Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  “Who are the two who ride the Thing?

  Three eyes they have together, ten legs, one tail,

  And thus they travel through the land.”

  It was easy for Nils to become caught up in the dread that he had felt as a child, and for the emotion to show. His listeners were spellbound. Though they did not understand the words, the emotion in the voice of White Wolf was apparent. Even Svenson stared, openmouthed, and he must have heard the story before.

  Nils repeated the chant a time or two, and then turned to Odin, who handed him the sun-stone with great ceremony. Nils held it aloft and stared at it for a long time, utilizing the pause for effect. There was complete silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant call of Kookooskoos, the hunting owl. Its hollow sound lent an even greater sense of mystery.

  Finally, Nils lowered the stone. He began to speak, this time in the tongue of the People.

  “I am made to think, through the power of my gifts, that it is this way with the planting of corn: Corn is of the People. Your nation, not mine. So, the knowledge of corn comes not to me, but to our brother, the holy man, Clay. His powers are great, and it will be given to him where and when to plant. I am made to think that his gifts will let him advise us well.”

  He cast a quick glance at Clay, but could tell little. The leathery old face was serious, but from the quick glance in the flickering firelight, Clay did not seem displeased.

  Odin seemed quite satisfied, and Svenson wore an amused expression.

  Big Tree rose.

  “It is good,” he announced. “The signs are good. Tomorrow we will move on, into the place that has been found by the scouts and approved by our holy men. I thank you, White Wolf, for your help.”

  The council was over, and people began to rise and go to prepare for tomorrow’s trek. Nils glanced over at the old holy man, and their eyes met for a moment. Clay nodded ever so slightly, possibly a greeting, possibly a nod of approval. Maybe both. Nils could not tell, but surely there was no disapproval here. He nodded back, and they went their separate ways.

  Svenson and Odin fell into step beside Nils. These were the only two, he realized, who had understood a word of his chanting.

  “You did well,” Sven chuckled. “Your riddle made a good ceremony!”

  “That is true,” said Odin thoughtfully. “It is good.” He seemed preoccupied.

  “I looked at Clay,” Nils said. “I think he was pleased.”

  “That, too, is good,” said Odin enthusiastically. “Yes, White Wolf, I am made to think you have done well tonight. But I have a question.”

  “A question?” Nils asked, concerned.

  “Yes.” Odin paused for a moment, as if hesitating to speak, but then plunged ahead. “What is it,” he inquired, “that has three eyes, ten legs, and a tail?”

  Nils started to answer, but paused. How could he explain the legend of the Wild Huntsman? An eight-legged horse with a one-eyed rider, to be explained to a man who had never seen a four-legged horse?

  “Odin, it will take time to tell of it,” he said. “It is a man with one eye, and a beast with eight legs.”

  Odin thought for a moment, and then nodded, as if in complete understanding.

  “The man sits on the beast,” Nils pushed on, feeling a need to explain.

  “Of course,” Odin agreed. “It is a story, no?”

  How easily the acceptance came, Nils noted. For the Skraeling, it was not necessary to understand it all, only to hear it, to enjoy it. It is a story.

  Well, yes, Nils thought. A good story. Maybe he would tell that one, sometime around the story fire.

  51

  The planting of the corn was hard work, undertaken with much ceremony. Everyone was involved. It was a ritual, a repetitive thing that caused the back to ache and muscles to tighten from bending and digging and planting.

  First each “hill” must be prepared. Every sprig of grass or other growing plant was plucked from the soil, and the dirt mounded up into a little hillock a hand’s span across. Then a hole, poked with a stick. In the hole, a bite of meat or fish. Three seeds, in a triangle around it. The rich humus drawn over them and patted smooth. On to the next … In every third hill were placed three pumpkin seeds.

  “Why do we put the piece of meat in the hole?” Nils asked his wife, who worked at his side, on ail fours.

