A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Thirty-Six





Clay reached for Lizzie. The glow on her face and the joyful laughter pouring from her lips communicated the change that had happened beneath the surface. He wanted to celebrate, and it seemed natural to wrap her in his arms. She reached for him at the same time. Her palms pressed firmly against his back as she nestled her head against his shoulder. Their joined hearts beat out a double-thrum of happiness.

“Thank you for showing me the way.” Her voice wavered, the words falling on his ears like gentle raindrops from a summer sky. “I’m . . .” She sighed, a wispy expulsion of breath. “I’m at peace.” She pulled back, looking at him in surprise. “I’m at peace, Clay.”

He nodded, understanding. Although he’d never understand how God calmed His children even in the midst of heartache, he’d experienced it enough to know its reality. “And you always will be. Just look to Him whenever you feel lost, alone, or frightened. He’ll always be there.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but the pounding of little feet intruded. Naibi and Etu burst into the mission building. Naibi bounced over to Lizzie and flopped into her lap, but Etu ran straight to the stove and peeked into the empty skillet. He spun to face them.

“You haven’t cooked breakfast yet?” He plunked his fists on his hips. “Naibi and I fed the dogs already. Hurry and cook something, Mister Clay!”

Clay laughed. He returned his Bible to the table—Lizzie’s table—in his sleeping room and then followed Etu’s direction to hurry and cook something. They feasted on fried duck eggs, corn bread, and strips of smoked salmon. Clay might as well have been eating chunks of bark peeled from his ramshackle hut. Lizzie so filled his senses, there wasn’t room for anything else.

She’d accepted the gift of salvation through God’s Son, which meant they were joint heirs with Christ. He could now pursue a relationship with her without fear of breaking the biblical admonition about becoming unequally yoked with an unbeliever. He wanted to take her in his arms and proclaim his love for her, but how could he do it with two children seated between them, dominating the conversation?

More than Etu and Naibi’s presence stilled his tongue. Another barrier rose between them—one that wouldn’t leave at the close of the school day. Although the village leaders hadn’t rebuked him about Lizzie residing in the mission, neither had they offered any overtures of acceptance. He’d seen Da’ago standing in the center of the village, hands on hips, staring toward the mission, and he suspected the man was trying to decide what to do about Lizzie.

As much as it pained Clay to accept, Lizzie had been excommunicated by virtue of her mother’s expulsion from the village. Shruh had encouraged his wife to make peace with Lizzie, but Co’Ozhii—still mourning—remained aloof. It was only a matter of time before the leaders gathered for a meeting, and unless Co’Ozhii requested a reversal of the ban, they would insist Lizzie leave. Where would she go?

If she leaves, Father, it will take every bit of willpower I possess not to go, too. She’s embedded in my heart now. I’ll be lost without her.

Across the table, Lizzie laughed at something Naibi said and then leaned down to give the little girl a one-armed hug before picking up her fork again. She looked so relaxed—completely at ease. Helplessness coupled with frustration pinched Clay’s chest. If she wanted to stay, she should have the freedom to do so.

The key to Lizzie’s acceptance in the village lay with Co’Ozhii. The woman’s time of deep mourning would last for another two weeks. Until then, he shouldn’t bother her. But the moment it was considered appropriate to visit her, he intended to knock on her door and make his most heartfelt plea on Lizzie’s behalf.

He pushed away from the table. “Breakfast all done?” The children nodded. “Good. Naibi, fetch a bucket of water. Etu, empty the scraps into the slop bucket. Then Missus Lizzie”—he sent a smile in her direction—“will sweep up our crumbs while we wash the dishes.”

The children scampered to obey. And while they completed their chores, working together companionably, he did his best not to imagine them as a family.


———


July faded into August, and the sun’s bright face chose to hide a little longer each night. Clay appreciated the change. Although he’d tried to patch his little bark hut, large gaps between strips of wood remained, and the sunlight pouring through held sleep at bay. Having a few more hours of dark ensured more rest. Rest he needed after the weeks of too little sleep.

The sunlight hours were changing, but the villagers remained stubbornly the same. Every Sunday he planned a service, and every Sunday he preached to three people—Lizzie, Etu, and Naibi. Every day, he left the door wide open so any of the villagers could wander in and join the lessons. But only Etu and Naibi attended school. The natives seemed to have lost their curiosity about him—they ceased to gather when he washed his clothes in a tub in the yard or soaped his face to shave, and they prevented their children from scampering close when he sat on the stoop and played his accordion.

Daily he watched, eager and hopeful, for a passing trader or trapper to deliver a letter from his father. He prayed Pa would offer the advice he needed to turn the villagers’ eyes toward heaven. But the letter didn’t come, and day by day his feelings of failure grew.

Lizzie assured him he was a fine teacher—she’d taken to assisting in the classroom, teaching the children the things they would have learned from their parents if they’d lived—but he shrugged off her compliments. Naibi and Etu weren’t happy with Tabu, and Tabu didn’t care about seeing to their needs. But if they’d been placed in a different home, he doubted they’d have been able to come to the mission at all.

