A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Shruh took Co’Ozhii’s hand and then drew in a rattling breath. “You vowed to banish our daughter if she married a white man. You brought honor to yourself by keeping your vow.” His words escaped on a near-whisper, his voice so raspy it reminded Lizzie of sandpaper on rough wood. “Now our daughter lies dead. You can bring an end to the banishment . . . if you wish. No honor will be lost.”

  Co’Ozhii’s spine stiffened. She yanked her hand free. “You ask me to make peace with the one who bears the blood of traitorous white men?”

  Shruh’s face contorted, and his body rose involuntarily as he coughed—a horrible, deep, painful cough that made Lizzie clutch her own chest in agony. When he finished, he collapsed, his lank gray hair fanning out across the mattress. He spoke, his voice whisper-soft. “I only tell you what you can do without losing honor. The choice, my wife, is yours.” His eyes slipped closed, and a wheezing breath eased from his slack lips.

  Clay rushed forward and leaned over Shruh, his ear close to Shruh’s chest. Then he straightened and put his hand beneath Shruh’s nose. Lizzie sat frozen, staring at Vitsiy’s still face. She knew the truth, but her heart didn’t want to accept it. Clay braced his hands on the bed and stood for long seconds, his head low and eyes closed. Finally he looked into Lizzie’s face.

  “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

  Lizzie nodded, clamping her teeth together to hold back a cry of distress. Something deep inside of her broke, and she feared it would never be mended. Her grandfather was dead, and she’d never truly known him.

  Clay had spoken in English, but apparently Vitse had understood. With an animal cry of grief, she pushed Clay aside. She wrapped her arms around Shruh and held him to her chest while wails of mourning poured from her throat.

  Lizzie wanted to look away from her grandmother’s anguished pose, but her eyes refused to cooperate. The image—Vitse’s tenacious hold on Vitsiy’s lifeless body, her straggly gray hair falling across Vitsiy’s face—burned into her memory. Suddenly, Co’Ozhii swung one arm outward. The movement pushed Shruh’s lifeless arm off the mattress’s edge, where it dangled, a narrow shaft of light highlighting its fragility. With her face still buried against Shruh’s limp neck, Co’Ozhii sobbed, “Go away. I wish to mourn alone.”

  Lizzie had mourned alone when her mother died, and she didn’t wish such sadness—such lonely emptiness—on her grandmother. She remained rooted in place.

  Another wail tore from Co’Ozhii’s chest. “Go!” Her mournful cries echoed off the log walls.

  Clay caught Lizzie’s arm and drew her away from the bed. “Come. We’ll tell the others of Shruh’s passing. She’ll allow her tribesmen to comfort her. It’s best for us to go.”

  Lizzie agreed with Clay, but it stung that Co’Ozhii preferred comfort from anyone other than her granddaughter. She swallowed the fierce knot of sorrow that filled her throat. “Yes. We’ll go.” She slipped out the door with Clay, but she left the coat behind.

  Vivian sat at the desk in the room that had been hers during her growing-up years. The room was exactly as Vivian had left it when she’d gone to Oklahoma a little over a year ago, but the familiar surroundings—comforting and secure when she’d lived here—now felt strange. Vivian couldn’t cast aside the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

  Someone tapped at the door, and Vivian called, “Come in.”

  The door cracked open, and Aunt Vesta’s smiling face appeared. “So this is where you escaped. You disappeared so quickly after supper—I turned my back for a moment, and you were gone.”

  Vivian grimaced. She had slipped upstairs after finishing her meal, but she hadn’t meant for her actions to be construed as escape. “Did you or Uncle Matthew need me? He seemed fine.” In fact, he’d made remarkable progress between the date of Aunt Vesta’s letter and Vivian’s arrival in Hampshire County. Vivian wondered if she was needed here after all. “And you were busy with the kitchen maid, so I came on up.”

  “No need to apologize, Vivian. You are correct that you weren’t needed. I merely wanted to check on you.” Aunt Vesta entered the room and sat at the foot of the quilt-covered bed, smiling at Vivian. Her red-gold hair, threaded with silver, shone in the soft yellow glow of the desk lamp. “Will you turn in early tonight? I’m sure you’re still exhausted from your lengthy journey and last night’s late arrival.”

