Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  He recalled that not too long ago, he had thought of the one-eyed Odin as an ignorant savage. It was embarrassing now to realize how wrong that had been. Odin was probably as clever as any man he had ever known. Was it possible, then, that he had misjudged the entire situation? Was this simply a different civilization than his own?

  No, he was not ready for that. Nils shrugged the notion aside. These were pitifully primitive people, without even a written language. His own modern culture, by contrast, boasted the skills of navigation, development of the swift and maneuverable longships, scientific discoveries like the solar-stein. Not to mention the cultural advances, poetry, literature. Not only one runic system, but two, the old and new alphabets. This made him think of his grandfather and of the evenings by the fire. He had loved the riddles, puzzles, and conundrums made possible by the two sets of runes.

  No, that was far above the level that could be achieved by these simple people. Nils shoved the subject aside in his mind’s furthest reaches, burying it with other forgotten or outgrown ideas. Still, he reflected, it would have been interesting … He would have liked for his grandfather to be allowed the opportunity to meet Odin.

  There was one other thing that Nils observed just prior to the day of the hunt. It seemed inconsequential at the time.

  He had been practicing with the bow, and had stopped when his fingertips began to protest. As he walked back toward the lodge, he encountered Svenson, who was seated in the afternoon sun, carving on a wooden stick. Sven was constantly whittling or carving. It was a way to pass long days at sea, the old sailor had explained. His artistry was much admired by Odin’s people, and especially by the children to whom he gave simple carved toys.

  The creation in his hands, however, was something different. It was not ornate, merely a smooth stick of hardwood with rows of notches. Nils now recalled that he had seen it before. It had not had nearly so many notches. But that had been some time ago. Why hadn’t Svenson finished it, whatever it was?

  “What are you making, Sven?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, nothing. A calendar.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A habit, Nils. At sea, it is hard to keep count of days. There is the ship’s log, of course, but for myself … I used to…Well, look. Each of these little notches is a day, then the deeper ones are Sundays. Today is late October, about the twenty-third.”

  “You have kept count?”

  “Well, yes. Not really, at first. I may be a day or two off. I just thought it would be a good idea to keep count. I tried to guess as near as I could when I started.”

  “But that was back in the other village?”

  “Yes. I thought—”

  “A good idea, Sven. I should have thought of it myself.”

  It was somewhat embarrassing. Nils, as leader of the expedition, should have been thinking of such a thing. He would want an accurate estimate of the time elapsed in each phase of their travels and adventures.

  “It is good, Sven. Please continue this. It will help when we tell our story back home.”

  Svenson nodded. Nils felt that the sailor did not completely understand how important such a record might be, later.

  Or, maybe he did. Nils himself had not even thought of it. What a leader…

  • • •

  By comparison to all that the Norsemen had learned about the People and their weapons, the hunt itself was almost an anticlimax. There was not much organization about it. The scouts had been observing a band of about a dozen deer. The animals were, in their customary way, preparing for winter by gathering in a loose herd. They established territorial claim to a strip of dense brush and timber in a sheltered gully. It was, Nils noted, much like the behavior of the deer in the forests of his faraway homeland.

  The plan, such as it was, would space hunters around the edges of the little valley, advancing toward the middle.

  “Be careful not to shoot anyone,” cautioned Odin.

  It was a moment or two before Nils realized that this was a joke. A half-serious joke, to be sure, a way of reminding themselves and each other that there was danger in the hunt. The responsibility was not to be taken lightly.

  Nils found himself, shortly after daylight, stepping quietly with the other hunters, moving into position. The air was crisp, and a warm mist hung over the river and layered like fog among the trees. His hands trembled a little, not entirely from the chill of the autumn dawn. The excitement of the hunt made his heart beat faster.

