A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twenty-Three





Lizzie pushed to her feet and forced her lips into a smile her heart didn’t feel. “Children, there is a pan of corn bread and a jug of honey on my table. Would you like some?”

Without hesitation, the pair dashed toward the house.

Vivian watched after them, shaking her head. “They just finished breakfast—flapjacks and fried fish—before we walked over here. They shouldn’t be hungry.” Then her face pursed into a grimace of sympathy. “But I suppose their last weeks with their grandmother, when food was far from plentiful, affected their appetites. They would eat constantly if I let them.”

Lizzie brushed the bits of grass from her knees. A few green smears remained, marring the blue-checked cloth. “The children are staying with you?”

“For now.” Pain flashed briefly in Vivian’s eyes.

“This sickness . . .” Lizzie chose her words carefully. “Have any other villagers succumbed to it?”

“Not yet.” Vivian sighed. “But both Clay and I are concerned. If things don’t improve soon, Clay intends to canoe to Fort Yukon and request assistance from the doctor.”

Lizzie released a soft snort. “No doctor will come to the village.”

“But perhaps he’ll tell Clay how to treat the illness and provide him with some medicine,” Vivian replied.

Lizzie doubted a white doctor would even offer that much help to the villagers, but she didn’t say so.

Vivian drew a deep breath. “Lizzie, while the children are occupied, I need to talk to you about something important.”

A prickle of trepidation wound its way down Lizzie’s spine. She pointed to the garden. “Can you talk while I weed? My plants need attention.”

“You weed and I’ll stitch,” Vivian said. She picked up the bundle she’d dropped and followed Lizzie to the garden plot. Lizzie reached for her hoe, and Vivian seated herself on the grass with her feet tucked to the side. She withdrew several cut pieces of creamy-looking cloth, thread, and a slim silver needle.

Lizzie chop-chopped the ground, one eye on the plants, one eye on Vivian. “What are you making?”

Vivian shot a quick glance toward the cabin before replying. “Your . . . pantaloons. Drawers to wear beneath your dress.” She cleared her throat, zipping the needle in and out of the cloth. “I finished the chemise and petticoats last week. I brought them along for you.”

Lizzie moved forward a few feet and gently hacked at the ground around the squash. “So many items . . . and I must wear them all, every day?”

Vivian set her lips in a stern line and nodded.

“It will take some getting used to. . . .”

“You’ll manage.” Vivian flashed a smile. “When you’re finished here and we go into the cabin, I’ll show you what else I brought you.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows in silent query, her hands slowing.

“Two beautiful gowns. Even though I’m . . .” For a moment, Vivian seemed to drift away, her eyes clouding. Then she gave herself a little shake. “They will be perfect for you when you go to San Francisco.”

Lizzie paused, two-fisting the hoe and resting her cheek against her knuckles. “You said you had something important to tell me.”

The pain Lizzie had glimpsed earlier returned and then quickly disappeared when Vivian raised her chin and squared her shoulders. She dropped the cloth to her lap and pinned Lizzie with a serious look. “I wanted you to know I will be leaving soon, so our lessons together will come to an end.”

Lizzie blinked in surprise. Her heart seemed to trip within her chest. “You and C-Clay are leaving?”

“Not Clay. Only me.”

Lizzie’s confusion grew. “But I thought you intended to remain in Alaska and help C-Clay.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks. Why couldn’t she speak the man’s name without stammering? She put the hoe to work to cover her blunder.

Vivian lifted the pieces of cloth and returned to stitching, her brow puckered. “My uncle has fallen ill, and my aunt needs my assistance in caring for him. So as soon as the Mission Board that sent Clay and me to Alaska gives approval, I shall depart for Massachusetts.”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes and peered hard at Vivian. “Massachusetts . . . to an aunt and uncle.” She tapped the hoe a couple of times and then said, “You must love them very much to go to them.”

Without pausing in her stitching, Vivian nodded. “I owe them a great deal. They took care of me when my mother sent me away.”

