A Whisper of Peace (37 page)

L
izzie lifted the moose-hide coat from the first travois. Sending a stern look toward the wriggling, eager dogs, she said, “Down.” She waited until they obeyed. “Stay.” She ignored their complaining whines and followed Clay to the door of her grandparents’ cabin.

She allowed Clay the privilege of knocking on the weathered door. Her hands, trembling and clumsy, refused to obey her wishes. Clay’s prayer—a prayer requesting peace and a restored relationship between Lizzie, Vitse, and Vitsiy—echoed in her mind. His impassioned yet personal tone as he addressed the God he called Father reminded her of Mama’s voice when she spoke to the High One. How she wanted to believe all those prayers would finally be answered.

Clay stepped back from the door and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “They don’t answer. Do you want to—”

The door swung open, revealing Co’Ozhii. Lizzie stifled a gasp when she got a view of her grandmother in the sunlight. In the weeks since they’d argued at the mission, it seemed Vitse had aged a dozen years. Her skin hung in sallow folds on her face, and deep purple smudges underlined her sunken eyes. Her tunic hung loose on a frame far too thin. Her gray hair, lank and lusterless, flared out from unraveling braids.

Vitse turned her unsmiling gaze from Clay to Lizzie. “What do you want?”

Not even a hint of her former defiance colored her tone. She just sounded tired. So very, very tired. Even after all the pain this woman had inflicted, Lizzie’s heart stirred with concern. The illness had taken much from her grandmother.

“I wanted to see you.” She took care to speak in the Athabascan tongue. “I am leaving soon, traveling to California. Then I will trouble you no longer.” She searched her grandmother’s face, seeking a sign of either relief or—better—regret. But the woman’s face remained impassive. Lizzie held out the coat, which draped across both of her arms. “I brought a gift. I made it. For you.”

Vitse’s eyes flicked to the coat, but they didn’t linger to admire the foxtails, delicate beading, or flawless hide. She lifted her tired gaze to Lizzie once more. “Why?”

Lizzie stepped forward, forcing Clay to move aside. But he stayed close, providing comfort and support with his presence. “To bring peace to my mother’s soul.” She needed to provide no further explanation. Her grandmother would understand the value and purpose of a peace gift. She bounced the coat slightly, battling the urge to force it into Vitse’s hands. “Will you accept it?”
Will you let peace blossom between us before I leave you forever?

A deep, wracking cough sounded from inside the cabin. Co’Ozhii whirled toward the sound. The sudden movement must have made her dizzy, because she clutched for the door frame and missed. Clay jumped forward and caught her before she fell. He guided her into the cabin, and Lizzie followed, concern making her stomach twist.

Clay pressed Co’Ozhii into a chair and then crouched beside her. “You are still sick?”

Clay spoke with such kindness. He truly cared about her grandparents.

“I am recovered.” Vitse’s weakness disproved her words. “But now Shruh lies ill. I gave the fever to him.” She gestured to the deeply shadowed corner where a blanket-covered lump signified Shruh’s body. “I must see to him.” She tried to rise, but her legs gave way and she collapsed into the chair.

Clay rose and crossed to the pine-needle bed. He spoke to Shruh in a soft voice, but Lizzie couldn’t hear the words. She considered going to her grandfather, too, but she feared her grandmother might fall from the chair if someone didn’t remain near. She placed the coat on the table and pulled out another chair to sit close to Vitse.

Lizzie stared at her grandmother’s hands—wrinkled hands with crooked joints and yellowed nails. Old hands. The sight made her sad. “How long has the cough held him?”

“A week.” Vitse sighed, her gaze never wavering from the bed in the corner. “He tired himself, caring for me, and then he fell ill. Now I care for him.” Her flat tone took on a slightly bitter edge. “If our only child did not betray us and did not now lie cold in a grave, I would have—” She bit down on her lip. Her head swiveled quickly, her hard gaze boring into Lizzie’s. “It is too late. One cannot make peace with the dead.”

Lizzie leaned forward slightly. “But you could make peace with me. Then Mother can lie at rest, knowing peace exists between her daughter and her mother.”

