Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  “And what is that to any of us?” he asked. “These men are of the People. They have joined us, married with women of the People. They helped in the defense. We are honored to have such holy men among us.”

  There were nods of agreement.

  “Maybe they envy us,” Tree went on.

  “But if these outsiders were not here, maybe we would not have been attacked,” shouted an angry man.

  He was hooted down immediately, but Nils rose to speak.

  “My brothers,” he said, “if we are a danger to the People, Fire Man and White Wolf will leave!”

  Shouts of protest rose. It was obvious that most of the People believed that the advantages of the Norsemen’s presence outweighed any dangers. After all, here were two experienced fighting men, who had been a valuable addition to the defense only yesterday. There were still, however, a few who seemed unconvinced.

  “But would we have been attacked without them here?” the angry man persisted.

  “Maybe not,” Big Tree said calmly. “We will know more when our runner returns. If the other town was bypassed, then White Wolf and Fire Man must have been the Enemy’s target.”

  There was a shout from outside. “The runner comes!” said a man in the doorway.

  “It is good!” said Big Tree. “I hoped for this.”

  The exhausted runner slipped inside, breathing heavily. There was not a sound while the crowd waited.

  “The town…” He panted. “Was not attacked!”

  There was an uneasy exchange of glances around the lodge. If the Enemy had bypassed a closer village to attack this one, it must be that the suggested theory was correct. The attack must have been aimed at saving face by searching out the last of the Norsemen. This was the murmur that traveled like lightning through the crowd. Big Tree held up a hand, and the murmuring grew quiet.

  “Then what shall be done?” he asked.

  Undoubtedly there were those who would have comfortably solved the dilemma by casting out the Norsemen. They were silent, however. The tide of opinion seemed to flow against the use of that solution. Besides, few would dare to challenge the power of White Wolf’s gift. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a few moments. Then Clay, the aging holy man, cleared his throat to speak. In a way, it was a relief of tension that anyone would break the uneasy stillness. That it would be this respected elder of the People was doubly good.

  “No one has noticed,” Clay said solemnly, “that it may have been our brother Walking Bird, now called Odin, that they sought.”

  There was a startled exclamation or two, followed by a muttering that quieted as he continued.

  “Think about it, my friends. This man of the People has defied them for many seasons. They captured and tortured him, took his eye. He escaped, and made them look foolish. Then, with the help of the powers of White Wolf and Fire Man, he did it again!”

  There were chuckles now, and a sense of pride and accomplishment. Odin marveled at the old man’s skill in dealing with people. He was overcoming some of the insecurity, fear, and dread of the Downstream Enemy by poking fun at them. And in a serious, even a solemn way.

  “It probably does not matter,” Clay continued. “They do seek a vengeance against us, this town of the People. Whether against our brother Odin or our new brothers, does not matter much. They will come again, and will be angrier because they have been shamed.”

  Clay settled back as if he had finished talking.

  “So, what do you suggest, Uncle?” someone asked.

  Clay shrugged. “That is for us to decide in council. I do not know. But we must choose what we want to do. …Prepare to fight to defend ourselves, or prepare to go somewhere else.”

  Odin smiled to himself. He wondered if Clay and Big Tree had discussed all of this previously and had already reached a decision. It was possible that Clay was acting a role, forcing the People to think. Odin had already come to a conclusion, one that would shake the world of the People to its very core. It was a decision, though, that must not be suggested by anyone directly connected with the source of the problem. That eliminated himself, the newcomers, and their families and friends. Maybe even the storytellers, though Singing Moose was not likely to suggest ideas anyway. The storyteller’s function was to retell and inform, not to suggest innovation.

  Odin waited for someone to speak, and a man rose, hesitantly.

  “Did not the People once have a wall of logs or posts around the village to defend it?”

  There were murmurs and nods.

  “We could do that again,” he suggested. “Cut trees, build a wall.”

  Now there was a mixture of nods and hoots of derision as the man sat down.

  “Yes,” said Big Tree. “It would be hard work.”

  “But we must defend ourselves,” someone called.

  “Of course. But there is much work this season already,” said another. “Two of the lodges are old, and need rebuilding. Another burned yesterday. Could we cut enough trees before the Enemy comes back?”

  Odin happened to be watching the face of Big Tree at the moment, and saw a fleeting expression of pleasure. Now he was certain. This man, too, had been speaking a part, playing a role in the decision that seemed the logical one to Odin. If it had been planned in advance, as he suspected, it was going well.

  “That is true,” Big Tree was saying now, “but what else can we do? Move somewhere else?”

  “It is easier to build new lodges than to repair old ones,” someone noted.

  “But where?”

  Now the air was filled with comments, questions, and discussion.

  “Here!”

  “No, a safer place.”

  “Huh! Where would that be?”

  Yes, thought Odin, I was right. It has been planned. And very skillfully, too. By the time the voting came, everyone would think that the move was his own idea. Big Tree was certainly a more capable leader than Odin remembered. Or maybe he, Odin, had merely grown in understanding.