  Dove was growing larger with child, and he could tell that she tired more easily. She straightened and stood for a moment on her knees, stretching her back. He could imagine how she must feel. His own back muscles were complaining of the unaccustomed strain. She smiled, a tired smile.

  “We are asking Earth to give us food,” she said simply. “We show our willingness to share by feeding her first.”

  Nils nodded. He did not really understand all of this logic, but it was a part of the People. He was beginning to accept, and realize that there were things about his wife’s people and their customs that he would never understand. Many of their rituals … Not formal ceremonies, but merely simple things, like the pinch of tobacco tossed into a new fire when it is kindled, to honor the spirits of the place. The apology to a newly slain animal whose meat is needed for food. This, the sacrifice of a bit of food to the earth, to thank in advance for the crop.

  He noticed, too, that the People talked to the world around them. A thanks to the river for a cool drink, a thank-you to an unseen spirit for the beauty of a sunset.

  “Listen, the wind is talking to us,” Calling Dove had once said to him.

  It had been during their courtship on a warm afternoon. They were seated on a quiet hillside a little way outside the village. Behind them was a dense thicket of pines, and the singing of the gentle breeze through the fragrant pine needles made a constant murmur.

  “What does it say?” he asked, amused.

  She had shrugged, and had given him an evasive answer.

  “It says many things, no? A promise of happiness together, maybe. …” She paused, and seemed embarrassed. “Who knows what the wind says?”

  She averted her eyes, and changed the subject slightly.

  “Did you know that once we could understand and speak all tongues?”

  “How is this? Those of all other people?”

  “Of course. And of all the animals—they talked to us, too — and the trees, the river’s whisper. Those still talk to us, you know, but we no longer understand.”

  He thought of that now, as the two of them stood on their knees in the loamy soil that would bring forth the year’s crop. At least, that was what the People were asking it to do. It was neither a solemn churchly ritual or a superficial, flippant act. It was quite matter-of-fact, like asking a small favor of a friend. Yet with it was the expression of appreciation, too. Thank you … It was a prayer of thanksgiving, given in advance, symbolized by the bit of food beneath the corn seeds. There would be more giving of thanks later, after the expected richness of the resulting crop.

  Just now, he was tired. The muscles of his back ached, and his thighs cramped from the unaccustomed position. He could see the others moving slowly across the field, digging, mounding, dropping a bit of food, planting the three seeds, covering, moving on. The sun was low, shadows growing long. They would not finish today.

  • • •

  They did finish, finally. It had taken several days, and it was good to complete the task. There was a certain satisfaction, to look over the gently rolling terrain, to see and smell the freshly turned earth and the slightly curving rows of hillocks.

  Now the People began to look to the sky for signs of rain. It was not long in coming. The entire sequence was as if the People expected it to happen exactly that way. They awoke with scattered clouds, high and thin, to the north and west, increasing quickly in density and coverage. By midday the sky was gray and overcast, and the air was heavy. Birds that had been singing their territorial calls were quiet. The People hurried to put finishing touches on their brush-and-pole shelters, tying loose edges, tes
ting lashings.

  Then came the rain, with wind, lightning, and thunder. It was slow at first, but became heavier and heavier, a hard, pounding, driving rain.

  “What if it washes out the corn in the little hills?” Nils asked.

  Dove laughed at him. “We want it to rain now. Everything is ready.”

  “But … this hard?”

  She laughed again. “Maybe not. But it is good. The Rain Maker’s drum will waken sleeping corn. You will see!”

  Even so, he was startled when, a few days later, spears of bright green thrust upward through the mounds of soil. The rain had lasted three days, and it appeared that this was a good sign. It was also quite a shock to the Norsemen to see the rapidity of the growth.

  “I can almost see it grow,” Nils said to Svenson. “Sven, there is nothing like this at home, is there?”

  Sven shook his head. “I know nothing of such things, Nils. Mine has been a life on the sea, not in the dirt.”

