Genre Fiction
![Debra Magpie Earling - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001HMNY3K.jpg)
The Lost Journals of Sacajewea: A Novel
A June 2023 Indie Next Pick, Selected by Booksellers
A Minneapolis Star Tribune Recommended Fiction Read for 2023
A Millions Most Anticipated Read for 2023
A Library Journal Recommended Read for 2023
A Motherly Best Book of 2023
From the award-winning author of Perma Red comes a devastatingly beautiful novel that challenges prevailing historical narratives of Sacajewea.
"In my seventh winter, when my head only reached my Appe's rib, a White Man came into camp. Bare trees scratched sky. Cold was endless. He moved through trees like strikes of sunlight. My Bia said he came with bad intentions, like a Water Baby's cry."
Among the most memorialized women in American history, Sacajewea served as interpreter and guide for Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery. In this visionary novel, acclaimed Indigenous author Debra Magpie Earling brings this mythologized figure vividly to life, casting unsparing light on the men who brutalized her and recentering Sacajewea as the arbiter of her own history.
Raised among the Lemhi Shoshone, in this telling the young Sacajewea is bright and bold, growing strong from the hard work of "learning all ways to survive": gathering berries, water, roots, and wood; butchering buffalo, antelope, and deer; catching salmon and snaring rabbits; weaving baskets and listening to the stories of her elders. When her village is raided and her beloved Appe and Bia are killed, Sacajewea is kidnapped and then gambled away to Charbonneau, a French Canadian trapper.
Heavy with grief, Sacajewea learns how to survive at the edge of a strange new world teeming with fur trappers and traders. When Lewis and Clark's expedition party arrives, Sacajewea knows she must cross a vast and brutal terrain with her newborn son, the white man who owns her, and a company of men who wish to conquer and commodify the world she loves.
Written in lyrical, dreamlike prose, The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is an astonishing work of art and a powerful tale of perseverance-the Indigenous woman's story that hasn't been told.
A Minneapolis Star Tribune Recommended Fiction Read for 2023
A Millions Most Anticipated Read for 2023
A Library Journal Recommended Read for 2023
A Motherly Best Book of 2023
From the award-winning author of Perma Red comes a devastatingly beautiful novel that challenges prevailing historical narratives of Sacajewea.
"In my seventh winter, when my head only reached my Appe's rib, a White Man came into camp. Bare trees scratched sky. Cold was endless. He moved through trees like strikes of sunlight. My Bia said he came with bad intentions, like a Water Baby's cry."
Among the most memorialized women in American history, Sacajewea served as interpreter and guide for Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery. In this visionary novel, acclaimed Indigenous author Debra Magpie Earling brings this mythologized figure vividly to life, casting unsparing light on the men who brutalized her and recentering Sacajewea as the arbiter of her own history.
Raised among the Lemhi Shoshone, in this telling the young Sacajewea is bright and bold, growing strong from the hard work of "learning all ways to survive": gathering berries, water, roots, and wood; butchering buffalo, antelope, and deer; catching salmon and snaring rabbits; weaving baskets and listening to the stories of her elders. When her village is raided and her beloved Appe and Bia are killed, Sacajewea is kidnapped and then gambled away to Charbonneau, a French Canadian trapper.
Heavy with grief, Sacajewea learns how to survive at the edge of a strange new world teeming with fur trappers and traders. When Lewis and Clark's expedition party arrives, Sacajewea knows she must cross a vast and brutal terrain with her newborn son, the white man who owns her, and a company of men who wish to conquer and commodify the world she loves.
