by Eli Brown
They crested a ridge, and Clover watched sunset rain raking the Sawtooth Prairie in the southwest. Somewhere beyond those grasslands were the French. It was said that they were building tracks for steam locomotives right through the continent toward the Spanish coast, but Clover saw only the felted beige of the prairies.
Before all of this, Clover had longed to see the world. Now, from this vantage, she saw more than ever before. In the northwest was the appalling purple stain of the Wine Marsh, a bruise left from the last war surrounded by bone-colored crags. Beyond that, the dense forests and rivers of the Sehanna Confederation stretched all the way to the northern horizon. Four northern tribes, the Okikwa, Quamit, Ormanliot, and Sehanna, had banded together under the leadership of Yellow Mouse to fight alongside Louisiana in the early days of the war. In the second year of the war, they withdrew their support for Bonaparte, consolidating their territory east of the Inland Seas as a sovereign nation and defending their own borders. Most fur coats and beaver-skin hats in the world had come from this river-rich land, and Constantine had told her that the Sehanna used their wealth to provide for the Indian refugees who had fled north, escaping US and French aggression.
To the south lay her own hill-furrowed country and the quilted farmland of western Farrington. Clover imagined all eleven states of the union along the coast. It was an unimaginable expanse, yet Auburn and Hannibal wanted more.
Clover hurried down the next slope into a dark valley, letting the mountains rise around her. When darkness fell, she kicked the ground clear under the low-hanging arms of a roadside willow and lay down for the night.
She realized she was no longer afraid of bandits riding up in the dark. The world’s deadliest viper, the unstoppable Doll, and the fireproof girl. Clover had started this journey alone, but she’d forged alliances with uncanny comrades.
Owls swept the stars and the wind shook the vines, and somewhere near dreaming, Clover felt her father sitting on a branch near her. He cleared his throat politely, smelling of pine and smoked fish.
“I’m sorry you have to haunt me,” Clover said softly. “I wish you could rest.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts!” Constantine chuckled, that rarest of sounds.
“I know you’re only an echo,” Clover said. “Sorrow casting shadows on a troubled memory. But . . . a ghost is a ghost.”
Constantine looked at the stars between the branches, keeping his judgment silent, a skill practiced in life, perfected in death.
“Why didn’t you tell me what I was?” Shivering made Clover’s voice brittle.
“I wanted a life for you. A safe life.”
“I could have done something on that bridge. I could have helped you,” Clover said. “I let them kill you.”
Constantine sighed, a dismissive sound inseparable from the hush of the willow leaves.
“Well, I’m not powerless now,” Clover said. “If the world is set on war, I have to do what I can to push it in the other direction.”
“A doctor’s role is to serve the body before her.”
“Thousands will die! Every oddity they get their hands on will make this war worse. Those are the bodies I see before me.”
Clover felt her father’s gaze on her, diagnosing even in the dark.
“What is necessary? What is hope?” Clover said. “I won’t sit by while warmongers turn this continent into a graveyard. You taught me to find the source of the bleeding, to mend it if I could.”
“It’s an impressive argument, but don’t forget that I know my willful Clover. I know when you’re hiding something,” Constantine said. “What is the real reason you are marching toward the witch’s den?”
“I have to know,” Clover admitted. “I’m strangled by the questions you refused to answer. What did she do to me? Why do the vermin call me frog?”
Clover waited for her father’s answer, but he’d retreated into his perfect silence.
“Why wasn’t she content” — Clover turned her face to the sky and let her father disappear into a restless wind — “to be my mother?”
In the hollow-bellied morning, Clover descended toward what looked like a lake of tarnished copper, a grassy plain bordered by a dense forest, the southern Sehanna border.
“We must cross straight through to get to the mountain pass yonder,” Clover told Susanna, who peered from the safety of her haversack pocket. “It looks harmless enough.”
