Read A Whisper of Peace Online
Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
A Whisper of Peace
© 2011 by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Cover design by Brand Navigation
Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studio, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3379-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
For
Don
,
who walks with me through
sunshine and shadow.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Back Ads
Back Cover
“Thy righteousness is like the great mountains . . .
How excellent is thy lovingkindness, O God!
therefore the children of men put their trust
under the shadow of thy wings.”
Psalm 36:6a, 8 (KJV)
Chapter One
N
EAR
F
ORT
Y
UKON,
A
LASKA
M
AY 1898
N
ot once in all of her twenty-one years had Lizzie Dawson seen a moose behind her cabin. The dogs’ noise always kept wild game at bay. Even squirrels—brazen, chattering creatures—avoided her small plot of ground. She couldn’t imagine a timid moose possessing the courage to come near the team of dogs. Yet there one stood, unconcernedly nibbling at the pin cherry shrub a mere twenty feet from her open back door, its proud antlers glowing pink in the morning light.
Lizzie hid behind the doorjamb and absorbed the peaceful scene so unexpectedly displayed before her. The soft
crunch-crunch
of the moose’s teeth on the pin cherry’s tender tips joined the wind’s whisper in the aspens—a delicate melody. Silvery bands of light crept between branches, gilding the moose’s tawny hump. It was a young moose. No evidence of fights marred its hide. She’d seen the damage the animals caused one another with their sharp, slashing hooves and antlers.
An unblemished hide
. . . Lizzie’s heart skipped a beat. Surely this moose had come to her as an offering!
Let the dogs stay sleeping
. The wish winged from her heart as she tiptoed to the corner where her bow and arrows waited. A rifle was easier, but the bow and arrow was silent—she wouldn’t frighten the animal away by cocking a noisy lever.
She returned to the doorway and stood in the shielding slice of shadow. Her elbow high, she slowly drew back the gut bowstring. The string released a faint whine as it stretched, and she cringed. But the big animal didn’t even flare a nostril in concern. She held the hand-carved bow securely, her left arm extended as straight as her father’s rifle barrel. The arrow’s feather fletching brushed her jaw, but she ignored the slight tickle and kept her gaze on her target.
Magpies began to call from the treetops. The dogs would awaken soon—she needed to shoot before she squandered the gift. But she wouldn’t release the arrow yet. As her mother had taught her, she offered a brief prayer.
Thank you, brother moose, for giving your life that I might live.
She clenched her jaw and released the string.
The high-pitched
twang
brought the moose’s head up. The arrow whirred across the short clearing and its tip penetrated the animal’s neck. The moose dropped, a few pale green leaves still caught in its lip.
Birds lifted in frantic flight from the trees, squawking in protest as joyful barks exploded from the dog pen between the sheltering aspens. Lizzie stepped into the yard and whistled—one sharp, shrill blast. The dogs ceased the clamorous barking, but they continued to whine and leap against the chicken-wire enclosure in excitement. Lizzie set the bow aside and crossed the mossy yard, her moccasin-covered feet nearly silent on the cushiony bed of deep green. Sorrow pierced her as she gazed down at the magnificent animal. Death always saddened her. But she pushed the emotion aside. She would celebrate this kill. This gift.
Quickly, the routine so familiar she could perform the actions without conscious thought, she removed her knife from the sheath she always wore on her belt and bled the moose to prevent the meat from spoiling.
Thank you, thank you,
her thoughts sang. How fortunate that the animal had come in the early hours—before the dogs awakened and frightened it away. How fortunate that it had ventured near during the first days of nearly endless sun, when she could work late into the night and still be able to see to skin it, prepare the meat for the smokehouse, and boil the bones for future use. Everything about the kill felt miraculous.