Before Clark could protest, the shaman interrupted. “One is not allowed to question such things.” And no one questioned his pronouncement either.
Meriwether saw the worry and skepticism in his partner’s eyes. He and Sacagawea had already battled the attacking dragon, and although they drove off the evil force, they had been sorely battered as well.
“I guess it’s our best chance,” Clark conceded.
“But you, Captain Clark, must serve in a different way,” Sacagawea said. “Go with my brother, guide the rest of our people to safety.”
He drew himself up. “I will fight with you against our common enemy.”
Sacagawea shook her head. “I will entrust you with my son, Jean-Baptiste. You have told me many times that you love him as your own child, that you wished to give him the advantages of wider society. Now I must take you up on that promise.”
Clark squirmed, searching for arguments, and Meriwether also interrupted. “And I will entrust you with Seaman. My faithful dog does not deserve to die because humans are battling each other. Please, take my dog and Sacagawea’s son and keep them safe.”
His resistance wavered, then melted. In the end, Clark agreed.
York also demanded to be included in the war party, and few objected. He had once been a slave, but had found his freedom, and had served the expedition perfectly in these uncanny lands. Now he would fight for the freedom of an entire magic-infused continent. Meriwether recalled the words of the Whiskey Revenants, their strange vision of a land where everyone was considered equal. Perhaps through some amazing magic that future could actually occur.
The preparations were made, and after a good night’s sleep, the camp split into two groups. Captain Clark embraced his friend and wished him luck, magic, and success. Meriwether gave a fond hug, wrapping his arms around Seaman’s shaggy neck, and then watched the others set off in the opposite direction.
The Shoshone had left behind Sacagawea, the shaman, and ten young warriors, including Semee, Dosabite’s oldest son, and Tamkahanka, whom Cameahwait called his brother, though Meriwether was never quite clear about the blood relationships among the Snake People. All of the tribe members who volunteered had at least some grasp of English, which made communication much simpler as they made their battle plans, although Sacagawea could easily serve as translator, along with LaBiche, who also volunteered to join them.
What he came to think of as their war party remained in the near-deserted village, making plans, preparing weapons, and gathering their courage for three days. Meriwether had thought they would set off immediately, to charge into the dragon sorcerer’s lair, but Sacagawea insisted that he had to use the time to rest and gather his strength. He disagreed instinctively, but considering the terrible responsibility he bore, he knew she was right.
Inexplicably, Father Avenir had also remained behind, claiming he wanted to fight the evil as well. He had already baptized little Jean Baptiste before Captain Clark took the baby to safety, and therefore his most important duties as a priest lay with the war party. No one dared ask him what he thought his duty might be when they went up against the dragon sorcerer. Burying the dead?
Meriwether forced himself to sleep and rest, viewing himself as a recalcitrant patient. He put the magical burn salve on his hands at regular intervals, and the intense potency of the herbs healed his flesh much more swiftly than the normal course of nature. The shaman also declared that his odd chants had also helped, while Father Avenir credited the potency of his holy water. No matter the reason, he became much stronger and healthier over the course of the three days. He removed the bandages, found his hands and fingers whole again. Likewise, Sacagawea’s wounds were also healed.
With intense preparation, she gathered food and weapons for the party, warning that it would be a journey of some days. He continued to be impressed with her work, her dedication, her lack of complaint despite the looming danger. The other men seemed uneasy, dreading the battle ahead, but she kept a completely impassive countenance. Now that her husband was dead, and with all that Meriwether had seen, he understood that her stoic courage and silence were a warrior virtue, as powerful as that of any man he’d ever met. Instead of grieving, she spoke only of practical matters for the coming battle.
Sacagawea suggested that it might take them a week or more to journey to the lair of the dragon sorcerer, since it took her a long time to walk to Fort Mandan. “Fortunately, our group is smaller than your large expedition, Captain Lewis, and we can use the horses that Cameahwait left for us.” She turned slowly, gestured toward the north and the rugged, blue-gray mountains. “We are supposed to go in that direction. On horseback it may take only a few days…if we are not attacked by the creatures he summons and commands.”
“We will fight our way to him and we will dispatch whatever revenants or monsters he sends against us. You can’t say there’s no hope.”
She shook her head. “Oh, we have some reason to hope. There’s always Coyote.” Her lips quirked in an uncertain smile, and rather than explain further, she grew pragmatic again. “Our most difficult task will be to carry enough water for our people and horses. In that direction it is very dry, and summer is upon us. The rivers and rivulets will often run dry. When I escaped, there was snow on the ground, but now…”
Preoccupied, she moved off, leaving him to wonder what she meant by “Coyote.” If she meant the god of that name, hadn’t she said, before, that he should be warded off? He gathered his own provisions, sorted and confirmed the items in his pack, and doublechecked his trusty air rifle as well as his supply of ammunition. Though he had left the spirit echo of his rifle with Floyd’s revenant in the land of the dead, the physical weapon seemed to work fine.
The members of the war party were agitated, anxious to be on their way rather than huddling here in dread. The horses were saddled (Meriwether let out a sigh of gratitude), the provisions tied to pack animals, and the fighters took their weapons, ready to set off at dawn.
For their final evening in the village, the war party gathered and the shaman built a fire at the time of sunset. Dosabite added the same pungent magical weeds and herbs to generate thick smoke, and all of the people sat close to hear him chant, whether or not they could understand. Even Father Avenir seemed curious, though he remained apart from the group, standing by a tree.
The shaman wore the coyote-head over his hair, leaving his face clear; the paws and the rest of the pelt draped over his shoulders, like a fine lady’s stole. The smoky fire cast weird highlights on Dosabite’s face, as he spoke.
LaBiche hunched on a rock and dutifully translated for the twenty men from the expedition. “A long time ago, Coyote and Raven were friends. Some say they fell out because they both loved the same maiden, but that is just a story. Coyote says that Raven was maddened by all the strangers in his land, strangers that didn’t believe in the native legends and gods. Other people say that Raven was outraged because the men from the land of iron, the men from over the sea, killed the woman he loved.