Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  This same mixture of respect, curiosity, and a little fear and dread extended also to the Norsemen. They held the other side of the mutual distrust. It is always so when those of widely different customs meet for social interchange. We know what our own culture would produce, but are unsure of the other. In this short stay, it had not really been possible to progress beyond that point. And, it must be noted, without the presence of the one-eyed Odin, who knew something of both these cultures, it would not have been possible at all.

  Even so, it was with an underlying sense of distrust on both sides that the parting took place. Flying Squirrel spoke in a dignified manner of the honor that had been his to host the stay of such an important holy man. And, of course, his important assistants, the one who makes fire and the one who understands the needs of the great White Wolf. (Let there be no misunderstanding, nothing to offend these outsiders as they left.)

  By the same token, after translation by Odin, White Wolf gave an answering speech. It will never be known exactly how much of each side of this exchange was subject to editorial alteration by the interpreter. But is it not always so? Those who translate bear an awesome burden. Apparently, however, in this case the general tone was correctly exchanged, and understanding reached. The essence of the message was probably identical on both sides: I do not really trust you, but I fear you a little, so I do not wish to offend you. I will thank you for the good we have exchanged and be pleased to part company with no further harm.

  Translated into more diplomatic phrasing, the speeches became, to all appearances, a congenial exchange of admiration and respect. And it was good.

  There was one more thing. Flying Squirrel requested it with hesitation. In a way, he hated to give up all of the reflected glory.

  “Would you ask your holy man,” he requested, “if he would change the color of the stone for us again?”

  Odin seemed to consider.

  “It is not a thing to do lightly and without reason,” he reprimanded gently. “But I will ask him. He may see fit to do so, in honor of this occasion. It might be good.”

  There were those who had not seen this striking ceremony before, and the gasps of amazement were quite gratifying as the sun-stone turned slowly from gray to blue, with the rotation in Thorsson’s hand. That, too, was good.

  The three men stepped into the boat and willing hands assisted in the shove away from the bank.

  By the hammer of Thor, thought Nils Thorsson, I am glad to be out of there!

  On shore, as the Skraelings watched the boat move up the broad river, there were many whose thoughts were remarkably similar. There was almost a unified sigh of relief. The people were pleased that no harm had come to them through the stay of the powerful holy man. Theirs was a good leader, they told each other. Flying Squirrel had managed the whole thing well, and without harm to any.

  His wives, of course, were pleased. They hummed cheerfully as they turned back to their routine tasks.

  “It is good,” said the youngest of the wives to the others. “We have three fewer mouths to feed!”

  She received a sharp glance from the first wife, but a smile and a nod from the middle one.

  “It is best not to speak of it,” that one said. “It would not do to offend. …”

  “But they are only people.”

  “Are they? We only saw them around the lodge. You were not there, little sister, when he changed himself into a white wolf!”

  Privately, Flying Squirrel was thinking thoughts that would have indicated great relief.

  They are gone! Now we can return to our ways.

  Things would never be the same, of course. They had met a powerful invader, with great boats and fearsome warriors using unknown weapons. And they had been able to destroy the invader! Apparently there had been only these survivors. Two, actually, because one was a member of a neighboring tribe. That one … ah, a clever fellow!

  It was a great honor that he, Flying Squirrel, had been the leader of the war party that had captured White Wolf. It was an honor to have been the host of the three. It had also been an awesome responsibility, and he was glad it was now over. He had gained in prestige, and the honor would last for a generation. It had turned out well, but a great load seemed lifted from his shoulders as the boat grew smaller in the distance. It is good, he thought.

  And in the boat, Odin plied his paddle with true pleasure. He could hardly believe that it had come out so well

  His quick decision on the ledge at the time of their capture had been a desperate thing. When he had seen the war party hesitate and draw back, he had realized their dilemma, and had been able to take advantage of it. And it had worked! So well, in fact, that now he half believed that he himself had seen the transformation into a white wolf.

  Since that time, everything had seemed to fall into place. Odin was beginning to think, in fact, that there are no coincidences.

  Since he first met this Norseman, he now recalled, many strange things had happened to him, mostly to the good. There had been times when things seemed bad, but turned out well. Only a few moons ago he had considered that his situation was hopeless. Well, not quite. He had never really given up hope. But then came this Thorsson, who had talked to him as one would to another man. He was glad that he had hidden in Thorsson’s ship, though there had been times when that had seemed a mistake that bordered on sheer madness. But since then, good things had happened, even when the situation appeared the worst. It would never do to expect such things, but now he began to wonder. Maybe, he thought, just maybe this White Wolf is really a holy man. He is thoughtful, and modest, and does not misuse his gifts. Even when he was a leader, he did not misuse that power, as the other one did, the one who died. Did that one, the Landsverk, die because of his ways? It was a thing to wonder.

