“Of course you need not take their weapons,” he said, as if that had been the question. “These are our guests.”
He turned back to Nils.
“Come, White Wolf. We will take you to your brother, Father of the Gods.”
He led the way along the trail and they followed, the two parties still eyeing each other suspiciously.
It was really not far to the stockade that surrounded the village. It was strategically placed beyond the ridge, not openly visible from the road. The village, however, overlooked the trail, allowing easy observation of the traffic at any time, merely by stepping to the crest of the ridge. At the nearest point, the trail was only a bowshot away.
Children came running to see what was happening, and the Chalagees warned them back. By the time they entered the stockade and made their way toward the center of the town, a sizable crowd had gathered, trailing along with the principles. There was an excited buzz, many of the remarks obviously directed to the striking appearance of light-colored Nordic hair and beards.
Their escort stopped, and a man who seemed to have more authority now emerged from one of the houses to approach them. In a few moments, there seemed to be a loosely organized party of leaders, including a couple of women.
Nils repeated the peace sign, which was now returned courteously. He decided to try to take the initiative.
“How is it,” he asked, “that you hold our brother? And you have killed another. We come in peace!”
The others exchanged glances.
“What do you want?” one of the leaders asked suspiciously.
“We would talk. But first, our brother, Father of the Gods?”
The man who had just spoken turned and made a gesture, and a couple of warriors led Odin, his hands tied behind him, from behind one of the lodges. His glance met Nils’s, and the old glint of mischief showed that Odin was basically unharmed.
“It is good,” Nils signed. “May he now be released?”
“We would talk,” said the other.
“That, too, is good,” Nils agreed, “but let us free my brother’s hands.”
The man seemed to consider for a moment.
“The fire!” Odin called.
Nils nodded to indicate that he understood.
“My chief,” he signed, “let us have a council fire. Fire Man, here, will make one while we prepare to talk. Is there a little wood?”
“Yes, of course.”
He motioned, and a couple of older children scurried to bring an armful of sticks.
“Here?” signed Svenson, asking permission. The leader nodded.
Nils watched as Sven began his preparation. He had been amused before at the natural showmanship of Fire Man. Svenson, in the few times that he had used the flint and steel as a demonstration, had managed to make an impressive ceremony of it. Even so, it was quick.
Sven lifted the tinder of shredded cedar bark toward the sky, tucked his scrap of charred cloth into it, and knelt to strike the spark. Never had a spark flown so well. One or two strokes, and Sven palmed the steel to lift his tinder, blowing his breath gently from beneath as he offered it to the sky again. A dense white smoke, a burst of flame … He thrust the little blaze into the cone of small twigs that he had prepared, and stood, arms spread to indicate that his ceremony was finished. There was a murmur in the crowd. The rapidity with which the flame-haired stranger had kindled a fire, and even without the use of rubbing-sticks, must have seemed miraculous.
“It is good, Fire Man.” Nils turned to the Chalagee leaders. “Now you have freed my brother there. Let us talk.”
Odin was allowed to join them, rubbing stiff wrists as he did so.
“You are all right?” Nils asked.
“Yes. We talk later. Show them the stone.”
“Do we need it?”
“Maybe. We can start the council first.”
The Chalagee were showing signs of irritation, and Nils turned back to them.
“It is good. Now, let us talk.”
They seated themselves around the fire, the People on one side and the Chalagee on the other.
“Now tell us,” the man who had done most of the talking signed, “how it is that your people have entered our country.”
Nils shrugged, as if it really made no difference. “We are only passing through.” He started to go on, but was interrupted.
“To where!”
“We do not know, my chief. When we find the place, we will know it.”
“It is a quest, then?”
“Yes,” whispered Odin. “That is good.”
“Yes, my chief,” Nils signed. “We have heard there is more room, not so many people, to the west.”
“That is true, maybe.”
“Our people, called the River People by some, do not want the land of others. Only a place to plant.”
“What do you plant? It grows late for planting.”
Nils glanced at Odin.
“Corn, pumpkins, beans,” signed Odin. “We had hoped to ask the advice of the Chalagee, for this one season only. Is there a place to plant and maybe winter, then move on?”
The Chalagee exchanged glances.
“We must consider this. You would hunt?”
“Some. Mostly, a place to plant,” Odin signed.
“Wait,” signed the Chalagee. “Who is the leader here?”
Nils and Odin exchanged glances.
“Neither, my chief,” Odin signed. “As I have tried to tell you, this is White Wolf, a holy man. Fire Man and I are his helpers. These others are warriors of the People. Our leaders are camped a day’s travel away.”
“Yes, we know. Well, let us talk of this, and we will meet again in the morning.”
He rose, indicating that the council was over.
“Someone will show you where to camp tonight,” he said as he turned away.
63
The corn was well sprouted now, pointed sprigs of green pushing up through the black loam to reach toward the sun. And it was good.
It was good, too, after the initial period of suspicion and distrust passed. The Chalagees had, after meetings that seemed to go nowhere, suddenly announced their willingness to help the People find a place for summer camp, as well as an area for planting.
