A Whisper of Peace (31 page)

He slipped between some trees at the edge of the village and followed the familiar pathway. His thoughts raced ahead to the welcome he knew he’d receive. It gave him such a lift to see Etu and Naibi’s faces light up when he stepped into Lizzie’s yard. And their hugs—tight, their sweaty heads pressed to his ribs—gave him a sense of belonging. He smiled, picking up his pace. He knew what it must feel like to be a father, having been the recipient of their heartfelt greetings.

But he needed to exercise caution. The daily visits were planting ideas in his head. Ideas that had no place there. When the children came running, he caught himself looking beyond them to Lizzie, wishing she would hold out her arms in welcome, too. Just thinking about it now, far from her cabin on a trampled pathway lined by thick brush, brought a rush of heat from his chest to his face. Or maybe it was just the effort of carrying the heavy accordion. He’d let himself believe the latter.

The sound of giggles carried over the gentle melody of the wind, reaching his ears. Obviously the children weren’t ill.
Thank You, Lord, for protecting them. Please continue to keep them healthy.
As he completed the prayer, he stepped into Lizzie’s clearing. The children, in the middle of a game involving some sort of odd-looking balloon, looked up and spotted him. Etu dropped the plaything, and they both came running.

Clay dropped to one knee and braced himself, laughing as they plunged against him. “It looks as though you were having fun.”

“We play catch,” Etu announced. Over their time with Lizzie, both children’s English had improved mightily. Etu dashed to retrieve the toy and offered it to Clay. “Missus Lizzie made a ball by blowing air into a moose’s bladder.”

“A bladder?” Clay made a face. “You keep it.”

Etu laughed, his eyes crinkling in merriment. “Mister Clay is scare of bladder!” Still laughing, he spun and ran toward the cabin, hollering, “Missus Lizzie! Missus Lizzie! Mister Clay comes, and he is scare of the ball you make!”

Naibi gave Clay’s upraised knee a pat. “It is all right, Mister Clay. Everyone is scare of somefing.”

Clay snorted in amusement. He slipped his arms free of the accordion case and propped it against a tree trunk at the edge of the yard. Then he took Naibi’s hand and walked with her toward the cabin. When they were halfway across the yard, Lizzie emerged from her cabin. As he’d come to expect, she wore the blue-checked dress Vivian had given her, but today she’d braided her hair in one long plait that fell down her spine and ended a scant inch above the dress’s waist. Even such a simple style enhanced her high cheek bones and delicate jawline.
What a beautiful woman
 . . .

“You’re late today,” Lizzie said by way of greeting, but her voice held no recrimination. “You usually come closer to noon.”

He needed to let her know what was happening in the village, but he didn’t want the children to overhear. There was no sense in frightening them. He put his hand on Naibi’s head. “You two go finish your game. I’m going to talk to Missus Lizzie for a bit, and then I’ll play with you.”

Naibi snatched the ball from Etu’s hands and darted off. Etu thundered in pursuit. When they were fully engaged in their game, Clay turned to Lizzie. “Can we talk?”

Lizzie gestured to a low bench tucked along her cabin wall, and they seated themselves at opposite ends. Clay wished he could scoot close and hold her hand. Partly because he feared his news would be upsetting, and partly because he longed to touch her, just once.

Clay drew in a breath and assumed his most gentle tone. “We’ve lost three people from the village to the fever. Yesterday evening, an elderly man named Taima died, then a few hours later I received word that a young woman—newly married—had also died.” The woman was close to Lizzie’s age. He tipped his head. “Did you know Magema?”

Lizzie’s forehead crinkled. “I know only my grandparents. But my mother probably knew both of them.” Her gaze drifted toward a stand of trees, where a rock pile signified a grave. “I wonder if she knows their spirits have departed. . . .” She returned her attention to Clay. “My grandmother . . . she still lives?”

