Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  The People had other gifts, he was sure. Gifts that could not be described, even. Like those who could die when they chose. Was this simply because they chose to will it at that time? And he was sure that Clay had been able to foretell the future. How?

  One other thing was a puzzle to him. As he thought of Clay, and his courageous challenge to Cold Maker, Nils wondered at his own reaction. He had thought of Clay approaching the Hall of Heroes. Why not the throne of God? He, Nils, had been raised a Christian. Why, now, did he find himself thinking in terms of the Norse religion of his grandfather? More and more, he was becoming convinced that Grandfather had been reluctant to give up certain of the old beliefs. The old man must have had a hard time not to inflict more of his own philosophy on his young grandson. Only now was Nils realizing it.

  What would his mother think, for instance, of Nils’s theory that the People could welcome death by willing it so? Or what would the priest have said? Nils had the uncomfortable feeling that such an idea would have been branded as heresy. He would have been accused of blasphemy and would have said many Hail Marys before it was over.

  And the visions and dreams that seemed to play such a part in the lives of the People … These seemed quite useful sometimes. His feeling about this was colored with a tinge of guilt, because he knew what the priest would say about that. It was demonism, pagan worship, and the work of Satan, at the very least. The immortal souls of the People (if indeed Skraelings have souls) were doomed to hellfire and damnation. They must undergo the transformation that would bring salvation.

  Again, that pang of guilt. He did not feel that he was qualified to bring Christianity to the Skraelings, and would not want to try. That was the job of the priests. His feeling of guilt, however, was not over that. It was that he wondered whether anyone should try to bring them salvation. From what he could see, the People were doing quite well. He and Svenson had adopted their ways in large measure, rather than vice versa. It had been easier.

  He thought of the Creation stories around the fires of the past few seasons. Why had he chosen the Norse mythology to relate to them, instead of the Christian legends? He was not sure. Maybe because the Norse tales had seemed more appropriate at the time, for a primitive people in a harsh northern clime. No matter. His tales of ice-giants and gnomes had been accepted eagerly. He had considered, a time or two, telling the one about the Garden of Eden, Adam’s rib, the apple and the snake. Maybe sometime.

  The sudden thought came to him that the sometime must be now. As soon as the ice on the river was open, they would be gone. Possibly to return later, though that was a bit vague as he thought of the future. Well, there might not even be an opportunity to tell that story. Some day he would share it with Dove.

  As he thought about the immediate future, though, another doubt struck him. It had been some time since he had the dream, but it had occurred several times since the People had reached the great river. He shuddered a little as he thought of it. Especially since he had been thinking of the importance of dreams to the People. Were they more attuned to such things, and to the possible meanings?

  It was always the same, or quite similar. There was water, and he was in a boat or canoe. Sometimes, even, he seemed to be in the water itself. There was a dread, a fear of an undefined Something, an evil presence in the dark depths. The first time he had experienced the dream, he had thought that it was connected to the Chalagee story he had just heard. The giant leech that lies in wait in the dark waters was a gripping tale, guaranteed to make the listener shudder with dread of the unknown. It had been puzzling to him, and humorous in a wry manner, that such fear was worse than the dread of sea monsters in the ocean’s depths. The risk of an encounter with a whale as long as the Norsemaiden was nothing compared to thoughts of a slimy Something of unknown size and shape. …

  The dream itself had been vague and poorly defined, too. Some visions are starkly real, as clear as any seen in reality. Even more so, maybe. Others are shrouded in a misty nothingness that shifts and shimmers, ebbing and flowing, while the mind of a mere mortal tries to cope with its mysteries.

  Nils’s dream was of that ethereal quality. The action in it was slow, painfully slow, each and every time. He sat on or in the water, watching wisps of fog or mist curl lazily along the surface. It was warm, damp, and sticky. He held something in his hands, it was never clear to him exactly what. A weapon? A pole or a canoe paddle, maybe. There was always the feeling that whatever its purpose, the object was useless in the present situation.

  He was never certain in the dream where the creature came from. … Out of the mist and fog, or rising from the depths of the dark water. It did grow larger as it grew nearer. A giant armlike projection tipped with jagged claws thrust up from the water’s surface, towering over his head and descending on him to drag him under. There was a vague feeling that in the water around him were other similar appendages, all grasping at him, hungry for his life.

