While disruptive, those incidents needn’t have been caused by dangerous magic. Though she seemed concerned, Sacagawea was convinced that the evil sorcerer would still be weakened by the wound that Meriwether had inflicted on its fire demon, and the enemy could not attack them. Or so she hoped.
Meriwether, Clark, and Sacagawea had spent some time with a map, sketched from Clark’s best charts with additional anecdotal information from local natives. They discussed where the lair of the sorcerer might be, but Meriwether could not believe how far away Sacagawea said it was. It was impossible that young woman, weak, starving, and about to give birth, had managed to cover so many miles on her own to reach Fort Mandan.
Now, they were not searching for the lair of the sorcerer, but following rumors of where Sacagawea’s people might have gone. Meriwether also remained concerned about reports of a dangerous party of young warriors with a warlike chief, who were searching for something or someone among nearby villages. At least they weren’t revenants.
In fact, the only undead they had seen in more than a month were the three persistent revenants of Hall, Collins, and Willard, who continued to haunt their former comrades in hopes of stealing more whiskey, although the expedition’s supplies had dwindled to nothing. Several sentries insisted on having seen the three men, but Meriwether was not absolutely sure he believed that tale.
It didn’t seem to matter, anyway, as his black mood deepened. He could not summon the enthusiasm for their search, for fighting the great magic, for finding his own spirit dragon. Not until today, when he walked up a verdant slope under a bright sun. Sacagawea strolled ahead, and birds circled overhead.
The big dog bounded ahead, feeling none of his master’s depression, then ran back to Meriwether, then up ahead again. Only Seaman showed any energy. Everyone else seemed dispirited, sweaty, and exasperated. Even the baby, carried alternately by Sacagawea and Captain Clark, seemed listless and uninterested.
The men carrying Charbonneau’s litter often changed places, but every one of them seemed to carry an unbearable burden. Sacagawea’s husband looked very ill indeed, though they could occasionally rouse him into a sitting position to take some broth, or water, which Sacagawea assiduously gave him. His eyes remained fixed and blank, staring ahead into a land no one else could see.
When he or Clark questioned the man’s health, Sacagawea responded with shrugs or sounds of exasperation, which were often—Meriwether thought—downright rude. He decided that she didn’t know what to do either.
They made camp on a small hillock and posted sentinels, but Meriwether saw Sacagawea leave in the dusk, wandering away as if continuing her futile search for the Snake People on her own. At least she had left her son in Clark’s care, but Meriwether thought she was taking unwarranted risks. Wanting to protect her, he took his air rifle and followed.
Though the light was dim and fading, he followed her using his woodcraft, the trail of her moccasins, the few broken twigs or disturbed grasses in her path…only to find himself, quickly, utterly lost, such as he’d never been back in Virginia.
He found himself in a clearing of native grass, amid scrubby trees and surrounded by rugged mountains. The pristine clearing showed no sign of Sacagawea’s passage, as though her moccasined feet had failed to disturb the grass or break a single twig of surrounding vegetation.
His rifle slick with his own sweat in his hand, he turned in a slow circle, letting out an exasperated sigh.
Meriwether had learned, young enough, that the superior and almost magical forest skills the Europeans attributed to the native tribes was little more than a projection of their own wishes, a way of imagining that the original inhabitants of the new world were both more and less than human. They could supposedly walk without leaving a trace, never disturbing the world around them, like some kind of wood sprite.
But he had become friendly with the natives near his home, and he quickly discovered they were in fact perfectly human. There were swift ones, clumsy ones, garrulous ones, and reserved ones, as well as those remarkably skilled in woodcraft.
Their ability to walk in the forest unnoticed, or to sneak up on people or animals, was simply a manifestation of those skills, although perhaps enhanced with magic in the decades after the Sundering. Such woodcraft, passed down through the generations, was essential for a people who survived by hunting and gathering. Meriwether himself had learned a form of it, and he too could walk through the woods leaving little trace.
But was Sacagawea skilled enough just to vanish, even beyond his ability to track her? Why would she want to lose anyone who might follow her from the encampment? Did she know he was following her?
Annoyed and irritated, both at the young woman and at himself, he concentrated harder. He could hear the river, so he could always return to the encampment. But what about Sacagawea? Despite his own gloom, he worried about her.
True, these were her native lands, and her own tribe came from this region. She was hardy and resourceful, but if that party of young warriors came upon her—
His mind failed him.
What if she had simply abandoned her abusive and now mindless husband, as well as her child? If she couldn’t find her people, and the shaman, she might go fight the dragon sorcerer herself.
For a moment he considered trying to manifest his spirit dragon form so he could scout the area from above and maybe he’d find her. He was not sanguine about leaving his body behind, here in an empty clearing. He looked up and saw, against the deepening blue sky an eagle, wings spread against the sky, turning and turning.
It was Sacagawea. He was sure of it.
He ran to the middle of the clearing, swinging his arms and his rifle, trying to get the bird’s attention. “Sacagawea!” he shouted. “Sacagawea!”
He careened past saplings and shrubs, ignoring spiny plants that tore at his pants. He made his way until he was beneath where the eagle circled, and he found her standing by a pair of small pines. “Sacagawea,” he said, panting. He stopped two feet in front of her and waited. The eagle’s immaterial form approached and flew down to melt with her body.
Aware of herself again, she turned to look at him with dark eyes. “I was looking for my people. I need to continue the search.”
He had trouble catching his breath. He’d feared…he didn’t quite know what. At first he’d feared she was leaving, and would be alone and exposed to the dangers of the wild, both natural and arcane. Upon seeing her spirit eagle, he’d feared she was looking for the evil dragon to challenge him.
“You cannot face the great magic alone,” Meriwether said. “I know he hurt the man you love, but…”
She blinked at him, in shock, and repeated the one word. “Love?”
“Your husband.”
“My husband,” she repeated.
For a moment he was afraid that something had left her incapable of understanding human speech, but then she shook her head. “Toussaint is my husband. I did not intend to search for the evil sorcerer alone, only to find the Shoshone.” She sounded terribly weary, and he recalled how tired he felt when he had brought forth his own spirit dragon.
She reached down to pick up a basket, which she’d filled with roots and berries gathered in the dusk. “I was out, and I thought to send the eagle to look, and also see if that raiding band was anywhere near.”
“We should return to the camp.” Meriwether felt inexplicably embarrassed and guilty for overreacting. In wildly coming out to look for her, he might have attracted the attention of the very creature they wished to avoid.
Sacagawea walked away, but not toward the camp.
Meriwether said very formally, “Madame Charbonneau, you’re going in the wrong direction.”