A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Twenty-Nine





On Monday morning, Clay stepped into the sunny yard of the mission building and ran his fingers up and down the keys of the accordion. Saturday, when he’d visited the cabins to tell the villagers about the first worship service, he’d also told them the school would open to anyone who desired to learn to read and write in the English language. He’d concluded, “I’ll play the piano-box. When you hear it, you come.”

So he stood in the yard and played a tune—a rousing rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” He sang all four verses at the top of his lungs. Twice. Many Gwich’in paused to listen, and Clay met their gazes, smiling no matter if they appeared amused, irritated, or stony. When he finished he waved his arm and called in Athabascan, “Come! Lessons beginning now!”

He’d hoped for a crowd. Only two children came running. Regardless of the low number, his heart lifted. He held out his arms in welcome. “Etu and Naibi!”

They barreled against him, bumping their heads on the accordion and then retreating. But they laughed, unhurt.

Clay tousled their tangled hair. “Let me put this away, and—”

“No!” Etu voiced the protest. “Play more, Mister Clay.”

Clay glanced toward the village. Parents stood with their hands on their children’s shoulders, holding them back. He read longing on several little faces. A grin twitched at his cheeks. He knew how persuasive Etu and Naibi could be. Perhaps the other children would be able to sway their parents if he gave them cause to beg.

“I’ll play, and you two dance.” Clay wriggled his shoulders, adjusting the accordion into a more secure position, and began a cheerful tune. Giggling, Naibi caught Etu’s hands and tugged him into a jig in the mission yard. Clay whisked surreptitious looks toward the other children. Little heads tipped toward their parents and begging hands stirred the air.

That’s right—ask.

Clay transitioned into a second song, giving the others an opportunity to join him, Etu, and Naibi. But by the end of the second song, parents had herded their children toward the garden or back into their cabins. Clay allowed the accordion to wheeze into silence, releasing his own sigh at the same time.

Only two students for his school. For one brief second, discouragement tried to take hold, but he cast it aside. Two was better than none. Etu and Naibi desired an education, so he would provide it. Gesturing to the open doorway, he said, “Go in, children. Choose a seat—whichever one you want—and we will start learning some letters.”

They spent a pleasant hour focusing on the letters A, B, and C. They drew pictures of items beginning with each letter, chanted the sounds they made, and traced the letters again and again, first in the air with their fingers, then on the ground with a stick, and finally on a piece of bark with a bit of charcoal. While they worked, Clay glanced out the door repeatedly, hoping another student or two might wander in. But the others remained stubbornly absent.

Why had the council allowed him to remain in the village if they intended to pretend he didn’t exist? Clay’s empathy for Lizzie, living within reach of the village yet divided by silence and indifference, increased by a hundredfold over the course of the morning. How had she borne the isolation for so many years? After only a few days, he was ready to climb out of his own skin.

Lunchtime neared, and Clay let the children help him cut up carrots, potatoes, and turnips—three each—and measure them into a soup pot. The activity gave them a chance to prepare a tasty soup but also provided an opportunity to learn to count. On a whim, he incorporated a simple lesson on addition as well, adding together the number of vegetables that went into the pot.

Watching the children’s serious yet attentive faces, he couldn’t help but experience a rush of pride that he was managing so well. He’d worried that his lack of experience as a teacher would hinder him from any real success, yet so far things had developed naturally. The children were eager to learn—he only had to guide them. Clay didn’t miss Vivian until they sat on a log under the sun to enjoy their soup and they didn’t have any bread to dip in the watery broth.

Etu straddled the log with the bowl balanced between his knees. “Mister Clay, when we are done eating, can we go in the room you built for us?”

Clay lowered his spoon and considered the boy’s question. What would be best? He’d seen the cabin where the children now lived—a dark, dirty one-room structure that smelled of rank furs and spoiled food. The children slept on a pile of mouse-eaten caribou hides laid out on the dirt floor in the corner. By contrast, the room in the mission would look like a palace. Was it kind to allow them to see the beds and shelves he’d made, knowing they wouldn’t be able to stay?

Naibi fluttered her thick lashes. “We will not touch and make things dirty. We promise.”

Clay’s heart melted. How could he deny children who possessed nearly nothing a peek into a room that should have been theirs? “When we’re done, we’ll go to the room together.”

The children ate quickly, each devouring several bowls of the vegetable soup. Clay had hoped there might be some left over for his supper so he wouldn’t need to cook again, but he’d suffer hunger himself rather than let the children go without. Each time they asked, as Vivian had taught them, “May I have more?” he allowed them to return to the pot until only a tiny bit of broth remained in the bottom.

When the food was gone, he insisted they fetch water and wash their dishes. He supposed in real schools, pupils weren’t required to do dish washing, but given their circumstances, they needed housekeeping skills as well as book learning. They grumbled, but he helped, and they ended up giggling throughout the clean-up tasks.

The moment they placed the stack of clean bowls on the shelves, Naibi grabbed Clay’s hand. “Our room, Mister Clay! Let us go into our room!”

Clay shouldn’t permit the children to think of the extra sleeping room as theirs any longer. He replied, “All right. We’ll go see the room now.”

He knew they’d missed the subtle emphasis in his wording when they burst into the room and immediately began exploring from corner to corner. They touched everything with eager fingers while their joyful cries echoed from the beamed underside of the loft.

“Shelves!”

“Our own window!”

“Look, Etu—such nice beds! One for me and one for you!”

