A Whisper of Peace (5 page)

Chauncy Burke had said a two-mile walk, but slogging through the woods made it difficult to determine how much distance they’d covered. He hoped they’d reach Gwichyaa Saa soon. His arms ached from the weight of the accordion, and his back ached from the weight of the carpetbag. Vivian dragged her feet. She wouldn’t hold up much longer. He didn’t fancy spending the night in the woods without any kind of shelter.

A delicate sigh left Vivian’s throat, and Clay braced himself for a complaint. But she said, “I thought when that Gwich’in girl stepped out of the trees, we’d found the village. But—” She came to a sudden halt, her eyes flying wide.

Clay stopped, frowning in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I just realized . . .” She took a couple of gulping breaths. “The girl in the woods—I assumed she was native. But her eyes . . . did you notice?”

Clay crunched his forehead, trying to picture the girl in his mind. He recalled moccasins, a buckskin tunic and leggings, dark braids hanging alongside her serious, brown-skinned face. A pretty face. “What about her eyes?”

“They were
blue
, Clay.” Vivian shook her head, her tangled hair sweeping across her dirty cheek. “Have you ever seen a native with blue eyes?”

All of the Kiowa on the reservation had brown eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

“It certainly raises questions, doesn’t it?” Vivian adjusted the straps holding the valise on her back and started walking again. Clay fell into step with her as Vivian continued in a pensive tone. “She said she wasn’t part of a village and took off as if bees pursued her. Could it be she’s merely pretending to be a Gwich’in?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe so the natives will make better trades with her? Or maybe to escape the law?”

Clay resisted laughing. Vivian had an overly active imagination. At least she was moving at a good pace again, her tiredness apparently forgotten. “I suppose anything is possible. All kinds of people have made their way into Alaska in the past few years.”

Vivian went on as if Clay hadn’t spoken. “Or maybe she
is
Gwich’in, but she was exiled because of her eye color.”

Clay sent Vivian a startled look. She fell silent, seemingly out of ideas. But Clay’s brain ticked through possible reasons for a young native woman to live separated from the protection of a village. Her blue eyes could mean she wasn’t native at all. But more likely, she was of mixed heritage. He couldn’t imagine the Gwich’in rejecting a member of their tribe over something as insignificant as eye color. Why blame a child for something outside of her control? But perhaps she’d done something else—something against tribal law—to earn eviction.

The sound of voices reached his ears. Vivian stumbled to a stop, her gaze searching ahead. She sent him a questioning glance, and he nodded. “I hear it, too. It must be the village.” He pushed aside his musings about the blue-eyed woman and curled his hand around Vivian’s elbow. “Come—let’s go meet the people we’ve come to serve.”

And once we’re settled, I’ll explore how to minister to the woman in the woods.

Chapter Four

L
izzie burst into the clearing behind her cabin, her lungs burning from her race through the trees. The dogs awakened, barking in surprise, but when they recognized her, they immediately calmed. She stumbled to the pen and reached over the top of the wire enclosure. Martha rose on two legs, offering a gentle whine while nuzzling her owner’s hand. Lizzie ran her fingers through the dog’s thick ruff. The warm contact soothed her, and her gasping breaths slowly returned to normal.

“There was a white man in the woods . . . and his wife.” Lizzie spoke into the dog’s floppy ear, her voice raspy. “They are going to Gwichyaa Saa to teach the children white men’s ways.” An ache rose in her breast. “They’ll confuse the children, make them uncertain of who they are. I know all too well . . . white and red, they don’t mix. What should I do?” Martha gazed at Lizzie attentively, her mouth open in a tongue-lolling grin. But she offered no advice.

Lizzie stroked the dog’s head, her mind seeking a way to prevent Clay and Vivian Selby from harming the children in the village. Her gaze turned toward the peak of Denali, the High One, the place her mother had sought when in need of answers or support. Mama had believed the tallest mountain looked over her and offered strength and wisdom. But today, like so many other days, the peak was blanketed by gray clouds. Neither the dogs nor the mountain could offer assistance.

Defeated, she whirled away from the pen, but Martha’s pleading whine drew her back. Opening the gate a few inches, she allowed Martha to slip through. The other dogs stormed the gate, eager to be released as well, but she ordered, “Stay!” They whimpered in complaint but obediently retreated.

“Come, Martha.” With the dog trotting happily at her side, Lizzie returned to the lean-to where the moose hide waited. Martha flopped onto her stomach and rested her head on her paws. Her eyes—one brown like Mama, one blue like Pa—followed Lizzie as she picked up the scraping tool.

“I’m not going to worry about Clay Selby and his woman. Why should I care if they change things in the village? The villagers don’t care about me.” Lizzie forced a flippant tone, but deep down, the truth of her statement stung. Gliding the scraper along the hide, she continued talking to the attentive dog. “I’ve never had a place with them. They rejected Mama the moment she chose to marry Voss Dawson, and they’ve never accepted me. So let the white man and his woman do whatever they wish.”

Yet she couldn’t deny the worry that gnawed at the fringes of her heart. The children in the village were accepted, were content. Why should white people be allowed to destroy their peaceful existence? Her hands trembled. She sank to her haunches, tossing aside the scraper and reaching for Martha. The dog rose up to meet her, and Lizzie buried her face in the dog’s neck. “Oh, Martha, why must things change?”

