To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriwether Lewis

by Watkins, Andra

  Each fresh sound was a searing reminder that no wound could kill me. Not really. Wilkinson could shoot me. Banish me to a bar at the backend of Nowhere. A form of Hell.

  Em was the one who was truly in danger. I couldn’t see her harmed on my watch.

  I ran the horse as fast as I dared. Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe an hour. Fear always distorted the perception of time. Everything happened in slow motion and all at once.

  The slice of night sky shone brighter through the gap in the trees. I pivoted in the saddle and pulled one arm toward me to jerk the bit. The horse tossed his head but didn’t break his thunderous stride.

  “Whoa!” I rasped.

  The black devil ran for another hundred yards before he gave out and slowed to a trot. He halted and stood in a deep gouge, and I shifted my head and listened. Over the shocked cacophony of night noise, I strained to hear the gallop of pursuit, the splinter of bullets on tree bark, and the shouts of muddled men, but the air was as void as our surroundings, without form in the blackness.

  I slid to the ground. Eroded dirt piled up on both sides of us. Either we were on the Old Trace or in a ditch, for while I pointed the horse in a northerly direction, I didn’t know where we were, nor were there enough visible stars to divine coordinates. If I pulled us off the trail and into the trees, maybe we could hide out until morning, figure out what to do.

  When I turned back to Em, she still clung to the horse’s neck, her eyes wide as saucers. Her whole body spasmed at my touch. I gathered her into my sore arms and hugged her fiery body to me. Her arms and legs twitched like rattles, and when I waved my hand in front of her eyes, she didn’t respond. I shook her, gentle. “Em. Emmaline. Can you hear me?”

  Her breath came shallow, and she stared, unseeing. Still holding her, I tied the horse’s lead to a tree and lowered her to the ground. She roiled in the dirt, her body out of control. A dusting of earth clung to the sheen of sweat on her cheeks, her hands. I tugged at the saddle bag, frantic for anything that might help her. Inside the leather flap, I found a tiny flashlight.

  When I flipped the switch, Em’s dirt spattered face filled my vision. Her pupils took up most of the cornflower hue of her eyes. I tried to rub her hands, but they were white-knuckled. Next to her, I mounded up some leaves and twigs and balanced the light on them to free up both hands.

  Sweat matted her hair. When I peeled back her jacket, her top was ringed with more perspiration, and her skin sizzled to the touch. I picked up each leg and ran my hands along them under the light, checking for gashes. A dislocation. Swelling. Anything out of place. When I finished, I exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

  She was whole. On the outside, at least.

  I rubbed her hot forehead and searched the fringes of my medical knowledge for the cause of her sudden malady. When severely frightened, could a person go into shock? For an inexperienced girl, she’d shouldered a lot on our trek: swimming the Mississippi, hiking long distances, sleeping outdoors. An interview with Wilkinson followed by a first frantic horse ride in the dark could be enough to drive the heartiest people over the edge. Had I pushed her too hard?

  Helpless, I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around her. Held her close. By the opaque quality of the atmosphere, it had to be near five o’clock in the morning. The darkest moments before sunrise. A twig snapped, and I strained to make out any unseen threat. When I held my breath, I heard nothing. No bird song. No breath of breeze.

  Em shivered, and I rocked her in my arms. Tried to think of a song to sing, bad as I was at crooning. Her eyes raced back and forth underneath her eyelids, delirious. No matter how much I tried, I could not heal the sick little girl in my arms. Not in the dark. Without proper supplies. I couldn’t work a miracle on my own.

  The lonesome blackness brought that other thing. Its dark teeth gnawed at my insides from time to time. I told myself it was just a feeling. Being trapped in the shroud of night need not summon the real monster.

  Failure. It destroyed my every accomplishment with the Corps of Discovery. Ate away at the last years of my life. When I stood in my office, alone, I studied myself in the mirror and wondered how my fame evaporated. How I went from ‘Meriwether Lewis: Celebrated Explorer and Scientist’ to ‘Meriwether Lewis: Failed Politician.’ I didn’t even understand how it happened. One day, men worshipped me. The next, they shunned me.

