A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twenty-Two





If you really must go, I understand.” Clay forced the assurance past stiff lips. Underneath, he raged against Vivian’s proclamation that she was needed elsewhere. As much as he’d originally balked about bringing her, he’d come to depend on her. And now she wanted to leave. He supposed he should have expected as much—they all knew Vivian was too fragile for this harsh lifestyle.

He set his fork aside and patted his stepsister’s arm. “I’ll contact the Mission Board as soon as possible and make arrangements for your transport to the States.”

Vivian sighed, her head low. She dabbed at the gravy in her plate with a folded piece of bread. “Thank you, Clay.” For someone who’d just been given approval to do what she wished, she didn’t seem happy. “How . . . how long do you think it will be . . . before you hear from the board?”

Clay pushed his empty plate aside and rested his elbows on the table’s edge. “Given the slow nature of communication, I would assume two weeks at least.” Two weeks—he’d need to use the time to complete the sleeping rooms inside the mission building. Etu and Naibi could share one, and he’d take the other one.

“I’m glad you’ll have the children with you.” Vivian lifted her chin and offered a sad smile. “At least you won’t be alone.”

Clay nodded. He’d been greatly relieved when Shruh had agreed to allow him to assume responsibility for the children. Now, knowing Vivian wouldn’t share in the caretaking, he hoped he hadn’t taken on more than he could comfortably handle. But Vivian was right—the children would be company. And, he reassured himself, they could help in the mission.

Etu had already proven his usefulness by helping chink the walls. Naibi was small, but she could push a broom and wield a dust rag. Even if they couldn’t teach or cook, as he’d planned for Vivian to do, they were willing to assist through whatever means they could. The moment they’d finished supper this evening, they’d dashed off in search of berries so Vivian could bake a pie. He should ask her to teach him so he’d be able to bake pies after she’d left.

“Do you suppose Shruh’s consent for you to care for Etu and Naibi means he won’t cast you away from the village?”

Clay considered Vivian’s question. He still hadn’t openly declared his intention to abandon his relationship with Lizzie, but Shruh and the others had stopped pressing him. An odd sickness had entered the village—a deep, wracking cough accompanied by fever—and the villagers’ focus had shifted to fighting the illness. Co’Ozhii was among those stricken, and Shruh spent his days with her.

“I pray so,” he finally answered.

Vivian began clearing their dishes.

He followed her outside to the wash bucket. “I’ll send word to the Mission Board as quickly as I can.” He watched her make a stack of the dishes on the half-log that served as a work surface. “But until we receive a reply, it would be helpful if you’d continue here as usual. I’d rather the children didn’t know you were leaving until we have a date set. They’ve already lost so much.”

Vivian cringed. Her hands stilled in their task, and she sucked in a long breath. She held it for several seconds, and then released it. Raising her head, she sent Clay a repentant look. “I don’t want to leave, Clay. Honestly. I wish . . .” She lowered her gaze again, biting down on her lower lip. Tears glittered briefly in her eyes, and she blinked several times. “I wish things could be different, but Aunt Vesta needs me. How can I refuse her?”

“You can’t.” Clay hadn’t meant to speak so abruptly, but his inner frustrations came through against his will.

Vivian pinched her lips into a scowl that seemed half rebellious, half regretful. “Aunt Vesta and Uncle Matthew took me in when Mother didn’t want me. They didn’t have to love me, but they—”

Clay frowned. “What do you mean, your mother didn’t want you?”

Vivian released a little huff, fixing Clay with a chastising look. “Come now, Clay, if you know how my father died, you surely know that my mother could no longer bear to look at me. I served as a reminder of his death. So she sent me away.”

Shaking his head, Clay plopped down on the far end of the worktable. “She sent you to your aunt and uncle to protect you. She knew establishing the mission in Oklahoma would be even more rugged than living on the Dakota plains. She wanted what was best for you.”

Another disbelieving huff left Vivian’s lips.