But Clover didn’t speak any Indian languages, and she could almost feel the scouts watching from the forest. Aside from a few scattered cottonwood trees, there was nowhere to hide on the prairie. Like the mule deer that had left clear trails, Clover would be visible for miles. She’d feel less exposed picking her way through the forest, but entering those woods would be asking for a confrontation with Sehanna patrols.
“If we cut across the grass, they’ll probably let us pass, and we should reach the Wine Marsh by evening.”
Of course the Wine Marsh was notorious for killing those stupid enough to venture into it. But Clover put that out of her mind and skittered down the last slopes above the grassland. Speed was her only strategy.
The grass came up to her elbows, thick as a bear’s hide, but it was dry and didn’t slow her march. The spent heads crackled, having scattered their grain weeks ago.
Sweetwater was happy to have her belly on dry ground. She darted ahead, exploring the hidden veins that rodents had dug through the undergrowth. Clover wished she could also crawl beneath the surface of things, unnoticed. Instead she was leaving a wake of trampled grass behind her.
She was far from any kind of shelter when she heard a sound that made her stop, a scraping, dry and out of place. Clover held her breath, listening hard. It was the unsettling rasp of grinding bones, but Clover couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“Susanna, do you hear that?”
“Junk,” Susanna whispered.
A shadow darted over them, and Clover spun around just in time to see a Vulture swooping toward her. Its head was made from a claw hammer, and it hit her just as hard. Clover was knocked off her feet and rolled in the grass. She got up, head throbbing, and saw that she was surrounded.
The Vulture circled above while three other vermin emerged from the grass: a Hare, the Squirrel, and a tattered old Hound. They were refuse masquerading as life: broken milk jugs and candlesticks, threadbare rugs and dented pie pans, all sewn tightly into the hides of long-dead animals.
“Is this it?” the Hare rasped.
The Hound circled with its nose to the ground. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The Vulture swung close, and Clover tried to keep an eye on it. Her head was aching from the blow. The next one might kill her. Responding to Clover’s fear, Sweetwater coiled tightly around her shin.
If her venom had no effect on Susanna, it would be useless on scarecrows like these. Clover opened Susanna’s pocket.
“Susanna? I could really use you right about now.”
But Susanna didn’t leap out ready for a fight. In fact, the Doll had curled up inside, trembling.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of vermin?”
“Junk! Nasty junk!” Susanna wailed, and tucked her head under her arms.
“We’re in trouble,” Clover said just as the Vulture plunged. The hammer missed her, but the pitchfork claws caught her shoulder and nearly lifted her off her feet, dragging her through the grass before dropping her on the ground again.
The Hound snatched Clover’s pant leg and tugged, snarling. The Hare grabbed at her braid with its teeth, and Clover found herself pulled between the vermin, taut as a clothesline.
Sweetwater struck out at the Hound. Her fangs pierced the dry hide easily but not the scrap tin underneath. Clover’s own teeth ached, an echo of the snake’s pain, then the Squirrel leaped to her chest. Clover swatted at it, but the vermin dodged easily.
“This is it,” the Squirrel said. “This is what Mistress wants.”
“This is no frog,” the Hare grumb
led through Clover’s braid.
“Smells like frog,” said the Hound. “Yes, yes.”
“Does Mistress want the frog dead?” the Hare asked.
“We were dead when she found us,” answered the Squirrel.
“She will be heavy.”
“Tear her into pieces, then,” the Squirrel offered. “Let the sun dry her out. The Seamstress can patch her together.”
“Yes, yes,” the Hound whispered.
The Squirrel opened its mouth, and Clover saw that its teeth were tin snips. She scrambled, trying to keep the monster away from her throat. When it clamped down on her arm, Clover wailed.
An arrow cut through the Squirrel’s neck. Another arrow pinned the Hare to the ground. Clover got to her feet just as a rifle shot smashed through the Hound’s washbasin chest. It yelped and made a splayed dash into the grass.
Clover turned and spotted her saviors, a small band of Sehanna runner-scouts, bristling with weapons. The Indians were not happy to see her.
