be much longer?”

  “Five minutes.” The reply carried over the sounds of splashing.

  Vivian leaned against the wall with her belongings draped over her arm, determined to remain beside the door so she could enter the moment the other woman vacated the room. Guests milled up and down the hallway on their way to their rooms or to the dining room on the main floor. She nodded and smiled when they greeted her, all the while battling embarrassment at her disheveled, travel-weary appearance. But not responding would be impolite. If only the woman inside the bathing room would hurry!