Clay grabbed her hand. “Viv, believe me—you weren’t sent away as punishment, but as protection.”

She refused to meet his gaze.

With a sigh, he released her hand. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You go do . . . what you need to do.”

Without a word, she went back to clinking dishes together.

Clay considered pursuing her flawed beliefs about why she’d been sent to Massachusetts, but the stubborn jut of her jaw dissuaded him. Instead, he made a silent note to write to his stepmother and encourage her to send assurances to Vivian. Maybe Myrtle would be more convincing. The decision made, he changed topics.

“I assume you’ll want as much time as possible with Lizzie before you go.” He leaned against the mission wall and crossed his ankles, hoping his relaxed pose would decrease the tension between them. “She hasn’t learned all she needs to know to live in San Francisco, has she?”

“No. And I still need to finish sewing her—” Vivian’s face flamed. She snatched up the bucket. “I’m going after water.” She bustled off, leaving Clay wondering what she’d meant to say. As Vivian headed for the river, Etu and Naibi burst from the brush at the opposite side of the village.

Etu held out the basket. “We found many berries, Mister Clay!” The boy, his face flushed and sweaty, beamed. He looked around. “Where is Missus Vivian? I want to see if this is enough.”

“We want two pies—one for each of us.” Naibi held up two pudgy, purple-stained fingers, her smile bright. “She will bake them, yes?”

“I’m sure she will,” Clay assured the pair, “but not until tomorrow. It’s too close to bedtime. Put the berries inside the mission, and then take the buckets to the river for water. You two need to wash before you turn in.”

The children groaned. Etu groused, “Mister Clay, you are always making us too clean.”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Clay quipped. The children’s brows furrowed in confusion. Clay laughed. “Being clean is a good thing. It will keep you from getting sick. Now do as I said.”

They grumbled under their breath, but they moved to obey. Once they were heading down the pathway toward the river, each swinging a bucket, Clay stepped inside the mission and turned a slow circle, examining the structure with a critical eye. He’d made a great deal of progress, but there was still much to accomplish. The sense of urgency that plagued him whenever he thought of his purpose here returned, but even stronger than before. Vivian’s departure would change so many things.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “When she leaves, Lord, I’ll have to do my own cooking, cleaning, and clothes washing. I’ll have to teach as well as preach. I’ve come to rely on her assistance, and now I wonder . . . can I truly run this mission on my own? I need a helper, Lord—one who has the strength and desire to live in this untamed land.”

Behind his closed eyelids, a picture formed of Lizzie standing tall and proud in the face of Shruh’s fury. His eyes popped open and he shook his head hard, dispelling the image. He couldn’t rely on Lizzie—she wasn’t welcome in the village, and she intended to leave. Clay’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Unless the Mission Board sent someone from the States to be his assistant, he would be on his own.

I don’t think I can do it, Lord. Please help me.





Lizzie filled the dogs’ water trough and made her way out of the pen, holding her skirts well above her ankles to keep from catching them on the wire enclosure. Outside the pen, she let the folds of fabric fall, and she moved easily across the ground toward her cabin.

Over the weeks of wearing the blue-checked dress, she’d finally begun feeling comfortable in the full, sweeping skirts and snug-fitting bodice. The hem of the dress appeared frayed, however, and she’d rubbed one spot on the back of the skirt nearly all the way through on her cleaning stone trying to remove a sticky smear of pine sap. The weary-looking gown was fine for working, but she would certainly shame her father if she appeared at his doorstep in the dress.

She entered her cabin and crossed to the stove to check the pan of corn bread she’d prepared earlier. It looked browned, so she used her skirts to protect her hands and removed it. She set it on the windowsill to cool, then stood staring out at the quiet side yard. Ever since her encounter with Vitse and Vitsiy, she’d caught herself on several occasions staring unseeingly across the grounds.

The realization that she truly was more white than Athabascan had come as a shock, and she wondered if the recognition should change how she viewed the world. Yet her eyes took in the same familiar fern- and moss-covered ground, the same thick pin cherry bushes and tall aspens, the same garden plot awaiting her attention. Nothing on the outside had changed. So why did she feel so different on the inside?