The Vulture dove toward the closest of them, a scowling young woman with a long lance in her hands. She speared the vermin out of the air and tore its wings off with one swift motion.
Holding the writhing Vulture at arm’s length with a look of disgust, the woman pulled a blue thread out of the feathery mess. The bird fell apart, scattering into pieces that did not move again.
One of the runners pursued the Hound into the meadow, but the other three surrounded Clover with their rifles pointed at her chest.
The young woman who had killed the Vulture wore a breast shield made of porcupine quills and the silver arm cuffs of an honored warrior. Her braids were decorated with beads that looked to be carved from antlers. She nodded, and one of the other fighters snatched up Clover’s bags and began to fish through their contents.
The young woman asked, “Qui es-tu?”
Clover shook her head. “My name is Clover Elkin, but I don’t speak French. I am requesting passage to the Wine Marsh. Who are you?”
She stared at Clover for a moment before saying, “Margaret.”
“I thank you for your help, Margaret. I am in a terrible hurry.”
“Are you alone?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Clover answered.
Just then, Sweetwater emerged from Clover’s shirt. One of the scouts dropped the haversack with a gasp as Susanna crawled out and peered around. Seeing the vermin destroyed, the Doll started bravely toward the Indians, her little frame bunching for a fight.
“Susanna, wait!” Clover said.
But Susanna had grabbed the blade of one of the lances and yanked it out of its owner’s grasp.
“Susanna, don’t be sore!” Clover sang, and Susanna turned back grumpily.
“Ain’t afraid,” Susanna muttered.
“I know you’re not. But this isn’t a fight,” Clover assured her. She picked Susanna up and put her on her shoulder. In one last fit of frustration, the Doll broke the head off the lance and threw the splintered remains at the ground.
The warriors’ eyes were wide, and they cocked their rifles, waiting for a cue to shoot.
Margaret said, “You’re a witch.”
“I am not a witch. But I am in a hurry.”
“Why do the vermin want you?” Margaret asked.
“I don’t know.”
The one who had lost his lance to Susanna picked up the medical bag again, and Clover said, “Leave that alone. Those are my father’s things.”
“Is your father a doctor?” Margaret asked.
“My father was Constantine Elkin, and he was the best doctor in the territories,” Clover said.
The runners exchanged glances.
“Come with us,” Margaret said.
Hundreds of Indian fighters were camped in the oak forest north of the grasslands. Clover’s father had told her that Sehanna Indians lived in multifamily straw-thatched houses, but this was a cluster of tents and open-air fires, an army on the move. Clover recognized some, the Okikwa with shorn hair and blue-stained hands, the Quamit with their red-wool caps and silver crescent necklaces, but judging by the variations in clothing and jewelry, there were several tribes represented here, and they were all prepared for battle. Even some children carried weapons, and not the bows and torches that Clover had seen in illustrations. These were modern rifles. Mules pulled cannons and crates of ammunition. In the distance, Clover saw a group in a mock skirmish, the raptor battle cries cutting the air. Clover felt sick to her stomach. If Senator Auburn wanted a war, he was going to get it.
As they entered the central circle of tents, a little boy, nearly a toddler, charged the group and demanded something of Margaret. Margaret tried to wave him away, but the boy insisted. She finally relented, leaning down to scoop him up onto her shoulders. The boy tugged her braids, thrilled to be riding high, and Margaret tolerated it with a sigh.
At last they arrived at a sprawling tent attended by guards in scarlet mantles. The canvas walls had been embellished with deer running under blue storm clouds, their antlers branching like lightning. Margaret whistled and was allowed inside, ducking under a lintel of braided cedar with the little boy. Clover listened through the fabric, but the only words she understood were “Dr. Elkin.”