  Whatever…tonight or tomorrow the People would vote to move their village, and that was probably good. He was uneasy, though, about the reaction of the Norsemen, the adopted brothers of the People. As he saw it, any logical move would take them farther from what they wished, a return to their own people.

  But that, too, was good. At least, if he could prevent their becoming too upset about it.

  45

  It was with something of a shock that Nils realized what was happening. The matter under discussion was whether the People should move or not. A move was probably a good idea, it seemed as he listened to the discussion.

  Sometimes the more complicated arguments were difficult for him to follow. Eventually he began to realize fully the significance of the direction in which public opinion was moving. They were not talking about a move to another site for rebuilding the town. This would be a move to another area. It did not take him long to realize that the People would not choose to move closer to the enemy. Any move would be away from this threat. And farther, of course, from the colony at Straumfjord, and passage home.

  He had struggled with the necessity to stay with the People for a time because of Dove’s pregnancy. He had come to peace with that, convincing himself that it was temporary. But a move such as that which was being discussed was something else. This presented a threat. It was not merely a postponement of any return home, but a long-term impediment. His main concern revolved around one question: Where would such a proposed new location be?

  Everyone seemed a bit vague about it. It was not a matter of a reluctance to discuss the plan. Rather, it seemed to be that even in a decision of this importance the People saw no urgency. It was a part of their approach to the world, their lack of dependence on time.

  “It is not time to think of that yet,” Odin had told him.

  Nevertheless it was frustrating to Nils. More so than to Svenson. Sven had adjusted more easily because of long days and weeks at sea, Nils decided. The old sailor seemed to feel no more
urgency than Red Fawn did, or Odin, or any of the others.

  Nils sighed deeply, and toyed with the knife in his hand. It was a good weapon, a Norseman’s belt knife that had been carried by one of the attacking Enemy. The first man, the one who had met the point of Nils’s sword … It was heavy, well balanced, of good steel, and still held an edge. He was pleased to have acquired such a knife, because he had none since their disastrous defeat last season. Its blade was as long as a hand’s span, and its hilt felt good in his grip.

  He wondered about the Norseman who had worn it. All the way from Stadt he had carried the knife, only to lose it and his life on an uncharted river in a violent land. Had there been any meaning in the life of that nameless sailor? Or in his own? Nevertheless, the knife was somehow reassuring, a tie with home, so far away.

  The council had adjourned without a decision the night before. Delegates were coming from the other towns to take part in the discussion. There was still a possibility, it seemed, that the People would go to war. It appeared unlikely, though, Nils thought. The idea had been all but rejected last night in favor of a move of some sort. Surely delegates from towns not involved in the violence would not choose a warlike position.

  That in turn lent credibility to the idea that a move was imminent. Such a decision was unsettling, to say the least. It was even more so, however, when Nils realized the significance of participation by delegates from other towns. These people were not thinking in terms of a short distance, but a major relocation. He sought out Odin, only to find his friend rather uncommunicative.

  “Who knows?” Odin shrugged.

  “But, Odin, the people from the other towns…will they move, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe they will leave their towns?”

  “That is for them to decide.”

  “Odin, you think the People will decide to move, no?”

  “Maybe so.” The answer was cautious.

  “So…” Nils decided to try another tack. “How far?”

  “How far what?”

  “The move” Nils snapped irritably. “How far will we move?”

  Odin suppressed a look of surprise.

  “Oh. I do not know.”

  “And the other towns? Could we join one of them?”

  “Maybe,” Odin said carefully. “Thorsson, that is why they come to the council. I do not know.”

  Somehow, Nils felt very strongly that Odin knew much more than he was willing to say. Maybe it would help to talk to Svenson, but he could not find Svenson. Fire Man was somewhere with Red Fawn, it seemed, talking with some of the people who were arriving from the other towns.

  It was evening before those for whom they waited were fully assembled. The newcomers were openly curious about the Norsemen, leading Nils to wonder what they had been told. A few of the visitors had been here before, and would have described the adopted warriors who had joined Big Tree’s band.

  “Yet they see, even though their eyes are blue?” he heard a woman ask her companion.

  “Yes, it seems so.”

  “And they have the hair of the old?”

  “This one, yes. You have not seen the hair of the other. It is like a flame. He is called Fire Man.”

  “Because of the hair?”

  “Partly, maybe. But he can also shoot flames from his fingers, I am told.”

  “Aiee! They must be very powerful!”

  “It seems so.”

  The two moved on, and Nils relaxed. It had been a strange experience. The two from one of the other towns had carried on a conversation about him as if he were not there. It had been very uncomfortable, to hear and understand, yet pretend that he did not. He was not certain why he had done that. Out of embarrassment for the strangers, maybe. It was happening before he realized it, and then what could he say? I understand what you are saying about me? It had been easier to appear ignorant of the content of their conversation.

