Meriwether braced himself and fired his air rifle at the creature. The revenant wavered, then collapsed into a pile of loose, yellowed bones, no longer barring the way. He did not let himself grow overconfident, though. Doubtless there would be many more of these spectral warriors guarding their captive Sacagawea. From the settlement ahead, he could hear voices: men, women, children.
His air rifle was powerful, and he’d brought a sack of ammunition with him into the spirit world, but neither his rifle nor the bullets were magical. To shoot every one of these undead Hidatsa before they could stop him would be impossible. He would be taken down by the enemy’s sheer numbers.
He needed a plan, and he needed to reconnoiter.
He worried about leaving the track to scout, because he didn’t want to find himself lost in the land of the dead, but he realized that if he couldn’t find Sacagawea, he was already lost.
Before he could move, the rotted body of his vanquished enemy on the path was reassembling itself, the bones pulling together, shimmering as flesh slathered itself into place. In his bony, shaking hand, he still held the spear.
Instead of rounding the rock outcropping, which would put him in full view of the village, he decided to slip around it and not worry about following the road. When he took his first step off the trail, he felt a roar of terror, as if the ground itself might collapse under his feet. Then he felt soil and rock beneath his boots again, and he climbed cautiously.
He might have taken the risk for nothing. While the outcropping had looked discrete, easily sidestepped with a little scrambling, he realized the outcropping was actually a steep yellow-brown cliff, shrouded in mists. He kept climbing, sure he would get around it so he could approach the village unseen.
As he climbed toward the high point, the crumbling barrier had ledges and outthrust rocks that he could use for handholds and steps. The path up the rock veered and meandered, some of it hidden by crumbling rock. He was panting with the exertion, even here in the land of the dead, but he had a perfect vantage from the high point.
As he grabbed for a prominent handhold, he heard the spine-chilling ominous vibration of a rattler, buzzing its warning. He froze, not moving his hand, providing no target for the viper to strike. He had encountered rattlesnakes before, and fortunately he had solid footing and good balance. He removed his knife from his belt, and watched the snake rise up and slither back, ready to strike. With a swift arc, he sliced off its head in one smooth, clean movement with the steel blade.
Here in the land of the dead, the decapitated snake trembled, then collapsed into a pile of bones and decaying flesh. Since he knew that even a small serpent would reassemble itself once killed, he used his boot to kick at the remains, flinging the bones far from the cliff, where they tumbled in the air. He had no desire to see the rattlesnake again.
At the summit of the outcropping, he dropped to a crawl so he could peer cautiously at the village. He did not want to be spotted. When he finally crossed the summit and made his way to an opening in the rocks, Meriwether had an excellent view of the Hidatsa village.
The buffalo-hide, triangular tents were close to the pocked wall of the outcropping, which provided protection against attack from the rear. He saw the narrow river swiftly flowing on the other side of the village, likewise blocking it off. Only by the dirt road could one enter the village. Or leave.
If he wanted to get down from this cliff and enter the village directly, he would have to learn to fly.
Suddenly, he spotted Sacagawea. She looked exhausted and somehow diminished, as if she had been sapped of so much courage that her physical dimensions had shrunk. Listlessly, she tended several horses. Two men stood next to her, one of them Toussaint Charbonneau, and the other a Hidatsa warrior, both of whom appeared to be supervising forced labor. As Meriwether watched, tense and desperate, Sacagawea stumbled and barely managed to get herself up again, before a horse stepped on her. Her own husband was one of her abusers. Again.
Meriwether knew he had to rescue her.
He wished he’d brought a roll of sturdy rope on his spirit journey, so he could climb down the rugged bluff, but he had only his belt, his clothes, and the strap of his bag. He wouldn’t make it halfway down the cliff, much less all the way to the village.
He looked around for any sign that a gradual descent might be possible. On his hands and knees, he crept along the top of the outcropping, but found the dropoff as steep there as anywhere else.
There was a pine tree, growing just five feet away from the far tip of the crescent of rock. If he could jump and hold on to the pine, he might be able to climb down it to more handholds, more jutting rocks so that he could make his way down.
If he couldn’t, then he would be left stranded, high on the rocks.
What would happen if he fell straight down? Would he be killed, and trapped forever in the land of the dead? He remembered what the old shaman had said about intrepid heroes who came to the world of the dead, how they were lured into traps and killed. If he failed here, he would fall straight down and kill himself in both worlds. If the Whiskey Revenants were right, and he would condemn the expedition to failure and the whole world to the enslavement of the dragon sorcerer.
He contemplated a long time, studying the tree, measuring the distance. If only he were younger, more agile.
But when he heard Sacagawea cry out and saw her on the ground, while the big warrior stood over her and beat her, Meriwether cast aside all his doubts. He secured his rifle, his bag of provisions and ammunition, and took a deep breath.
He jumped for the pine.
When he was in midair, he knew he’d misjudged. The distance was too great. He would never catch the tree, and he would fall. But suddenly his fingers touched pine needles. He clutched at a branch, which tore free, but slowed his fall enough that he could grab another bough with his right hand, yanked himself forward, and then he was embracing the pitch-wadded trunk with both arms, wrapping his legs around it for security, trying to recover his breath.
With all the commotion, he half expected to find the whole village rushing toward the tree. It took him a long time of slow, careful breathing before the noise in his ears subsided, before he blinked sweat from his eyes, until he could look around. And see that he was safe.
The villagers below went about their activities, undisturbed. As he worked his way farther down the tree, to wider boulders and a safer descent, he saw some women on the far side of the outcropping. Had the dragon sorcerer killed them all in the world of the living? Meriwether remembered the corpses twisted in tree roots in the fire demon. He found it obscene that someone could kill people and then use them as his puppets, body and soul.
A determination as hard and dangerous as the steel of his knife blade calmed his breathing. Meriwether made his plan, and he worked his way down from the trees into the rocks as quietly as he could. He saw no one below, just a clearing and a scraggly dog, sniffling at the ground as if trying to find something to eat.
Meriwether reached the base of the tree and the broken rocks, afraid the dog would bark at him, but instead the friendly animal approached, letting Meriwether pat him. He thought of big, faithful Seaman, and had to remind himself the creature was already dead, a pet of revenants.
He loaded and pumped up his rifle, then made his way around the edge of the village, keeping to the rocks and scrub where no one could see him. He could still see Sacagawea, dragging herself up, fiercely fighting tears while the big warrior shouted at her. He grabbed a bunch of twigs and shook them in front of her. Charbonneau stood by, also threatening, then pleading.