  Vivian shifted sideways in the gracefully scrolled chair and absently smoothed her hands over the soft fabric of the ruffled dressing gown she’d found hanging in her wardrobe. “Yes, I’ll turn in soon, after I finish—” She glanced at the letter she’d begun. Only a few paragraphs thus far—a few stilted, ill-worded paragraphs. She should throw it away and start over. If only she could gather her thoughts into a sensible bundle.

  Aunt Vesta raised her chin and peered down her nose at the page on the desk. “What are you working on there?”

  Vivian flicked the paper’s corner with her thumbnail. “A letter. To Mother.”

  “Ahh.” Her aunt nodded wisely. “Assuring her of your safe arrival. That’s very kind of you, Vivian.”

  “It isn’t what you think.” Vivian’s words came out more tartly than she’d intended. She sighed. “Aunt Vesta, I need to . . . well, clear the air, so to speak . . . with Mother. But I’m not sure how to begin. Could you help me?”

  “Why, certainly, dear.” Aunt Vesta tipped her head, her expression attentive, as Vivian had come to expect. “When clearing the air, the best place to go is to the root of the disagreement. What do you perceive as the root?”

  Vivian’s mind skipped backward a dozen years and stumbled to a halt on the day Papa died. Her chin quivered, and she set her teeth together to stop the childish tears. “She has never forgiven me for killing Papa.”

  Her aunt’s eyebrows shot skyward, disappearing beneath the soft fluff of her bangs. “Why, Vivian, what on earth makes you think such a thing?”

  Vivian braced her hands on her knees and leaned slightly forward. “What else can I believe? After Papa died—after I neglected to go to him as she’d instructed and find him in time to summon help—she never hugged me or kissed me.” Her hands balled into fists, her nails biting into her soft flesh. But she welcomed the discomfort. It took her focus away, albeit briefly, from the deep, abiding pain in her heart. “I would catch her staring across the room at me with this look of . . . of betrayal on her face.

  “Then as soon as she remarried and we moved to the reservation, she packed me up and sent me to you, as if she feared I would bring death upon a second father.” Vivian’s throat tightened, the hurt and resentment of the past years rising up to strangle her. “I want so much to return to the days when Mother loved me. But I don’t know how to go there.”

  She flipped her hands outward in a helpless gesture. “I can’t bring Papa back to life for her, Aunt Vesta. What else can I do to earn Mother’s love again?”

  Aunt Vesta covered her mouth with her fingers, her eyes wide and distressed. Tears flooded her eyes, making her green irises shimmer. “My dear child, all this time . . .” She opened her arms. “Come here, Vivian.”

  Vivian slipped from the chair to the bed and allowed her aunt to draw her head to her shoulder. She’d sat close to Aunt Vesta many times as a young girl. Then, as now, she’d longed for her mother to hold her in that same way. How she hoped Aunt Vesta would discover a means of bridging the gap between herself and Mother.

  Aunt Vesta stroked Vivian’s hair. “Vivian, your mother didn’t blame you for your father’s death. She couldn’t have. She was too busy blaming herself.”

  Vivian tried to sit up so she could look into her aunt’s eyes, but Aunt Vesta held her tight, her fingers coiling into Vivian’s unbound hair. Vivian snuggled her cheek more fully against her aunt’s shoulder and stayed within her embrace.

  “Your mother blamed herself for asking you, just a little slip of a girl, to enter those woods where you might have been bitten by the snake that so frightened you. She blamed herself that you had to g
row up without a father.”

  Aunt Vesta’s words, so gently spoken, penetrated the center of the hurt Vivian carried. “She was consumed by guilt—so much so she couldn’t bear to look at you. She saw the burden of pain and fear you carried, and she hated herself for causing it. That’s why I suggested she send you to live with your uncle and me.”

  Vivian jolted loose of her aunt’s hold and sat upright. “Y-you suggested?”

  “Yes, it was all my idea for you to leave the reservation where your mother and new stepfather had chosen to serve.” Aunt Vesta took a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and began mopping at Vivian’s cheeks.

  Vivian drew back in surprise. Was she crying? She touched her face and found it moist with tears.

