A Whisper of Peace (8 page)

The woman smoothed her skirt over her knees and tipped her head slightly. Even though her hands looked chapped and a smear of dirt marred her chin, she carried herself regally. She spoke in a soft, pleasant voice. “It is customary for the hostess to be seated before guests partake of any treat.”

Lizzie sensed no recrimination in the woman’s tone or expression, yet defeat bowed her shoulders. No matter what Mama had said, Lizzie would never fit into her father’s world. She didn’t even know she should sit and eat with guests. She would bring shame to her father’s household if she went to him. Yet she had no other choice.

Her gaze zipped from the man to the woman, her heart pounding so hard and fast her breath came in little spurts. They might deny the request that formed in her heart and strained for release, but for Mama’s peace, she had to ask. Stumbling to the table, she held out her hands to the pair of visitors. “Will . . . will you teach me all that is customary? Will you teach me . . . to be white?”

Chapter Six

T
he native woman wouldn’t have surprised Vivian more if she’d smacked her over the head with the cookie pan. For a moment, Vivian wondered if she had been whacked, because her world seemed to spin. She caught the edge of the table’s rough top and tried to calm her galloping heart.

Did this woman truly want to learn to be white? Although Vivian had come to Alaska to be of service, she had few skills—she couldn’t cook, and she couldn’t construct buildings. It might be weeks before she had the opportunity to begin teaching the Gwich’in children the English language and then to read and write. But thanks to her attendance in Miss Roberts’ finishing school, she knew etiquette.

The opportunity to be of use—to prove herself capable—stood before her dressed in a buckskin tunic, leggings, and beaded moccasins. It wouldn’t be easy to transform this native woman into a proper lady, but she could do it. She squared her shoulders and opened her mouth to voice her agreement.

Clay cleared his throat. “Viv? Let’s have a cookie, and then you and . . .” He sent a sheepish look toward the Athabascan woman. “Lizzie, is that right?” He waited until the woman gave a curt nod. “You and Lizzie can discuss exactly what she’d like to learn.” Leaning sideways slightly on the stool, he added in a low tone, “Maybe you could swap lessons. Manners for cooking and trapping and so forth.”

The woman stood staring at the pair of them with a stoic expression. Heat filled Vivian’s face. She and Clay talking to each other as if Lizzie wasn’t in the room was hardly proper protocol. What kind of a teacher modeled such a poor example? She indicated the open chair across the table with a graceful flick of her wrist. “Please, Lizzie. Sit and join us. While we partake of your gracious hospitality, we can discuss your specific needs.”

Lizzie slid into the chair and stared across the table at Vivian. “My need is simple. I must be white.” She lifted a cookie and took a bite.

Vivian examined Lizzie. Although she did everything abruptly, as if time was in danger of disappearing before her tasks were complete, she held an innate elegance of movement that Vivian couldn’t help but admire. With her dusky skin, glistening hair, and vivid blue eyes, she was a striking woman.

“But you’re a lovely native woman,” Clay said, reaching for a cookie. “Why do you want to be white?”

Lizzie shot Clay a stern look. “You came to teach white man’s ways to the children of Gwichyaa Saa. Will you withhold the same teachings from me?”

Vivian snatched up a cookie and nibbled it to hide her smile. Vivian often exhibited spunk, but hers was manufactured to mask her insecurities. This Gwich’in woman had genuine spunk. Perhaps she would learn a great deal from Lizzie.

Clay offered Lizzie one of his disarming grins. Mother had laughingly said Clay could charm the stripes from a skunk, but Vivian sensed he’d met his match in this feisty Gwich’in woman. “Of course you’re welcome to learn the same things we came to teach the children.” Clay brushed crumbs from his shirt front and picked up a second cookie. “But I think you’ve misunderstood our purpose here. We don’t intend to teach the children white man’s ways—we’ve come to teach them God’s ways.”

Lizzie’s fine eyebrows lowered. Her lips puckered, as if she found the flavor of her cookie unpleasant. “The ways of the white man’s God are for white men. You’ve come to change the children. But the children are happy as Athabascans. They have no desire to change.” She aimed her thumb at her chest. “I desire to change. Teach me instead. Leave the children alone.”

Clay shook his head, his jaw jutting into a stubborn angle Vivian recognized all too well. “We’ve come to teach the children, and to preach God’s Word to the entire village. We’re happy to invite you to join us, but—”

The scent of scorched sugar filled the cabin. Lizzie jumped up and dashed to the stove. She whisked the tray from the heat chamber and smacked the pan onto the iron top. A tinny
clang
assaulted their ears. She shook her fingers, hissing through her teeth.

Vivian jumped up. “Did you burn your hand? Shall I fetch some cold water?” She spotted a water bucket on a low bench right inside the cabin’s back door and moved in that direction.

“I’m fine.” Lizzie’s sharp retort brought Vivian to a halt in the middle of the floor. She stood, uncertain, while Lizzie glared at the burnt, broken cookies in the pan. Suddenly, Lizzie balled her hands on her hips and whirled, turning the seething look on Clay. “You will teach me here.”

Clay chuckled softly. “But we’re teaching in the mission, which is in the village.”

“The village isn’t open to me.”

Clay rose and crossed the brief expanse of floor to reach Lizzie’s side. “Why not?”

Vivian leaned forward slightly, eager to hear Lizzie’s response. Over the past weeks of working in the village, she’d often pondered why Lizzie lived separate from the village. Now her curiosity would be satisfied.