Clay’s spirits bounced between joy at their obvious delight and regret because they wouldn’t be able to enjoy the room. He felt as though he rode a teeter-totter.

Etu flopped onto the bed near the window and stretched out, folding his arms under his head. He grinned from ear to ear. Naibi clambered into the second one. She giggled, bounced on her bottom a couple of times, and then smoothed her hands over the now-rumpled blanket.

“Oh, it is so soft and nice, Mister Clay.” The little girl sent Clay a dimpled smile, her dark eyes bright. “I love this bed.” She curled on her side, using her stacked hands as a pillow. “I could sleep here for forever.” She yawned.

Clay looked at Etu. The boy’s eyes drooped. Clay said, “Are you tired?”

“Ayi—yes.” Etu gave a lazy shrug. “It is hard to sleep in our new home. The hides, they are scratchy, and little animals crawl on us at night.”

Clay tried not to shudder. He needed to talk to Tabu about ridding his house of mice. Maybe he didn’t mind sharing with the little pests, but the children deserved better. “Would you . . . like to sleep here?”

Both children’s eyebrows shot upward in happy speculation.

He added quickly, “Just a nap.”

Their expressions fell. Naibi said, “Not night?”

Clay thought his heart might break, but he had to be honest. “No, not at night. The village leaders said you’re to stay with your uncle Tabu.”

“He is not our uncle,” Etu groused, his brows pinching into a scowl. “He does not even want us. He said so.”

Etu’s comment didn’t surprise Clay. Why would an elderly man want to care for two young, active children? He crossed to the bed and curled his hand over Etu’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you and Naibi aren’t happy, but we have to do what the tribal leaders say. So you have to stay with Tabu. But you can come here for school every day, and if you like, you can use these beds to take a nap.” He gave Etu’s chin a little flick and winked at Naibi. “But I won’t let you sleep all day. We still have schoolwork to do.”

Both children pretended to groan, and Clay laughed. Then, in unison, they closed their eyes. They looked so peaceful, a lump formed in Clay’s throat. How he wished they could stay with him.

Clay closed the door, then pressed his forehead to the smooth sanded wood. His heart ached. For the children, who needed a better home. For Lizzie, who needed the love of God and the comfort of family. For the villagers, whose stubbornness held them back from hearing the message of God’s grace. And for himself. Even for himself.

Turning from the door, he moved to the front bench and sat, staring at the log wall in front of him. So many lofty plans had brought him to this place. And nothing had turned out the way he’d intended. Why had things gone so awry?

He pushed to his feet, planning to lay out the items needed for bread baking, but when he looked toward the work counter, another idea took precedence. More than he needed bread, he needed advice. And he knew who could provide it. After retrieving his writing paper, ink, and pen, he seated himself on a barrel and dipped the pen in the ink. Dear Pa . . .





Vivian paused, chewing the end of the pencil the telegrapher had provided for her to record her message on a small square of paper. He’d cautioned her to keep the message short—ten words or less. How could she condense the message and still express her heart’s desire? Years of pent-up confusion, hurt, and anger longed for release. She’d already written one word: Mother.

She stared at it, a picture of her mother forming in her mind. Tall, slender, a serious face graced with kind eyes. Eyes that had lost a bit of their sparkle with Papa’s death. Eyes that had watched Vivian from across the room the day of Papa’s funeral, so much pain reflected that Vivian couldn’t look at her for more than a few seconds at a time. Yet the remembrance was burned forever into her memory.

“Miss?” The man across the counter toyed with his little cap. “Train’s due to pull out in five minutes. You best get to writing. ’Less you changed your mind about sending a telegram?”

Vivian jerked, startled from her reverie. “No, I . . . I haven’t changed my mind. It’s just—” The train’s warning whistle blared. She needed to hurry. Pressing the rounded point to the paper, she scrawled a quick message: Need to talk. Will write long letter from Vesta’s. Her hand shaking, she finished: Love, Vivian.

The man took it from her and scowled at it for a moment. “Gotta cut a word for it to go at forty cents.” He pressed the paper against the scarred counter and drew a line through the word love. Vivian covered her quivering lips with her fingers. The man’s action served as a reminder of the change in her relationship with Mother after Papa died.

“Forty cents.” He held out his hand in expectation.

She withdrew four Liberty Head dimes from her little coin purse and dropped them in the telegrapher’s hand just as the train blared its whistle again—a long, piercing shriek.

“That’s the last ’un,” the man hollered over the shrill sound. “You best skedaddle!”

Vivian snatched up her reticule, dashed out of the office, and clattered across the wooden boarding deck. The train’s conductor stood outside the passenger train, obviously seeking someone. When he spotted her, he waved frantically. He hopped onto the little landing and held out his hand. She grabbed hold, and he hefted her up at the same time steam chug-chugged and the train’s big wheels squeaked into motion.

He opened the door to the passenger car and ushered Vivian through. She scuttled to her seat and sat, smoothing her skirts into place. She offered the conductor a relieved smile. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

He tipped his hat, his mustache twitching with a grin. “Glad we got you onboard. I was afraid you were going to miss your last chance.” He shuffled between the aisles, requesting tickets.

Vivian sank into the seat, the man’s final words echoing through her mind. “Your last chance . . .” Might the letter she intended to write to Mother be her last chance to set things right? A second thought followed, one that made her mouth go dry. What if my last chance fails? Will I be forced to carry the weight of Papa’s death to my own grave?