  And, the more I tried to regain their favor, the deeper I sank into the morass.

  Birds. Leaves. Even bodies of water and the sky. I was comfortable with them. But, I never understood people.

  This time will be different. I’ll finish the job. I have to do it for Emmaline. I’m not the same man.

  I’m not.

  “Merry.” Em’s voice came in a breath so soft it was as though I hadn’t heard it.

  I shifted her, brushing the hair from her face. “I’ve got you, Em. Stay with me, okay?”

  “I...hurt. Everything...hurts. I’m so...scared.”

  “I know, I know. It’s almost light, all right?”

  “Mmmm.” Her head lolled to one side, and I lost her again. I adjusted her on my legs to massage her scalp with one hand.

  Out of the corner of one eye, a figure darted across the path, as low to the ground as we were. It tore through the trees on the other side of the trail. Round and black, with stubby legs, it was a monster I’d encountered too often in my time.

  Footsteps pummeled the dirt in pursuit of the animal. Still holding Emmaline, I grabbed the reins of the horse with one hand to steady it.

  A gunshot streaked through the beginning of sunrise. The horse reared against its tether, and Emmaline screamed awake. Her hands scrabbled along the sides of my neck, nearly cutting off my flow of air while I fought to keep the horse from breaking the lead. Fireworks went off in my sight lines, and I pried her fingers off with one hand and laid her well away from the horse at the same time it broke its tether and bolted. The metallic gleam of a pistol caught the light as a lone man raised his weapon.

  I rolled on top of Em. “Don’t shoot! We’re not armed, and she’s hurt.”

  The only response I got was a guttural snort. Grunts. A wild boar crashed through the trees at the top of the rise and bored into us with its manic eyes.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The massive boar wheezed the remnants of its last meal in my face. Bile rose in the back of my throat. A monster. Five feet long with sharp tusks jutting from the sides of its mouth. I’d seen men flayed open and trampled to death by smaller beasts.

  The boar dug its front hoof into the ground and grunted, preparing to charge through us into the trail. I kept Emmaline close to me and rolled. Muddy ground came up and hit me in the face, and I tasted rot. It hurt to breathe, but I shouted at that ogre. Obscenities. A sewer of them, to no effect. It narrowed its eyes and lowered its head in preparation to careen our way.

  A shot crackled through the mist, and the boar pivoted sideways, its eyes wide and its mouth slack, before it tumbled down the hill, stopping on its back mere inches from my feet. Its legs twitched, and its belly rose and fell in panicked breathing.

  I turned to find a wiry hunter with a black goatee holding my horse’s reins. A pistol smoked in his other hand. He wore an orange hunting cap over a messy black ponytail, and his dark eyes were trained on me.

  “Unbelievable. Almost lost. To a wild pig.” He took a step toward us. “Not how I planned to kill one, in front of a child.”

  I hugged Em close and scrambled to my feet. I watched him as he retied my horse’s lead to a tree. “My daughter here needs help. Our crazy horse got spooked. Took us on quite a ride. I think Em—my daughter—I think she’s in shock from it. Is there anywhere close that maybe I can take her? Get her checked out?”

  The hunter strutted over to us. With tender fingers, he felt along the sides of her face, her neck. “She is in shock. It is clear, yes? With some rest, she’ll rec
over.”

  “Still, I’d like to make sure for myself.”

  He stepped back. “The closest clinic is Tupelo, about an hour’s drive from here.” He squatted next to the boar and listened to blood gurgle in the back of its throat.

  “I don’t want a clinic. I know what’s wrong with her. Surely there’s a farmhouse? Something? Any place where we can use an extra room?”

  “Only my house. For miles.” With cold calculation, he stood up. A single shot pierced the morning air and hit the writhing boar between the eyes. Its legs stopped, and it rolled on its side and was still. Blood seeped into the bed of decaying leaves.