Lizzie froze. Vivian’s words reminded her of Co’Ozhii rejecting Lizzie’s mother and, subsequently, Lizzie. Curiosity overcame her usual reserve. Leaning on the hoe, she asked, “What sin did you commit for your mother to send you away?”

Vivian’s chin quivered. “I . . . I killed my father.”

The hoe fell from Lizzie’s hands.

Cheerful cries intruded, and Etu and Naibi ran from the cabin toward the women. “Missus Lizzie, can we play with the dogs?” Etu asked.

Lizzie picked up the hoe with shaking hands and leaned it on the wire mesh that surrounded her garden. “Not all of them. You wouldn’t be able to control them. But I’ll release Martha for you—she will enjoy a time of play.” The children scampered along beside her as she moved to the dog pen. She smiled in reply to their thanks and patted Martha’s head as if all was well, but underneath, her thoughts churned. Vivian—so sweet and well-mannered and weak—had killed her own father? Her feet stumbled on the way back to the garden plot, her limbs stiff in response to the startling revelation.

Vivian met Lizzie’s gaze. “You’re shocked.”

Shocked couldn’t begin to define how Lizzie felt. She picked up the hoe, but she didn’t put it to use. “I would not have taken you for a . . . a murderer.”

Vivian winced. “When Clay stated his intentions to come to Alaska and develop a mission where he would win souls for the Lord, I saw an opportunity to redeem my own soul. I hoped, by working hard, I might absolve myself of the great burden of guilt. Perhaps, had I been given enough time, I might have discovered freedom, but now . . .” Tears flooded the woman’s green eyes. “I can only hope that caring for my uncle will accomplish the same objective and God will accept my efforts as sufficient atonement.”

Lizzie crossed to the edge of the garden. “How did it happen?”

Vivian blinked rapidly and took up the needle again. Her fingers worked busily while she spun a tale of a little girl, a lunch basket, a working man’s errant swing of an axe, a serpent slithering at a child’s feet, and the child running in terror rather than delivering the basket. Vivian finished on a strangled moan. “Had I gone to him, as my mother directed, I could have saved him. The doctor said if help had reached him in time, he would not have bled to death. But help didn’t come because, in cowardice, I ran and hid.”

Lizzie carefully processed the story. Then she left the garden and knelt beside Vivian. She took the woman’s hand between her palms. “You didn’t swing the axe. You didn’t kill him.”

Vivian jerked her hand free, glaring at Lizzie. “I let him die!”

“But you didn’t know he was hurt.” Lizzie frowned, puzzled over Vivian’s stubborn refusal to see the truth. “How could you have known? It’s foolish to blame yourself.”

Vivian stared at Lizzie, her mouth set in a grim line and her eyes wide and angry. “Who else can I blame?”

The children’s laughter drifted across the yard, filling Lizzie’s ears. Despite their recent loss, Etu and Naibi still found reasons for joy. A romp in the sunshine with a tongue-lolling dog, and all was well. If only happiness could be restored so easily to her friend.

She turned her attention back to Vivian. “When I shot Clay, you did not blame me. Why?”

Vivian blinked several times, her brow furrowing. “You didn’t deliberately shoot him. It was an accident.”

“But if he’d died—if I had killed him, even by accident—would you have blamed me?”

For several seconds, Vivian sat in silence. When she spoke, her voice sounded raspy, as if her throat was very dry. “I would have mourned, and I might have struggled to find the ability to forgive you, but knowing it was an accident, I would have forgiven you.”

Lizzie took Vivian’s hand again, squeezing hard. “If you could forgive me, then why can you not forgive yourself?”





Clay pounded an upright half log into place, finishing the frame for the doorway leading to the second sleeping room. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back to admire the fruits of his labor. Portioning off the front third of the mission school to create sleeping rooms resulted in a much smaller sanctuary than he’d originally planned, but careful arrangements of benches would provide enough seating space for both school work and church services.