“Their ways are very strange,” observed Calling Dove.
“That is true,” said her husband. “We talk, the leaders talk, we seem almost ready to agree. Then they say, ‘We will think on this, and talk again tomorrow.’ They never decide anything.”
Dove laughed. “That is your way, my husband, to decide now, before thinking. My people go more slowly.”
A year ago she would not have thought of teasing him so. The heat of their romance had, while not cooling at all, ripened into one of solid friendship and understanding. She could tease him and know that he would understand and appreciate the humor in it. Then they would laugh together, and tickle and giggle like children. It was all a matter, she had learned, of when to tease him. Sometimes it was not the right time, if she found him too serious. But she was learning. She had an increasingly better feel for her mischievous antics. It was merely that she must be cautious. To initiate such an episode when he was lost in serious thought could provoke an angry retort, and White Wolf would pout until evening. Usually, after darkness fell and they sought the sleeping robes she could find ways to influence him, and correct her error.
The occasions when she was guilty of errors in judgment were fewer now, however, and the resulting periods of sullen noncommunication were shorter. Their relationship was ripening, and Dove knew that her marriage was the envy of many young women. Older ones, too, probably. She often smiled quietly to herself at such thoughts.
Today, she was not quite certain. She had ventured to poke fun at the tendency of the Norsemen to make sudden decisions. That was their way. The way of the People was easygoing, more accepting. Why make a decision until it is really necessary? They had discussed this, though not at length.
This time, he was very quiet after her gibe at his impatient tendency to act on impulse. She studied him covertly. No, he was not angry. Just lost in thought. That was good. Still, it was a relief when he spoke, quietly and thoughtfully.
“But the Chalagee are different from either. Maybe … Dove, do you think they have some ritual by which to make decisions?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled.
“Well, it is as I said. We meet, then they stop the council, and nothing is decided until the next day. Or even longer, sometimes. Then, when they come back, they have decided. What did they do, between? Is there a ritual, or a casting of … of a spell, or something, that tells them?”
There was a slight problem with finding words for such complicated ideas. White Wolf had learned the basic tongue of the People, but things like ideas require more words. Still, he was doing well, she thought. Dove watched an eagle soar across the valley and land ponderously on her nest in a tall spruce.
“Or,” continued Nils, thinking aloud, “do they get their answers from dreams?”
Dove was startled. That was a possibility, of course. “Do you?” she asked.
She was still in awe of his powers as a holy man. That was a subject that she had never dared to bring into their conversations. It was too great for her to comprehend, and she was far more comfortable if she kept that part of White Wolf completely outside their relationship.
“No,” he said quickly. “Well, maybe sometimes.”
He was distant, lost in thought. Dove waited, unsure.
“There is a saying among my people,” he went on, slowly, “about ‘I will sleep on it.’ An answer to a problem is easier after sleep, sometimes.”
Dove nodded. “That is true. But … dreams?”
“Dreams, visions, maybe it is all the same. Do you think so?” he asked.
“Maybe. But you think the Chalagee might do something to help them dream?”
He considered a little while. “I wondered,” he said finally. “They always seem to wait overnight. A prayer, maybe? It is not long enough for fasting.”
“I do not know, Wolf. But they will tell us when they are ready.”
“If they decide to,” he corrected. “If not, we will never know.”
They chuckled together, and turned back toward the camp.
“The corn grows nicely,” Dove observed.
“Yes! Their kutani told us well on that.”
Diplomatic relations had gone well, except for the tragic death of young Catbird in the first encounter. That had been accepted as a misunderstanding by both sides, and regrets exchanged. There had been no further incidents. Actually there had been little social contact at first. Both groups were cautious. A major factor, however, was the fact that the planting must be done immediately. The People worked hard and long, while curious Chalagees watched their methods. As growers themselves, they could relate to the planting of the crops.
Now, with the fields of the various types of corn sprouting well, there was a little more time to relax and become acquainted with these strange people on whose hospitality their season’s success depended. Later, it would be necessary to weed the fields, but not yet.
“There is to be a story fire tonight,” Dove said conversationally. “Hawk Woman told me. Shall we go?”
“Are Hawk and Odin going?”
“Yes. You know how Odin likes the stories.”
They chuckled together again.
“Yes. He will probably want me to tell those of my people, no?”
Dove laughed. “Probably. But Wolf, yours are good stories. Oh, yes … Hawk says the Chalagees’ Creation story has them coming from the sky, not the earth!”
“Really? How does she know?”
“My brother heard it. You know, he talks to them.”
“Odin talks to everyone, no?”
She laughed. “Yes, but Odin is cautious. And very skilled.”
“That is true. Well, let us go. I would know more about this coming from the sky. My people tell of a path from sky to earth, you know.”
“A road?”
He paused, having no words. He tried to describe the Asabru, the rainbow, a “bridge” formed of light, air, and water.
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Maybe that is how the Chalagee came down, no?”
