A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Nineteen





Lizzie stared at Co’Ozhii—her mother’s mother, to whom she hadn’t spoken since she was a girl so small Pa had carried her from place to place on his hip. She held no specific memories of her own of this woman, yet she knew her well. From her mother’s many woeful tales. She bobbed her head in a jerky greeting. “Adé—hello, Vitse.”

Co’Ozhii lifted one brow. “You stand before me in a dress not of our people, yet you speak in my tongue. Your white father did not rob you of your mother’s language.”

“My father robbed me of nothing.” Her grandmother’s lips tightened into a grim line, and Lizzie instantly regretted her defensive reply. She lowered her head and added in a respectful tone, “He insisted I know the tongue of Dine’e, the People. He said it is my heritage.”

Co’Ozhii’s eyes flashed. “Your father speaks foolishness. And that foolishness resides in you, as well.”

Lizzie bristled. After years apart, her grandmother approached her only to hurl insults? “Why do you call me foolish?”

The older woman’s face twisted with scorn. “You cannot help it. It is the white man’s blood coursing in your veins. Only so little of it in your mother’s, yet there was enough to make her choose unwisely.”

Lizzie frowned, confused.

“And these two white people who enter my village, who build their school and talk of teaching our children.” She snorted, followed by a cough. “They can do no good, planting foolishness in the minds of innocent children. But I see my people become enamored with the man who coaxes music from a box. Intrigued, they listen. They believe learning his language will be of benefit to us.” For a moment, it seemed fear glimmered in the woman’s eyes. “Soon they will accept his ways, and they will change. As my daughter changed. Much harm will come.”

Lizzie shook her head, thoroughly perplexed. “I do not understand what you are telling me.”

Co’Ozhii seared Lizzie with a stern glare. “Then open your ears and listen. Listen with the part of you that still remembers the heritage of your mother.” She paused to cough again, the harsh sound grating. “These white people bring trouble into our village. They defy our laws by consorting with those excommunicated—”

Lizzie’s face heated.

“—and force their teaching on our young. Already conflict arises between husband and wife, parent and child. They need to leave.”

Holding out her hands, Lizzie gave her grandmother a helpless look. “But why do you tell me? I do not live in the village. I have no say in what happens there.”

“But you have made friends with Vivian Selby. She respects you, yes?”

Slowly, Lizzie nodded. “As I respect her.”

“Then tell her to go. Her white skin, her hair of autumn leaves and eyes like grass in springtime . . . our young men look upon her with longing. She brings much trouble by staying in the village. Tell her . . . she must go.” Co’Ozhii’s voice rose in fervor, and another coughing bout gripped her.

“If I tell her . . .” Lizzie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “Will you then look with favor upon me?”

For long moments the older woman stared, unblinking, her mouth set in a stern line of uncertainty. Finally she shifted her gaze to stare somewhere into the trees, as if seeing something in her memory. “Favor I cannot offer. It would mean giving you honor. There is no honor for you. You have been tainted by the sins of my grandfather, as was your mother. But . . .” She met Lizzie’s gaze again, cold resolve showing in the unyielding set of her square jaw. “You can spare the same pain befalling another child. Perhaps the High One will choose to look upon you with favor.”

Without offering a good-bye, Co’Ozhii brushed past Lizzie and strode down the path. Lizzie stared after her grandmother, one phrase from their short conversation—“You have been tainted by the sins of my grandfather”—repeating itself in her memory. Troubling ideas began to roll in the back of her mind. She needed answers.





Clay grabbed the bucket that rested on the floor inside the door of his hut. Bending over brought a stab of pain behind his left eye, and he winced. But he couldn’t allow the pain to hinder any further activities. Somehow he’d have to work whether his head hurt or not.

He stepped into the yard and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the evening light. Although the sun still shone, the intensity had lessened as the nighttime hours approached, and he didn’t find it as difficult to bear as he had that morning. He bounced the bucket against his leg, gathering the energy to walk to the river. Hopefully a good wash would awaken him enough to get some work done. He’d slept the entire day away. He rounded his hut and nearly collided nose to nose with Shruh’s wife, Co’Ozhii.

She halted, the feathers in her hair continuing to sway, and met his startled gaze with an unsmiling look. “You are recovered?”

The blunt question, delivered on a note of irritation, tickled Clay. She seemed disappointed to see him on his feet. He gave a cautious nod, aware that too much movement might cause his head to pound again. “I am better, yes. Dogidihn—thank you.”

She snorted. “I will tell Shruh. He wishes words with you.”