  He had awakened with a little cry of fright, to find himself in familiar surroundings, with Dove sleeping quietly at his side. She stirred sleepily and rolled over to open her arms to him.

  He had lain there in the darkness for a long time, puzzling over the dream. It had been so real, so terrifying. Dove’s warm body next to him was a great comfort. Dove … She had been at risk in his dream, too!

  Nils had told no one of that dream. The People had some taboos about the sharing of such things and he was not quite certain how they might apply here.

  The dream had recurred several times since that first frightening experience. It was always a fearful thing, but he recovered more quickly now. Sometimes there would be many moons without it followed by recurrences almost every night for a while.

  There were a number of unique things about it. Perhaps the most puzzling was his perception of the appendages that reached for him out of the water and the mist. He had begun with the assumption that his dream dealt with the giant leech. Such a creature, slimy and dreadful, could suck blood from an unsuspecting victim painlessly, without his knowledge. It could be as round as a ball, or long and slender, changing shape at will from one moment to the next. And how big would such a creature be? The largest leech that he had ever encountered was smaller than his fingertip. It was firmly fastened between his toes after a swim in a muddy pond, back in his childhood. He had felt nothing at all. He had seen larger ones, years later, in a jar in Stadt. Even these were smaller than a man’s little finger. Maybe the fear of the unknown extended to size. … Would the giant leech be larger than a man?

  There was another puzzle about it, though, that seemed even more troublesome to him. It dealt with the quality of the terror that reached at him in the dream. A leech could, he conceded, assume almost any shape that might suit its purpose. Any of the shapes, though, would be limited by the texture of the creature. With no bones or shell, its shape would always be soft and slithery … slime. Though the thought of being dragged beneath the water by such a creature made him shudder, he could not quite reconcile it to the dream. An arm or tentacle of the leech, no matter how big, would be soft, slimy, and elastic, even though it might be powerful and sinewy.

  That did not fit the impression he had of the creature in the dream. The arms that thrust at him, seeking to drag him under, were not of such a texture. They were hard and horny, with jagged claws and irregular projections. It was an inconsistency that bothered him almost as much as the dream itself.

  Now, as the time neared to begin the trip downriver, the dream was recurring frequently. Nils decided that there was something about it that he was missing. He must look for advice. But where? Clay would have given good council, but Clay was gone, having given his life in the battle with Cold Maker. There was a holy man in the other clan, but Nils was reluctant to speak of such things to someone he hardly knew.

  He often discussed things that related to the customs of the People with Calling Dove. Somehow, that did not seem appropriate in this case. Even less so, the thought of discussing the
dream with Svenson. But he must. … Then it came to him. Odin!

  Of course! Nils wished now that he had considered this before. Odin would take him seriously, could tell him of the Peoples’ customs, and might have a very good feel for the meaning of the visions.

  Nils went immediately in search of his friend, and found him sitting on a rock, watching the river. Great chunks of ice were floating down the middle of the channel. It would be necessary to wait until the current cleared somewhat.

  “Ah! How is it, almost-brother?” Odin greeted.

  “It is good,” Nils responded easily. “How is the river?”

  “Still rising a little. See, the ice is in the middle.”

  The flotsam of ice, fragmenting and grinding itself smaller as it melted, would seek the banks of the river when its level started to drop, Nils knew. There must still be much melting upstream.

  “We will see,” Odin said philosophically. “When it is time …”

  He trailed off in word and thought.

  “Odin, I would speak with you of something else,” Nils began.

  The Skraeling glanced up, but said nothing. Nils began to blurt out the story of his dreams of the giant leech, pouring it out, cleansing his soul of the torment. At last he paused, exhausted from the emotion of the effort.

  Odin stared at him for a long time, and finally spoke.

  “My brother, why did you not … No, I understand. … Ah, I wish Clay could help us.”

  “What could this mean?” Nils demanded. “And I did not know whether I should tell anyone such a dream.”

  “Dove?” asked Odin.

  “No, I have not told her.”

  “My friend,” Odin began thoughtfully, “I do not know. This seems to be … But you say the creature does not look like the leech of the Chalagees?”