He headed to the water bucket for a drink. After guzzling two full dippers of water, he splashed a third over his face, shuddering as the cool water dribbled down his hot skin. He glanced toward the village, frowning at how few people gathered in their yards as the evening hours approached. Many of the villagers remained in their cabins rather than mingling together as was their normal custom. The fever had everyone nervous.

Clay whispered a heartfelt prayer for the illness to run its course quickly without claiming any other lives, then he headed back inside to determine what else he could accomplish before bedtime. He ran his hand along the newly constructed wall, noting the large cracks between logs that would require chinking. He might have been able to get a large portion of the chinking completed today if he’d kept Etu with him instead of letting him go to Lizzie’s with Vivian. But knowing the children would soon have to say good-bye to her, he’d chosen to allow them the day together. Besides, Vivian had put off telling Lizzie of her plans for too long. His heart panged. He wasn’t ready to say good-bye to his stepsister or the blue-eyed native woman. He’d be very alone when they were both gone.

His stomach rumbled, and he checked his timepiece. Nearly seven o’clock. He frowned. Why hadn’t Vivian and the children returned? They’d left right after breakfast. He hadn’t expected them to stay away all day. He scrounged in the barrels and crates lurking in the corner of the mission building and found a half loaf of bread, some dried meat, and a tin can of peaches. A dismal supper, but far better than nothing. He sat at the makeshift table and ate his simple meal while watching out the window for Vivian’s return.

Not until a little after eight did she and the children emerge from the brush. Etu held a fat grouse by its feet, and Naibi carried a small burlap bag. They both dashed to Clay when they spotted him sitting outside the building.

“Mister Clay, Mister Clay!” Etu waved the grouse in Clay’s face. “Missus Lizzie helped me make a snare, and already I caught a bird! Missus Vivian says she will cook it for our breakfast!”

Clay duly admired the bird before turning to Naibi. He asked in their language, “And what did you catch?”

Naibi giggled. “Mushrooms. But I only had to pick them.”

Clay smacked his lips, and both children laughed. He gestured to the mission door and spoke in simple English. They’d never learn it if he didn’t use it regularly. “Put your prizes inside. Then wash. When you are clean, I will show you your new sleeping room.”

The children raced for the door. Clay caught Vivian’s elbow and drew her to the far corner of the building, away from the children’s listening ears. “You were gone much longer than I expected. Did you have a good day with Lizzie?” A little prickle of jealousy teased the back of his heart.

“We spent most of the afternoon sewing, and she showed Etu how to make that snare.” A soft smile lit Vivian’s tired face. “He was so proud when he found the grouse caught in it. His chest puffed so much I thought he might pop the buttons off his shirt.”

Clay chuckled, imagining the boy’s delight. “Did you tell her you plan to leave soon?”

Vivian’s smile faded. “Yes. And we had a talk that . . .” She paused, sucking in her lips and pinching her brow. “Clay, I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?”

“You mean by leaving?”

She nodded.

Clay shrugged. “Viv, I can’t tell you what’s right for you. You have to make the choice. Your aunt needs you—I understand why you want to go.”

Vivian hung her head, heaving a mighty sigh. “I want to go . . . but I also want to stay. I’m very confused.”

“Have you prayed about it?” His father’s standard question to every dilemma slid easily from Clay’s lips.

“Yes, but—”

“Mister Clay!” Etu and Naibi thundered to Clay’s side. Naibi tugged at his shirt while Etu held out his hands. The boy said, “We wash our hands and faces. Show us our room now!”

Clay allowed the children to drag him toward the mission door, but he looked at Vivian over his shoulder. Her forlorn expression pulled at his heart. As soon as he got the children settled in their room, he planned to sit down and try to draw out Vivian’s reasons for melancholy.

But by the time he’d helped them arrange their beds and few belongings in their new space, Vivian had already retreated into her hut. He decided she’d had a long day and he should let her rest. He headed to his room in the mission school with the silent promise to carve out time to speak with her tomorrow.