He had already tried to convince them to release Black Hornet. That, he insisted, would let the People know of the power of the Chalagee, as well as their generosity.
“Why are you willing to be a captive in his place?” he was asked.
“Because my heart is good. The Chalagee will see that I speak truth.”
He began to gain confidence after the thought came to him to use the expertise of the Norsemen. It had worked before. The problem was to get word to them. His captors seemed unwilling to let the two prisoners converse at all. He now hoped that the brief message that he had given to Hornet had been understood. If so, he believed that by tomorrow evening he would see White Wolf and Fire Man. If the message was not understood, then the People would probably send a war party. That, in view of the strength of the Chalagees, would be a great mistake.
Well, he could do nothing for now but try to rest. Finally, he drifted off into fitful slumber.
61
Odin lay, or rather propped himself against the wall of one of the lodges, hands still tied. After a fitful night of interrupted slumber, the day had dawned at last. At least, the bright rays of the sun gave him a sense of optimism that he had almost lost in the chill hours before dawn.
This should be the day that someone from the camp of the People would come. He hoped that the scout had understood his message, but could not be sure. After being cuffed for trying to communicate, there had been no further opportunity to attempt it. If he had realized that their conversation could be only a few words, he might have handled it differently. “Tell White Wolf to bring the sun-stone,” maybe. Or perhaps, “White Wolf and Fire Man must bring their medicine.” As it had happened, his only chance to say anything had been the partial idea, “Tell White Wolf it is as before.” He would have continued with more detail, but the conversation had been interrupted. It was difficult now even to remember at what exact point he had been cut off. He had, he was certain, been able to say that this situation was like their previous captivity. The nagging doubt was whether the scout had understood enough of that interrupted statement to inform White Wolf properly. Today would tell. By sunset … well, if the People decided to attack the Chalagee he might be dead by sunset.
He would think of other things. A few paces away, three youngsters sat and watched him, chattering among themselves. There were two boys and a girl, probably of eight or ten summers, he thought. One of the boys carried a stick of about his own height. By the way the youngster handled the object, it seemed to be something of importance. It was regarded with respect, somehow.
Puzzled by this, Odin focused his gaze on the youth and his stick. Could it be a weapon of some sort? Then he saw … yes! A hole in the end. The stick was hollow. He recalled now that a trader had spoken of this weapon of the Chalagees. It was primarily used for hunting squirrels or birds, the man had said, had he not? A puff of breath through the hollow tube would blow a small arrow as fast as the eye could follow.
Now that Odin realized what sort of implement the young man held, his attention was totally absorbed by it. He did not know just how dangerous the blowgun might be. To add to his discomfiture, the boy kept swinging the tube slowly back and forth, pointing it at the captive. It was very disconcerting to watch the round mouth of the weapon move toward a position where it pointed directly at him. Then it would sweep on past, Odin would relax, and the children would giggle. He must have shown his concern more than he realized, because the game was repeated. The boy pointed his blowgun, as if threatening, and then lowered it, and the others laughed.
If his hands had been free, Odin could have talked to them in signs. That was impossible under the circumstances. He also realized that his reaction was important. If he showed his concern, the game would continue. He tried to appear calm, even bored, lifting his gaze to watch a fluffy white cloud high overhead. He was dimly aware that the boy with the blowgun was moving it around, but he determined not to look.
There was a light thunk beside him, and he glanced down involuntarily. Only a hand’s span from his left shoulder, a dart protruded from the bark-covered log of the lodge wall. It was slender, as long as his fingers, and a fluffy little plume of feathers or thistledown was tied to the shaft. The children were laughing in delight at his reaction, and a chill came over him. This could be a dangerous situation. He was virtually defenseless, and at the mercy of children who might not be possessed of good judgment. If the darts could kill a squirrel or a bird, they could do much damage to unprotected flesh. A deep wound to the chest might collapse a lung. Or a wound to the face … he cringed at the thought, and then the full import of his danger descended on him. His eye …
Odin had adapted fairly well to the loss of his eye some years before. He could still see, and he was still alive. With the inborn stubbornness that was his, combined with a basic optimism, he had made a success of survival. Now, however, he faced a situation even worse than his mutilation at the hands of the Downstream Enemy. He glanced again at the slender dart beside him. If he were struck in the eye with such a missile … It was too horrible to contemplate.
He watched, fascinated, as the boy chose another dart from a pouch at his waist, and inserted it into the rear end of the tube. Then the game began again. The wavering mouth of the weapon swept slowly across him. The girl was giggling. Odin could hardly stand to watch as it pointed directly at his face. There was no way that he could defend himself, even to raise a hand to stop the dart, to protect his vision. He could turn his head to give partial protection to the eye, exposing the already blind side. That was little comfort. In so doing, he could not see his tormentor. Such a position would also expose his ear. In the mind of a youthful tormentor, that opening might be an inviting target. Odin shuddered again. That polished hardwood dart … Ah, he must not even think such thoughts!
