Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  Nils appreciated the company and the attempt to distract him, but still he could not keep his mind from the intense scene being played out in the shelter below. He thought of the “wife of Vili Heinesson, a neighbor back in Stadt, when he was a child. Inge, that was her name. A beautiful young woman, an object of admiration and one to stir the pulse of a young boy whose maleness was just beginning to make itself felt.

  The death of Inge Heinesson had had a profound effect on him. It had troubled him greatly to think of that lithe and handsome female form stilled in death. He missed her, though he barely knew her, and she had probably been completely unaware of the boy who worshiped her from afar. Of course she had smiled at him that once, when they nearly collided in the street. He still remembered that smile, open, fresh, and confident, that of a happy, secure person.

  But she had died in childbirth. He did not know the details. His parents and the other adults had spoken in hushed tones, and seemed not to think of the feelings of young Nils. They did not know that he had secretly loved this fine woman, or that he had gone to the barn to cry out his grief alone.

  He had felt a tremendous sympathy for the bereaved husband. He had wanted to tell Vili Heinesson that he knew, and understood. It would have been completely inappropriate, of course. Still, he had wondered then and afterward if Vili actually knew how special had been the beautiful young woman who shared his bed.

  Nils had held a great deal of resentment a year later, when Vili Heinesson remarried. He was certain that Vili was disloyal to the memory of Inge.

  It had been a long time now, since he had thought about that tragedy in his young life. No one else had known his feelings and would ever know. It only came back now because of his concern. Was he being punished for his coveting of Vili Heinesson’s wife so long ago? How severe would the punishment be?

  His concern and his dread became greater as time passed. It seemed an eon ago that the three had walked out here in the dark of the predawn morning. It was growing lighter, but the sun was still not showing above the distant hills. The pipe came around again. He took a quick puff and passed it on to Sven. He rose and paced.

  What if—he dared not form the thought—what if Calling Dove met the fate of young Inge Heinesson? What would he do, if he lost her?

  He had never stopped to realize how Dove had become a most important … no, the most important part of his life. If anything should happen to her … I must not think such thoughts! Tears came to his eyes. If only I could do this for her! he thought.

  “Nils! Nils! Are you all right, boy?”

  Svenson was shaking him by the elbow.

  “What? I was thinking of something else, Sven. What is it?”

  It was Odin who spoke.

  “They are calling to us.” He pointed to the distant camp.

  In the growing light, Nils saw a figure outside the lean-to shelter. He thought he recognized the stance as that of his wife’s mother. She was waving her arms at them.

  “Deer says to come on down,” Svenson observed.

  Could there be trouble? Were his worst fears to be realized?

  Nils leaped to his feet and ran, his heart pounding in near panic. Something is wrong! He nearly fell from his downslope momentum, but recovered his balance. How frustrating … Like a dream, in which one tries to run but can only move slowly. He was only dimly aware of the others behind him. There was no way for them to understand his dread.

  He loped across the level meadow and drew closer. It was with great relief that he saw a smile on the face of Red Fawn.

  “Is it … is she? …” he panted.

  Red Fawn merely pointed to the shelter.

  Calling Dove lay there on the robes. She looked tired, but had never seemed so beautiful to him as she did now. He saw that her abdomen, covered by a sleeping robe, was flatter now. For some reason that thought was the first to make itself felt, even before he saw the smile on Dove’s tired face. More slowly than that, even, he realized that she held a bundle in her arms. Gently, she turned back a corner of the soft robe.

  A pair of wide, dark eyes peered out of a face like that of a little old man. Some babies arrive in the world under protest, squinting and yelling at the light of day. Others are born with a knowing look, curious about all that lies before them. This child was of the latter.

  “Your son,” said Dove. “He is beautiful, no?”

  The child’s dark eyes seemed to look straight through to Nils’s soul, as if it knew and understood all his feelings.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “Of course! Tired …”

  The other two men came up behind him, and stopped.

  “They have a son,” Red Fawn explained.

  Nils turned to look at them, not knowing what to say. At that moment, the rim of the sun peeked over a notch in the distant hills, touching the trees and the brush shelter with a golden glow. It may have been responsible for the tears in the eyes of the new father. Or, maybe not …

  “It is good,” he said in the language of the People.

  “Yes,” agreed Red Fawn, “it is a good sign.”

  53

  The harvest came soon. Too soon, it seemed, for there was much happening. White Wolf and Calling Dove were preoccupied with the small man-child who had joined them.

  “He is a good baby!” decreed Red Fawn, after the manner of grandmothers everywhere.

  But it was true. The infant boy was called Bright Sky after the manner of his birth at sunrise. He might have another name later, Dove explained to her husband. This was merely a baby name. It did seem appropriate, however. Never had Nils seen an infant whose eyes were so intense and inquisitive. He smiled very early, and had a look of perpetual understanding that made him seem an adult who merely lived in a small body. Such infants, though somewhat rare, are a joy, not only to their parents, but to everyone with whom they come in contact.