“And if we make peace, you will stay here as a daughter would, and care for your aged vitsiy and vitse?” Vitse released a derisive snort. “You go, daughter of a white man, and live in his world. There is no peace for us.”

The lump in the bed shifted, bringing Vitsiy’s face into a weak beam of sunlight drifting through the open window. “My wife, come near with our granddaughter.”

Lizzie cringed at his weak, trembly tone. The wizened man calling from the bed bore no resemblance to her powerful grandfather. She rose and held her arm to Co’Ozhii. Her grandmother made a face, but she took Lizzie’s arm and allowed her to assist her to the bed. Clay moved aside, and Co’Ozhii sat on the mattress near Shruh’s hip. Lizzie stood beside her grandmother, looking over her shoulder at her grandfather’s thin, pain-riddled features.

Shruh took Co’Ozhii’s hand and then drew in a rattling breath. “You vowed to banish our daughter if she married a white man. You brought honor to yourself by keeping your vow.” His words escaped on a near-whisper, his voice so raspy it reminded Lizzie of sandpaper on rough wood. “Now our daughter lies dead. You can bring an end to the banishment . . . if you wish. No honor will be lost.”

Co’Ozhii’s spine stiffened. She yanked her hand free. “You ask me to make peace with the one who bears the blood of traitorous white men?”

Shruh’s face contorted, and his body rose involuntarily as he coughed—a horrible, deep, painful cough that made Lizzie clutch her own chest in agony. When he finished, he collapsed, his lank gray hair fanning out across the mattress. He spoke, his voice whisper-soft. “I only tell you what you can do without losing honor. The choice, my wife, is yours.” His eyes slipped closed, and a wheezing breath eased from his slack lips.

Clay rushed forward and leaned over Shruh, his ear close to Shruh’s chest. Then he straightened and put his hand beneath Shruh’s nose. Lizzie sat frozen, staring at Vitsiy’s still face. She knew the truth, but her heart didn’t want to accept it. Clay braced his hands on the bed and stood for long seconds, his head low and eyes closed. Finally he looked into Lizzie’s face.

“I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

Lizzie nodded, clamping her teeth together to hold back a cry of distress. Something deep inside of her broke, and she feared it would never be mended. Her grandfather was dead, and she’d never truly known him.

Clay had spoken in English, but apparently Vitse had understood. With an animal cry of grief, she pushed Clay aside. She wrapped her arms around Shruh and held him to her chest while wails of mourning poured from her throat.

Lizzie wanted to look away from her grandmother’s anguished pose, but her eyes refused to cooperate. The image—Vitse’s tenacious hold on Vitsiy’s lifeless body, her straggly gray hair falling across Vitsiy’s face—burned into her memory. Suddenly, Co’Ozhii swung one arm outward. The movement pushed Shruh’s lifeless arm off the mattress’s edge, where it dangled, a narrow shaft of light highlighting its fragility. With her face still buried against Shruh’s limp neck, Co’Ozhii sobbed, “Go away. I wish to mourn alone.”

Lizzie had mourned alone when her mother died, and she didn’t wish such sadness—such lonely emptiness—on her grandmother. She remained rooted in place.

Another wail tore from Co’Ozhii’s chest. “Go!” Her mournful cries echoed off the log walls.

Clay caught Lizzie’s arm and drew her away from the bed. “Come. We’ll tell the others of Shruh’s passing. She’ll allow her tribesmen to comfort her. It’s best for us to go.”

Lizzie agreed with Clay, but it stung that Co’Ozhii preferred comfort from anyone other than her granddaughter. She swallowed the fierce knot of sorrow that filled her throat. “Yes. We’ll go.” She slipped out the door with Clay, but she left the coat behind.

Vivian sat at the desk in the room that had been hers during her growing-up years. The room was exactly as Vivian had left it when she’d gone to Oklahoma a little over a year ago, but the familiar surroundings—comforting and secure when she’d lived here—now felt strange. Vivian couldn’t cast aside the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

Someone tapped at the door, and Vivian called, “Come in.”

The door cracked open, and Aunt Vesta’s smiling face appeared. “So this is where you escaped. You disappeared so quickly after supper—I turned my back for a moment, and you were gone.”