  “I don’t want to cause offense. I mean, you probably saved our lives. But I’m not sure I want to go to your house.”

  He raised his shaggy brows. “I am not sure I invited you.”

  As we stared each other down, faint hoofbeats sounded from the direction we traveled overnight. I fumbled with the horse’s lead, hobbled by fear of discovery and the unconscious girl in my arms. Before the anonymous rider breached the bend in the trail, I shouted, “You could at least help me free this horse.”

  A brown gelding trotted up beside the stranger. He cut his eyes to the new man, one of his Latin kinsman, and muttered something in Spanish. I stopped struggling with the tether and followed their gestures in a vain attempt to decipher the exchange. I knew a bit of French, but Spanish had always eluded me. Nowhere gave me little opportunity to practice, with its constant game of starting over. Forgetting.

  When they finished, the second man dismounted, tied his horse to a tree and unsheathed a jagged knife from a leather scabbard. I jumped back and stood between Em and the knife, a flashlight my only weapon.

  I braced myself for a struggle, but the man ignored us and tore into the dead beast, slitting it open from chin to gut. Even though I knew what to expect, I almost vomited when I sniffed the foul juices. The Spaniard smiled at my discomfort. “Meet my foreman. Luis, he will stay and prepare the meat while I take you and your daughter home.”

  “I thought we weren’t invited.”

  “My friend, you are in no position to quibble.”

  I looked down at Em’s ashen face and traced the outline of her cheek with my finger. Nodded my assent.

  “Good. Vale. Can you manage your daughter on your mount, or do you need me to take her?”

  I pulled us into my saddle with one hand and held Em’s limp body in front of me. “I’ve ridden plenty of horses in my time.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I toy with you. I like to tease my friends. My name is Hector de Silva. And you are?”

  I watched him and his foreman for a beat. Teasing peeved me. Always had, especially in dire circumstances. It did nothing to diffuse a stressful situation. While the foreman cut out the boar’s heart, De Silva’s smile faded under the weight of my stare until I was satisfied he got the message. “I’m Merry.”

  “Merry. Well. It is a good thing I maintained my schedule this morning, yes?” He gestured to the carcass. “I try to be out with the rising of the sun. I like to be alone sometimes. I suspect you are the same, no?”

  “Yes. I’m alone. Most of the time.”

  With one athletic leap, De Silva was in his saddle. He clicked his heels against the horse’s side, guiding it through the tunnel of trees. I nudged my horse forward. We rode abreast in silence for a while. Every so often, I sneaked glances his way. A Spaniard, in the middle of Mississippi. How did he get here? Why did he choose this place? I remembered Wilkinson’s storied connection with the Spanish, and my veins ran cold. I looked at the top of Em’s head, and I said the first thing I could think to protect her. “Hector, if we wanted to hire a car to get to Tupelo, how far would we have to go?”

  “Tupelo is the closest town, but here, close is a relative term.”

  “So? How far?”

  He shifted in his saddle. Smiled. “She will be fine at my estate. It is large. When here, I like seclusion.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you have a place to stay in Tupelo? A motel, perhaps?” Our horses plodded a symphony into the ground. I could see bits of blue through the canopy of fall color.

  “No. Look. I don’t like the idea of staying with you. I’d rather be on our own.”

  “From the looks of her, you may be on your own soon enough. She needs rest.”

  Her head lolled against my left arm. I studied her face, shrunken and pale. “All right. One night. If she’s not stronger in the morning, we need to get to a doctor. She’s not burning up like she was before, but she’s still pretty out of it.”

  He shifted sideways in his saddle and studied her. “Muy hermosa. She’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Where are you and your daughter headed?”

  How many lies was I going to have cobble together before my job was done? My voice was even when I went on. “Memphis. We live there. I thought it’d be educational to take Em on a trip through history for a few days. Not to mention fun. Better than sitting in a stuffy classroom, you know?”