  Meanwhile, the paddles dipped rhythmically, and the boat moved on upstream. Odin watched the little streams of water flow quickly from the tip of Svenson’s paddle in front of him. The Norsemen were quickly learning the use of the boat. He was glad that Flying Squirrel had offered a canoe, rather than the round skin craft. It was more difficult to build, and so represented a greater gift. Its long, narrow shape, however, was much better for a major trip than the other type. His companions had seemed pleased with the canoe, of course. It was much more like the shape of their longships, and familiarity gives a feeling of security.

  He had been amused that at first the Norsemen had wanted to sit facing backward. That was still hard to understand. But they quickly learned the new technique, and were doing quite well with their share of the paddling. They would travel well today.

  Odin was not certain how many days it might take to reach the village of his people. He could watch for landmarks later. But it had been a long time. Three, no, four seasons ago. Five, next spring! He wondered about his parents, about his sister, just younger than he. She would be a woman now. And his older brother, who had just married before the attack that had cost Odin his freedom.

  There was a girl, too, the friend of his childhood. They had talked of marriage. Hawk Woman…how beautiful she had been! He wondered how life had treated her. Ah, it was no use to wonder now. A woman as desirable as that one would be someone’s wife by now. Probably have children … He dug his paddle into the water so vigorously that the canoe rocked and nosed out toward the center of the stream.

  Careful, he told himself. Give attention to what you are doing. A deft stroke or two steadied the craft and straightened her course. First things first, he thought. At least, I am going home!

  Odin’s mood might have been more somber if he had been watching the shore. Behind a dark leafy screen in a little cove, a woman peered through the leaves to watch their canoe pass. Her face darkened with hate at the sight of the men who to her represented her son’s death. There was no way, she vowed, that she would permit them to escape vengeance. She had been prevented from exacting physical retribution on them. That was as well, perhaps. It was dangerous to release the spirit that dwelt in
a madman. But now she had a plan.

  Before dawn, she had crept quietly out of the village and launched her little skin boat, unseen. She might be carrying a few years, but she could still handle a boat. Had been quite good at it in her youth, actually. She traveled upstream for nearly a half day, and then drew ashore to hide the boat and wait. The canoe, with three paddlers, would travel faster than she, and she had no desire to be overtaken by them.

  Her timing was good. She had barely settled herself to watch when the canoe came in sight. She touched her knife to reassure herself, and watched them pass. It was unfair, she thought for the hundredth time, that Flying Squirrel had prevented her vengeance. But now…her plan would succeed. It was based on avoiding close contact with the escaping spirit of White Wolf as he died. Avoiding all physical contact, in fact. It was not as good as it would have been to see the anguish in his face as she slashed away his manhood, of course. But less dangerous.

  The canoe was out of sight now, and she carefully slid her boat back into the water. Hugging the shore, she followed their course, careful not to overlook the fact that they might stop to rest. She did not want to blunder onto them accidentally.

  She tried to guess when they would stop for the night, halting to wait until they established camp. Then, as soon as it was dark, she moved on, slowly and carefully, searching for the smell of smoke or the glow of a campfire.

  Ah! There … a flicker of light through the trees along the shore. She moved very slowly, urging the shell of her little boat against the bank. Only a little way up on the sand, for dragging a boat could be noisy. Now she hurried on to the upturned canoe, drawing her knife as she went. It had been a stroke of wisdom, she thought, this plan of hers. It would not require her to expose herself to the danger of the wandering spirit of madness. There would be no direct contact at all. She would only make tiny holes in the bark skin of the canoe. When they discovered the damage, it would be too late. She would be far away, and they would drown in the chill waters of the river. At least, she hoped so. Especially their light-haired leader. She hated everything about him, his light hair and skin, disgusting and pink. …This would be her revenge for the loss of her son. They might call her crazy, but no one else could devise a plan like this one, could they? She smiled in the darkness.

  Suddenly she paused. Was there a noise? No, the sleepers were quiet, only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness of the clearing a few steps away. She almost returned to her task. She had made only two small slits in the canoe’s shell, and another partway through. Such small holes would not be noticed. Wait! The sound again … from the river!

  She stepped back toward her boat, which had been partly in the water, partly out. Ah, that was it. The craft was sliding farther into the water, making a soft noise on the sand as the little waves rocked it. She would drag it up a little way.

  Just then a slightly higher ripple lifted the boat free and it curled out away from shore, turning slowly. The woman waded into the water to her waist, reaching for the boat. There must have been a hole in the river’s bed, because she missed her footing and fell, her head going completely under water. She came up sputtering, still not particularly alarmed except for the noise she had made. The boat was drifting, an arm’s length away, and she swam after it. She was a good swimmer.

  But the boat was now moving into the current, elusive and just out of her grasp. A little more effort, another stroke or two…She was tiring now. Her arms and legs were stiff already from the unaccustomed exercise with the paddle all through the day. Now they failed to respond. She no longer had the resiliency of youth. The boat was farther from her now than when she had entered the water. She turned back toward the shore, to save herself. Let the boat go!