Written in lyrical, dreamlike prose, The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is an astonishing work of art and a powerful tale of perseverance-the Indigenous woman's story that hasn't been told.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for The Lost Journals of Sacajewea
"[In The Lost Journals of Sacajewea] the suffering-and bold, ingenious agency-of women held as captives by both Native and Euro-Americans is rendered with special vividness [. . .] The narration is rich in realistic detail but animated by a dreamlike intensity [. . .] Throughout the text, Sacajewea memorably enacts what Gerald Vizenor dubs survivance, the negotiation of existential challenges with a spirited, oppositional inventiveness. A profoundly moving imagining of the impressions and contributions of a major historical figure."-Kirkus Reviews, starred review
"A much-anticipated and gorgeous book from Debra Magpie Earling. The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is immersive and engaging, drawing the reader into a new way of seeing what we think we know of the story of Sacajewea."-June 2023 Indie Next List, Mara Panich, Fact & Fiction, Missoula, MT
"Earling adds a much-needed Native woman's perspective to Sacajewea's story, bringing a note of resilience to her unflinching account of the white men's violence and depredation: 'Women do not become their Enemy captors. We survive them.' This is a beautiful reclamation."-Publishers Weekly
[The Lost Journals of Sacajewea] offers new perspective on what is known, and debated, about the life of Sacajewea, including her age, her marriage to a French fur-trader (Toussaint Charbonneau), and her experience as the only woman traveling on the 1804-1806 Corp of Discovery expedition with Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. In poetic prose, Earling interweaves factual accounts of Sacajewea's life with a first-person narrative deeply rooted in the physicality of landscape and brutality of the times"-Jessica Gigot, Seattle Times
"[The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is] an impressionistic, poetic account, one that vividly renders external hardships and internal thoughts, giving equal weight to each. [. . .] it delivers a uniquely thorough perspective on the mind of a particular young woman, both ordinary and extraordinary. In this way, we come to understand Sacajewea more deeply-certainly more than we understand the men of ...
"[In The Lost Journals of Sacajewea] the suffering-and bold, ingenious agency-of women held as captives by both Native and Euro-Americans is rendered with special vividness [. . .] The narration is rich in realistic detail but animated by a dreamlike intensity [. . .] Throughout the text, Sacajewea memorably enacts what Gerald Vizenor dubs survivance, the negotiation of existential challenges with a spirited, oppositional inventiveness. A profoundly moving imagining of the impressions and contributions of a major historical figure."-Kirkus Reviews, starred review
"A much-anticipated and gorgeous book from Debra Magpie Earling. The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is immersive and engaging, drawing the reader into a new way of seeing what we think we know of the story of Sacajewea."-June 2023 Indie Next List, Mara Panich, Fact & Fiction, Missoula, MT
"Earling adds a much-needed Native woman's perspective to Sacajewea's story, bringing a note of resilience to her unflinching account of the white men's violence and depredation: 'Women do not become their Enemy captors. We survive them.' This is a beautiful reclamation."-Publishers Weekly
[The Lost Journals of Sacajewea] offers new perspective on what is known, and debated, about the life of Sacajewea, including her age, her marriage to a French fur-trader (Toussaint Charbonneau), and her experience as the only woman traveling on the 1804-1806 Corp of Discovery expedition with Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. In poetic prose, Earling interweaves factual accounts of Sacajewea's life with a first-person narrative deeply rooted in the physicality of landscape and brutality of the times"-Jessica Gigot, Seattle Times
"[The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is] an impressionistic, poetic account, one that vividly renders external hardships and internal thoughts, giving equal weight to each. [. . .] it delivers a uniquely thorough perspective on the mind of a particular young woman, both ordinary and extraordinary. In this way, we come to understand Sacajewea more deeply-certainly more than we understand the men of ...