  A long whistle, like the scream of a hawk, drifted across the valley as a signal, and the hunters moved forward. Odin was on Nils’s left, and Svenson beyond. Sven had decided not to attempt the use of the bow. His progress with that weapon still left something to be desired. The old sailor gripped a spear. Nils smiled to himself at the incongruity of the red-haired Svenson, dressed in rough native skins and carrying a primitive stone-tipped weapon. Sven would have been more comfortable with an ax, probably, but a broadax is hardly suitable for hunting deer.

  Nils glanced to his right, making certain that he was keeping in line with the others. His eye caught that of the nearest hunter. The other man acknowledged the glance with a nod and a nervous smile.

  Ahead of them, some large creature moved noisily through the underbrush. Nils caught a glimpse of a tawny form, but it was gone before he could raise his bow. There was a distant shout, and then suddenly a frightened doe burst out of the brush, leaped between Sven and Odin, and was gone. No one had been able to release a shot.

  The hunters paused, and the noise of creatures running through fallen leaves came rapidly closer. Nils half raised his bow. There … a shadowy form flitted among the trees…a yearling buck, with spike antlers no larger than a man’s finger. The animal was fat from the summer’s lush feeding. It was looking back the way it had come, toward the noise of distant shouts. Nils lifted the bow, released his arrow, and missed.

  The buck seemed not to notice. Maybe … he reached for another arrow, and the animal, attracted by the motion, turned its head to look. At that instant, an arrow from the bow of Odin struck it just behind the foreleg. The deer took three long leaping jumps directly toward Nils, and then fell kicking in its death struggle.

  Other deer were crashing past between the hunters. Now the shouts were closer as the hunters from the upper end of the valley approached. Nils took a shot at a fat doe. He thought that he struck his target, but the animal turned and ran toward the hunter on Nils’s right. The man drew his bow.

  Nils’s attention was diverted by a yell of genuine alarm from somewhere in the thicket. He turned to see a dark shape crashing toward where Svenson stood seeking an opportunity to use his spear. But these cries of warning…there was something wrong here! He could not tell what. His meager understanding of the language was a great hindrance. Annoyed, he focused on the hurrying dark shape, and at last he realized the danger. A bear.

  Apparently, by sheer accident, the net as it tightened had enclosed not only the band of deer, but a wandering bear. Nils was not certain that Svenson could see what sort of danger faced him.

  “Look out, Sven!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “A bear!”

  Svenson did not even look around. Nils expected him to run, but this was not the way of the old sailor. He held his ground, and then to Nils it seemed that Svenson actually stepped to meet the creature. Surprised, the bear stopped and rose to its hind legs, as tall as a man, roaring its challenge. With a mighty shove, Sven drove his spear deep into the soft underbelly of the animal. The bear roared again and struck out at its tormentor, striking a glancing blow to Svenson’s shoulder as he tried to dodge away. Even so, he was flung like a rag doll. He rolled and rose to run, but it was unnecessary. The bear had collapsed, rolled over, and now lay kicking feebly as its eyes became vacant and began to glaze.

  37

  It was all over very quickly. Excited hunters were crowding around Svenson, who stood swaying like a tree in a high wind. His right shoulder was bleeding, and
his leather shirt was in tatters. Several long parallel cuts from the bear’s claws knifed across the smooth white skin of his shoulder and back. Sven seemed weak and confused, and a couple of hunters helped him lie down.

  Yet at the same time there was rejoicing and celebration. The hunt was good, and it was apparent that Fire Man’s injuries would not be serious. The leather shirt had given some protection, and this was only a skin wound. To people whose everyday lives are filled with violence and danger, such a wound is nothing. More important is the courage and bravery of the hunter who sustains the wound. Already there were shouts and chants of honor to be heard as word spread of the bravery of the fire-haired outsider. In time, the song of Fire Man and the Bear would become part of the legendry of the People.

  The success of White Wolf, too, was a cause for celebration. His arrow had flown true, and his quarry, after running wildly for some fifty paces, had collapsed. It was identified by the individually marked arrow. It was good that an outsider, unskilled in the use of weapons of the People, could prove himself in this way. The People rejoiced for him, and his prestige increased.