  Aunt Vesta pressed the handkerchief into Vivian’s lap and continued. “When she remarried and moved to an even more rugged landscape than the one she’d left behind, she worried something terrible might befall you, too. She nearly ate herself up with worry. So Uncle Matthew and I offered to keep you with us, where you’d be safe.”

  “So Clay was right . . .” He’d told her she’d been sent away for her safety. But she surmised it was because of her fears, not her mother’s fears.

  Aunt Vesta took Vivian’s hands and squeezed. “Dear girl, your mother loves you dearly, and she wants nothing more than a close, loving relationship with you.” She paused, her fine brows pinching together thoughtfully. “Do you want to know how to regain the untarnished love you once shared?”

  Vivian nodded eagerly. “Yes. Please tell me what I can do.”

  With a sweet smile, Aunt Vesta leaned forward and brushed a kiss on Vivian’s cheek. “Tell her you forgive her—and mean it. It’s all she needs to hear, and it will set both of you free.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lizzie knelt beside the closest team of dogs and draped her arm across Martin’s back. He whined softly, bobbing his head against her ribs, but remained obediently on his belly as she’d directed. Lizzie’s chest ached so badly she could scarcely draw a breath. Clay had prayed for peace between her grandparents and herself. But Vitsiy was dead and Vitse had demanded she leave. Where was the peace she so desperately needed?

  Clay crossed to her, his long shadow falling across her and the dogs. Then he crouched, causing his shadow to cover only her. Somehow, huddling within the protection of his shadow offered a small measure of comfort.

  “It’s too late for you to leave for Fort Yukon now.” Clay’s hand started to reach for her, but then he jerked it back. He curled his hands over his knees. “You should wait until tomorrow morning. You can say good-bye to Etu and Naibi, and I’ll accompany you—help you with the dogs, in selling your furs, and making arrangements for travel.”

  Her fuzzy brain, weary from the tiring day and emotional battles, found no argument but one. “I burned my cabin. I have no place to go except to Fort Yukon.”

  Clay scowled. “It’s too late. And you’re tired . . .” He rubbed his finger beneath his nose for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “I know. Come to the mission. We’ll find a way to tether the dogs behind the building, and you can stay in the room I prepared for Etu and Naibi.”

  He wished her to sleep under his roof? Only a man wanting to take a woman to be his own would make such a request. Hope coiled through her middle, but she pushed the fleeting emotion back down. He didn’t want her in that way, or he wouldn’t sit there with his hands gripping his knees—he’d draw her to his body instead.

  She shook her head. “The tribal leaders would not approve. I can return to my land and sleep under the cache.” The food cache sat several feet above the ground, keeping the food safe from marauding creatures. The spot provided shelter enough for a summer sleep.

  Clay’s scowl deepened. “You’ll not sleep in a shack or on the ground when I have a perfectly good bed at the mission.” He rose, holding out his hand. “Come. I’ll get you and the dogs settled, and then I need to inform the villagers of Shruh’s passing. Co’Ozhii will need their support and strength.”

  For years she’d made her own decisions. Allowing Clay to direct her should make her feel weak, yet she felt oddly relieved to have someone else take control for a little while. Lizzie took his hand and allowed him to pull her upright. She sighed. “Thank you, Clay. For taking care of me, and for seeing to Vitse’s needs.”

  She whistled to the dogs, and they leapt up, dancing in excitement. As she and Clay led the teams through the village, his shadow continued to enfold hers. A fleeting wish winged through her heart: If only this caring man could enfold me forever.

  Clay emerged from the bark hut he’d occupied before completing the mission. He’d peeled away portions of it, using the wood to build shelves inside the mission, and the sunlight pouring through the large gaps had kept him awake most of the night. God, grant me all I need to meet the challenges of this day. He knew he would face physical challenges, taking Lizzie all the way to Fort Yukon, but mostly he was concerned about the emotional challenges.

  How would he find the strength to bid Lizzie farewell today? The woman had woven herself into the deepest part of his being. Lifting his eyes to the clear sky, he whispered, “Help me, Lord.”

  The village already buzzed with activity. Preparations for Shruh’s potlatch were well under way. He hoped the villagers would forgive him for seeing to Lizzie’s needs today rather than staying and helping. As he headed for the river to draw water for a morning wash, the sound of pounding footsteps intruded. Etu and Naibi bounded to his side, offering good-morning greetings.

