Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  He was quiet for a moment, and then went on. “Now he said that if we do not want it, he will pour it out. And he did.”

  Nils licked dry lips again. He had suspected something of the sort. The taunting sight of clear cool water pouring out onto the ground was almost intolerable. He lifted his eyes to look beyond, and found that it was no better. Worse, maybe. The deep and wide river to the sea, its clear, cold water, appeared much like the fjords of his homeland. For an instant, he wished that he was a child again, sitting at his grandfather’s knee, listening to the old man’s stories. That had been a time of safety and security. There had been no Skraelings trying to kill him. The only terrors then had been in the exciting stories of his grandfather. Giants who lived in dark ice caves somewhere to the north. They had been scary, but even as a small child he had known that they were not real.

  He wondered what his grandfather would have thought of the new discoveries. The colonies to the west, the newfound land and the continent beyond. Skraelings…

  “Here,” Odin was saying. “Put this in your mouth. Suck it.”

  Odin handed Nils a small round pebble, and another to Svenson. Nils turned it over in his hand. Nothing unusual about it. Just a stone, polished round and smooth by tumbling in the stream for many lifetimes. He put it on his tongue, and found that it fit well. He could visualize it between the ranks of teeth in his closed jaws. He pressed it against the arched roof of his mouth with his tongue. Yes, it felt good.

  “It will make water,” Odin told him.

  Well, maybe…Nils had to agree that his mouth did not seem as dry, somehow. Maybe it was only a trick of his senses, but it did seem to help. A special kind of stone? Where did Odin get them? This sort of round stone was commonly seen in a small and rapid stream. Had Odin picked them up earlier?

  “Odin,” he asked, “tell me of these stones. Where did you get them?”

  “The stream.” Odin jerked his head in that direction. “They carry water.”

  “What? Water?”

  The Skraeling nodded seriously.

  “Theirs is the spirit of the water,” he said. “They have lived there many lifetimes. How could it be otherwise?”

  “But how?”

  Odin shrugged his characteristic shrug.

  “I do not know, Thorsson. I do not understand fire, either, but it warms me. Maybe this is spirit-water in the stone. It is not much, but it helps.”

  The subject was obviously finished.

  The help given by the stones and their spirit-water was only temporary. In another day, it seemed no help at all. The waterskin was empty, and the parched throats of the beleaguered trio had begun to swell. It was difficult to swallow now. At dawn they licked dew from the grasses, but they knew it would not be enough. Nils recalled that he had not emptied his bladder for at least a day. There had been no need.

  And he was growing weaker. This bothered him greatly. During the times when he despaired of survival, he imagined how he would go out, weapon in hand. Like a Viking…But if he became too weak to fight, it would be hard to die proudly. He was also finding that his thoughts were confused part of the time. This, too, worried him. To die was one thing. To die weak and confused was quite another. A drink of cool, clear water was becoming the most important thing in the world.

  In his fantasy, he imagined that Odin could ask the Skraelings for water, in return for which the three would come out and fight. Then the dreamy confusion would pass and he would know that such a thing was ridiculous.

  No, it would take something else, and as far as he could see, there was nothing else. If he was to go out proudly, he must do it before weakness and confusion overcame him. He hardly wondered what the others would do. They too were weak, and they talked little, now. Maybe they needed to talk about it. …Attack the enemy together in a last glorious fight.

  Nils was curled up in the fetal position, half-asleep or half-stuporous, with such thoughts drifting through his head. It had just grown dark, and he was trying to make some sort of decision. What was it? Oh, yes … To attack the enemy. It should be at dawn. Dawn tomorrow, probably. He did not know if yet another dawn would find him capable of fighting, or even thinking. He wondered what his grandfather would have done. Grandfather, he thought, help me, here!

  He began to think again about the stories of his grandfather. Stories of valor…fights against hopeless odds. Berserkers, fighting with superhuman strength in a trancelike state…berserkers!

