A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twenty





Lizzie, arms swinging with determination, stalked after her grandparents, with Clay and Vivian following behind her. After living alone for so long and facing every conflict without support or assistance, her heart pattered in appreciation for their presence. Their friendship. Their unconditional acceptance. It helped ease the sting of her grandparents’ rejection.

Inside the mission, Clay dragged several barrels across the floor and formed a rough circle, then gestured for the others to sit. Lizzie sat first, a gesture intended to indicate she had seized control of the meeting. Her glowering grandfather and grandmother quickly chose barrels directly across from her, their fierce gazes pinned on Lizzie’s face.

Vivian sank onto the barrel next to Lizzie and offered a feeble smile. She leaned toward Lizzie and whispered, “How can you be so composed and strong? I am terrified!”

Lizzie squared her shoulders and admitted in a low tone, “I, too, am fearful. But fear will not earn regard from my grandparents. I must be strong.”

Vivian nodded. Then she sat up straight and lifted her chin, although it quivered.

The moment the seat of Clay’s pants met the lid of the remaining barrel, Shruh spoke. “What do you wish of us?”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes, an expression she knew could be construed as defiant, yet she used it to mask her deep pain. “I wish answers.” Lizzie gazed steadily into her grandmother’s stoic face. “You claimed white blood coursed through my mother’s veins. How can this be?”

Shruh cast an angry glance at his wife. The room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his fury. But Co’Ozhii did not waver under his glare, her dark eyes boring into Lizzie’s without so much as a blink in response. Neither of her grandparents spoke for several moments.

Clay cleared his throat. “Co’Ozhii, of all the people in the village, you have been the most apprehensive about my presence here. I understand not all white men have treated the Gwich’in fairly, yet your feelings seem to be more . . . personal.” Clay paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck.

Vivian grasped his hand. Lizzie wished she could do the same. She wove her fingers together in her lap as Clay continued softly.

“Was there . . . someone . . . long ago who gave you reason to hate?”

Co’Ozhii’s expression hardened, her eyes snapping, and then she took on the appearance of someone drifting far, far away. She rocked gently on the barrel, her arms over her chest. When she spoke, her tone became singsong, as if sharing a bedtime story with a child. “In the days of forests and warring tribes—before the white men came and built their towns amongst us—my grandmother ventured to the river at her mother’s request to fetch water for the cooking pot. She was a maiden of tender years, beautiful, and promised to a man of a neighboring band. Their union was meant to bring peace between her village and his.”

Although Lizzie had never heard the story, she believed she knew the ending. She wanted to plug her ears, but instead she clamped her fingers more tightly together. They felt icy cold.

“While at the river, a man approached—a man with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes blue like the berries that grow wild in the briars.” Co’Ozhii paused to cough into her hand. The cough lasted several seconds, and then she drew in a shuddering breath that brought it under control. She continued to rock, the barrel staves squeaking in discordant accompaniment to her tale. “My grandmother—young and foolish—was transfixed by the sight. He spoke kindly to her in a tongue she’d never heard before. He wooed her with gifts of glass beads and woven cloth. He asked her to meet him the next day, and then the next. She forgot her promise to wed the neighboring tribesman and instead submitted to this autumn-haired man with a smooth tongue and smiling eyes.”

She abruptly ceased rocking, jerking her face to stare accusingly at Clay. “By the time my mother was born, the man had gone. He left my grandmother to bear his shame alone. The village leaders forgave my grandmother’s indiscretion and accepted my mother into the tribe. But my grandmother never wed—no Gwich’in man would have her. She spent her remaining years in bitterness, abandoned by the father of her only child.”

Clay hung his head, as if the unknown white man’s deceitful actions had been transferred to him.

Co’Ozhii doubled over in another coughing fit, and when she rose, fury shone in her dark eyes. “The disgrace of my mother’s lineage was never mentioned in the village. She wed one of our men, and I was born to their union.” Co’Ozhii held out her arm. “I bear the dark skin of my people, but underneath . . . underneath is the blood of the one who wronged my grandmother.” She hugged herself, wrapping both arms tight across her middle and burying her hands beneath her armpits. “I prayed to Denali that the white blood would be washed from future generations, but my daughter—my foolish daughter—chose a man with white skin and eyes of blue. I warned her. I told her we would not accept this union, would excommunicate her. But she chose him anyway. And then she gave birth to you.” Co’Ozhii’s cold gaze fell on Lizzie.

Lizzie stared back, determined to hide the emotions that tumbled wildly through her frame.

“You hold more white blood than even your great-grandmother. More white than Gwich’in. Your mother named you aptly, White Feather. You do not belong with us.” She rose stiffly, her shoulders slumping as if she bore a great weight. “Do you have your answers now, Lu’qul Gitth’ighi?”

