“It’s too dangerous, sir. I don’t understand—” LaBiche said.
Meriwether cut him off, not wanting to test his resolve. “I did not ask your opinion. My duty is to do the best I can for this expedition, and that means I must rescue Sacagawea, by any means possible. Even magical means.”
After the man translated, the old woman departed to make the herbal tisane, promising to have it ready for his journey at sunset, explaining that a journey to the land of the dead was best undertaken when the world was between one day and the next.
He presented his decision to Captain Clark as information, not as a matter for discussion. His companion was uneasy about being persuaded, though. Meriwether tried not to plead. “All I ask, William, is that you look after Seaman. Make sure he doesn’t become some meal for a tribe.”
“I can see how it is,” Clark said with a forced hint of humor. “By the end of this expedition, I will be saddled with raising a child and caring for a large dog.” His voice took on a sudden deeper edge, growing serious. “Don’t get lost on the other side, my friend. I am not sure I could lead this expedition without you.” He sighed. “I can’t prevent you from going, but I can only assure you with the greatest vehemence that this expedition needs you…and that your friendship is very important to me.”
Meriwether felt his eyes burn. “I know. And I promise you I’ll do everything possible to return. With Sacagawea.”
As he waited for sunset, he carefully changed into his old uniform and mentally reviewed his plans. The sky had deepened to the color of blood by the time Sacagawea’s grandmother approached his tent, accompanied by a nervous LaBiche. She carried a jug of something that smelled herbal and sweet.
The Journey
“Everyone you meet in that dark place will seem old and decaying to you,” Sacagawea’s grandmother said, as LaBiche translated. “Though the land doesn’t look that way to anyone who is truly dead.” She narrowed her eyes. “While you are in the land of the dead, you will know that you yourself are dead—should you die in this attempt—because that dark land will suddenly seem as new and normal as our own world. Until then, the canoes will appear to be decaying, the food offered you will appear to be mere bones or sticks, and the huts and tents will look to be rotting in place. You must not eat their food, no matter how much they insist, for it will kill you. You must take your own food, so it is good you packed your sack with nuts and dried meat. I hope Sacagawea thought to take something.”
As the old grandmother prepared her potion and activated the magic and the herbs, she continued to give Meriwether advice and instructions, as well as warnings about the prospect of meeting old friends and enemies. “You must not be tempted to stay, no matter how much you miss them.”
He assured her he would not be tempted. She told him to lie down upon a buffalo robe on the floor of the tent. He kept the air rifle, its ammunition, and his provisions close beside him.
He sat up and willingly sipped the brew she offered him, though he knew what it would do to him. The tisane tasted something like mint, with an underlying flavor like anise. He drained the bowl empty and lay back.
For the longest time, nothing seemed to happen. He was dizzy, impatient, queasy, and he realized that he had stood up. At least, he became aware of standing, but when he looked back he saw his own body, pale, unconscious, and stretched on the floor. Though he remained on the buffalo robe, his soul, his anima, that part of him that went beyond the body, had broken free, ready to go on his journey.
Now his body was likewise an empty vessel, until he could return to merge with it again. He experienced a moment of panic, wondering how his journey would compare with the European stories of death and the underworld. What if the land of the dead was different here in sundered America, and a man of European ancestry could not travel there to find the dead from native peoples? Would he find himself in a heaven with angels and harps, while Sacagawea had gone to the endless happy hunting grounds?
Trembling and incorporeal, he shook his head. No. He would go where he wanted to go—after Sacagawea. He would rescue her, and possibly rescue her husband. He might have to fight.
In his dream form, he took hold of his rifle, or at least the spirit of the weapon, tugged the bag of food over his shoulder, added the ammunition to it, and slipped his steel-bladed knife into his belt. Then he left the tent to begin his journey. The old grandmother did not see him, nor did she react when he departed.
As he walked through the camp, the first thing that struck him was how quiet the world had become. He heard no birds, no voices, no wind. His boots made no noise as he walked across the path of beaten dirt and rock. When he stepped on dry twigs, they remained unbroken. A look back over his shoulder showed him the site of the Shoshone village to be an empty, untouched area, with no sign of human habitation. All sign of the settlement, of Sacagawea’s people, had been utterly erased from the world. This vision chilled Meriwether more than seeing himself stretched out and unconscious on the floor of the tent.
Was this what the world would be like if the dragon sorcerer succeeded?
In his spirit form, he hurried to the river, past where he knew the sentinels would be waiting, but they could not see him. Through his own connection with magic, he had been able to see Sacagawea’s spectral figure, but now he understood why she had not acknowledged him when he called her name.
He knew he had to hurry. Meriwether stepped into the water of the river, feeling it swirl around his calves, but the sensation felt odd. Just as he couldn’t hear the sound of his steps, he felt what seemed like the memory of cold water, rather than actual cold water itself.
In front of him, bobbing gently in the current, was a shoddy canoe, quite the most dilapidated vessel he had ever seen. Its surface was rough, as though it had slowly decayed for years. Holes in its sides had been patched with clay, and moss grew in green clumps. Meriwether knew he must use it, and he saw that the dilapidated canoe had a paddle. He waded to the canoe and climbed inside, barely making a ripple in the water. After settling himself, he took the paddle and guided the canoe expertly to the center of the river, where he had seen Sacagawea vanish.
As he reached the empty current, he realized that the flow had suddenly changed direction. The opposite bank had held some trees and a striated golden-red cliff, but now the shore lay wreathed in thick gray fog.
He had no map, nor even a guess, so he let the current carry him, now and then using the paddle to keep from approaching too close to the bank. He felt quite sure he was not supposed to disembark, not yet. He hoped he would know.
The eerie river had become much broader than the little tributary river near the Shoshone camp. He heard singing, now and then, voices emerging from the fog-wreathed lands, first singing in English, now in French, now in Welsh or Latin, even in languages he could not identify. But he saw no sign of the actual men.
The more he floated on the river, the colder and more tired he grew. It had been sunset when he consumed the old grandmother’s potent tisane, but now in this world he experienced only a perpetual gloom, a land of dismal light. He felt so weary, he wanted to rest, could barely lift the paddle.