Free A Whisper of Peace by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page B

talking about me. We’re talking about Lizzie.”
    Clay lowered his voice to a gentle whisper. “But you seem to know her well, even though we’ve only spent a very short time with her. Are you sure—”
    Vivian leapt up and strode to the hut opening. She lifted the blanket and pointed outside. “It’s late, and we both need our rest. In the morning we can discuss ways to spend time with Lizzie without alarming the villagers.”
    Clay pushed to his feet and scuffed to the door. For now, he’d let it go. But he had to say one thing. “Viv? If you’re reaching out to Lizzie to make yourself feel better, you’ve got ministry all backwards. You need to reach out to her for her good, not yours.” Did he need to heed those words himself?
    Her green eyes spit fire. “Good night, Clay.”
    He sighed “G’night.” He returned to his hut, but sleep continued to elude him. He’d come to minister to the Athabascan people, but now he wondered if his most challenging task might be bringing an element of healing to Vivian’s heart.

    Vivian folded her blue gingham dress over her arm and pushed aside the blanket that shrouded the hut’s doorway. Stepping from the dim light of her hut into the sun’s brightness made her squint, and she almost didn’t see the two women bending over her small fire pit. She let out a little squeak of surprise.
    The pair straightened and fixed her with sober looks. “You fire—it go out,” one said in English as broken as Vivian’s Athabascan.
    Vivian smiled, trying to alleviate their concern. “I will light it again at suppertime.” The days had warmed as June advanced—although when compared to the sweltering summer heat of Oklahoma, the temperature could still seem cool. Even so, Vivian’s shawl provided adequate barrier against the morning chill. She had no need to hover beside a flame to warm herself. Besides, keeping the coals alive was an endless chore—one neither she nor Clay relished. He’d finally suggested they light a fresh cooking fire at mealtimes. Since he’d had the foresight to bring a good supply of matches, they could afford the luxury of beginning anew as needed.
    The women murmured to each other, shaking their heads in dismay. Outside each of the Gwich’in cabins, a pit held coals that were carefully tended by the women. Thanks to Lizzie’s tutelage, Vivian was beginning to feel more at ease in the village, but she wasn’t and never would be Gwich’in. There were some things the natives would simply have to accept her doing differently.
    The second woman pointed to the dress hanging from Vivian’s arm. “You go to wash again, Viv- ee -an?” She extended Vivian’s flowing name into three distinct sounds, emphasizing the middle syllable. When the natives spoke her name, it sounded guttural. They also seemed amused by her frequent trips to the river for wash water. Vivian wanted to ask Lizzie why bathing was so humorous to the Gwich’in, but she didn’t want to offend her new friend.
    She now contemplated how best to answer the women’s question. So far, she’d managed to keep her visits to Lizzie’s cabin a secret to avoid creating conflict with the villagers. More than half a dozen times over the past two weeks she’d slipped away without causing much concern—the natives assumed she was gathering berries, collecting firewood, or fetching water, since she always returned with something in hand.
    Today, however, she wanted to take Lizzie the dress she’d modified to fit the native woman’s more slender form. If Lizzie wanted to learn to live in the white man’s world, the buckskin tunic and leggings would have to go. Vivian had brought three extra frocks from home, and she chose the one sewn from blue gingham for Lizzie because the color matched the woman’s unusual eyes.
    She bounced the dress slightly, unwilling to lie to the curious native women but fearful of telling the truth. She finally settled on a simple reply. “No, no washing