Giving herself a little shake, she moved to the bureau Pa had used to store his clothing and picked up the comb Vivian had left for her. She combed her thick hair back from her face and twisted it into a rope that she then formed into a heavy coil. She jabbed pins into the coil until she could tug on it and it didn’t shift. Satisfied her hair was secure, she moved back to the windowsill and checked the corn bread. Steam no longer rose from the mealy bread—she could eat.

But the moment she sat, her hunger fled. She linked her hands in her lap and stared at the empty spaces around the table. Loneliness assailed her with such intensity, tears stung. She closed her eyes, striving to imagine Pa and Mama seated at the table with her. But instead of images of her parents appearing in her mind’s eye, Clay and Vivian Selby emerged. She slapped the tabletop, and the images scooted into the shadows.

“I need to eat,” she told herself, using her firmest voice. She had work to do and must be well nourished. She broke a chunk of bread free of the pan and plopped it on her plate. After slathering the bread with honey, she stabbed her fork into the crumbly chunk and lifted a bite. But she didn’t put it in her mouth. Dropping the fork, she snatched up the plate and headed for the slop bucket to dispose of the corn bread. Just as she tipped the plate, her dogs began to whimper, and then she heard someone call her name.

Jerking upright, Lizzie sought the source of the sound. Etu and Naibi burst into her yard and darted straight for the dog pen. Lizzie set the plate aside and jogged across the ground to meet them. Joy at seeing them battled with worry about them journeying through the woods, unprotected.

She caught their arms, drawing them away from the pen. “Did I not tell you to never come here again?” she scolded in Athabascan.

“You said not to come alone.” Etu pulled his arm free and pointed toward the woods. “Missus Vivian brought us.”

Vivian stepped out of the brush and hurried to join them. Her cheeks were flushed, and her breath came in little puffs. She shook her finger at the children. “Shame on you for running ahead that way,” she scolded the children in English. “You need to stay with me.” She removed a pack from her shoulders and dropped it on the ground beside her feet, then fanned herself with both hands. She sent a weary smile in Lizzie’s direction. “These two are as nimble-footed as a pair of squirrels. I couldn’t keep up with them.”

Lizzie gave the children’s arms a little shake and used English in deference to Vivian. “You listen to Missus Vivian and stay with her from now on.” Sighing, she addressed Vivian. “Their grandmother needs to keep a better watch over them—they’re good children, but she lets them run too wild.”

Naibi’s lower lip poked out. “Vitse . . . her spirit goes. We bury her body.”

Lizzie’s jaw fell. “W-what?”

“You did not come to potlatch.” Etu’s voice held a hint of accusation.

“When?” Lizzie pressed her palms to her aching chest.

Vivian answered quietly. “A week ago.”

“Oh, Etu and Naibi . . .” Memories of her first painful days after her mother’s death returned. Sympathy welled, bringing a rush of tears. Lizzie dropped to her knees and embraced both children. Naibi nestled against Lizzie’s shoulder, but Etu stood stiffly within her encircling arm. “I’m so sorry your vitse is gone.” She looked at Vivian over Naibi’s shoulder. “What happened to her?”

Vivian shrugged, her face sad. “Perhaps she just drifted away, as older people sometimes do. Perhaps the sickness claimed her. We aren’t sure.”

“Sickness?”

Etu pulled loose. He abandoned English for his more familiar Athabascan. “Some people in the village are sick. They cough and get very hot. Mister Clay is worried their spirits will leave, the way Vitse’s did.”

Lizzie’s heart clutched in fear. When she’d seen her grandmother, the woman had been coughing. Might her grandmother die, too? Two conflicting thoughts collided in the center of Lizzie’s mind: If Vitse were gone, the village might finally accept her into their fold. But if Vitse died, her opportunity for restored peace would die with her. For which should she hope?