A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  A middle-aged gentleman came up the stairs and ambled toward her. He stopped and tipped his fashionable black bowler, offering a broad grin. “Hello, miss.”

  Vivian hugged her clean clothing to her ribs. The man, attired in a fancy pinstriped suit and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, oozed charm and sophistication. How slovenly she must appear in comparison. “H-hello.”

  “I believe I saw you at the train station earlier this afternoon.” He glanced up and down the hallway, his thick brows briefly dipping. “You’re traveling alone?”

  Was it wise to acknowledge her lack of chaperonage? Vivian bit down on her lip, uncertainty holding her silent.

  He must have guessed the reason for her hesitation, because he chuckled lightly. “Now, now, I’m giving the wrong impression. Believe me, my query is entirely chivalrous.” His smile broadened. “I have a daughter, Mathilda Rose, who is the apple of my eye. She’s near your age. In fact, you remind me of her with your green eyes and heart-shaped face.” He sighed, shaking his head in a rueful manner. “I’m afraid my fatherly inclinations aren’t easily squelched.”

  Vivian couldn’t resist displaying a grin. How sweet for him to be concerned about her. “Where is she?”

  “Home in Ely with her mother. I’ll be joining them tomorrow now that my business dealings are complete.” He sighed again. “I’ve spent the past two weeks in San Francisco, overseeing the sale of a client’s business. Such a tiresome activity! I’m very ready to be home again.” Planting his feet wide, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. “And you, young lady? Are you heading home, too?”

  Vivian opened her mouth to heartily agree, but for some reason the statement didn’t leave her lips. She’d always considered her aunt and uncle’s home her own. Why, then, did an image of Gwichyaa Saa fill her mind’s eye? She replied, “I’m going to visit relatives.”

  “So you’ve left your home behind,” he mused.

  Vivian swallowed a knot of sadness. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, I wish you safe travels, an enjoyable time with your relatives, and a speedy return to your home.”

  Even though his final wish would not be fulfilled, Vivian smiled. “Th-thank you, sir.”

  “I believe I’ll retire now. The train leaves early tomorrow morning.” He reached beneath his jacket and withdrew a folded newspaper. “Might you enjoy reading this before you turn in? It’s already a week old, but—”

  “Oh yes, please!” Vivian reached eagerly for the paper. Living in the village, she’d fallen woefully out of touch with happenings in the country. Perhaps reabsorbing herself in newsworthy events might help her feel at ease in the city again. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Good night now, young lady.” He touched the brim of his hat again, offered a dapper bow, and strode down the hallway.

  The doorknob squeaked, and a plump woman with frizzy hair sticking out from beneath a ruffled mob cap stepped from the steamy bathing room. “There you are. I gave the tub a quick rinse. There’s plenty of hot water—enjoy.” The woman bustled around the corner and slammed herself into a room.

  Vivian darted into the bathroom. She turned the brass spigots as high as they would go, smiling at the musical spatter of water against the tub’s cast-iron bottom. She dropped her dirty clothes in a heap and stepped into the tub. When the water reached a mere six inches from the tub’s rolled rim, she twisted the spigots to the off position and eased against the sloped back. Hot water lapped all the way to her chin. She closed her eyes, releasing a long sigh. Luxury, pure luxury.

  She’d placed the newspaper on a nearby table next to her folded nightclothes. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to read while soaking? Her heels squeaked against the tub’s surface as she raised herself up to grab the paper. Holding the pages well above the water, she reclined and read every article on the front page.

  The paper grew damp from the steam, and Vivian considered laying it aside rather than ruining it. One more page, she decided. Exercising great care, she turned to the second page and, immediately, an article caught her attention: WELL-RESPECTED BUSINESSMAN VOSS EDWARD DAWSON KILLED IN ROBBERY ATTEMPT. How sad, came the automatic thought. Angling the paper to better catch the light, she began to read.

  Suddenly she gasped, sitting upright. Water splashed the pages and cascaded over the edge of the tub. She tossed the paper aside and clambered out, grabbing up a towel to mop the floor before water dripped to the room below. Assured she’d dried the floor as best she could, she draped the towel over the tub’s rolled rim and stared at the crumpled paper lying open on the floor at her feet.