  Women were coming now to the area of the hunt, beginning to skin and butcher the harvested game. The men were assisting with the heavier work, rolling the larger animals to allow easier access to skinning and removal of the entrails. The mother and sister of Odin quickly stanched the bleeding of Svenson’s shoulder and bound it tightly, using strips from his tattered shirt. After making him more comfortable, they were joined by Hawk Woman, and turned attention to the carcass of the bear. Its fur was growing long and thick in preparation for winter. It would make a warm robe, to be worn with honor by Fire Man.

  Nils was not certain how many deer kills there were, scattered through the woods in the little valley. At least four, he thought. He could see people gathering around a fallen buck in a clearing a bow shot away. There were the two near at hand, and Odin had mentioned another kill farther up the valley. Maybe there were more.

  Since the women were occupied with skinning the bear, Nils turned his attention to the deer that had fallen to his arrow. The throat should be cut to bleed out the carcass. Odin joined him, after assisting in positioning the bear for skinning.

  “It is good, White Wolf,” he laughed. “A good hunt!”

  They began the process of butchering, and Calling Dove, sister of Odin, joined them.

  “Let me help,” she said quietly, with a shy smile.

  Though she spoke in her own tongue, her meaning was clear. Nils smiled at her, excited by her nearness. His blood was still racing from the thrill of the chase, and he found it translating in a strange way. It was an urge to celebrate the successful hunt by enfolding this desirable woman in his arms and … He stopped short. What an odd thought! The young woman turned her glance away from him, and seemed embarrassed. He wondered if his thoughts had been so obvious that she had seen…that she knew what he wanted to do. That in turn embarrassed him, and they avoided each other’s eyes.

  Odin, meanwhile, had severed the head of the deer, and propped it on the ground before him in a lifelike position. He began a half-chanting singsong in his own tongue. Nils realized that this was a ritual of some sort.

  “What are you doing?” he asked when Odin paused.

  The Skraeling looked surprised.

  “The thanks and sorrow,” he said.

  “I do not understand. This is a ceremony?” Nils asked.

  “Of course. You do not do so?”

  “I … I am not sure. What did you say? What are the words?”

  Odin thought for a moment.

  “Well, something like, We are sorry to kill you, my brothers, but we must eat your meat to live.’”

  Nils had been thinking of something like a prayer of thanksgiving. This was foreign to his experience.

  “An apology!” he blurted.

  “I do not understand,” Odin answered. “What is ‘apology?’”

  “It says I am sorry.’”

  “Yes, maybe so. It tells the deer-people why we kill them.”

  Nils was speechless at an idea so foreign to him. He remembered just now that as a child he had watched Holger, the butcher, cut the throat of a sheep. The animal’s soft gentle eyes had looked startled, then frightened for a moment as the lifeblood began to drain. It had struggled a little, then quieted, and the spark of life-spirit inside had flickered briefly. Then the eyes had become flat and dead, even as he watched. There was nothing left inside, no spirit. And he had felt sadness. Even though he knew that this represented mutton for the table, he felt sorrow. For a long time, an occasional bite of meat would seem to become larger in his mouth as he chewed, when he thought of the eyes of the dying sheep. He had told no one. It would not have been seemly. …

  He was pulled back to the present by Odin, who had asked him a question.

  “What?”

  “I said, do you not have such a custom?”

  “No … no … I am sorry, I was thinking of … of something else.”

  “Are you all right, Thorsson?”

  “Yes, of course. But you asked … no, we have nothing like that. We might say prayers in thanks when we eat.”

  “It is good,” said Odin simply.