  He was amused by some of the remarks that day about the hairy faces of the Norsemen. The People seemed to have very little facial hair. The Norsemen had thought at first that Skraelings had none at all. Later, it became apparent that the People did indeed have sparse growth on their faces, but that it was plucked periodically, as one plucks a goose. He and Svenson had discussed that. Nils had actually considered the procedure, and denuded a patch on one cheek. Sven, laughing, refused even to try it. His beard was much heavier than that of Nils, and the task looked too imposing.

  “Besides, am I not Fire Man?” Sven joked, fluffing his luxuriant bush proudly.

  In the end, both had decided that it was far easier to let nature take her course. The People were now quite accustomed to their full beards, except for newcomers who now came from the other towns to the council.

  Tension and excitement increased as the time neared. If it had seemed crowded in the lodge before, it was doubly so now. It became necessary to exclude some of the children, not because they should be denied the council, but because there was no room. Seats were needed for the delegates.

  It was a strange council all around, Odin noted. In his lifetime, there had never been such a council, one at which the air was so thick with the enormity of the decisions that were to be made. Maybe, he thought, maybe it is only that I now see the importance. But no, that was not it. There had never been a decision so important.

  The crowd quieted, the pipe circulated, and the discussion began. Visiting headmen made brief speeches pledging unity. No one seemed to want to approach the major issue that all now realized as the decisive question. Finally it was broached by one of the visitors.

  “We have heard,” said Black Squirrel, “that you are thinking of a move.”

  It would have been possible to hear the falling of a breath-feather, so still was the big lodge. Big Tree waited a little while to answer.

  “That is true,” he said finally. “We are made to think that the Downstream Enemy will come again. We need to build three lodges anyway, so it is this: Where shall they be built?”

  “You would be welcome to join us,” said Spotted Hawk, headman of the other town, “but I am made to think that is too many. We would all have to go too far in the hunt.”

  There were nods of agreement. Too large a band required more food than could be hunted or grown in a reasonably sized area. Hunters would have to range too far for their own safety.

  “That is as we have thought,” agreed Big Tree. “But the three clans of the People must not lose each other.”

  “That, too, is true,” agreed Black Squirrel. “But, let us say what we are all thinking. If you move, Big Tree, then we should all follow you.”

  “No, no!” insisted Big Tree. “I do not ask that your clan follow me. It is only that the People stay together. We must, because alone, we are weak. Whatever we decide, we must stay together. Close, but not too close.”

  “How is this, Uncle?” asked a young man, using the traditional term of respect for an older male.

  “It is this way,” explained Big Tree. “We cannot just start. When the time comes to plant corn, we must be where we can plant. Then we must stay there until after harvest, and then decide where we winter. We must have time to build lodges for winter.”

  Odin watched the headman closely. He has thought of this for a long time, he realized. Before the attack, maybe.

  That led Odin into an entirely new area of thought. Already, he had decided that a major move would be good for the People. The People were largely peaceable and nonviolent. They were dependent in large part on their crops, but were often raided by the Downstream Enemy.

  He had seen and realized much during his years of absence. The People, he realized, were surrounded by more aggressive tribes. The recent raid was confirmation of his theory. The coming of the Norsemen was yet another factor. He had been fortunate, he now realized, that he had not been killed at Straumfjord. Or thrown out, to be killed by those who had pursued him.

  But they had taken him in. Out of pity, maybe. More likely, si
mple curiosity. He had furnished the colonists an opportunity to observe one of the Skraelings, as they called him. They had considered him a savage, a lesser human, and he had survived by trying to be what they wished him to be. He had always thought that eventually he would be able to make his way home. The Norse expedition up the great river had been his opportunity.

  Odin often wondered what would be the situation if he had not fallen in with these two, White Wolf and Fire Man. He had come to a conclusion long ago, that it would be good for the People to relocate to the west, away from access by water. They were being pushed more aggressively year by year as the Downstream Enemy became stronger. Add to that the coming of the light-haired foreigners in their great canoes. That expedition had been destroyed, but there would be more. There might be a great war between them and the Downstream Enemy. And when the bull elk fight, anything underfoot is trampled.

  He liked these two strangers, White Wolf and Fire Man. Their association had been beneficial to all of them. Lifesaving, in fact. They were now family, relatives by marriage, and that was good.

  Yet he was not certain that he trusted any others of the Norsemen. Some were good, some bad, of course, like any other tribe. His doubt was stirred in uneasy remembrance of the Norse headman who had led them into disaster. Landsverk… was that his name? That one was a little bit crazy. What if others like that one came?

  No, it would be better for the People to avoid an area where it appeared that two violent peoples were headed for war. To do that, they must relocate. But where? He had long considered that. They were restricted by the terrain in some directions, by the water in others, and the Enemy in still another. There was basically only one way to go—west.

  He had talked to a traveling trader once while a prisoner of the Downstream people. The man had carried red stone for medicine pipes, and knives and arrow points of flint from far away. Strange colors of stone, unknown here. Pink, black, white…The trader talked of a trail that led to the west, an ancient trail, used for many lifetimes. There was plenty of game to the west, the trader said, open country and fewer people.