  Her pulse pounded as she located the line that had nearly stilled her heartbeat: “Mr. Dawson began Dawson Industries with wealth gained from fur trapping on the Alaskan frontier. . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Vivian’s motions turned clumsy as she scrambled into her clean clothing, brushed her damp hair away from her face, and carried her soiled clothing to her room. In one of her conversations with Lizzie, the native woman had shared her full name—Lu’qul Gitth’ighi Elizabeth Dawson—White Feather at her mother’s choosing, and Elizabeth Dawson after her paternal grandmother.

  Dawson . . . Lizzie had never admitted her reason for wanting to go to San Francisco, but was it possible Lizzie intended to seek her father’s family? Might the Voss Dawson listed in the newspaper be one of Lizzie’s relatives? Perhaps even her father? If Clay were here, he’d no doubt advise her she was allowing her imagination to run wild. But she needed answers, for Lizzie’s sake.

  Perhaps the man who’d given her the paper could provide more information. Throwing on a dress, she pressed her memory—behind which doorway had the man disappeared? She tapped on two incorrect doors before she located the right one. He’d changed from his suit and hat into a satin dressing robe and slippers. His graying hair looked mussed, as if he’d been lying down before she disturbed him.

  “Why . . . hello again.” The surprised look on the man’s mustached face nearly sent her scuttling back to her own room, but she had to ask what he knew about the death of the man who might be Lizzie’s father.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry to bother you, but this article . . .” Vivian held up the paper, folded to the story in question. “You said you were in San Francisco recently. Can you tell me anything more about . . . about . . . ?”

  The man plucked the newspaper from Vivian’s hand and frowned at it for a few seconds. Then he nodded. “Oh yes . . . tragic event. The entire town murmured about it. Apparently this gentleman was quite well known and well liked.”

  “What happened?” Vivian clasped her hands to her throat, her mouth dry.

  “Isn’t that clear from the article?” He tapped the page with the backs of his fingers. “Robbers accosted Mr. Dawson as he left his place of business, demanded money, and when he refused, they shot him. Right there on the street.”

  The man’s emotionless recital chilled Vivian.

  “I didn’t attend his funeral, but my business dealings had to be delayed because all of my associates went. According to their reports, half the city of San Francisco turned out to pay their respects.”

  Vivian took the paper from the man’s hand, staring at the headline. “It says he spent time in Alaska. . . .”

  “Yes. In the eighteen sixties and seventies, my associates indicated.”

  Vivian’s heart skipped a beat. The timing would be perfect. She gulped.

  “Are you a friend to Mr. Dawson?”

  Vivian jerked her gaze away from the paper. “What? Oh. No, I didn’t know him at all. But . . .” She swallowed the tears that gathered in her throat. If her assumptions were correct, Lizzie knew him. Poor, poor Lizzie.

  “I believe on the society pages there is an expansive obituary.” The man yawned behind his hand. He began inching his door closed. “Good evening, miss.”

  An obituary would list survivors. Vivian thanked the man and hurried back to her room. She spread the paper on the be
d and turned the pages until she located the obituary page. The gentleman was right—most obituaries were a mere one to two inches of column space. Mr. Dawson’s stretched for more than six inches, disclosing all of his community involvements, business successes, awards he’d received, and family connections. The final paragraph listed his survivors, and Vivian underlined the names with her finger as she read.

  “The death of Voss E. Dawson is mourned by his Parents, Edward and Elizabeth (Tanner) Dawson; Brothers Virgil and Victor; his Beloved Wife of eight years, Margaret (Hopemeister) Dawson; his only Son, Timothy, age seven; and precious Daughters, Elizabeth (nicknamed Lizzie) . . .”

  Vivian gasped. They’d listed Lizzie! So Voss Dawson was her father—and he’d told his new wife about her. But then she read on, and her elation crumbled.

  “. . . age six, and Lydia, age four, all of San Francisco.”