He tried to estimate a position for his head that would at least partially protect his eye, yet not expose his ear to direct danger. It was not easy, and even more difficult to remain calm. He was sweating profusely, waiting, knowing that soon, or maybe later, another dart—thunk! He looked quickly. This one was at his other shoulder, again about a hand’s span away.
Somehow, it was reassuring. The boy was apparently skilled with the weapon, and was merely teasing him. Odin was able to regain some of his composure while the youngster reloaded. Again, the tube of the blowgun scanned back and forth across Odin’s bound figure. With a little more confidence, he managed to maintain an expression of pride and dignity. There was actually a look of disappointment on the face of the Chalagee boy.
Then, an idea seemed to dawn. The boy lowered the aim of the tube. Odin was sitting propped against the wall, knees bent slightly, and spread apart by a couple of hand spans. It took only an instant for Odin to realize that the blowgun was pointed directly at his groin. Instinctively, he clapped his knees together, protecting his private parts. The children howled with laughter.
Now a new dimension of danger was added. He had reacted so definitely that they were amused, and this was not good. They now knew that they could affect his mood and his reactions in another way, by a threat to his manhood. He stretched his legs out flat in front of him, knees together. The blowgun hovered with its aim at his lower abdomen. Even that, he knew, could be a dangerous wound.
The boy apparently tired of waiting for Odin to spread his knees again, and loosed another dart.
This one struck the ground just beside his right hip. It was close, too close. He flinched involuntarily, and there was more laughter. This had missed his thigh by less than two fingers’ width. Odin tried to tell himself that it was good, that this proved the boy’s skill, but he was not convinced.
Now the other boy, who had been quiet, seemed to initiate a conversation. It seemed to involve the blowgun. In a little while the first boy handed the weapon to the other, a bit reluctantly, Odin thought. It was disconcerting to see that this one handled it clumsily, as if it were unfamiliar to him. It was certainly not reassuring, then, when this
boy reloaded the tube and began the taunting game again.
The first dart missed Odin by an arm’s length. It quickly became apparent that it was a mixed blessing, however. The studied preparation by this boy as he readied his next shot said plainly, ’This one will be closer.”
Even as he realized this, Odin was unprepared for the sharp jab of pain that struck his left shoulder. The shaft of the dart was protruding completely through the meaty part, with the ball of fluff sticking like a bur to the front of his buckskin sleeve. He realized that he had cried out involuntarily, and regretted the loss of dignity.
Odin need not have worried. It was apparent by the look on the shooter’s face that the boy realized he had made a great mistake. He almost threw the blowgun back to its owner as he jumped and ran. The other two followed in the twinkling of an eye, and Odin was left alone. That was a relief, but the wooden skewer in his shoulder would not let him enjoy the fact that the children were gone.
A woman looked out of a doorway to glance around the area. Almost as an afterthought she turned for a look at the captive, and stopped short in amazement. She hurried across the open area, talking loudly to no one in particular. She paused to study the plumed darts in the wall and the one in Odin’s shoulder. For a moment, she seemed to consider pulling it out, but decided against that course of action. Instead, she raised her voice in a call for help, and people came running.
There were exclamations of surprise and even of irritation, much gesturing and pointing to the darts. Odin had the impression that his tormentors were known, and that they were probably in trouble. Meanwhile, the jab in his shoulder that had struck like a swarm of hornets had now steadied to a dull ache, except when he tried to move it. Then it was a massive thing, spreading up his neck and down his arm. He did not see how such a tiny wound could cause such misery.
An older man joined the crowd, and the others parted to let him approach. The man examined the skewer, shook his head, and muttered something. Odin had a strong impression that this was a sort of holy man, but different than the kutani, the Chalagee holy men who lived in a special lodge on a hillock at the edge of the town. This one seemed more like the men of the People who had the gift of healing.
Now the old man gently touched the dart, then grasped it firmly and gave a quick jerk. There was an instant when Odin felt that the bone itself was being pulled out through the skin, but there was quick relief. The old man brought out a gourd with a greasy salve and rubbed some of it on the wounds, both front and back. Odin nodded his thanks, and the medicine man returned the nod.
People began to drift away, sometimes laughing. To Odin there was very little humor in the situation, but he understood. He wondered what sort of punishment might be directed at the youngsters.
Even more, he wondered what the People were doing. He glanced at the sun. Shortly past noon, it seemed. Sometime between now and dark, he should know something. He hoped it would be good. He did not know, even, if White Wolf had received his partial message.
He shifted his position to wait again, and his shoulder throbbed dully.
62
The hill up ahead,” said Black Hornet, pointing. “That is where he stood. They were hiding to the right, there, when we came along the trail.”
It was a well-planned ambush, Nils saw.
“And they killed Catbird?”
“Yes, with a club … in the face.”
“Yet they did not try to kill you, or even harm you?” asked Nils.
“No. I was made to think that they only wanted to capture us. Catbird tried to escape. He attacked one of the Chalagee.”