“Yes.” Clay hung his head. The third death, only that morning, affected him the most. He’d spent several hours with the parents, offering comfort, but he doubted his efforts had eased their deep pain. “The last one to fall prey to the fever was a little boy, not even a year old yet.” How sad that the child wouldn’t have the opportunity to experience the joy of boyhood, to grow into manhood and become a husband and father. Yet Clay knew without a doubt God had embraced this little one into His holy presence, where the child would live forever in joy and peace. God wouldn’t turn away such an innocent soul.

His heart panged for the other two who were lost. He hadn’t had a chance to share the truth of Jesus’s sacrifice with them. Did that mean, in God’s eyes, they were also innocent and would enjoy eternity with the one true God?

“Clay?”

He hadn’t realized he’d drifted away in thought until Lizzie’s puzzled voice reached his ears. He shifted to look into her concerned face.

“You care deeply for the villagers.” She spoke in her usual matter-of-fact tone, but he saw a glimmer of approval shining in the depths of her blue eyes.

He nodded. “Yes. I do.”

“Why? They are not your people.”

Again, he sensed no accusation, only a desire to understand. Unconsciously, his hand stretched across the brief gap separating them and curled over hers. The simple contact—so impersonal—had a very personal effect on his senses. He forced himself to focus on her question and the best way to answer.

“But you see, Lizzie, they
are
my people. They were created by the same God who knit me together within my mother’s womb. Each of them possesses a heart that yearns for a relationship with their Maker.” He tightened his grip on her fingers, desire for her to accept the truth he shared as her own rising inside of him and tangling his emotions. “The Bible tells us everyone comes to the Father through the Son, Jesus Christ. Once they accept Jesus as their Savior, God becomes their Father, and we are all bound by love. We become brothers and sisters in Christ.”

Lizzie sat for long seconds, peering into his face with a stoic expression. He wished he could read her thoughts. Her lips parted, and he held his breath, praying silently that she might finally ask the question his heart pined to hear:
May I ask your God to become my God?

“Is it safe, with people dying in the village, for you to come back and forth? What if you carry the sickness with you and give it to Etu or Naibi?”

Clay’s breath whooshed out. His shoulders slumped. He released Lizzie’s hand and cupped his palm over his knee, battling a mighty wave of disappointment. Why did this woman so stringently resist mention of God? “I hadn’t considered that. I thought with them away from the village, they’d be safe. But . . .” He sighed. “Are you saying you don’t want me to come here anymore?”

Something flashed in her eyes. Regret. Perhaps a longing. But she lowered her gaze, and when she raised her head again she held the unemotional expression that was far too familiar. “I don’t want to say you aren’t welcome, but it might be best . . . for the children’s sake.”

Clay suspected her real reason for asking him to stay away was to avoid hearing any more of his talk about God. Clamping his teeth together in frustration, he looked across the yard, where Etu and Naibi had collapsed and lay on their sides, chins propped on elbows, examining something in the grass. His heart flooded with affection for the pair. As difficult as it would be to stay away, perhaps Lizzie’s suggestion was wise.

“All right.” He rose, his legs resisting the movement. “I’ll spend some time with them, then explain why I won’t be back for a while. Do you . . .” He didn’t attempt to hide his sadness as he gazed at her. “Have need of anything before I go? Wood chopped . . . snares checked . . . anything?” He supposed he should be ashamed of his blatant attempt to prolong his leave-taking. But he wasn’t.

“We’ll be fine.” Lizzie stood, smoothing out her skirt. Her gaze skittered everywhere but directly at him. “I’ve survived just fine on my own for these many years.”

And that was the problem, Clay finally realized. She’d survived so well, she didn’t believe she had need of anyone or anything, including a Savior.
Lord, help her realize her need of You, however that may be. And act swiftly.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

C
lay did his best to fill his days with frenetic activity. Taking time off only to attend the funeral ceremonies for those who died, he utilized nearly every moment of light to work, work, work. With the arrival of July, the sun lit the sky almost the entire day, with a few hours of dark between midnight and four in the morning. The long days led to exhaustion, but overwhelming tiredness was better than the pressing ache of loneliness.