Very slowly, her eyes never wavering from her grandmother’s impassive face, Lizzie bobbed her head in a nod.

“Then go.” Co’Ozhii, still hugging herself, broke into a new round of coughing. Bent low, she scuttled out of the mission building.

Shruh rose and spoke to Clay and Vivian. “You will not speak of what you heard today to anyone in the village. My wife has spent years burying her shame. I will not have it unearthed by you”—his gaze jerked to include Lizzie—“or you.” He drew in a deep breath, turning once more to Clay. “I will summon the other elders, and we will return to extract your promise to honor our tribal law of excommunication.” He spun and strode out the door.

Now that her grandparents were gone, Lizzie gave in to the strain of the past minutes. She slumped forward and shook her head, watching the play of her hair swinging across the bodice of the blue gingham dress. “My mother prayed daily to the High One for peace between herself and her parents, but her prayers will be denied. I’ll never have peace with them—my grandmother’s anger runs too deep within her.”

Clay shook loose of Vivian’s grasp. He reached past her to cup his hand over Lizzie’s. “You can’t give up. There’s always hope.”

Vivian stared at Clay, her green eyes wide. “Didn’t you hear the story Co’Ozhii shared? Lizzie is right—the woman holds generations of anger. It will take a miracle for her to set aside her resentment.”

“You forget,” Clay said softly, “that God can perform miracles.”

Lizzie snorted. “You speak of God the way my mother did. But He ignored my mother’s pleas. I have no reason to hope He’ll listen to mine.” With a deep sigh, she pushed from the barrel and stood unsmiling before them. “My being here causes trouble for you. I’ll go now, and I won’t bother you again.” She started toward the door.

Clay leapt up and stepped into her pathway. “Lizzie, I agree that you should go now. Your grandmother asked you to leave, and you’ll show respect if you abide by her request. But I don’t want you to abandon your friendship with Vivian . . . or me.”

Lizzie’s heart doubled its tempo. Clay’s open admittance that he saw her as a friend moved her more deeply than anything before. He held his hand toward Vivian, and she hurried to his side.

As much as Lizzie appreciated their support, they needed to face truth. “You know what my grandfather requires. If you want to stay here and teach the children, you can’t spend time with me anymore.” Pain seared her heart, making her wince. “You should be pleased to tell me good-bye. After I hurt you . . . why would you wish time with me?”

Clay shook his head, and something seemed to break across his face—a realization that made Lizzie catch her breath. His lips slowly tipped into a tender smile. “Lizzie, that bullet finding my head was an accident.”

“Then you . . . you forgive me?” Lizzie searched Clay’s face.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Clay said, his smile warm. “Now . . . let’s join hands. I want to pray.” Clay already held Vivian’s hand, but he stretched the other toward Lizzie. Vivian reached, as well. With hesitance, Lizzie grasped hands with them. Clay and Vivian bowed their heads, but Lizzie kept her head erect and her eyes open. She angled her gaze to the doorway, watching for Shruh so she could warn Clay of the man’s approach.

Clay began to pray. “Lord, You made it possible for Vivian and me to come to Gwichyaa Saa and share the truth of Your love with the people here. I believe You intend Lizzie to be one of those who experience Your touch.”

Something warm and welcoming coiled through Lizzie’s middle. She swallowed a lump of desire that seemed to fill her throat and blinked away the sting of tears.

“So I ask that You soften Shruh’s and Co’Ozhii’s hearts toward Lizzie,” Clay continued, his voice sincere yet expectant. “Bring reconciliation between grandparents and grandchild. You are a God of peace, and I ask that peace bloom in this village so that You will be glorified. In Your Son’s name I pray. Amen.”

As Clay lifted his head, Lizzie pointed to the approaching cluster of men, led by Shruh. “They’re coming.” She hurried to the door. “I’ll go.” She paused and glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze bouncing between Clay and Vivian and then lingering on Clay. “I don’t expect your God to answer, but I thank you for asking for peace. I will always remember your kindness to me.” She slipped out the door and dashed for the sheltering woods.





Clay stepped into the mission’s doorway and propped his hand on the doorjamb. Vivian crept up behind him, peering past him to the elders, who moved with slow, purposeful strides toward the mission building. She curled her trembling hand over Clay’s shoulder. “Do you really think they’ll let us be friends with Lizzie and stay here?”

Clay glanced at her. His brow furrowed. “Don’t you believe God answers prayer?”

Vivian recalled her fervent prayers the day of her father’s funeral. She’d begged God to bring her precious papa back to life, to remove the horrible burden of his death from her soul. Yet her father lay cold in his grave and the guilt still plagued her.