Readers Top Reviews
LC
“The woman known as Sacajawea by the Lemhi Shoshone appears only a handful of times in the voluminous journals of Lewis and Clark. Her name - and later her tribal identity - her marriage, her age, the date of her death, even her role in the expedition as interpreter, guide, or friendly talisman to ward off hostile tribes is fraught. An enslaved young girl traveling with a military expedition spoils the long held notion that the expedition was wholesome. And yet, two hundred years after the Lewis and Clark Expedition the ‘historical’ Sacajawea codifies an account that does not sully the discovery narrative. She does not speak. She does not fight back in visible ways. She participates. Or does she? The Lost Journals of Sacajewea is a fictional account of the life of Sacajawea. Her story, like all human stories, is sacrosanct, but her story remains an undeniable testament to the power of cultural knowledge and resistance. Sacajawea survived what many could not.” Debra Magpie Earling “You must hear the White Man’s voice, Baide, Bia said. You must hear Him differently than our Men hear. We Women hold our People’s language, and our language. Your own language is here, she said. She patted my chest. Bia held my face and whispered, Men do not know Woman carries a voice inside her to help her live. When you stop hearing your voice you are nothing more than snare bait. You are the bone crackles in Weta’s teeth.” “I heard of your People's Medicine, White Man said. But I have never witnessed it before now. His eyes were bluster blue. His eyes were ruptured eyes spilling blue beads. He clapped. His spittle silver beads. If I could have plucked His eyes, I would have made a necklace. His eyes were beautiful. I would have sewn His eyes on to my robe.” I say all that to say that this is a beautiful retelling, from an Indigenous writer, of Sacajewea’s life. It is lyrical, dreamy, almost in verse. It demands your attention as you read and it seems ready to forever change how you view this story. I’m only partway through and have not read anything like this before.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Days of Agai
In my seventh winter, when my head only reached my Appe's rib, a White Man came into camp. Bare trees scratched sky. Cold was endless. He moved through trees like strikes of Sunlight. My Bia said He came with bad intentions like a Water Baby's cry.
Old Ones said this Man was the craziest White Man they had seen. Young Ones said this was the only White Man they had seen. Our wise one, Flatbird, asked Agai River if this was the very White Man sent from our Old Stories, but River did not answer.
See. He does not come with Horses, People said. He does not have pelts to trade.
In that black winter, His clothes were tattered, brittle-cold; they fell from Him in pieces like leaves fall from Trees. Snow had scraped His feet to bones.
At first, People were afraid of Him. How did He survive? People asked. Only a crazy one could survive with no covering and no food.
He is no Man, some said. Look at His skin.
His skin was frail pond ice when Moon lifts day. He shook like a dog shakes water. Crazy shaking. Day and night He shook. My Appe fed Him and covered Him with our best robes.
***
For many days, White Man sat beside our cook fire rubbing His palms together. He was like a hunk of frozen Buffalo; He stole the fire heat. And after many days, He became like the white Trees that line the turtle marsh. His bark peeled. We saw bone shine, His back bared to wings. His fingers thawed, slushed, then stank. His penis turned to ash.
Our people came to look before He died. Touched his head. Prayed.
Flatbird said, I have no Medicine for this crazy Man. His eyes are washed of color.
See. He is already turning to sky.
***
I sat with the dying Man. I watched over Him as my Appe asked.
White Man lived to see tall grass return, lived to welcome Agai-Agai so thick in River we heard them speak. White Man lived to see us dance and watched us with His lowered head like an Elk with swivel eyes.
White Man lived to fool us.
He lived.
***
Follow Him, my Appe told me. Learn His tongue. Find out what He knows.
My Bia did not like White Man. She chewed deer hides soft, made many baskets, all the while her scout eye perched on me, on Him, on His hands' pale flutter around everything I touched, and did.
This Man spoke a strange tongue. All day long He spoke. On and on He spoke. His words made no sense. Not at first.
What do you think He is saying? my Appe asked. He is all the time talking.
Fa Ra Siss Huck Ja Ja Ta To Eat Pa Ra, I said.
***
Appe took me to River to fish. Alone. He hid me from Bia.
I will teach you to fish, Appe said, so that you will know. Far off you will know to fish to stay alive. You must know how to speak to water but it is All to know how to listen. Listen like River listens to Agai.
When we netted enough to feast, Appe prayed. For a long time, he prayed. And then, Appe struck River bushes with two sticks. He tossed head-sized rocks into tall grasses and grass Birds beat their wings like drums and flapped around us and away.
Appe cupped his ears. He looked to see if White Man followed me, if Bia was near. From all signs we were alone. He took off his moccasins and signaled me to follow. He took hold of my hand and together we stepped into the strong current of Debai-lit water. We hid deep in shadowy scratch where bramble roots become one with River. Water was cold. Agai trembled close to our feet and held to us. I crouched beside Appe in hiss-speak of water. I listened. I watched.