  In addition to this preoccupation with their own child, there was the birth of another, a girl to Odin and Hawk Woman. It was not her first child, but it was a completely new experience for Odin. Nils was able to return the support he had received from Odin on the occasion of Bright Sky’s birth. That was a good feeling.

  Seldom if ever was there a new father who was so overcome by the significance of the birth of his child. Odin had reveled in the experience of being a parent to Hawk Woman’s older daughter by her previous marriage, but this was different. This was his own flesh and blood.

  To the People, there was little difference, and to give Odin the credit deserved, in a short while there was none to him either. In a few seasons, few would remember that the two daughters of Odin and Hawk Woman had had different fathers. But today, it was important to Odin. This was his first such experience. He suffered all the anxiety and the joy that he had shared with his almost-brother a short time earlier.

  But then came the harvest. Both women were gaining strength and their babies doing well, and both would take part in this, the most triumphant of annual festivals.

  It was at this time that Nils first realized that there were several types of corn. He had wondered, when the planting was taking place, why there had been such care to lay out different fields. They were separated by specific distances, paced off carefully by Clay, the holy man. He had not paid much attention, but had assumed that this was to designate the ownership of the different plots. The space between, however, had been planted to beans and squash of several varieties. Even so, he paid little attention.

  Now, however, he noticed that the corn from different plots was quite different in size, shape, and color. He asked Dove about it.

  “For different uses,” she told him.

  “But it is all to eat!”

  She laughed at him, but then relented. “You have never seen the harvesting before, have you?”

  “No. It was past that time when we joined the People.”

  “And that was good,” she laughed. She seemed apologetic that she had not realized, and hurried on to
explain. “This kind is best for ground meal … this to cook whole. This one for hominy.”

  “Hominy?”

  “Yes, you have eaten it. The hard skin is taken off with ashes from the fire!”

  He did not remember. He was realizing how little attention he had ever paid to what he was eating. If there was food, he ate, and asked no questions. When he had become involved in the growing of the crop, his attitude had changed.

  Another thought came to him as he helped to gather the ears, pull the husks back, and tie them together to hang in bundles. How was ownership established?

  Calling Dove looked at him in amazement at such a question. “It belongs to the People!”

  “You mean, everyone?”

  “Of course. Everyone eats, no?”

  And everyone plants, he thought. This was a strange idea, that of community property. He turned it over in his head for a little while.

  “Who decides its use?” he asked finally.

  Again, Dove studied his face as if such a question were unheard of.

  “The women, of course.”

  The women? He had been with the People for nearly a year, and was only now learning some things about their ways. The absence of the idea of property was completely foreign to him. But surely … Yes, there was a recognition of personal property. Weapons, clothing, such things. But the food supply belonged to all. So did the lodges, he realized, though each person or family owned a certain area. Maybe “owned” was not the right word. The rules of ownership were quite specific, he now decided, and actually quite strict. When applied to the few items of personal ownership, the rules of ownership were totally inviolable.

  “Then why,” he asked Dove, “is it so important to separate the different plots?”

  Again, she looked at him as if the question made no sense.

  “To keep them apart.”

  “But both belong to all!”

  “Yes,” Dove said cautiously, “but that has nothing to do with it!”

  “Wait … then why keep the fields separate?” he demanded.

  “Because they are different*”

  “Different?”

  “Yes. I have told you, Wolf, this for meal, this for hominy. …”

  They stared at each other for a moment, in complete lack of understanding.

  “Their spirits are different. They must not be allowed to be together,” she went on.

  Slowly, he began to grasp the idea. He was no farmer, but he knew that among livestock it was good to keep bloodlines pure. Could it be the same with plants? He could think of no comparable instance at home. Of course, here was the strange situation with the corn, when the flower and the fruit are at different places on the plant. Was that a part of it?

  “How long has it been so?” he asked.

  Dove shrugged. “Always, maybe. The People planted corn after they came out of the ground.”

  He decided that he must ask Odin about this. It was a thing so completely foreign to him that he was lost in trying to understand it. For reasons still unclear to him, it was necessary to keep the various types of corn from mixing. He could recall nothing similar in the grains familiar to Europe and the Isles. Had he simply overlooked it? Wheat, oats, and barley were quite similar in appearance, though there was nothing like this crop with its huge ears and large hard kernels.

  In fact, now that he thought of it, almost none of the crop plants grown here were remotely similar to those at home. Beans, squash, the great golden pumpkins … There was an oddity! The largest vegetable he had ever seen. Some were so big that it would be hard to encircle one in a man’s arms. And they grew not in the ground like a turnip, or in a leafy head like cabbages, but on a vine. Even to a man not familiar with farming, it was apparent that there was much more here than he had imagined. Primitive though the Skraelings might be in some respects, there was a vast amount of special knowledge and skill involved. Yes, he would speak with Odin about it, when an opportunity offered. Maybe, when it was time to return home, he could take seeds of some of these crops. As a curiosity, at least, corn, beans, and pumpkins.

