Meriwether feared that the shaman had died, or been taken over by the dragon sorcerer. Though he had been told to remain outside the circle, he took a step closer, not sure how to break the line. He knew very bad things sometimes happened to people who broke spells—but he had to assist the poor woman trapped in there!
Before he reached the invisible barrier, though, the shaman sat up. The older man was unnaturally white as milk, his dark hair contrasting with his skin. He seemed to have aged years in those moments of unconsciousness. From inside the protective barrier, Dosabite stumbled toward the circle. He took his knife from his side, and slashed at the air at chest height, cut at the circle, all around. Where he stabbed, the smoke channeled through, pouring beyond the invisible barrier and out into the world. The acrid smell of burnt herbs made Meriwether dizzy.
Like a statue, Sacagawea remained standing by her husband, even when the circle was all cut. The shaman came up to her. Meriwether approached the line in the dirt, but stopped, standing near the prone form of Charbonneau.
The shaman’s breathing was ragged and wheezing in the thick curls of smoke from the burning herbs. Dosabite spoke to Sacagawea, his voice raspy. “I am sorry.”
Meriwether felt a pang of disappointment, but Sacagawea inclined her head, much more accepting. “You can’t cure my husband?”
Dosabite’s face looked even older, weary and sad, as if he carried the weight of everyone’s disappointed dreams and hopes. “There is nothing we can do to cure him.” He pointed at the man on the ground. “That is not your husband, but only your husband’s body. His spirit is a captive of the creature who is the dragon, but also Raven.” He leaned closer, his voice even more hoarse. “Your husband is dead, Bird Woman. Only by magic does he breathe at all. The dragon emptied him, and filled him with his own will and spirit, using him as an anchor for his spells at a great distance. You can’t make live that which has no spirit anymore.”
Sacagawea sat down heavily by Charbonneau’s side. Meriwether remained just outside the circle, desperately wanting to help but not daring to break the connection now. The shaman tottered away with hesitant and painfully slow steps, walked out of the circle in the dirt, and disappeared into his grass shelter.
Meriwether cleared his throat and called to her. “I am sorry, Madame Charbonneau. I am very sorry.”
He expected grief or despondent tears, but when she turned her face toward him, her eyes were alight with a desperate determination. “This is not the end, nor is Toussaint beyond hope. I have seen ways of rescuing him, and I hold myself obligated to do so.”
Measuring Hope
Though he would not say it aloud, Meriwether believed that Sacagawea was fooling herself. The shaman’s words only matched what he himself suspected of Toussaint Charbonneau, that his spirit had departed from his body, leaving him hollow. Even baby Pompy sensed it, pulling away from his father’s presence.
He didn’t know what Sacagawea hoped to do. If the man was dead, but his body still alive by magic, he was himself a revenant, with no more likelihood of being restored than Collins, Willard, and Hall. But he had also seen some people set in stubborn refusal at the loss of a loved one. They would invent some hope, or grasp a measure of insane planning. Such audacious plots didn’t work, but the idea allowed them to deal with the immediacy of death, so the pain could pass.
Sacagawea had made it abundantly clear that she had no love for her husband, but she did have feelings. Even though he beat her, Charbonneau had supported her, fed her, kept her safe, and now that he was gone, she was left at the mercy of a cruel and capricious world.
She did not speak, and after a while he helped her carry the living corpse back to the grass tent where they had first lodged him. As she just sat there, glaring, as though Meriwether were responsible for her predicament, he chose to leave and walk back to the main fire. He felt comfortable here, where expedition members and villagers were talking and laughing. Little Pompy was sleeping, cradled in Clark’s arms, who sat next to Cameahwait.
Meriwether joined them, and after some prompting, he told them both what the shaman had said. Sacagawea’s brother and Clark reacted with suitable sorrow, and Cameahwait withdrew from the fire circle, going off to the shaman’s shelter.
For the expedition, and the plan to fight the dragon sorcerer, they had no further answers.
Eventually, late in the night, the Snake People showed them to comfortable grass huts, where they would sleep. Clark still had the baby boy and turned to find Sacagawea’s shelter, but her brother returned, shaking his head solemnly. “She is too grieved now.” He gave the child to his own wife to care for the night.
Deeply troubled, not knowing what they would do now, Meriwether lay back to sleep with Seaman pressed against his leg. The big dog seemed discomfited by the strange people and lodgings, and he did not leave his master unprotected.
Meriwether woke up with Seaman growling loudly beside him.
In the moment of disorientation after waking, he spotted his dog’s ruffled fur, and his tense position, ready to attack. From long association with the animal, he knew that this type of growl signified that Seaman was warning of a threat.
From outside the cool, shaded tent, came the sounds of women working and talking. This was not unusual. Usually women and young hunters rose earliest to make sure there was food for the tribe. The light coming in through the triangular door of the tent was pale with the dawn of a warm and peaceful day.
And yet, Seaman’s growls grew louder.
As Meriwether rose, the dog accompanied him out of the tent. His shelter was located on the periphery of the camp, near a path that led into a grove of birches interspersed with large, lichen-covered boulders.
Meriwether felt the dog’s hackles stand up. He turned to his left, in the direction of the village, sensing the prickle of someone watching him.
He tensed, half expecting to see the enemy dragon or some other monster summoned by the great magic. Instead, he saw Sacagawea, fully attired for travel, walking across the village. Her face was set in a hard, determined expression. Her eyes did not notice him, not even when he called her name. She did not carry her child, but instead of the child board, she wore a bow and arrows on her back. She gripped a spear, arrayed for war.
When she walked past him, Meriwether followed her, half mesmerized. Again, she didn’t respond when he called her name. Had she decided she’d go on her own, on a mission of honor to kill the evil wizard who had taken her husband? She knew the dragon sorcerer would be impossible to destroy even with Meriwether’s spirit help. She could not possibly face the evil defenses by herself. He knew Sacagawea was a rational and brave woman, but in the throes of grief, no one was quite rational.
He called after her again and ran to catch up with her. Although she did not seem to walk faster, she stayed just out of his reach, no matter how hard he ran. Puzzled and suspecting magic, he paused to catch his breath at the edge of the water, a stream running into the main river, where they had placed their canoes and pirogues and provisions, ready to continue on their expedition, should they find out where to go.
Carrying her weapons, Sacagawea seemed even more distant than ever, and he called out again as she waded into the shallows and pushed one of their canoes into the current, then climbed in and rowed away.
Then she disappeared.
It was exactly like seeing a soap bubble burst in midair. Sacagawea, canoe and all, rowed into the middle of the water and vanished with only an impression of shimmer.
He stood gasping, staring at the empty space on the water. He turned around, calling the name of one of the night sentinels, who would soon be relieved. “Gass! Patrick Gass!” When he heard no immediate response, he thought the man was asleep. He’d deserted a post of duty! He—