  Vivian wadded the paper and pressed it to her aching chest. If this man was Lizzie’s father, not only had he abandoned his first child many years ago, he had replaced her by naming a second daughter Elizabeth and had nicknamed her Lizzie. Certainly his “Beloved Wife Margaret” had no idea her husband had once married a Gwich’in maiden and fathered a half-breed child.

  Tossing the paper aside, Vivian began to pace the room. Anger mingled with intense sorrow. Lizzie needed to know about this.

  Vivian dropped sideways on the bed, hugging a plump pillow the way she wished she could embrace Lizzie to lighten the pain the woman was sure to bear if Voss Dawson was, in fact, her father. Then Vivian sat upright, shaking her head. “I could be wrong. Lizzie might be going to San Francisco for some other reason.” She sagged onto the bed again. “But just in case, I must tell her about this man’s death.” Vivian moaned, closing her eyes against the sting of tears. “But how?”

  Clay tucked his Bible into his knapsack and hung the strap around his neck. Then, on a whim, he reached for his accordion box. How long had it been since he’d played the cheerful musical instrument? Not since his first weeks in Gwichyaa Saa. Recalling how much the villagers, particularly the children, had enjoyed listening to him play, he decided a few tunes would bring some cheer. Especially to those in mourning—to his great heartbreak three villagers had lost their battles with the illness in the past two days—or to those who lay sick and miserable on their sleeping mats.

  But first he needed to visit Lizzie’s cabin and check on Etu and Naibi. He prayed daily that the fever jumping from one cabin to another hadn’t made its way through the woods to Lizzie’s home. He’d spend a couple of hours playing games with the children, reading from the Bible to Lizzie whether she wanted to listen or not, and getting reacquainted with the keyboard on his piano-accordion. No doubt his fingers were rusty from their long break, but Etu and Naibi wouldn’t complain. And hopefully Lizzie wouldn’t be offended if he hit some sour notes. She’d probably rather hear sour notes on the accordion than sweet verses from the Bible.

  He slipped between some trees at the edge of the village and followed the familiar pathway. His thoughts raced ahead to the welcome he knew he’d receive. It gave him such a lift to see Etu and Naibi’s faces light up when he stepped into Lizzie’s yard. And their hugs—tight, their sweaty heads pressed to his ribs—gave him a sense of belonging. He smiled, picking up his pace. He knew what it must feel like to be a father, having been the recipient of their heartfelt greetings.

  But he needed to exercise caution. The daily visits were planting ideas in his head. Ideas that had no place there. When the children came running, he caught himself looking beyond them to Lizzie, wishing she would hold out her arms in welcome, too. Just thinking about it now, far from her cabin on a trampled pathway lined by thick brush, brought a rush of heat from his chest to his face. Or maybe it was just the effort of carrying the heavy accordion. He’d let himself believe the latter.

  The sound of giggles carried over the gentle melody of the wind, reaching his ears. Obviously the children weren’t ill. Thank You, Lord, for protecting them. Please continue to keep them healthy. As he completed the prayer, he stepped into Lizzie’s clearing. The children, in the middle of a game involving some sort of odd-looking balloon, looked up and spotted him. Etu dropped the plaything, and they both came running.

  Clay dropped to one knee and braced himself, laughing as they plunged against him. “It looks as though you were having fun.”

  “We play catch,” Etu announced. Over their time with Lizzie, both children’s English had improved mightily. Etu dashed to retrieve the toy and offered it to Clay. “Missus Lizzie made a ball by blowing air into a moose’s bladder.”

  “A bladder?” Clay made a face. “You keep it.”

  Etu laughed, his eyes crinkling in merriment. “Mister Clay is scare of bladder!” Still laughing, he spun and ran toward the cabin, hollering, “Missus Lizzie! Missus Lizzie! Mister Clay comes, and he is scare of the ball you make!”

  Naibi gave Clay’s upraised knee a pat. “It is all right, Mister Clay. Everyone is scare of somefing.”