  Suddenly, he was wide awake, and his thoughts had cleared. Yes! Thank you. Grandfather, he said silently. Now, he must try to remember…how did they become that way? In his grandfather’s story, they had stripped to the skin. … Yes, in midwinter, in the snow. That sounded good…you could eat snow. …No, Thorsson! he told himself. Forget the thirst. Think! The Viking warriors in his grandfather’s story had stripped and become animals, almost. Animals with superhuman strength and courage, invincible, howling and screaming like madmen as they attacked. This had so unnerved the enemy that they had fled in panic and the day was saved. As Nils understood the berserker legend, though, that was not actually the purpose. It had only happened that way. The purpose was to die honorably, like a Viking, fighting for a cause against odds. By berserking, a warrior who for all practical purposes is already dead could enhance his passing. He could take more of the enemy with him.

  What better situation than the one in which he now found himself? He had arrived at a point where he had to concede that it was over. There was no way in which the three fugitives could escape. They could stay on the ledge and die of thirst, or attack the enemy and die fighting. His Norse blood began to race at the mere thought that the one alternative meant curling up to die helplessly. It was not the way a Viking would choose. At least, he would retain that right, the choice of his manner of dying. He would concentrate on the frenzy of battle, and make himself known to these savages. He would give them a battle they would never forget. The tales of his valor and his death would be recounted for generations around the fires of the Skraelings.

  Excitement rose in him. The urge to move, to shout, and dance was strong. Maybe it was partly the fasting. He had been avoiding the dried food from Odin’s pack because it made his thirst more uncomfortable. Maybe that now accounted for the remarkable clarity of his senses. Now that he had reasoned out what he must do, the entire world seemed in harmony. He looked at the night sky above him, dotted with the myriad of stars. They seemed close enough to reach up and touch, now that he had the understanding of the way of things.

  A night bird called, and he smiled at the very appropriateness of the sound. Everything fits, he chortled to himself. Now he must begin his final preparations. It was not long until dawn, and he had decided that dawn would be the time for his climactic triumph. Yes, as soon as it was light, he would begin.

  Svenson rolled over and came sleepily awake. He glanced around at the empty place of Odin, who was on watch, and then at Nils, who was standing, staring into the sky.

  “What is it?” Svenson asked.

  Nils turned to look at him in the dim light of the waning moon.

  “Sven,” he whispered excitedly, “when dawn comes, I am going berserk!”

  18

  Svenson did not try to stop him, or to convince him otherwise. It was an honorable thing, a proud way to die. It was also a private thing, an individual decision. Svenson did not offer to join in the berserking, and Nils did not invite him to do so. When the fighting began, he assumed that the others would join in. Odin’s arrows might work to good effect, fired from the ledge into a fight below. Sven would probably wade into the Skraeling attackers with his ax. If they did, it would be good. If not, so be it. The event that would be handed down in Skraeling legend would be that of the mighty warrior who had killed so many before he fell.

  Nils waited until it was growing quite light before he began. The Skraelings were stirring in the camp below, rising sleepily and stumbling a few steps into the trees to relieve full bladders. But I sh
all wake you! thought Nils.

  When the time seemed right, he stepped to the rim of the ledge.

  “Gather here, you mangy sons of dogs,” he yelled. “I will show you the event of your lives!”

  He knew, of course, that none could understand him except Svenson. Yet the result was the same. The Skraelings began to gather and drift toward the slope, laughing and joking at this strange action of one of the fugitives.

  Odin came running from his post.

  “What is it?” he asked Svenson.

  Svenson shrugged. “It is a way of our people. A warrior decides to die fighting.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  The Skraeling seated himself to watch, but kept his bow ready. He was also near enough to the edge to see what was going on below. There were no arrows this morning. The enemy was concentrating on the figure at the rim of the ledge, curious as to what he would do next.