  The disdain of a sailor for those who till the soil was evident, even though Sven had helped with the planting. Nils was certain that, as sore as his own muscles had been, the aging limbs of Svenson had felt it more keenly. The sailor made only one grumbling remark, though.

  “By the hammer of Thor! It’s a sight easier to furl the sail!”

  In a few more days, it seemed, the corn plants were knee high, reaching toward the sky. Pumpkin vines reached along the earth, their tendrils searching. For what? Nils wondered. Yet he knew. It was for space. He could understand that spirit. It was his own, the urge to reach out. …

  He paused, surprised at himself. He had actually been thinking in terms of the spirits of the pumpkin vines. The priest at the church back in Stadt would not approve of such thoughts. That devout cleric might even have called it blasphemy. But the priest would not understand the People, either. They were of different worlds. Yet it seemed easy, standing here at the edge of the growing crop field, to see it as the People did. He felt glad, and even a little proud, maybe, that he was a part of this. That the sweat of his labor had contributed. That his gifts of food, given to Earth, were being acknowledged. And it was good. …

  “Thank you!” he murmured, half aloud, unsure to what deity or spirit he was speaking.

  Svenson said it was the month of June. Nils was willing to take his word for it, because Sven was the one keeping count with his calendar stick. It did seem likely, because the flowers in the area were blooming in profusion. Some were similar to those at home, others completely different.

  “Yes,” said Odin. “It is the Moon of Flowering.”

  As it would be at home, Nils thought. The People always seemed to have a way of coming straight to the heart of anything.

  In a few weeks the corn was taller than their heads. Twice the People had weeded the field. It was a chore, a boring and mindless task. Worse, even, than the planting. Here, every sprig of green that did not belong must be removed.

  “It is much easier now than later,” Calling Dove had assured him.

  But now, it seemed, there was no more work to be done until the time of harvest. That was good, he thought, because Dove was moving with increasing difficulty as her pregnancy continued to grow. The rains had come at irregular but satisfactory intervals during July, which Odin called the Moon of Thunder. The People seemed pleased with the progress of the crops. The pumpkin vines were covered with bright yellow blossoms, which were soon followed by swelling green globes. Bean vines, planted on tripods of sticks around the edges of the fields, were bearing heavily.

  Corn, however, seemed to be the main crop of the People. At the top of each stalk a sort of bloom appeared, jutting upward like a handful of sticks.

  “That will become the grain?” asked Nils.

  “No, no,” Dove laughed. “The corn grows down here, on the side of the stalk.”

  She pointed to enlarging cylinders that had the appearance of leaves at first glance. No, a bundle of leaves, with a tuft of brown hairlike material protruding from the tapering tip.

  “Then what is this other?”

  “The corn has two spirits,” Dove told him. “There must be both, this at the top and the part below. Like you and me—” She pointed at her swollen belly. “Man and woman. But I am made to think that corn does not have as much pleasure.”

  It took a moment for him to realize that she was teasing him. Then he smiled sheepishly, and Dove laughed aloud at the success of her joke.

  “But the corn,” he protested, after they had laughed and shared her teasing. “Its bloom is in one place, its fruit in another?”

  “Of course,” she insisted. “Is it not always so with corn?”

  Nils did not know. He had never seen corn growing before. But he could think of no other plant with this characteristic. Maybe he could talk to Odin about it, or to Sven. Yes, Svenson had seen much of the world, and might know of this. He would ask.

  All of that was forgotten, though. He had not had an opportunity to talk to Odin that evening, and Dove woke him out of a sound sleep in the night.

  “My husband …” she whispered.

  “Yes … what? …” He fought to awaken. “What is it?”

  “It is my time, maybe. Will you tell my mother?”

  Now he was wide awake.

  52

  It was a woman-thing, the birthing of the child. Quickly, Red Fawn arrived to assist her daughter. The husband was banished from the lean-to shelter that was the summer dwelling for the couple.