  He gave them each a hug and pointed to the extra buckets sitting outside the mission door. “There won’t be any lessons today. But grab those and come with me. We’ll have enough water for all of us—you, me, and Missus Lizzie—to wash.”

  The children’s faces had sagged in disappointment until he’d mentioned Lizzie. Then they broke into broad smiles. Naibi clapped her chubby hands. “Missus Lizzie, she moves to the village?”

  Clay quickly corrected the child, his own heart stinging at the change in the little girl’s demeanor when she learned Lizzie would be leaving. How well he understood her sadness. He added, “But you’ll get to see her one more time before she leaves, and I know she’ll be glad to see you. But come—let’s get the water before we wake her.”

  When they returned from the river, low whines and high-pitched yips greeted them—Lizzie’s dogs, awake and ready to face the day. Etu shot a startled look in Clay’s direction. “Mister Clay, you did not say Missus Lizzie brought her dogs!” Both children abandoned their buckets on the pathway and dashed behind the building to greet the animals.

  As Clay stood watching, Lizzie stepped from the cabin. Her hands deftly twisted her hair into matching braids as she rounded the building. Clay stifled his chuckle when she put her hands on her hips and gave the children a mock scowl. “Who is bothering my dogs?”

  The children looked up. Broad smiles creased their faces, and they ran to Lizzie, arms outstretched. “Missus Lizzie! Missus Lizzie!” She laughed, bestowing hugs and kisses.

  Clay’s heart turned over in his chest. The love so clearly exhibited between the woman and the children rivaled the beauty of the summer morning. Sunlight shimmered on three dark heads, laughter joining the birdsong. Clay wished he could spend every morning in just this way, observing a joyous celebration of togetherness.

  He strode to the happy trio. “Children, would you like to take care of Lizzie’s dogs this morning? Give them some water and dried salmon from the loft? Then you can have breakfast with Missus Lizzie and me. It will give you time with her before she leaves.”

  Naibi clung to Lizzie’s hand, her expression doleful. “You are really leaving?”

  Lizzie smoothed the child’s tangled hair from her eyes. “I must go to my father now. It is my new home.”

  Etu sighed. “We will miss you.”

  “And I you.”

  The shine of the morning dimmed with their shared sadness. Clay intervened
once more. “See to the dogs, then bring the extra buckets into the mission.” He lifted a bucket, took hold of Lizzie’s elbow with his other hand, and guided her to the mission doors. A glance over his shoulder confirmed the children followed his directions. Lizzie also peered backward, her expression pensive. He offered her a smile. “They’ve become very responsible.”

  He and Lizzie chatted together as they prepared breakfast at the cookstove—Lizzie frying johnny cakes and Clay stirring a pot of cornmeal mush. The children, so happy to have Lizzie with them, didn’t even argue when he instructed them to wash well before eating. They came to the table with clean hands and shining faces. The meal passed happily, with laughter and more chatter, but all too soon the food was gone, the dishes washed and put away, and Lizzie announced that it was time to go.

  Etu’s lower lip poked out. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Or me.” Tears shimmered in Naibi’s eyes.

  Lizzie gathered both children close. Clay thought his heart might break when her eyes slipped closed and her face contorted with unshed tears. He touched her back and whispered, “It’s a long journey to Fort Yukon.”

  With a nod, she set the children aside. She bestowed one more kiss on each of their round cheeks and then rose. “I’ll ready the dogs.” She dashed out.

  They spoke little as they drove the travois-bearing dogs through the woods. Lizzie had taken this route before—a path that ended at a ferry that would carry them across the river and into Fort Yukon.

  By noon, Clay was ready to sit and rest, but a hearty lunch of dried salmon, cornmeal cakes, and berries picked along the river refreshed his body. And his spirits were lifted by sharing conversation with Lizzie beneath whispering aspens while the river sang a sweet song nearby. He only wished they could tarry longer.

  They reached the ferry by four in the afternoon. Clay paid the fare, choosing not to argue when the owner charged double for each team of dogs. All too soon they entered the busy city. Lizzie marched straight through town, hardly glancing at the tumbledown buildings, the wagon- and mule-filled streets, and the hodgepodge of people bustling here and there. Would she maintain her disinterested stoicism when she reached San Francisco?