Nils smiled at the eager interest in her eyes. “We will see,” he said.
The story fire was well attended. It was the first major social event between the People and their Chalagee hosts. It was held on neutral ground, near the Chalagee village, largely because of the great number of people involved. There was no gathering place large enough inside the stockaded village.
Several storytellers would be involved. Singing Moose of the People and First Cloud, one of the older Chalagees, would apparently be the featured speakers. Another man from the other village of the People would also contribute.
The fire was lighted, the pipe passed, and First Cloud began his story. He used both words and hand signs. Some of the People were learning the Chalagee tongue, but mostly their communication was by the simplified trade language. They had picked up this tongue as they traveled, the past two seasons. So there was little difficulty in following the tale of the storyteller. It was helped, of course, by hand signs. Occasionally, when a word or an idea was obscure, Singing Moose would try to assist with a word or phrase in the tongue of the People.
“In the beginning,” First Cloud intoned solemnly, “the earth was only water.”
The People glanced toward each other in amazement. They had heard several widely different stories of the Creation, but never anything like this. Even White Wolf’s stories of fire and ice … But it would be impolite to interrupt, and to their credit, the People maintained their composure.
“Our people, the Real People whom you call Chalagee, lived in the sky above the Sky Dome.”
There was a pause for clarification. The listeners were unfamiliar with the concept of the Sky Dome, and there was a short discussion with signs and attempts at various tongues.
“It is like a blue bowl or basket,” explained First Cloud, “upside down over the earth. It is made of solid stone. Sun crawls across the Dome each day, and under the western edge. She stops for a little while at midday, straight overhead. Her daughter’s lodge is there, and she stops to eat.”
The listeners were puzzled. This was a very unusual story, unlike any they had heard. True, the sun does seem to pause at midday, but …
“Now,” First Cloud continued, “let us go on. Our people, the Chalagee, were on top of the Dome. Down below, there was only water, with the Sky Dome floating on it. No place to stand. So, what to do? They sent down a diving bird, the Loon, to see if there was a bottom. It did not even come back up. The Beaver tried, but could not reach the bottom. Finally, the Water Beetle, grandson of Beaver, stayed down a long time, and came back with a little glob of mud. Another dive, a little more mud, spread out on the surface. Another dive, and yet more.
“Then the Great Buzzard decided to help, by fanning the mud with his huge wings to dry it. Back and forth he flew, again and again. His wingtips brushed the drying mud on each downstroke, making valleys and canyons, and pushing up ridges and mountains between. So, it is as you see it now.”
“This was here?” someone asked.
“No, this was an island, far to the south, where Water Beetle brought the mud. We came here later. But land was formed more than one place, no?”
The listeners nodded, and First Cloud continued.
“Now there was land, and our people began to slide down the outside of the Sky Dome, to stand on solid ground. For protection, they crawled under the edge, inside the dome, and we are still here.”
The People were staring up at the dark sky, studded with stars. The idea of a huge stone Dome was strange to them. More strange, maybe, than White Wolf’s stories of giants.
Singing Moose interrupted, politely and gently.
“My brother,” he inquired, “where do
es Sun go at night?”
“She crawls under the edge of the Dome, and up over the top, back to the east side. She pushes it up, just far enough to slide through.”
There was laughter. Not impolite laughter, but laughter that indicated amused interest in a good story.
“For us,” observed Singing Moose, “Sun is a young man with a torch. He goes on around the earth, sleeping on the other side. Or, doing something else. No one is sure what. Some have tried to find out.”
“Yes,” answered First Cloud. “Some of our people have tried to follow Sun, too. A party of brave warriors once followed her to the west, and saw the edge of the Sky Dome lift for her to slide under. One tried to follow Sun, but the Dome dropped down and crushed him. The others heard him scream, but of course it was dark, when the Dome closed. All night they had to wait, until Sun crawled through in the east to light the day. They could see his feet and legs sticking out from under the rim where he was crushed. No one has tried it since, to see what is outside the Dome.”
“How far is it to the wall of the Dome?” asked Singing Moose. “We are traveling westward.”
“Yes, I know,” said the storyteller. “We do not know how far. But in the story of the warriors who went west, they left as young men, and those who survived came back as old men. It must be very far.”
There was silence for a moment, and Singing Moose spoke again.
“Could it be,” he asked, “that the things they had seen made old men of them?”
The Chalagee storyteller smiled, half to himself, and a bond of understanding seemed to flow between the two.
“I have wondered that, myself,” First Cloud admitted. “Maybe both are true. The rim of the Dome is half a lifetime away, and there are things to the far west that turn men old and gray.”
Calling Dove leaned closer to her husband. She wondered if he felt, as she did, the occasional chill, making the hair prickle at the back of her neck when she thought of the unknown future to the west.
64
Nils sat alone, staring at the expanse of scenery before him. The harvest was in, and the People were again preparing for winter. The decision had been no major surprise. It was only that he had been somewhat startled when he realized, after the fact, that he had expected such a decision, and had not even questioned it.
Runestone Page 41