  Now Nils began to dance and sing. It was a very crude thing, without much reason or sensibility. In fact, it had little except rhythm to characterize it. The words were partly threat, partly insult, and to a great degree, nonsensical. As he moved in the rhythms of his improvised dance, he began to disrobe. He ripped loose the laces of his tunic and threw it aside. Then his shirt. Nils tossed the garment over the edge and it fluttered to the grass below. He loosened his belt and laid it aside more carefully, because it held his fighting knife. His leather pantaloons slipped to his ankles and he stepped out of them, now wearing only his wrapped footgear with the thongs that bound them to his ankles. They did not seem important now. Nothing did anymore, except the frenzy and excitement of the moment.

  Nils would have had great difficulty in describing his feelings. He could not have said when it happened, or what had happened. He was standing on the very edge of the rocky shelf, screaming at those below. Screaming nonsense syllables that seemed meaningful though he did not know what they meant. As he had chanted, the words of challenge had become less and less coherent, replaced with nonsense. Some were completely foreign, gutturals and falsettos, growls and howls and screams.

  Now his companions and enemies alike stared at him in wonder. The sounds issuing from his mouth seemed not to come from any human throat. They were animal sounds, and were now more like the howl of a wolf as the pursuit draws to a close and the kill is near.

  The Skraelings below stood openmouthed in awe at the transformation. They could see the vacant look in the eyes of the white-haired stranger. His pale skin shone white in the morning sun.

  Nils’s reflexes were still functioning at their best, or perhaps better, even. By sheer instinct, his right hand gripped the sword and his left clutched the belt knife. Now, with hardly a glance below, he jumped from the ledge with a final roar of challenge.

  The slope was perhaps the height of two men below the ledge. He struck the grass and rolled once, which brought him to a more level spot. He crouched for a moment on all fours to regain his balance, while yet another animal howl issued from his lungs. Then he stood erect, weapons ready, to meet the charge of the enemy.

  And nothing happened. The Skraelings stood, watching, making no effort to attack. The white-haired figure rushed at them, and they fell away, hurrying out of his path. He tried again to attack, but the Skraelings dissolved again before his rush. He howled again, a frustrated challenge.

  On the ledge above, Odin had watched with fascination. He had not expected the Norseman to be capable of such a ceremony. He did not know what he had expected. But surely, by all reason, the light-haired Thorsson should have been lying dead and dismembered almost before he struck the slope. He realized, of course, what held the enemy back. They had not expected, any more than Odin had, such a ceremony of the spirit.

  Now Odin was thinking rapidly. The situation was critical, and could turn to disaster in the space of a heartbeat. They must do something. He glanced at Svenson, who was staring in openmouthed amazement. There was no time to communicate to him. Odin stepped to the very edge.

  “Now hear me, below,” he shouted in the tongue of the Skraelings’ tribe. “It is well that you have not harmed this holy man.”

  He looked at their upturned faces. Good, he thought. Now, if they will continue to listen. The naked Norseman was standing there, swaying a little as he stood, exhausted from the spirit-visit that had just occurred. His howls were less pronounced, and he looked a bit confused.

  “It is good that you have not harmed him,” Odin continued. “Of course, you had no way of knowing his powers, so maybe he will forgive you this time.”

  There was a little nervous laughter, but many doubtful looks.

  “This is a most powerful holy man,” Odin went on. “You saw him turn himself into a wolf, almost, and begin his challenge on all fours?”

  There were nods of amazement.

  “What have you to do with this man?” asked their leader.

  “I am his helper,” Odin shouted dramatically. “So is this other, the Fire Hair, here.” He pointed to Svenson. “He carries fire for our holy man.”

  There was a pause, and finally the Skraeling leader answered.

  “I do not believe you. We only let him live on account of the spirit. Maybe we will kill him when it quiets down.”

  “Go ahead, if you want to take the risk,” Odin shrugged. “But, to loose such a dangerous spirit … ah, you must be as crazy as he is!”