Clay watched her storm away, his stomach churning. Going for water now could be misconstrued as an attempt to escape. He turned the bucket upside down and sat on it. Propping his elbows on his knees, he heaved a mighty sigh. What would he tell Shruh? The tribal elder would follow through on his threat to banish him and Vivian if they didn’t agree to stay away from Lizzie. He’d prayed again and again about what he should do, but no answer had fallen from the sky.

“You’re up. . . .” Vivian approached from the mission building. “I have your supper ready.”

The way his stomach felt, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to eat anything this evening. “Shruh is coming to talk to me.”

Vivian crouched beside him. Her eyes were red rimmed, mute evidence of her heartache over their situation. “What are you going to tell him?”

He sighed, rubbing his hand down his face. “What else can I tell him, Viv? If we refuse, we’re done here. The Mission Committee will have wasted time and money on us. I don’t know that we have any choice except to—”

A tear trickled down Vivian’s cheek.

He took her hand. “I know how hard this is for you. I’m sorry.”

Vivian slipped her hand into her apron pocket. “Clay, I received a letter, and—”

Lizzie burst from the bushes. Both Vivian and Clay jumped. She stumbled toward them, the hem of the blue-checked dress dragging in the dirt. Vivian’s face paled. She leapt up and met her. “Lizzie! You shouldn’t be here, especially not now. Shruh—”

Lizzie pulled loose of Vivian’s grasp. “I’m not leaving. I wish to speak to Co’Ozhii.”

Vivian shot a frantic look over her shoulder at Clay as he rose and stumbled toward the women. He curled his hand over Lizzie’s shoulder. “Shruh is already angry.” Protectiveness welled up, surprising him with its intensity. “This isn’t a good time for you to try to speak to your grandparents.”

Voices carried from the village. Vivian clutched at Clay’s arm. “They’re coming.”

Clay lowered his voice. “Lizzie, please go now. You being here will cause further conflict. Please . . .”

But instead of responding to Clay’s request, Lizzie charged forward to meet the approaching cluster of villagers. Clay grabbed Vivian’s arm and started after her. Vivian resisted, but he gave a stronger tug, and she stumbled alongside him, clumsier than he’d ever seen her.

Shruh stopped, forcing everyone behind him to do the same. He pointed at Lizzie. “You . . .” His angry gaze swung to include Clay. “You brought her here?”

“I came on my own.” Lizzie stepped in front of Clay. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was trying to shield him. “I need to talk to Co’Ozhii.”

Co’Ozhii’s face pinched with rage. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

Shruh sent his wife a sharp look. “You have spoken to—”

Lizzie interrupted, her gaze boring into Co’Ozhii’s. “You know you do.” She stood with shoulders square, her head at a proud angle. Her hair, unfettered, hung down her back in a thick waterfall of glistening black. In her gingham dress, she faced the accusatory crowd with courage and grace. Clay likened her to David facing the Philistine giant with only a stone and a sling. Just as David emerged the victor against great odds, he suspected Lizzie would win this contest of wills.

Co’Ozhii tipped toward Lizzie, her eyes snapping. She dropped her voice to a raspy whisper. “Will you shame me in front of my own people?”

Shruh stared into his wife’s sullen face while she glared at Lizzie. Then he spun to the tribe members. “To your cabins. We must speak to the white people and to Lu’qul Gitth’ighi alone.”

The group muttered, and Da’ago stepped forward. “A ban or its removal”—he glanced at Lizzie—“must be approved by all elders. We should stay.”

Shruh shook his head, his graying braids slapping against his shoulders. “Ęhę’ę—no. This is a private matter, not a tribal one. Go.”

Although the men still murmured among themselves, they turned and ambled back toward the center of the village. Shruh stepped past Lizzie to address Clay. “We will go to your mission. Come.” He set off with a long, determined stride, and Co’Ozhii hurried after him.

Lizzie turned to Clay and Vivian. “You need not come. As my grandfather said, it is a private matter.”

Vivian clutched his arm, her expression pleading. “Let them go on their own. Then we can . . . talk.”

Shruh spun to face them. “Clay Selby and Vivian, you come, too. We have much to discuss.”

Clay looked at Lizzie. He kept his voice low and spoke in English, knowing Shruh wouldn’t be able to understand everything he said. “It’s your decision. We’ll come with you, if you like, and try to help bring peace between you and your grandparents. Or we’ll stay away. Whatever you want.” He fully expected her to turn them away. She’d proven her independent spirit and had warned them away in the past. But he prayed she’d accept his help. Even if she didn’t need it, he hoped she would want his support.

Lizzie looked at her grandparents by turn, then at Vivian, and finally at Clay. Her gaze lingered, and his scalp tingled at the intensity. Finally, she gave a nod, as if agreeing with some silent voice, and held her hand toward the mission. “We’ll go.” Her expression turned hard. “It will do my grandmother good to share her secrets before all of those she holds in contempt.”