  Clay snorted in amusement. He slipped his arms free of the accordion case and propped it against a tree trunk at the edge of the yard. Then he took Naibi’s hand and walked with her toward the cabin. When they were halfway across the yard, Lizzie emerged from her cabin. As he’d come to expect, she wore the blue-checked dress Vivian had given her, but today she’d braided her hair in one long plait that fell down her spine and ended a scant inch above the dress’s waist. Even such a simple style enhanced her high cheek bones and delicate jawline. What a beautiful woman . . .

  “You’re late today,” Lizzie said by way of greeting, but her voice held no recrimination. “You usually come closer to noon.”

  He needed to let her know what was happening in the village, but he didn’t want the children to overhear. There was no sense in frightening them. He put his hand on Naibi’s head. “You two go finish your game. I’m going to talk to Missus Lizzie for a bit, and then I’ll play with you.”

  Naibi snatched the ball from Etu’s hands and darted off. Etu thundered in pursuit. When they were fully engaged in their game, Clay turned to Lizzie. “Can we talk?”

  Lizzie gestured to a low bench tucked along her cabin wall, and they seated themselves at opposite ends. Clay wished he could scoot close and hold her hand. Partly because he feared his news would be upsetting, and partly because he longed to touch her, just once.

  Clay drew in a breath and assumed his most gentle tone. “We’ve lost three people from the village to the fever. Yesterday evening, an elderly man named Taima died, then a few hours later I received word that a young woman—newly married—had also died.” The woman was close to Lizzie’s age. He tipped his head. “Did you know Magema?”

  Lizzie’s forehead crinkled. “I know only my grandparents. But my mother probably knew both of them.” Her gaze drifted toward a stand of trees, where a rock pile signified a grave. “I wonder if she knows their spirits have departed. . . .” She returned her attention to Clay. “My grandmother . . . she still lives?”

  “Yes.” Clay hung his head. The third death, only that morning, affected him the most. He’d spent several hours with the parents, offering comfort, but he doubted his efforts had eased their deep pain. “The last one to fall prey to the fever was a little boy, not even a year old yet.” How sad that the child wouldn’t have the opportunity to experience the joy of boyhood, to grow into manhood and become a husband and father. Yet Clay knew without a doubt God had embraced this little one into His holy presence, where the child would live forever in joy and peace. God wouldn’t turn away such an innocent soul.

  His heart panged for the other two who were lost. He hadn’t had a chance to share the truth of Jesus’s sacrifice with them. Did that mean, in God’s eyes, they were also innocent and would enjoy eternity with the one true God?

  “Clay?”

  He hadn’t realized he’d drifted away in thought until Lizzie’s puzzled voice reached his ears. He shifted to look into her concerned fa
ce.

  “You care deeply for the villagers.” She spoke in her usual matter-of-fact tone, but he saw a glimmer of approval shining in the depths of her blue eyes.

  He nodded. “Yes. I do.”

  “Why? They are not your people.”

  Again, he sensed no accusation, only a desire to understand. Unconsciously, his hand stretched across the brief gap separating them and curled over hers. The simple contact—so impersonal—had a very personal effect on his senses. He forced himself to focus on her question and the best way to answer.

  “But you see, Lizzie, they are my people. They were created by the same God who knit me together within my mother’s womb. Each of them possesses a heart that yearns for a relationship with their Maker.” He tightened his grip on her fingers, desire for her to accept the truth he shared as her own rising inside of him and tangling his emotions. “The Bible tells us everyone comes to the Father through the Son, Jesus Christ. Once they accept Jesus as their Savior, God becomes their Father, and we are all bound by love. We become brothers and sisters in Christ.”

  Lizzie sat for long seconds, peering into his face with a stoic expression. He wished he could read her thoughts. Her lips parted, and he held his breath, praying silently that she might finally ask the question his heart pined to hear: May I ask your God to become my God?

  “Is it safe, with people dying in the village, for you to come back and forth? What if you carry the sickness with you and give it to Etu or Naibi?”

  Clay’s breath whooshed out. His shoulders slumped. He released Lizzie’s hand and cupped his palm over his knee, battling a mighty wave of disappointment. Why did this woman so stringently resist mention of God? “I hadn’t considered that. I thought with them away from the village, they’d be safe. But . . .” He sighed. “Are you saying you don’t want me to come here anymore?”