  The shore was surprisingly far away. The deceptive current at this gentle bend of the shore had carried not only the boat, but the woman, too, well out into the stream. She struck out, swimming more weakly now. She could no longer raise her arms far enough for an efficient stroke. Then, it became too hard even to try. She relaxed, resigned to her fate. She had been guilty of poor judgment. The power of White Wolf’s gifts as a holy man was greater than she had thought. He had won, after all. These were her last thoughts as the water closed over her head like a pall, and there was darkness.

  26

  It had been a new experience to learn the use of the canoe. As a boatman since childhood, Nils expected to adapt quickly to a new craft. He found, however, that this was far different. The thin shell of the bark canoe behaved unlike any boat he had ever seen. Its responsiveness, the way it moved under the stroke of the paddle, its sliding motion across the surface, were all a new experience. Along with the sensitive response of the craft came the inevitable disadvantage, however. It was also sensitive in balance. Any motion on the part of one of the passengers was magnified quickly. A casual shift in the weight of the canoe’s contents instantly produced an alarming instability, a rocking of the boat that seemed out of all proportion. The natural tendency on the part of one experienced on the water was to shift his weight to correct the list. With the canoe, however, it was easy to overcorrect, producing an even more remarkable amount of sway. Once, Nils was certain that they would capsize the craft. There was actually a splash of water that poured over the side of the canoe to slosh around the bottom.

  Nils was embarrassed by his ineptness in becoming familiar with the canoe. He felt somewhat better when it became apparent that Svenson, even with all his years of experience, was no better at it. There was simply an indescribable feel to the craft, one that must be experienced in its own right. It was quickly apparent that the very responsiveness of the canoe would make it fast and maneuverable. The two Norsemen had discussed this around the fire on the first evening.

  “It is like a longship, Nils,” Sven observed, “quick and fast. Their little round boats behave like a knarr while this is like a dragon ship.”

  Nils nodded. He could see the similarities that the steersman had quickly observed, now that Sven pointed them out. The shallow draft of the canoe, the way it rode on top of the water instead of in it, was like the longship. The squat, ugly knarr, with its cargo deck deep below the waterline, was slow and cumbersome by comparison. The two ships were for different purposes, the one for speed and mobility, the other for moving large quantities of freight, people, and livestock. And so it was with the small boats of the Skraelings.

  “That is true,” Odin said of the observations by Svenson, “and their spirit is different.”

  “Their spirit?” Nils asked. He was surprised that their companion understood the discussion of the types of ships. But now that he thought of it, he should have expected this. Odin was quite proficient in their Norse tongue. He had also been with the colony for some time. A boatman in his own right, the Skraeling had probably spent many afternoons watching ships maneuver in the harbor at Straumfjord. Of course he would have understood the variables involved. But this thing of different spirits?

  “How do you mean, their spirits, Odin?”

  Odin answered with his characteristic shrug.

  “Each has its own,” he explained. “The canoe has a quick spirit, the round boat a slow one.”

  Yes, that is true, thought Nils. I never thought of it that way.

  “And each boat has its own spirit, too,” Odin went on.

  For a moment, Nils thought that Odin was referring to each type of boat. But no, the realization came quickly. Each individual boat … a different spirit! He thought of the Norsemaiden and the Snowbird, so similar and yet so different. Different spirits! Did this Skraeling understand that much about the handling properties of those two ships, both now gone to their watery graves? He shook his head to clear it. He knew that Odin was a highly intelligent man, but after all, things of that sort were beyond the understanding of most.

  But Odin was injecting yet another idea, an extension of the concept of spirit as applied to boats.

  “A canoe knows when a learner tries to use it,” he obser
ved.

  “What?” asked Svenson.

  “It knows. It tries him at first.”

  Ridiculous, thought Nils.

  Then he thought again. The first time he had stepped into the canoe, his balance was not right. The craft had wiggled like a living thing, he could feel it vibrate from bow to stern, a tremulous wobble that was all he could do to stabilize. He had finally achieved stability, and…yes, he could see the simile … a living spirit.

  “When you feel its spirit, it understands,” Odin was explaining offhandedly, there at the campfire. “Then it becomes easier.”

  It was a reasonable, if simple way of looking at the situation.

  “You have done well today,” Odin went on, “and the canoe knows.”

  It was odd, sitting here at a campfire in the wilderness, Nils reflected. The odd part was that he was so pleased by this expression of approval. It made him proud, to be the recipient of a compliment from the Skraeling…from a savage! Somehow, it seemed quite logical, though in another way, it was not logical at all. Helge Landsverk would never have understood it at all, Nils reflected. Poor Helge … he had come so close, and had missed the mark so widely! What had it been? Nils wondered as he stared into the glowing coals. He and Helge had once been very close, much alike in their youth. At least, he had thought so. Yet, by the time of his friend’s tragic death, there were many differences between them. How did he know now that Helge would never have understood the thing of the spirit that Odin had mentioned?