  In the process of the harvest, Nils also noticed that the colors of the corn became important. There was a ceremonial significance, apparently, a religious meaning in the fact that some types were white, some red, some yellow. This was not exactly the same as the use of the different types. Ah, well, no matter …

  All of the crops were gathered now, except for a few pumpkins still in the fields. There began to be discussion about what the People should do now, and where they should winter. Almost immediately, the People split into two factions. Those who had spent more time on the improvement of their shelters wished to winter here, where they were. The others, who had assumed that they would travel on before cold weather, argued to move immediately, so that suitable winter lodges could be constructed elsewhere. Arguments became heated.

  “The People have seldom moved very far,” Odin explained to the Norsemen. ‘The towns have been where they were, longer than anyone’s lifetime.’

  Only now did the magnitude of this move begin to make itself felt to Nils. For the People, it was bigger than a lifetime. It was no wonder that it was causing argument and divisiveness. Especially since the People were unused to long-range planning anyway. Their easy, day-to-day style, governed only by the seasons or the availability of game, did not lend itself well to planning decisions.

  Finally a council was called. There were many who spoke, telling and retelling their arguments. It was long and boring to the Norsemen. It seemed that the discussion would never end.

  At last, however, a tentative agreement was reached. The headmen and holy men from the three towns would meet in discussion and prayerful consideration. After the appropriate ceremonies and spells, a course of action would be recommended. It was much like the decision earlier about when and where to plant. There was one important difference, from the standpoint of the Norsemen. White Wolf was formally invited to be a part of the meeting of this inner council.

  “It is good,” Odin told him. “You were being tested, last spring. Now the crop is good. Your power has been shown.”

  “But what do I do?” Nils asked.

  Odin shrugged. “Nothing much, maybe. Look wise, nod sometimes. I will help you. First tell Big Tree that you need your assistants. At least, me … That is good, to help you understand what is being said. I can speak for you, if it is needed. Yes, this is good.”

  The inner council was quite informal, slow-paced, and deliberate. The pipe was passed, discussion ensued, and opinions were exchanged. Nils was startled when finally Big Tree turned to him suddenly.

  “How are your thoughts on this, White Wolf?”

  Nils gulped, then paused a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “My brothers,” he said slowly, “I am still an outsider. I do not know your weather, as I did not know your crops.”

  “Do you wish to do your ceremonies?” asked Big Tree.

  “If the People wish it,” Nils answered. “But I am made to think the answer would be the same. My gifts are powerful, but not as great as those of these other holy men in decisions of the People.”

  “It is good!” whispered Odin in Nordic. “Offer again to ask your guides.”

  “Still,” Nils continued, “I would ask the advice of my guides if this council wishes.”

  “White Wolf,” one of the holy men from the other bands spoke, “I am told that your ceremony changes the color of a stone.”

  It was a question, of a sort. Probably, it was based on curiosity.

  “That is true,” said Nils.

  “Yet we have not seen it happen,” the other said thoughtfully. “In the spring, your ceremony? …”

  The question was left hanging, an open challenge now. This man was questioning the validity of the powers of White Wolf. He must be faced.

  “My brother,” Nils began, but Odin interrupted angrily.

  “Wait! You have no right—”

  “Stop!” The
booming voice of Big Tree broke in. “Cat Skin, I have seen the powers of this holy man. I have seen the stone change. White Wolf will show you his gifts at the right time. This is not the time. You should know better than to ask another holy man to prove his powers!”

  There was a heavy silence, finally broken by Odin, who spoke directly to Cat Skin.

  “White Wolf will show you when the time is right, Uncle.”

  The disgruntled holy man merely nodded. Nils hoped that he had not made an enemy here, though he did not see what he could have done to avoid this confrontation.

  Eventually, the decision was made to winter where the People were now camped. There was a scurry of activity, to build protection against the onslaught of winter.

  It was only as they waited expectantly for Cold Maker to attack that Nils realized something. In all of the discussion, the choice had been considered that of staying here or moving on. There had not even been a mention of going back toward Straumfjord. Even staying here seemed to take them farther from the return journey home.

  54

  There seemed to be little organization among the People, once the decision had been made to winter where they now camped. It was understandable. The major responsibility for the year, the growing and harvesting of the grain, was behind them. There would be some hunting, maybe a fall hunt, but with the grain safe and the pumpkins and beans ready for storage, there seemed no urgency. Always before, for several generations, the People had merely readied the big communal lodges for the winter. They were already built, ready to move into when Cold Maker came roaring down. Now few people seemed to notice that there was no such refuge.

  There was, of course, a scurry of activity to improve the flimsy family dwellings of brush and skins. It was apparent to some, however, that this would not be sufficient protection. Odin, who had seen more of the world than others of the

  People, was quite concerned over this lack of foresight. He attempted to initiate the construction of more substantial shelter.