Appe looked down into water and hooped his arms. Currents cracked over smooth stones and shivered around us. He waited until a round seam of water appeared. Waves rushed past his circled arms. He waited until his breath no longer puffed.
Appe pulled me into the center of his River's still circle. I hold you here, Nöbaide. I ask River keep you as safe as I do now. As long as you are near River water, I send my spine, my string gut, my blood to protect you.
I had a trouble dream, my baide, Appe told me. In my dream, my own baide spoke many tongues. Water chose her to be Long Spirit who remains after all are no mo...
In my seventh winter, when my head only reached my Appe's rib, a White Man came into camp. Bare trees scratched sky. Cold was endless. He moved through trees like strikes of Sunlight. My Bia said He came with bad intentions like a Water Baby's cry.
Old Ones said this Man was the craziest White Man they had seen. Young Ones said this was the only White Man they had seen. Our wise one, Flatbird, asked Agai River if this was the very White Man sent from our Old Stories, but River did not answer.
See. He does not come with Horses, People said. He does not have pelts to trade.
In that black winter, His clothes were tattered, brittle-cold; they fell from Him in pieces like leaves fall from Trees. Snow had scraped His feet to bones.
At first, People were afraid of Him. How did He survive? People asked. Only a crazy one could survive with no covering and no food.
He is no Man, some said. Look at His skin.
His skin was frail pond ice when Moon lifts day. He shook like a dog shakes water. Crazy shaking. Day and night He shook. My Appe fed Him and covered Him with our best robes.
***
For many days, White Man sat beside our cook fire rubbing His palms together. He was like a hunk of frozen Buffalo; He stole the fire heat. And after many days, He became like the white Trees that line the turtle marsh. His bark peeled. We saw bone shine, His back bared to wings. His fingers thawed, slushed, then stank. His penis turned to ash.
Our people came to look before He died. Touched his head. Prayed.
Flatbird said, I have no Medicine for this crazy Man. His eyes are washed of color.
See. He is already turning to sky.
***
I sat with the dying Man. I watched over Him as my Appe asked.
White Man lived to see tall grass return, lived to welcome Agai-Agai so thick in River we heard them speak. White Man lived to see us dance and watched us with His lowered head like an Elk with swivel eyes.
White Man lived to fool us.
He lived.
***
Follow Him, my Appe told me. Learn His tongue. Find out what He knows.
My Bia did not like White Man. She chewed deer hides soft, made many baskets, all the while her scout eye perched on me, on Him, on His hands' pale flutter around everything I touched, and did.
This Man spoke a strange tongue. All day long He spoke. On and on He spoke. His words made no sense. Not at first.
What do you think He is saying? my Appe asked. He is all the time talking.
Fa Ra Siss Huck Ja Ja Ta To Eat Pa Ra, I said.
***
Appe took me to River to fish. Alone. He hid me from Bia.
I will teach you to fish, Appe said, so that you will know. Far off you will know to fish to stay alive. You must know how to speak to water but it is All to know how to listen. Listen like River listens to Agai.
When we netted enough to feast, Appe prayed. For a long time, he prayed. And then, Appe struck River bushes with two sticks. He tossed head-sized rocks into tall grasses and grass Birds beat their wings like drums and flapped around us and away.
Appe cupped his ears. He looked to see if White Man followed me, if Bia was near. From all signs we were alone. He took off his moccasins and signaled me to follow. He took hold of my hand and together we stepped into the strong current of Debai-lit water. We hid deep in shadowy scratch where bramble roots become one with River. Water was cold. Agai trembled close to our feet and held to us. I crouched beside Appe in hiss-speak of water. I listened. I watched.
Appe looked down into water and hooped his arms. Currents cracked over smooth stones and shivered around us. He waited until a round seam of water appeared. Waves rushed past his circled arms. He waited until his breath no longer puffed.
Appe pulled me into the center of his River's still circle. I hold you here, Nöbaide. I ask River keep you as safe as I do now. As long as you are near River water, I send my spine, my string gut, my blood to protect you.
I had a trouble dream, my baide, Appe told me. In my dream, my own baide spoke many tongues. Water chose her to be Long Spirit who remains after all are no mo...