  Nils was not certain what was “good.” The prayer of thanksgiving, or the apology to the spirit of the slain animal? He did not want to ask. But he wondered. Would he have felt better over the dying sheep if he had known of this? If he could have said, “I am sorry, but you provide food for us.” Maybe someday he could talk of this again with Odin. Maybe when he knew the tongue of the People better…

  The skinning and butchering progressed. The work was hard, but the occasion was joyful, a celebration. There were jokes and laughter and teasing of each other among the young people. Nils could not help but notice the similarity to the festivities of the marketplace at a harvest day celebration. There was everything but the dancing in the streets. But probably that, too, he thought. These natives seemed to celebrate everything with ceremonial dance.

  A young man carrying a haunch of venison paused in flirtatious conversation with Calling Dove, and Nils felt his hackles rise. The excitement of the hunt had stimulated him in a romantic way, and must do so to others too. His resentment of the young man rose as Dove smiled and answered his good-natured banter. The youth moved on toward the village, and Calling Dove glanced at Nils.

  “What is it, White Wolf? You look angry!” There was concern in her face.

  Even his meager knowledge of the tongue of the People let him understand this. Yet how should he answer? He wished that he could tell her how he felt, wished to shout, No! You must not flirt with the young men. You are mine! He realized how ridiculous such a thing would be. He did not even have the ability to put together such a tirade in the People’s language, much less the right to do so. He felt very foolish.

  “I…” he mumbled. “Nothing. It is nothing.”

  She looked at him, puzzled and a little sad, he thought, before she turned back to her work. There was something left dangling unsaid between them, an uncomfortable feeling that there was more. Dove glanced up and their eyes met again. Both started to speak at once, then they laughed together.

  “You first,” he indicated clumsily.

  The girl looked him full in the face, searching for words. When she did speak, it was slowly and deliberately, so that he would be sure to grasp her meaning.

  “White Wolf, the man is a friend. Nothing more … do you understand?”

  There was a sympathetic smile on her lips, an entreating look in her eyes. His heart soared like an eagle.

  “It is good!” he said.

  And it was good. Unfortunately, he had very little idea how to push his advantage now. He looked over to where Odin was skinning his own kill, and saw that the other had been aware of the entire episode. Odin was chuckling in amusement. This irritated Nils. Why would a friend treat him so?

  Damn! He must learn more of the courtship customs of the People. Nils
was pleased for Odin’s good fortune in his reunion with a childhood sweetheart, but there is a limit to the happiness that one may have for someone else. He must approach Odin directly as soon as possible, and demand an answer to some of his pressing questions. How does one go about a courtship?

  Maybe today he could make an opportunity. Yes, he would do just that. As soon as the bulk of the immediate work, the heavy part of the butchering, was in hand, he would approach Odin and demand a conversation.

  With the reassurance of this decision, Nils was able to make himself useful. He helped to position the animal for cutting up into more manageable chunks. He carried a haunch back to hang it in a shady spot near the lodge, and returned for another. He paused to talk with Svenson, who appeared to be feeling somewhat better. At least, his color was returning.

  It was past midday before the last of the meat and the hides were transported to the village. Now the task of slicing, drying, and curing by smoke was beginning. He could finally seek out Odin for answers to his pressing questions.

  He encountered his friend as Odin returned from the scene of the hunt with the skin of the great black bear on his shoulders. He was breathing hard from the heavy load.

  “Ah!” grunted Odin, swinging his burden to the ground. “There is nothing as hard to handle as a fresh bearskin, no?”

  Nils had little experience with fresh bearskins, but it was easy to see the difficulty. The hide was thick with its layer of prewinter fat. In addition, it was shapeless and slippery, sliding out of one’s grasp, as hard to manage as a large fish. There are no handles. It would be the same with the fresh skin of any large animal.

  The women began to spread and stretch the bearskin on a grassy spot, preparing to peg it out for scraping and dressing.

  “Odin,” said Nils, “I would talk with you of something.”

  “It is good,” agreed Odin. “Let us walk.”

  They strolled out from among the lodges and toward the river.

  Nils spoke, nervously.