LaBiche sighed. The fat from the roasting meat spat and popped as it dripped onto the coals. “The little people are dangerous in their own way. I’ve heard of them before. Out here in the arcane territories, a man can’t be a trapper for any amount of time without knowing about them. There’s a place not far from here, a conical hill that looks shaped by human hands…or unnatural forces. All the tribes hereabouts are terrified of the place. They say the hill is in habited by the Canoti.”
“Exactly how little are these little people?” Clark asked. “And why are they dangerous?”
The trapper shrugged. “I’ve never seen one myself, you understand, but they’re said to be about eighteen inches, high, with big heads. Their magic arrows cause sure death if they should strike you, no matter where, even just a scratch. The stories of the Canoti have been around since long before the Sundering, so maybe the magic was here, too.” He looked out past the firelight. “The natives say to avoid the surrounding countryside at all costs.”
“And did you avoid it?” Meriwether asked. “Or can you lead us there?”
“Lead you?” LaBiche gave a brief, mirthless grin and shrugged. “I never had the opportunity or the interest to go find the little people. I’ve always felt that staying away from dangerous places is a good way to remain alive.”
“Seems like an excellent idea to me,” Meriwether said.
The men from the crew working the roast meat used their knives to slice off dripping hunks of the charred antelope, then handed tin plates to Meriwether, Clark, and LaBiche. Meriwether picked at it with his fingers, blowing on the meat to cool it. “But what did these pygmies have to do with us? Why would the Sioux capture us as a gift to the little people?”
“Many tribes blame the Europeans for the comet and the turmoil in the world for the past half century, but that group of natives apparently believed that the Canoti created the present disturbance that is simmering across the whole land. They believe the little people summoned the swell of magic that raised the revenants to walk the land and brought the big lizards that eat the buffalo.” LaBiche licked his fingers and held up his tin plate, waving it until one of the men cut him another strip of sizzling meat. “They think the big beasts are also revenants, very long dead. They are raised from bones and dust in the ground and turned into walking menaces that eat the game, which makes the tribes starve.”
“From what we saw,” Clark said, “the giant beasts are perfectly happy to eat any natives they catch, too.”
With a jerky motion, the interpreter quickly crossed himself, revealing his French and Roman Catholic upbringing. “Those warriors meant to kill us, too. Dead is dead.” He touched the bandage wrapped around his neck. “What I know is that they believe the little people create and control the dark magic sweeping this land, and that the little people also hate Europeans. It is just a guess, mind, but I expect the warriors meant to kill me and Captain Lewis in front of the Canoti mound, in hopes that the Canoti would forgive the tribes and remove the terrible beasts preying upon the buffalo, and their villages.” He scratched his chin, his hand making a grating sound on his half-grown beard. “Not sure as I blame them, to be honest, if they thought it might save their people.”
Deep in thought, Meriwether looked across the flickering fire at Clark. “That is exactly the sort of thing the wizard Franklin would insist on knowing. This is our expedition, William. We should find this place of dread ourselves in the morning. Is it far from the river?”
LaBiche cleared his throat. “It is distant. Some hours walking.”
“When have we been daunted by walking?” Clark asked with a smile.
The fires blazed bright, and the men ate well with the fresh game. Seaman, the big dog, gobbled whatever scraps they tossed to him. The night closed in, and the expedition huddled together, with sentries posted all around. Meriwether remained on his guard, restless, but he knew he would have a long journey to find the mound of the little people. He stared up at the dark blue sky, against which paler blue clouds were pushed by a wind which also stirred the branches of the trees above and tugged at the flames of the campfire.
Nevertheless, the night was warm enough, and the men had camped without tents, lying on their blankets in the open. The dog lay down next to him, spread out and snoring quietly in his sleep.
Meriwether knew the weather would turn in the coming months. Autumn was setting in, and he already had a feeling that the winter here would be far colder than what he’d experienced back east. He could read that in the way the animals were putting on fur and fat in preparation for the coming snow. He also noted a greater paucity—though unfortunately not a total scarcity—of bugs and vermin, which spoke of a winter cold enough to kill most of them. Eventually, before the autumn grew too late, they would have to build a fort of some sort for shelter during the frozen months.
And was winter the only hardship or danger they had to fear? His sleepless mind was overwhelmed with the thought of what other perils their expedition might yet face. He rolled on his blanket, turning away from the fire. The ground beneath him seemed more rocky and unyielding than ever before, and his mind worried about all the things that he could not change.
He thought of his mother back east, as he often did. Oh, he had a brother and a sister, too, but he did not worry about them. His father had died when Meriwether was too young to know him. His mother, Lucy, had been the only constant in Meriwether’s life. She strived valiantly to keep them safe and stable as a family, a daunting task for a frail woman. For a brief time, his stepfather, a man named Marks, had helped, but he’d died as well, leaving Lucy with the burden of three children, no magic of her own, and little source of income.
Young Meriwether managed to administer his father’s estate well enough that they would not want for material goods, and when this expedition returned—assuming Franklin held to his promise—the Lewis family would be quite prosperous. Meriwether might even, with perfect propriety and some prospects, seek a wife of his own.
Even if he didn’t come back home from this great and terrifying adventure, the great wizard had promised to compensate his family well. But without Meriwether himself there back in Virginia, who would serve as a bulwark for his mother’s old age? He wasn’t sanguine about John’s or Mary’s character, in that respect. They were younger than he and were both too set in their own lives and marriages, too impatient and dismissive of their mother’s needs. He feared without him, she would have a lonely life indeed.…
Morning came too soon, and yet it was a long time coming.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke when Clark touched his shoulder.
The two men did not speak as Meriwether roused himself in the quiet camp, folding his blanket and gathering himself for the day. He’d slept in his clothes, but he knelt at the bank and splashed river water on his face to wake up. While he finished his morning ablutions, Clark went around the camp, waking ten men who would join the expedition to find the little people. As Meriwether returned, refreshed and ready, he received a mug of antelope broth that had been simmering on the fire all night. Then, with far more relish, he drank a mug of the coffee one of the men had prepared over the fire.
Accompanied by the dog, Meriwether, Clark, and a small party took two of the pirogues down the river to a side creek trending inland, where the trapper said they would find the mound. They would still face a long walk overland to reach the mysterious home of the Canoti, but the small boats allowed them to save an hour or two of travel. After they pulled the pirogues out onto the bank and hid them under bushes, the group set off, following the trapper, who himself had only a general idea of where to go, since he had wisely avoided the place previously.