“No one can be sure of the true story, because Coyote and Raven are tricksters, spirits that delight in confusing and twisting the minds of humans. More than that, they are creatures that walk between realities.” LaBiche repeated the words, but he seemed embarrassed by the superstition.
Meriwether wanted to ask what that meant, but he remembered the canoe and the fog, his desperate struggle to return to the world of the living. He knew what it meant to walk between the worlds, a space outside reality and shrouded in dream and confusion. From his own education, he understood the concept of trickster gods. He had read of Roman myth, knew about Pan and even Mercury, god of thieves and messengers, of illusion and commerce. The natives of the new world had similar gods and spirits. In storytelling, they cherished their exploits. So Coyote and Raven were part of this arcane America.
But Meriwether felt a chill, knowing full well that Raven was associated with the dragon sorcerer, and now he worried that the Coyote spirit was irate with them as well. He felt very tired, and they hadn’t even set out yet.
“Coyote is also not fond of these strange people who don’t believe in him,” LaBiche continued his calm translation, while the shaman gestured with great vehemence. “Europeans who come into this land and mingle with his people, and do things he can’t understand. But he also knows that after the great magical change, all are trapped here in the same land. Coyote is saner than Raven, especially now that Raven has let his anger transform him. He would prefer to win against the strangers by guile and persuasion, not war.”
The shaman paused and remained in deep thought, before he continued in a lower voice, “Or maybe he thinks he can convince the strangers to believe in him and make him strong. It has happened before.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Meriwether saw Father Avenir, under his tree, cross himself.
“Coyote continued as always, a god of guile, a playful trickster spirit, a creature who walked between the worlds and twisted both worlds to his own advantage.
“But Raven went insane, and the spirit of Raven went looking for a vessel. He found it in the body of a wounded, starving trapper, a man partly Hidatsa, partly French, but also with ancestry from a land beyond the sea…a place called Wales, where dragons live.
“The poor trapper had unwisely taken shelter from a storm by crawling into a cave that was once sacred to Raven, where blood sacrifices were made to him. The trapper was almost dead when he arrived, too weak to resist. So, Raven took over the body, and mingled his soul—” Dosabite paused, reconsidered his words, and LaBiche listened carefully. “No, he ate the soul of the trapper and acquired to himself everything the trapper was, his heritage, his legends, his beliefs.”
Father Avenir crossed himself again.
“And since the trapper was also a little crazy, joining with him made Raven even crazier. Raven is not accustomed to being bound to a physical body like ours. As a trickster spirit, he can take many forms and is free as windblown sand. Chaining himself to the trapper’s body made him feel like a dog tied out in summer and winter, unable to break the leash…which made him grow even more mad.
“With his powers, Raven discovered that he could become a dragon, like the legends bound deeply in the trapper’s Welsh heritage, and from there Raven discovered that after the comet and after the great change, he could take the powers of the land from all other gods. Insane, he grew great in his conceit, and he began expanding his destructive influence over the land. Instead of merely tricking people to do his bidding, he now controls them more easily if he takes over their bodies.”
Near the thick smoke, Dosabite swayed lightly on his feet, as in a daze himself. “I know these things because Coyote told me. He spoke to me when Sacagawea and Captain Lewis descended into the land of the dead. He told me in a dream that I would need this knowledge.” He stroked the head and fur draped over his shoulders. “Coyote is my spirit animal, and the god I evoke.”
With a dramatic flourish, the shaman pulled the coyote head down over his face, so that his eyes shone through the eyeholes in the mask. Like a wild animal, he scampered around the circle, racing behind the seated people, as he scribed another circle in the dirt, one that enclosed them all.
Meriwether felt an odd tingle on his back as the shaman completed his protective circle. Sitting outside the group, Father Avenir looked pale, his eyes very large.
Dosabite had left enough space behind the seated people so he could perform his ritual dance around the perimeter. With growing exuberance, he danced and chanted, and when he passed close to the fire he threw handfuls of herbs into it. The smoke twisted and blew like a living thing, finding no direction, as if lost.
The smoke enveloped Sacagawea, who sat up very straight, as though she heard instructions in her mind, and then the pungent smoke curled over Meriwether, too. Within the smoke, he thought he heard his father’s voice, encouraging him from the isle in the land of the dead. “I trust you son. You can do this.”
The other members of the war party reacted variously when the smoke washed over them. And then suddenly Dosabite drew himself to his full height and shouted, in English, “I am Coyote. And I shall go with you.”
Through the animal mask, the shaman’s eyes were golden in the firelight. He opened his arms wide and reached upwards, like a maestro conducting music. A blazing wall of fire erupted from where he had drawn the line in the dirt, stretching high, well up into the dark sky. Then magical fire died out, vanishing as it erased the protective circle as well.
As the people muttered, amazed, Meriwether rose and stepped out of the circle, away from the fire and the pungent, hypnotic smoke. Some were elated to know they had a new supernatural ally, but the shaman had never been a friend of the Europeans, their trappers and explorers. Meriwether didn’t know if he could trust everything that Dosabite said.
And how could they trust the aid of Coyote, the trickster spirit?
Like the Knights of Old
The expedition set off very early the next morning. The air had a curious chill that felt like sweat drying on the skin. Meriwether knew it presaged a hot day.
They drank coffee and fried the last of the smoked sausages they’d brought with them from Saint Louis. Sacagawea had made corn bread. Altogether, it was a rather princely breakfast, appropriate for the start of a challenging war march.
As he ate, brooding and worried, Meriwether kept his eye on Dosabite. The shaman still wore the coyote mask, and he acted strangely, as though he were an animal wearing a human form. He seemed both feral and canine, and held his legs oddly, perhaps expecting them to bend in a much more pronounced way than they did. Occasionally, he stooped over to touch his hands to the ground, then straightened partway, confused about his body.
“Look how the shaman moves,” Meriwether said, as Sacagawea gave him a piece of corn bread. “What’s wrong with him?”
She followed his gaze, nodded. “He is Coyote.”
Meriwether stopped himself from scoffing outright. He had certainly experienced firsthand how a spirit could take over a man’s body. “But how do we know we can trust him?”
“Trust Dosabite?” she asked. “Or trust Coyote?” She watched the shaman’s strange movements. “I believe we can. I know that Dosabite is…difficult, especially when it comes to the Europeans that come to this land. It is his role to be difficult. Like his totem animal, like the spirit he serves, he walks between the worlds. It is not an easy position, and not an easy way to live, but he is loyal to the tribe and to those who wish to help the tribe. As for Coyote…He owes some duty to our shaman, who is faithful to him. More importantly, Coyote is a god of the Shoshone, so he owes us some duty too.”