He split logs to make benches for the main room and used saplings and rope to build makeshift bed frames for the sleeping rooms, topping the beds with simple mattresses of thick wool blankets folded around piles of pine needles and dried leaves. Using packing crates and strips of bark removed from the huts he and Vivian had used as shelters, he built shelves for the children and him to store their belongings in the sleeping rooms.

After completing the loft, he neatly stored all their food supplies, marveling at how much larger the main room felt without the clutter of boxes, barrels, and burlap sacks. Then, to give himself extra work space for studying or meal preparation, he added a long narrow counter along the wall where he’d attached the table. For good measure, he built shelves underneath it to hold dishes, pots, pans, and other kitchen utensils. The shelves put all items within easy reach of even little Naibi.

Six days after telling Lizzie he would stay away until the sickness left the village for good, he hammered the final window casing into place on the mission school and stepped back to admire the completed building. Grayish chinking filled the gaps between the rough log walls, well-oiled paper served as windows, and a sturdy planked door stood open, inviting people to cross the smooth rock stoop and enter the mission. He walked a slow circle around the structure, examining every inch from the rock foundation supporting the logs to the grass- and daisy-strewn roof protecting the insides from rain.

He berated himself for failing to add a second door on the back side of the building for the sake of ventilation and to be used as an escape should the need ever arise. “I can always chop another one out later,” he muttered to a ground squirrel that popped from its hole and seemed to give the log building a perusal. He smacked the solid wall with his open palm, scaring the little striped creature into scrambling for cover, and assured himself that for now the single door facing the village would serve him fine.

With long strides he rounded the building and stepped through the doorway, pausing just over the threshold. He crossed to the front and stood between the two doors leading to the sleeping rooms. Satisfaction filled him as his gaze roved across the rows of rough-hewn benches. He imagined a host of Gwich’in villagers seated, attentive, absorbing the message he shared from God’s holy word. A lump filled his throat.

Clay dropped to his knees on the hard-packed dirt floor and folded his hands. His heart sang in praise.
Thank You, Lord, that the building is complete. Now my ministry can finally begin
. His prayer continued, branching from gratitude to pleas for an end to the sickness and for protection for Vivian as she traveled, and ended with a heartfelt request.
Give me the words, dear Father, to reach the Gwich’in people with Your love and grace. And please, please, soften Lizzie’s heart that she might embrace You.

He rose and rubbed his aching knees. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d gone the entire day without eating. Again. Vivian would be appalled. Recalling her frequent reprimand—
“Clay, you cannot work on an empty stomach. You’ll make yourself sick. So sit down and eat!”
—he smiled. She’d turned out to be a decent cook between the iron cookstove and Lizzie’s lessons.

As always, thoughts of Lizzie made his chest ache. While he sat at the table by himself and ate a simple meal of dried salmon, a thank-you gift from Taima’s family for his visits after the man’s death, he allowed himself to visit Lizzie in his mind. When would this sickness finally depart so he could go to her, check on the children, talk with her again? Each sunrise drew them closer to the day she would pack her belongings and leave. He didn’t have time to waste.

He’d finished the salmon and rose, intending to fetch water to wash his plate, when a shadow fell across the floor. Clay jumped, nearly dropping the plate. He looked into Shruh’s drawn face. The long days of caring for Co’Ozhii had aged the older man. Shruh cleared his throat. “Clay Selby? I would speak with you.”

Clay set the plate aside and crossed quickly to Shruh. “What is it?”

The man sent a glance around the room, his brow furrowed. Without a word, he plodded to the first sleeping room and opened the door. After a look inside, he moved to the second door and repeated the inspection. Clay, puzzled, waited for him to share his concern. Shruh returned to Clay and folded his arms over his chest.