  “Outdoors. Always better. For everything.” He looked at the clear sky through the shudder of wind in the leaves. “Perhaps you will join me for dinner this evening. Fresh boar with all the trimmings. We can let the girl rest and get better acquainted. A new experience, yes?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I think I should stay with Em. Do everything I can to get her ready to move on.”

  He pulled his horse to a halt. Twisted in the saddle to face me. “My house sits well off the Trace, on a road that leads to Tupelo. I can take you there in the morning and drop you wherever you like.” Without waiting for me to agree, he flashed his white teeth and continued. “Good. It is settled. We will leave your horse in my barn.” He winked. “My staff will take excellent care of your daughter, and for you, what can I say? I will be a charming host.”

  Before I could argue, he nudged his horse and trotted through the ruts ahead of me.

  I had no choice but to follow.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Several miles west of the Trace, the trees gave way to thick pine along an undulating horse path. The earth was darker, like the Spaniard. Would following De Silva off course be our refuge? Or a trap? In my lengthy experience with people, Spaniards were impossible to read.

  We rode through early morning, the only sounds the occasional bird call, the hooves of our horses on the packed dirt of the trail, and the whistle of the wind. At last, we pulled up behind him at an entrance camouflaged by a thicket of heavy scrub. Designed to move like a living gate, it warned a visitor to go away.

  If one noticed it at all.

  Em stirred in front of me, and I patted her shoulder. She leaned her head against my chest and looked up at me. A lovely face, even upside down. Her cheeks were pink, but her eyes were glassed-over. “You look funny, Merry.”

  My chest was light enough to float. Was this what it felt like to lose one’s heart to a child?

  De Silva dismounted in one graceful move, spreading his arms in an expansive greeting. “The edge of my estate. I will open the gate, yes? Wait here.”

  I nudged my horse through the gap before De Silva bolted the lock and mounted his horse behind us. His smile was inscrutable, his face a mask. He gave the horse its head and beckoned us into his paradise.

  In my experience, paradise did not exist. I’d encountered variants in my lifetime. My disappointment in the Corps of Discovery’s failure to find a Northwest passage was counterbalanced by the highs. The West was a wonderland for a loner like me. A slow-moving stream at dawn, its waters cold and sweet. The springing flight of a prong horned critter along the floor of a slot canyon. Round birdhouses strung along the White Cliffs of the Missouri. Fish that jumped through the rainbow made by a misty waterfall.

  Perhaps I wasn’t being fair, but in my experience, Spaniards were s
hifty. Throughout my entire career, they were the enemy, herds of people waiting across a waterway or an imaginary line. Life experience was hard to shake in Nowhere, especially when I couldn’t remember whether anyone there could rise above a stereotype.

  And, what about Wilkinson? I heard the rumors of his Spanish duplicity while I was alive. If he was a Spanish spy, would he seek out his Spanish friends in Nowhere? Recruit them to carry out his misdeeds? I pulled Emmaline closer and wished I’d remembered to bring Wilkinson’s gun.

  We galloped along a wide avenue lined with cypress trees, into a clearing ringed by orange and yellow and wide open sky. Four bays of a stone mansion sprawled there. Leaded glass windows winked in the morning sunlight.

  On the great lawn that stretched before the house, the towering statue of a man on horseback stood watch, his metal clothing molded like armor, a bronze gun in one hand. De Silva eased his mount to a stop, and I halted alongside him. “If you couldn’t tell from my accent, I’m Spanish. Old country.”

  I eyed the statue, its clothing that of a conquistador. A conqueror. I swallowed my mounting fear. “Is this a fancy, Welcome-Wagon version of you?”

  He did not smile. “We have no welcome wagon here.”

  De Silva turned his horse’s head toward a barn of russet wood. Inside, fresh sawdust and leather soap tickled my nostrils. Horses leaned from their stalls to nuzzle a greeting to their master. I watched as De Silva made the rounds, patting wet noses and whispering sweet Spanish words in frisky ears. At the end of the walkway, he picked up a phone and pushed a lit button before he directed me to an open stall. In murmured Spanish, he conversed with someone on the other end of the line.