Nils nodded. It seemed likely that the plan had been capture, but something had gone wrong. The favorable part of the situation was that the Chalagee had released the scout, with a message that they wished to talk. That was a start. The darker side was that the Chalagee still held Odin, and there was no way of knowing his status or condition. That was a worrisome thing.
There was also the concern that the situation they were walking into could become very dangerous. They had seen signs that they were being observed all through the morning’s travel. Now they were nearing the place where the scout party had been ambushed, and Hornet was becoming quite uneasy.
“Hornet, if they wished to kill you, they would have done it,” Snake told him.
The scout smiled ruefully. “I know. But you were not here, Snake. To see Catbird struck down …” His sentence died uncompleted.
“They will probably contact us at the same place, no?” Svenson suggested.
“Yes, I am made to think so,” Hornet said nervously.
“It is good,” Nils spoke. “Let us move up near where the trail bends around the rock there, and stop to wait.”
Before they reached that point, however, the sentry at the top of the hill stood to allow himself to be seen. It was apparent that it was a deliberate move.
“There! It is as before!” said Hornet excitedly. “We were watching him and the slope above the trail, and they came from the other side, behind us.”
“From those bushes?” asked Snake, being careful not to point.
“Yes, to the right of the trail.”
“It was well-planned, no?” Snake observed.
“Yes,” Nils agreed. “Let us keep walking, but stop before we reach that point.”
The four men did so. When they were about a long bowshot from the spot where the ambush had taken place, they paused by common consent. At first nothing happened. They stood and waited, trying not to let their nervousness show. The observer on the hill waited, too.
After what seemed an eternity, a warrior emerged from his concealment in the bushes and stalked over to stand in the middle of the trail, facing the newcomers. Soon he was joined by others, six in all, who drew up in a casual line across the trail, blocking passage. They waited.
“Let us move toward them,” suggested Nils.
He raised his palm in the hand sign for peace, and stepped forward. The Chalagee party waited for them to approach. Svenson was carrying his battle-ax, and it was apparent that the warriors were curious about such a weapon. No more so than they were about the appearance of the Norsemen. There was a murmur of talk among the Chalagee warriors, which was cut short by the older man who appeared to be their leader.
Now, thought Nils, it begins. He must think and act as Odin would do, playing the part that fate had assigned him.
He tried to consider himself the powerful holy man that Odin had envisioned.
“We fight only if we must, to defend ourselves,” he said quietly. His companions nodded.
Nils walked to within a few paces of the warriors and then stopped, assuming a firm stance in the middle of the trail. His right hand was still raised in the peace sign, but there was no response yet from the Chalagee. Well, he must do something.
“Our brother here says that you hold my helper. How is this?”
He tried to look confident, and to appear in command of the situation, which of course he was not. The party of the People was outnumbered, and facing well-armed, capable-looking warriors. If it came to a fight, however, Nils thought that they could handle themselves well. Svenson alone was probably worth two men. But of course he reminded himself, if it came to a fight, they had already failed Odin.
In his opening gestures, Nils had tried to seek the initiative. His question as to Odin’s capture was expressed in the hand sign for an inquiry. The same gesture asks how, where, who, or why. A stronger, more demanding question, perhaps, than one could ask in words. In effect, it was a demand: Explain your actions!
This seemed lost on the Chalagee, who completely ignored the question.
“How are you called?” he demanded. “You have come onto Chalagee land.”
Nils took a deep breath. He did not like the part he was forced to play. He was not even certain how to play it. He wished that Odin were here, to tell him what to do.
“I am White Wolf, of the River People,” he signed. “This is Fire
Man, my helper. You have my other helper, Father of the Gods. Why?”
Again, he used the demand.
If the truth were known, the Chalagee leader was probably more shaken over the meeting than the Norsemen. They had not half believed the tales of their captive. A holy man with white hair and facial fur … Another, whose hair and face-fur gleamed red like the fire. That one carried a strange weapon, too. At least, it looked sharp, like a weapon. One would certainly not want to learn of it in a wrong way.
“It is all as the captive said,” one of the younger warriors whispered in wonder.
Blue Tree motioned him to silence, but he had been thinking along the same lines, himself. It was expected that any captive would make exaggerated claims to try to improve his status. No one had really believed the one-eyed father of gods, as he called himself. It was quite disconcerting, then, to find that so far, every absurdity that the man had voiced was precisely true. Maybe they should have treated him with more honor. … No, probably not. The captive had not really been hurt. Too bad, though, about the blowgun dart. Children sometimes show poor judgment. Luckily, there had been no major injury.
But just now, it was time to think of other things.
“The one-eyed one is our guest,” Blue Tree signed. “Come, we will take you to him.”
Two warriors stepped forward as if to take the weapons of the travelers, but Svenson hefted his ax in an unmistakable gesture, and the young men stepped back. They glanced at their leader, who shook his head.
“It is not needed,” he told them.
“Tie their hands?” asked one.
It was a stupid question. How could they tie the hands if the would-be captives were still armed? But here was an opportunity to curry favor with a potentially powerful holy man. Blue Tree spoke both in his own tongue and in signs.
Runestone Page 40