Then the chief emerged. He was tall in a beaver-pelt robe, and as wrinkled as a cider apple. The guards looked at the ground in deference, and everyone nearby went silent. But it was his eyes that told Clover without a doubt who this was; they were as white as boiled eggs. This was the legendary leader who had unified the four tribes of the Confederation. It was this man’s strategic brilliance that had forced the US and Louisiana to include the Sehanna in the treaty at the end of the war. Yellow Mouse was now in his eighties, completely blind since birth. He cocked his head at Clover as if he could see her.
He spoke softly in Sehanna, with a voice as ragged as a crow’s.
Margaret translated: “Are you really Dr. Elkin’s daughter?”
“My name is Clover Elkin, and I am in a hurry, sir.”
“In a hurry?” Margaret interrupted. “You’re talking to Yellow Mouse himself and you’re in a hurry?”
“I just said I was.”
Yellow Mouse chuckled and muttered something, ducking into the tent and pulling his robe close with a shudder.
Margaret translated: “Then you must be his daughter.” She held the tent door open until Clover entered.
The tent walls were thick with pelts and beaded sashes, and a cast-iron stove in the middle radiated a welcome warmth. Men and women sat in a corner around a low table, looking at maps and drinking sweet-smelling tea. Clover had interrupted a war meeting.
The toddler ran in giddy circles, splashing his hands in a bowl of water and drying them on Margaret’s deerskin leggings before settling down on Yellow Mouse’s lap.
“This is my great-grandson,” Margaret translated for Yellow Mouse. “He’s learning to wash his hands.”
The boy tugged on the beads in the chief’s braids and sang a little song, staring at Clover warily. Yellow Mouse hugged the boy close and smiled.
Clover said, “I know I am here without permission.”
Margaret translated Yellow Mouse’s response. “Who asks permission anymore? US soldiers come through dressed as French trappers. We’ve lost more than twenty men in skirmishes since spring.”
“Well, that’s Senator Auburn’s doing,” Clover answered. “He’s trying to provoke you. This war is not real.”
“They are shooting real bullets,” Margaret interrupted. She prodded Clover’s bags warily with the toe of her deerskin boot.
“But it’s only a scheme to get him elected president,” Clover explained. “It doesn’t have to happen.”
“What shall we do?” Margaret’s earrings glinted in the lamplight. “Shall we lay down our weapons and let them raid through our crops and orchards?”
Yellow Mouse spoke next. “A long time ago,” Margaret translated, “people came up to this world through a badger hole
and were happy here. But there came a flood and then a famine and then the world caught fire. The wise ones took seeds and climbed up a tall tree, through a hole in the sky, into the world above. They are up there now, happy and fat. The rest of the people stayed behind while the tree burned. We are the children of those who stayed.”
There was a silence, and then Margaret said, “He means we have no more trees to climb.”
Clover felt like a leaf blown by a strong wind. How could she stop a war that the rest of the world insisted on?
“Did you come all this way to ask us not to fight in a war you started?” Margaret asked.
“No,” Clover said. “I am headed to the abandoned mine at Harper’s Ridge.”
“To the witch’s den,” Yellow Mouse said in English. He rocked his great-grandson almost imperceptibly, as if feeling the gentle waves of a hidden ocean.
“You know about it?” Clover wondered if the Sehanna had spies in the US or if Smalt’s secrets had flown here on their own. She decided it didn’t matter.
“Auburn cannot create . . .” Yellow Mouse could not find the word he was looking for and continued in Sehanna with Margaret translating, “. . . he cannot create accablant soldiers, so he wants the next best thing. But now that the witch’s location is no longer a secret, Auburn isn’t the only one interested. It is not safe to go there.”
“I know that.”
“Dr. Elkin rode across battle lines to bring medicine during the pox. He risked his life to tend to our sick,” Yellow Mouse said.
“I know.” It kindled a warmth in Clover’s belly to meet someone who knew who her father really was.
“He was stubborn and reckless,” Yellow Mouse went on. “His medicine didn’t work. But once he set on a path, there was no turning him off it.”
Margaret broke in, “Even if this girl is not a spy, she will still tell what she’s seen here.”