Lizzie turned her back and began scraping bits of cookie from the tray. “That isn’t your concern. But I can’t go there. You’ll have to come here.” She looked past Clay, locking eyes with Vivian. “You’ll come here . . . won’t you?”

Vivian glimpsed a deep longing—almost a desperation—in the woman’s unusual blue eyes. She knew she would be subjected to a reprimand from Clay later, but she couldn’t refuse. “Of course I will.” She sent a warning look at Clay, daring him to contradict her. He set his lips in a grim line and remained silent. Turning back to Lizzie, Vivian added, “And while I’m here, you can teach me, too.”

Lizzie’s eyebrows flew high. “What could I teach you?”

“Athabascan customs, so I don’t offend the villagers.” She chose not to mention cooking in front of Clay. She’d talk to Lizzie privately at another time.

Lizzie shook her head. “I am not the one to teach you how not to offend the villagers. I offend them with my presence.”

Although her tone was harsh, Vivian believed pain underscored the fierce statement. How well she understood feeling unwanted. She’d been cast from her home, too. But what sin had this lovely, lonely Athabascan woman committed to earn the village’s scorn?

Clay intervened. “I’m sure you’d be allowed to come to the mission. I’ll speak to the village leaders and—”

“No!” Lizzie’s face blazed red. She pointed to the open door. “You’ve eaten some cookies. Go.”

Clay gulped. “But I didn’t mean to—”

“Leave.” Lizzie yanked up the crusty pan and pushed past Clay. She charged through the door and whirled around the corner, disappearing from view.

Clay and Vivian stood staring at each other in the quiet cabin. Vivian cocked her head and offered a sardonic look. “That went well.”

Clay held out his arms. “I was only trying to help. Something’s happened between Lizzie and the villagers. Perhaps God brought us here to reunite them. Look at where she lives, away from everyone . . .” His gaze roved the rustic yet neat cabin. “She must be lonely here.” He curled his hand through Vivian’s elbow. “We’ll go because she asked us to, but I want you to come back, as often as possible. I think she needs companionship, and I believe you’re the perfect one to reach her.”

Vivian gaped at Clay. He saw her as capable of reaching Lizzie? Her heart gave a happy skip.

“You seem to be near the same age, and you’re a woman, therefore not a threat.” Clay led Vivian through the woods. Leaves crunched beneath their feet and slender, leaf-dotted branches waved in the light breeze, catching Vivian’s hair. She crowded closer to Clay as he continued. “She asked for your help. If you abide by her request to come to her, then eventually you should be able to convince her to come to the mission school. That will be your goal.”

Vivian dug in her heels, drawing Clay to a stumbling halt. He sent her a puzzled look, and she offered her sternest frown. “Clay Selby, I will not befriend that woman simply to persuade her to come to the village. It’s dishonest.”

“But—”

“I intend to help her, just as she asked. Hopefully she’ll be willing to help me in return. But I’ll not pressure her to enter the village.” Vivian recalled the expression that crossed Lizzie’s face when she’d said she offended the villagers with her presence. The woman carried a deep hurt, and Vivian would not rub salt in the wound by insisting she visit the place of her pain. Memories from her own personal place of pain tried to rise, but she pushed them aside. Hadn’t she come to Alaska to forget?

“Then how will she hear the good news we’ve come to share?” Clay sounded more concerned than irritated, which removed Vivian’s defensiveness. However, his question pricked.

“Can I not be trusted to speak of God to her without your assistance? I know Him, too, Clay.” Vivian’s heart panged. She didn’t know God as intimately as her mother, stepfather, or stepbrother, but she’d been exposed to His teachings her entire life. She could share her faith even if a part of her questioned the reality of God’s unconditional love and grace.

Clay hung his head. “Of course you can. I’m sorry if I sound as if I don’t trust you. I need to remember . . . this ministry is ours rather than mine alone.”

His comment was exactly the confirmation Vivian had been seeking since they’d set out on this journey together. Yet as he ushered her toward the village and the mission school, a weight seemed to press down upon her. Did she have the right to be an equal partner in a ministry when she held so many doubts herself?

Clay left Vivian at her little hut with the promise he’d wake her from her nap an hour before suppertime. He headed for his own hut, but before he reached it, he turned around and walked through the center of the village instead. Perhaps one of the village leaders would be willing to talk to him about Lizzie.

She hadn’t expressed a desire to join the village, but he sensed her loneliness. An image of her flicked through his mind—proudly angled shoulders and raised chin, blue eyes alight with passion. His heart rolled over his chest. Such a lovely woman. And so secluded. Bringing her into the village would give her an opportunity for companionship as well as protection. How did she survive out there all by herself? Couldn’t whatever had transpired to separate her from the tribe be forgotten for compassion’s sake?

He passed rows of sturdy log cabins with grass and wild flowers sprouting on the sod roofs. People nodded, offering lazy greetings that he returned in their native tongue. Although he hoped Vivian would eventually teach the villagers enough English for them to communicate in his language, for now he used his own mix of Kiowa and Athabascan as a means of developing relationships. Some people seemed amused by his attempts to master their tricky pronunciations. Others held their distance, as if uncertain of his trustworthiness. But none had openly ignored him. He viewed their hesitant reception as a positive step toward complete acceptance.

As he’d hoped, two of the band’s elders sat outside their cabin. Shruh puffed on a hand-carved pipe and his wife, Co’Ozhii, busily stitched flowers formed of tiny beads onto the shank of a buckskin boot. They both looked up and nodded as Clay approached.

The man held his leathery palm to the spot of ground beside him. “Sit, Clay Selby. Smoke?” He held out the pipe in invitation.