“What He wills, Vivian, will happen here.” Clay sounded more certain than she’d ever heard him. “He sent us to this place. He has a purpose. We’ll answer to Him first and men second, and trust that He’ll make the way for us to minister to all of the Gwich’in people.”

Vivian slipped her hand over her skirt pocket, where Aunt Vesta’s letter rested—the letter that informed her of Uncle Matthew’s illness and held her aunt’s heartbreaking appeal for Vivian’s return to Hampshire County. How she wanted to honor Aunt Vesta’s request. Vesta and Matthew had cared for Vivian in her time of need—could she do any less for her dear aunt and uncle? But she’d committed to helping Clay in his ministry. She must stay for as long as he stayed. And he would stay forever—unless Shruh insisted they leave.

Vivian held her breath as Clay stepped back and allowed the men to enter the mission building. Her heart felt torn in two. If God honored Clay’s prayer, they would stay and Aunt Vesta would struggle on without Vivian’s help. If God denied Clay’s request, she would be able to go to her aunt, but at the cost of many lost souls. God, I don’t know what to ask!

There weren’t enough barrels for everyone to sit, so the men stood in a group with Shruh at the front. He folded his arms over his chest and looked at Clay with lowered brows. “We wait to hear your assurance, Clay Selby. Speak.”

Vivian bit down on her lower lip, clinging to Clay’s arm. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he drew in a breath that expanded his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but a childish screech intruded. Vivian jumped back as Clay dashed to the door. The men clustered behind him, murmuring in confusion.

A little girl raced through the center of the village toward the mission, her bare feet raising a small cloud of dust. Tears streamed down her face. Clay stepped out to meet her, and she fell into his arms. She peered up at him with wide, fear-filled eyes and gasped, “Mister Clay, you come. My vitse—she is asleep and Etu cannot wake her. You must wake her for us. Come! Come!”





Lizzie tugged the gate aside and stepped into the dog pen. She crouched down and allowed the furry beasts to swarm her. She relished the warmth of their licking tongues while shifting to avoid their gleefully wagging tails. Her hands stroked napes and scratched ears while she murmured words of endearment. But even while she accepted the dogs’ affection, her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Back to the village, to the log enclosure constructed by Clay Selby. His words rang in her memory.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he’d said. She’d shot him. She might have killed him. But he held no grudge. Lizzie wrapped her arms around Martha’s thick neck while the other dogs continued to bump her shoulders, her back, her hands, begging for her attention. But she barely felt them, reveling in the wonderful feeling of release Clay’s words had offered.

And then he’d prayed. His petition for reconciliation between her grandparents and herself echoed again and again in her soul. Deep within her breast, hope flickered. Would God hear? Would God answer? Might her mother, at long last, be able to rest in peace? She released Martha and pushed to her feet. The dogs pressed against her legs, making it difficult for her to move, but she wound her way between them and left the pen.

She’d never found comfort in sitting beside the patch of ground that cradled her mother’s body, but for some reason her feet carried her to the back corner of her plot of ground—to the mound of rocks that marked Mama’s resting place. She knelt, placing her palms over two rough, sun-warmed stones.

“Mama, I didn’t understand until today what you meant about me being more white than Athabascan. Vitse shared the tale of her grandmother—your great-grandmother. Seeing you repeat her grandmother’s choice has embittered her against us. But another white man, a man named Clay,” —her heart began to thud wildly in her chest as the little flicker of hope tried to ignite a fire of belief—“prayed for peace to bloom between Vitse and Vitsiy and me. If his prayers are answered, then you, too, will have peace. I wish peace for you, Mama.”

Lizzie crunched her eyes closed, seeing behind her closed lids her mother kneeling in prayer with her face aimed toward the mighty mountain Denali. Lizzie wanted to seek Denali, too, but fear that the peak would be shrouded in clouds kept her lids firmly closed. She couldn’t bear to have her hopes dashed. Not now.

She swallowed the tears that formed in the back of her throat and whispered, “I’ll wait to see if peace comes, and then I’ll do as you asked and leave here. I will seek my father and live in his world, where you said I belong. But, Mama?” She dared open her eyes, her gaze slowly lifting above the trees in search of the mountain’s snowy peak. “My heart longs to stay here, with Clay Selby, just as you must have longed to be with Pa and my great-great-grandmother must have longed for a lifetime with my white great-great-grandfather. And I—”

Her words fell silent, her hopes plummeting. No snowy peak glistened in the sunshine. Only gray, wispy clouds. Disenchantment assailed her. She hung her head, tears burning behind her nose. Her grandmother had called her foolish, and she now accepted the accusation. Only a fool would place her hope in a God she couldn’t see.