He’d told Lizzie she’d always have peace, and he witnessed the peacefulness in her blue eyes and relaxed demeanor. But he battled an increasing despondence as days marched on with the villagers avoiding the mission building. The only thing that gave him pleasure was having Lizzie near. In the evenings, they took walks in the woods. He didn’t even mind swatting mosquitoes if it meant having Lizzie to himself for a while.

She, like he, was waiting for the tribal leaders to visit, but in childlike faith, she said, “If they send me away, I won’t go alone. My Father goes with me, and He will keep me from being lonely.” Clay gloried in her confidence, but he wished he felt as secure. His love for her grew deeper with each hour they spent together.

On the morning of August eleventh, Clay dressed in his black preaching suit, tamed his hair with macassar oil, and drew in a fortifying breath. Four weeks had passed since Shruh’s body was laid in the ground. He could now visit Co’Ozhii. Etu and Naibi would come for school, but he intended to release them early so he could visit the woman before the evening mealtime hour.

He walked across the dewy ground to the mission. The door stood open in invitation, signifying Lizzie was up. His pulse beat like a hummingbird’s wings in anticipation of seeing her again. The effect this woman had on him . . . Surely God wouldn’t let these feelings grow only to take her away, would He?

Lizzie stood at the cookstove greasing a black iron skillet, dressed today in her buckskin tunic and leggings. Her hair hung in neat braids alongside her dusky face, and she hummed a hymn he’d played the previous Sunday on his accordion. Her beauty, as always, made his breath catch, and the sight of her at the cookstove, looking every bit like she belonged there, brought an immediate prayer from his heart.

Father-God, let them let her stay. She’s content here . . . happy. And I love her. I love her more than I ever imagined possible. Please let her stay.

She turned and looked him up and down, a shy smile on her rosy lips. “How fine you look.”

He mimicked her leisurely perusal by allowing his gaze to travel from the fringed hem of her leggings to the beaded neckline of her tunic. “As do you.”

She ran her fingers down the length of one braid, seeming to trace the strip of leather woven into the dark strands of her hair. “I must be Athabascan today.”

Clay nodded, approving her choice of clothing.

Her chin lifted, a hopeful glint lighting her blue eyes. “We will know by day’s end, yes?”

They’d discussed Clay’s intention to visit with Co’Ozhii, and Lizzie had counted the days with him. Unconsciously, he ran his hand over his slicked-back hair, checking to see if the unruly strands remained in place. “I’ll visit her after the children are done with their lessons.”

Her brow pinched, a slight movement. “I will see her after the children are done.”

Clay crunched his brow tightly and moved beside the stove. “Lizzie . . .” He interjected a gentle warning into his tone.

She shook her head, her braids flopping. Her jaw jutted into a stubborn angle. “She is my grandmother, Clay. And she has cast me from her life. I must be the one to talk to her.” An ornery twinkle appeared in her eyes. “But you may come if you’ll be quiet and let me talk.” Her expression changed from impish to pleading. “You will honor my desire?”

Clay bit the inside of his lip. He’d planned this visit for weeks. Lying awake in the bark hut, he’d practiced the speech in his head so many times he could recite it in his dreams. He’d always envisioned going to Co’Ozhii on his own, convincing the woman to bend her stubborn pride and welcome Lizzie into her life. He wanted to be the one to bring peace between Co’Ozhii and Lizzie.

He gave a start, realization descending like a log beam on his head. What a selfish plan. He hung his head, asking God to speak His will into his heart. A whisper of peace floated on the fringes of his mind. Months ago, Lizzie had insisted he not intrude in her relationship with her grandmother. She’d set aside her stoic stubbornness in exchange for gentle persuasion, but maybe it would be best for him to abide by her wishes.

He drew in a deep breath, releasing it along with the selfish pride that made him want to run ahead of Lizzie and pave the way. “All right. You talk to her. I’ll go with you to offer my support, but I’ll stay quiet unless you ask me to speak.”

She caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, Clay. I’ve been praying and asking Father-God to make the way to peace. Even if He says no, I will accept His will. You see . . .” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I wanted to be with Pa, but God brought me to Himself instead. What He has for me is what is best for me. I will trust Him.”





“You may come in.”

Lizzie’s heart cheered at Co’Ozhii’s invitation, but she managed to maintain a composed posture as she followed her grandmother into the little cabin. To her relief, the smell of sickness that had hung in the air was gone, but dark shadows shrouded every corner. Co’Ozhii hadn’t pinned back the furs covering the windows. The gray cast gave the room a gloomy feel, and Lizzie battled a feeling of melancholy as she slid into the chair Co’Ozhii indicated.

The older woman grunted at Clay and pointed silently to a third chair in the corner. He dragged it to the table, but he waited until Co’Ozhii dropped into her chair before seating himself.

Co’Ozhii sent Lizzie a wary look. Although she appeared less haggard than the day of Vitsiy’s funeral, a sadness seemed to penetrate her being. Lizzie recognized the haunting look of loneliness, and her heart turned over in sympathy. My Father-God, open my grandmother’s heart to You so she might know the joy of Your ever-presence.