  Nervous and at loose ends, Nils wandered a little way and stood looking up at the night sky. What was he supposed to do now? Someone approached, and he was glad to recognize Svenson.

  “The time has come, eh?” Sven spoke. It was not really a question, only a greeting.

  “It seems so. I was wondering what I am expected to do. You are a father, Sven.”

  The old sailor chuckled. “Yes, but I was always at sea when the time came.”

  “But surely there is something I could do.”

  Now Svenson laughed aloud. “I am made to think,” he said thoughtfully, using the idiom of the People, “that you have already done what was expected of you, several moons ago.”

  He slapped his thigh in amusement.

  “It is not funny, Sven,” Nils snapped. Somehow the usual ribald jokes did not seem appropriate now.

  “I meant nothing, Nils. Calm down. They can handle this. And we could do nothing. Look, let us go and sit on the rocks, there. I will stay with you.”

  Sven pointed to a jumble of boulders against the shoulder of a little hillock a bow shot away. The area was only dimly seen in the pale light of a new moon, but it was a familiar place. Nils nodded and moved in that direction. He glanced at the sky and noted the position of the Great Bear. The Seven Hunters, the People called the same constellation. Odin had told them how the Hunters go out each night, to circle their lodge at the Home Star. Once in each day and its night, the Hunters make their circuit, circling the sky forever. It was of interest to Nils that the People recognized the importance of the Polestar, though they did not use it for navigation.

  But he was not thinking of that now. His quick glance told him that dawn would be coming soon. Not that it mattered much, in the present situation. He had only looked from habit. Yes, even now the velvety blackness was fading in the east to a leaden gray. He looked back toward the shelter and saw that Red Fawn had built up the fire. A few other people were stirring.

  Someone else approached, and Nils felt a bit of resentment. No one had a right to bother him at a time like this. The irritation passed as he recognized Odin, who silently fell in beside them.

  “Odin, is there something that I should do?” Nils asked.

  “No, you have done your part,” Odin said.

  Sven chuckled, and Nils’s irritation flared again. Mother of God, he thought, it is no different anywhere!

  Odin seemed to sense his anger, and spoke again.

  “It will go well, almost-brother. Our family’s women b
irth easily. It is in their body to do so.”

  Nils wondered at such a curious remark, but Odin continued.

  “She is long, from arms to hips, like our mother. This gives easier birthing.”

  “I have heard that, Nils,” Svenson said. “A long-waisted woman … easier labor. I do not know, but it looks good. Long waist, long legs …”

  “Can we speak of something else?” Nils snapped irritably.

  “Of course,” Odin answered. “Of what, Thorsson?”

  Nils shrugged uncomfortably. “I do not know. I am sorry.”

  “It is all right,” Odin soothed. “We do not need to speak at all. But we will stay with you. A man needs someone.”

  “Thank you,” Nils mumbled.

  “Let us smoke,” suggested Odin. He brought forth a pipe and his pouch of tobacco mixture.

  “Shall I start a fire?” asked Svenson.

  “No, I have one,” said Odin.

  He was carrying a gourd full of ashes, and now drew out a stick which had been buried in the gourd. He blew on the stick to brighten the fiery coal at its tip, and then held it carefully to his freshly filled pipe. A few long draws produced an answering glow in the pipe’s bowl. He took another puff or two and then handed it to Nils, who in turn puffed and passed the pipe to Svenson.

  By the time the pipe had made two or three rounds, the yellowing of the sky in the east was becoming more prominent, and the prospective father more calm. Conversation came easier.

  “When is the time to come for your wife?” Svenson asked Odin.

  “Who knows?” shrugged Odin. “I had thought by now, but Hawk Woman says no. She says soon, though. She has birthed before, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Her daughter grows quickly this season.”

  “That is true! Like the corn, no?” Odin chuckled. “The old ones say that one has babies for only a little while. Then they are grown. You know that we call her Yellow Corn, because of this?”

  They all chuckled, Svenson with the most understanding.