Vivian grimaced. She had slipped upstairs after finishing her meal, but she hadn’t meant for her actions to be construed as escape. “Did you or Uncle Matthew need me? He seemed fine.” In fact, he’d made remarkable progress between the date of Aunt Vesta’s letter and Vivian’s arrival in Hampshire County. Vivian wondered if she was needed here after all. “And you were busy with the kitchen maid, so I came on up.”

“No need to apologize, Vivian. You are correct that you weren’t needed. I merely wanted to check on you.” Aunt Vesta entered the room and sat at the foot of the quilt-covered bed, smiling at Vivian. Her red-gold hair, threaded with silver, shone in the soft yellow glow of the desk lamp. “Will you turn in early tonight? I’m sure you’re still exhausted from your lengthy journey and last night’s late arrival.”

Vivian shifted sideways in the gracefully scrolled chair and absently smoothed her hands over the soft fabric of the ruffled dressing gown she’d found hanging in her wardrobe. “Yes, I’ll turn in soon, after I finish—” She glanced at the letter she’d begun. Only a few paragraphs thus far—a few stilted, ill-worded paragraphs. She should throw it away and start over. If only she could gather her thoughts into a sensible bundle.

Aunt Vesta raised her chin and peered down her nose at the page on the desk. “What are you working on there?”

Vivian flicked the paper’s corner with her thumbnail. “A letter. To Mother.”

“Ahh.” Her aunt nodded wisely. “Assuring her of your safe arrival. That’s very kind of you, Vivian.”

“It isn’t what you think.” Vivian’s words came out more tartly than she’d intended. She sighed. “Aunt Vesta, I need to . . . well, clear the air, so to speak . . . with Mother. But I’m not sure how to begin. Could you help me?”

“Why, certainly, dear.” Aunt Vesta tipped her head, her expression attentive, as Vivian had come to expect. “When clearing the air, the best place to go is to the root of the disagreement. What do you perceive as the root?”

Vivian’s mind skipped backward a dozen years and stumbled to a halt on the day Papa died. Her chin quivered, and she set her teeth together to stop the childish tears. “She has never forgiven me for killing Papa.”

Her aunt’s eyebrows shot skyward, disappearing beneath the soft fluff of her bangs. “Why, Vivian, what on earth makes you think such a thing?”

Vivian braced her hands on her knees and leaned slightly forward. “What else can I believe? After Papa died—after I neglected to go to him as she’d instructed and find him in time to summon help—she never hugged me or kissed me.” Her hands balled into fists, her nails biting into her soft flesh. But she welcomed the discomfort. It took her focus away, albeit briefly, from the deep, abiding pain in her heart. “I would catch her staring across the room at me with this look of . . . of
betrayal
on her face.

“Then as soon as she remarried and we moved to the reservation, she packed me up and sent me to you, as if she feared I would bring death upon a second father.” Vivian’s throat tightened, the hurt and resentment of the past years rising up to strangle her. “I want so much to return to the days when Mother loved me. But I don’t know how to go there.”

She flipped her hands outward in a helpless gesture. “I can’t bring Papa back to life for her, Aunt Vesta. What else can I do to earn Mother’s love again?”

Aunt Vesta covered her mouth with her fingers, her eyes wide and distressed. Tears flooded her eyes, making her green irises shimmer. “My dear child, all this time . . .” She opened her arms. “Come here, Vivian.”

Vivian slipped from the chair to the bed and allowed her aunt to draw her head to her shoulder. She’d sat close to Aunt Vesta many times as a young girl. Then, as now, she’d longed for her mother to hold her in that same way. How she hoped Aunt Vesta would discover a means of bridging the gap between herself and Mother.

Aunt Vesta stroked Vivian’s hair. “Vivian, your mother didn’t blame you for your father’s death. She couldn’t have. She was too busy blaming herself.”

Vivian tried to sit up so she could look into her aunt’s eyes, but Aunt Vesta held her tight, her fingers coiling into Vivian’s unbound hair. Vivian snuggled her cheek more fully against her aunt’s shoulder and stayed within her embrace.

“Your mother blamed herself for asking you, just a little slip of a girl, to enter those woods where you might have been bitten by the snake that so frightened you. She blamed herself that you had to grow up without a father.”