“You have come to speak. So speak.”

Although no kindness tempered Co’Ozhii’s tone, Lizzie chose not to take offense. In the past, Lizzie had spoken coldly to Clay to mask her true feelings. No matter how Co’Ozhii behaved, she would show Vitse respect and compassion, loving her the way God loved her. Lizzie had glimpsed evidence of God’s love in Clay’s actions. Perhaps Vitse would see God if Lizzie chose gentleness.

Lizzie lapsed into Athabascan. “When last we spoke, I told you I would trouble you no longer because I planned to go to my father in California.” The sharp sting of loss had lessened over the past weeks, but a residual pain remained, like a bruise that lingered far beneath the skin. Lizzie swallowed a lump of sadness and continued. “I come now to tell you I am not able to go to Voss Dawson. He . . . he died, just as Shruh died. No home waits for me in California.”

She paused, waiting to see if Co’Ozhii would offer a condolence. But the woman sat in stone-faced silence. Lizzie shot Clay a quick look. His tender smile encouraged her to continue.

Shifting slightly in the chair, she crossed her ankles and looked directly into her grandmother’s face. “Mother is gone. Voss Dawson is gone. Shruh is gone.”

A muscle twitched in Co’Ozhii’s jaw, the only indication she listened to Lizzie.

“You are the only family I have left. I do not wish to remain separate from you, Grandmother. You brought my mother into this world. You nursed her and taught her and loved her.”

A single tear formed in the corner of Co’Ozhii’s eye. The woman blinked, but the moisture didn’t disappear.

“She hurt you when she married my father, but leaving you hurt her, too. She never stopped loving you or Grandfather. Her final wish, a wish made as she lay with death waiting to steal her away, was for reconciliation with you.” Lizzie inched her hand across the table and placed it, ever so gently, on top of Co’Ozhii’s wrinkled hand. Co’Ozhii stiffened, but she didn’t pull away. Heartened, Lizzie went on softly.

“My mother’s wish is also my prayer, Grandmother. Might peace blossom between us? Can you forgive my white blood and see my mother in me?” Her hand still cupping Co’Ozhii’s, Lizzie fell silent. She’d made her request. Now it was up to Co’Ozhii to accept or reject her only grandchild. Lizzie continued to pray, even while she waited, for her grandmother to choose peace.

Moments passed. Outside the cabin, voices chattered and dogs barked. A bush growing along the cabin’s stone foundation, teased by a breeze, skritch-skritched on the rough log wall as if counting the seconds. And still Co’Ozhii didn’t speak. But Lizzie sat patiently in silence, taking hope from the fact Co’Ozhii hadn’t yet pulled her hand from Lizzie’s light grasp.

Suddenly the woman jerked and pinned her gaze on Clay. “Clay Selby, the day my husband’s spirit left his body . . . you spoke to him.”

Clay looked at Lizzie, as if seeking her permission to reply. Lizzie offered a quick nod, and he turned to Co’Ozhii. “Yes.”

“What words did you say to one another?”

Clay folded his hands on the tabletop. “Shruh asked me how to find the way to the Father. He knew his time here was almost gone. He said he did not wish to step into the next world without assurance. So I told him how to have eternal life with Father-God.”

Lizzie’s heart sang with the realization that her grandfather now abided with the Father. Just as she would one day reside with the Father. And on that day, she would have the chance to know Vitsiy, in Heaven.

Co’Ozhii made a face. “Did you tell him this assurance would come if I made peace with my granddaughter?”

Clay shook his head. “Human relationships might bring temporary happiness and comfort to us here on earth, but only a relationship with Jesus brings the assurance of eternity with the Father.”

His gentle voice, the same tone he’d used when sharing the truth with Lizzie, embraced her once more with warmth. She closed her eyes and offered a prayer for her grandmother to accept the truth that now lived in her own heart. She continued to pray while Clay explained, in simple terms, the way to find everlasting peace.

When he’d finished, Lizzie dared peek at her grandmother, her heart pattering in hope. But no joyful spark lit Co’Ozhii’s eyes. Instead, she released a heavy sigh. The untidy tufts of her gray hair, chopped short as a sign of mourning, fluffed out as she shook her head sadly.

“The way of your God, white man, is unknown to me. I do not understand it.” She slipped her hand from beneath Lizzie’s and rose. Her unsmiling gaze shifted from Clay to Lizzie and then drifted to the darkened corner of the cabin where Shruh had lain the last days of life. She shuffled to the corner, her gait slow, her shoulders bending as if she carried a burden. Lizzie squinted through the feeble light, trying to determine what her grandmother was doing.

Still bent forward with her back to them, Co’Ozhii rasped in a tired voice, “But I will honor my husband’s words to me on the day his spirit left. He wished for peace between us, White Feather, so . . .” She turned and moved toward them, stepping from the darkest shadows into murky gray.

Lizzie clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back her cry of joy. Vitse wore the coat Lizzie had so painstakingly crafted.