  Again, nervous laughter.

  “Look,” Odin continued, “we all know how dangerous are the spirits that possess madmen. I am safe up here, but you would not expose yourself to this one by killing the body where it lives.”

  The looks below said that the Skraelings respected this line of reasoning, and Odin pushed on.

  “You have no idea of this man’s powers. We have seen him change the color of stones just by holding them in his hands. And Fire Hair, by the powers of his leader, can start a fire without even any rubbing-sticks.”

  There was a snort of derision, but most of those below seemed to take the whole thing quite seriously.

  “What is happening?” asked the confused Svenson.

  “I will tell you later. Do nothing until I ask it, and then do what I ask. You have your fire-maker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it ready.”

  He turned again to speak to those below.

  “We will come down now,” he said confidently, “but by the trail. We cannot fly like our holy man.”

  The Skraelings below nodded in acceptance, and the two gathered the cast-aside clothing of their comrade and made their way down the narrow path to the grassy slope below. The others kept their distance.

  “It is good,” said Odin, “that you did not try to harm him. I shudder to think what he might have done to you.”

  The leader of the Skraelings was staring, and now spoke.

  “I … I know you!” he said. “You were our prisoner…the eye…you escaped!”

  “Yes,” Odin answered casually, “that is true. I have decided to forgive you for that.”

  An expression of rage came across the face of the other.

  “You forgive us? Why should we not kill you right now?”

  “If you think you want the risk. But I forget. …You have not yet seen the powers of my leader here. I am under his protection, and so is Fire Hair. He even changed my name! I am Odin, father of the gods!”

  Odin felt that he was making an impression, but that he needed an example of some sort. This could still go either way.

  “Let me dress White Wolf, the holy man,” he suggested. “Sometimes he is dangerous for a little while after one of these spirit-visits. You have seen him act like a madman.”

  There were vigorous nods of agreement. Odin stepped very cautiously toward where the naked man stood. Nils stared numbly, exhausted from his strenuous effort.

  “Here, Thorsson,” Odin said gently. “Put on your clothes. You may have saved us. Now move very slowly…here, let me take your
long knife.”

  He took the sword, though Nils held it tightly for a little while, not wanting to give it up.

  “I will hold it for you, Thorsson, it is good,” Odin continued. “Here, your shirt…” He turned to the leader of the Skraelings. “I need some water for the holy man,” he said with authority. “He is always thirsty after one of these ceremonies.”

  The leader nodded and sent a man for a waterskin. Odin was pleased.

  “It is good,” he told Nils again.

  “What? What happened, here?” asked Nils, bewildered.

  “Yes, what?” Svenson added, still gripping his ax tightly.

  “They think Thorsson is a holy man,” Odin related quickly. “We are his helpers, so act so. I will tell you what we must do, and tell more later. Thorsson, are you all right?”

  “I think so … a little dizzy…tired.”

  “You can rest soon. We need one ceremony. Can you show them the sun-stone?”

  “Where is it?” asked Nils.

  “I have it here. When I hand it to you, do the thing to make it blue.”

  The warrior returned with a waterskin, and Odin ceremoniously handed it to Nils. Nils sipped slowly, cautioned by Odin.

  “It will hurt your stomach to drink too fast, Thorsson.”

  “It is good,” Nils mumbled.

  “The holy man says his helpers must have some, too,” proclaimed Odin, taking the skin when Nils had finished. He sipped and handed it to Svenson.

  “Now, after the White Wolf ceremony he likes to sleep a little, it takes much out of him. But he will give you a small demonstration of his power before he takes rest.”

  He took the leather pouch and made a ceremony of opening its drawstrings to slide the sun-stone into his palm. Then he handed it to Nils.

  “Hold it high, Thorsson, so all can see,” he suggested. Then he resumed the tongue of the Skraelings. “As you can see, this is a thin gray stone,” he narrated. “Now watch it closely.”