Despite her efforts to hold them at bay, buried memories from long ago awakened. How she’d loved the happy suppers in their little cabin, with Mama serving steaming bowls of fresh stew or slabs of succulent salmon while Pa teased and laughed. Behind her closed lids, she could easily envision Pa sitting in the yard at dusk, the stem of his beautifully carved pipe caught between his teeth. Lizzie would snuggle on his lap, giggling when his beard tickled her cheek. If she imagined hard enough, she could still catch the sweet aroma of his tobacco. Lizzie also conjured Mama’s smile—the smile that disappeared the day Pa returned to the white man’s world.

Tears stung, and she sniffed fiercely. Crying wouldn’t bring Mama back, and it wouldn’t make Pa change his mind about taking them with him. He’d said Mama wouldn’t fit in his world—that it would be cruel to make her try. “You’re an Athabascan, Yellow Flower. Your skills of moccasin making and salmon drying aren’t well respected in San Francisco. You’d feel out of place in my city. Your home is here, with your people.”

Pa’s deep voice echoed in Lizzie’s memory, competing with the heartrending sounds of deep distress that had poured from her gentle mother’s lips. But Pa had turned away from Mama’s tears, tugged Lizzie’s braid, and said, “Take care of your mama. Be strong for her. She needs you.”

Lizzie pulled back and cupped the dog’s face in her hands. “Until Mama’s dying day, I did what Pa asked of me. I hunted and trapped and fished so my mother would be clothed and fed. When Mama sang mourning songs in Pa’s memory, I offered words of comfort. When Mama knelt and prayed to the High One, I knelt beside her and prayed to Denali, too.” Her voice caught as she recalled her most fervent prayer—
Bring my father back to us.
But the mountain never replied.

Lizzie gulped twice. “I tended to Mama’s every need, Martha, except one. But I’ll do it now, in her memory.”

Martha whined and swiped Lizzie’s chin with her warm tongue. Lizzie hugged the dog, squeezing her eyes tight, her lips quivering with the effort of holding back her tears. On Mama’s dying day, she’d extracted a promise from Lizzie: “Make peace with your grandparents for me so I can rest without regret. Then leave this place, my daughter. You’re more white than Athabascan—you belong in your father’s world.”

Four years after her mother’s death, Lizzie still puzzled over Mama’s strange statement. How could she be more white than Athabascan when she’d lived her entire life a few hundred yards from the village of Gwichyaa Saa? She knew all she needed to know to be an Athabascan—canoe building, salmon trapping, fur skinning, and garment making. But while the books Papa left behind taught her geography and history, they didn’t tell her how to be a white woman. Mama’s words made no sense. Regardless, Lizzie would fulfill the promise that had given Mama a splash of joy before she crossed into the spirit world.

She whisked away her tears and pushed to her feet. Martha whined and wriggled, bumping her head against Lizzie’s hip. Lizzie absently petted the dog as she mused aloud, “A special gift—a lovely coat made by my own hands—will convince my grandmother of my mother’s desire to reconcile. I cannot leave without peace restored between my grandparents and my mother.” Her hand fell idle, and Martha sat on her haunches, her bushy tail gently sweeping back and forth.

Picking up the scraper, Lizzie returned to work, her lip caught between her teeth in concentration. How long to complete the coat—four months? She flipped her hand in dismissal. Probably six. By then, the snows would return. She gave a nod, sealing the time in her plans. The days of snow would be the right time to gift Vitse with a warm coat. The right time to load her travois with her cache of furs, hitch the dogs, and mush to Fairbanks.

She’d sell the furs and the dogs and use the money for transport to California—to her father. Her heart caught when she considered the loss of the dogs. They provided a service, but more importantly, they were her companions. Her only companions.

Her gaze drifted to the pen where the dogs gathered, some stretched out in sleep, others sitting up, peering with bright, adoring eyes in her direction. She examined each by turn—George, Andrew, Martin, John, Abigail, Thomas, Dolly, William, and Zachary. Pa had allowed her to name them, and she’d given them names of American leaders, straight from the history book he’d left behind. Her chest tightened in agony at the thought of handing them to another owner.

She reached again for Martha. She curled her arms around the dog’s thick neck and kissed the top of her head. Martha returned her affection with several wet kisses. Lizzie laughed, but the sound ended with a strangled sob. “I won’t sell you to just anyone,” she promised, sealing the vow in her heart. “I’ll specially choose your new owners—only those who will treat you kindly.”

Just as she finished speaking, a dog’s bark sounded from a distance. Martha didn’t react, so Lizzie knew the bark carried from one of the village dogs rather than from an unfamiliar team. Was the animal warning the village of Clay and Vivian Selby’s approach?

An image of the two white people flooded her mind. It was evident from their appearance and speech that they were familiar with the ways of white men. Of refined white men, like Pa. And they’d come to teach the children white men’s ways. Thoughts rolled through her mind so rapidly she had difficulty grasping them before one faded to another. She must go to her father, yet she had no knowledge of the white men’s world. The white people came to teach . . . so might they be willing to teach Lizzie how to be white?

Her fingers tightened on Martha’s ruff. She pushed the idea away. The white people were teaching in the village. And she wasn’t welcome there. The white man and woman would be of no use to her. Burying her face again in the dog’s muscular neck, Lizzie murmured, “I can’t stay here, yet I don’t fit anywhere else. What should I do?”

Vivian stood a few feet away from the partially constructed school, her hands clasped at her throat, and peered over the building’s log ribs. Clay straddled the center roof beam, deftly strapping a cross beam in place with a length of rope. He whistled while he worked, and a group of native children clustered near Vivian. Their giggles and excited exclamations contrasted with the fear that wiggled through her heart.