  “No, it does not,” Nils stated positively. “This is …” He paused as the importance of his words sank into his mind. “Odin, this must be something else!”

  Odin nodded. “I am made to think so. Could it be just the dangers of a journey?”

  Nils thought about it for a moment. “Maybe.” That must be it. Any journey might be fraught with danger of some sort. Unknown dangers. Yes, that must be it. He had misunderstood the dream, confusing it in his mind with the story of the giant leech. Yes, it was much clearer, now. He wished that he had spoken to Odin before.

  “It is good!” he said with a smile. He felt better than he had for many moons. Maybe, now that he had acknowledged the warning vision for what it was, it would cease tormenting him. Maybe …

  73

  Planning now became easier, with the concern behind him that had been brought about by the weather. He looked forward with an eagerness that he had thought he possessed, but which had obviously fallen short until now.

  Specific needs for the journey came to the attention of the party, and with this, Nils was in his own element. Supplies were prepared and stowed in the rawhide carrying packs that were characteristic of the People. A herd of buffalo, migrating slowly northward with the greening of the season, provided a good spring hunt. Packs of dried meat and pemmican were prepared and set aside for the journey.

  Nils began to think about specific decisions. Who of the party would travel in which canoe? He mentally evaluated the group, and began to divide and assign positions in the two canoes. All, of course, would be subject to Odin’s approval. He was far more skilled in this sort of travel than any of the others.

  The canoes could carry as many as six people, one in the prow and one astern. Four could sit in the middle, by twos, side by side. That, of course, with no baggage, but they would have a considerable amount. He paused to count the people involved. Dove, Bright Sky, himself, three. Odin and Hawk Woman and their two daughters would make seven. Sven and Red Fawn, nine. Yes, it is good, he thought, and smiled to himself. He was thinking like his wife’s people. But it was true. There should be adequate carrying space for the nine people who would go, and the baggage they required.

  Then he began to think of specific seating arrangements. He would speak with Odin later, but this was a way to vent his enthusiasm, planning in his mind. Odin would serve as steersman in the stern of the first canoe. The other steersman could be either himself or Svenson. Maybe they could trade off. Or, Red Fawn was quite able to serve in that capacity. Any of the other adults could handle the prow of each canoe, and that would leave five people to sit amidships with the baggage. Three of these would be children. Yes, it was a very satisfactory plan. He would speak of it to Odin soon.

  First, of course, they would assist the People in crossing the river. They were still waiting for the ice to clear and the river to subside from its swollen condition. But it does no harm to plan, and Nils’s mind was racing eagerly ahead. They would set the last boatload of the People on the west bank, go back to load the canoes, and start downstream, riding the current of the river on the great adventure. He was aware of his childish exuberance. In fact, he reveled in it. Combined with the skills of his Norse heritage, it would stand the party in good stead. He felt invincible, sometimes, glorying in the strength of his young manhood. What a thrill, to have conquered the dangers of this new world!

  He had not the slightest doubt as to the success of the mission. The maps and charts that he and Svenson had created during the long winter appeared more convincing each time he looked at them. He thought of the calendar, and the likeliest time for exploration along the coast. Yes, summer should find much activity. It was entirely possible by now that there was a regular trade route up and down Vinland’s east coast, with Straumfjord the axis of the operation, and the bulky knarrs stopping along the coast as a routine operation.

  But he must not count on it, he realized. It would be good, but more likely the first Norsemen they would encounter would be an exploring party in a dragon ship. One of the Ericksons, probably. Thorwald’s enthusiasm for exploration of the continent was well known, in contrast to Leif ’s more conservative tendency to establish settlements as he went. Yes, Nils fantasized, probably Thorwald. Would it not be a great triumph if they happened to meet Thorwald Erickson as he sailed up the great river? What a delightful scene he could imagine.

  Good day, Thorwald, he would say. How goes it with you?

  And Erickson would be speechless with astonishment, and Nils would continue.

  I thank you for the sun-stone. It has been of great help in mapping the continent. Here are our charts. …

  But that line of thought brought the memory of Helge Landsverk, and he felt again the sadness and failure of that doomed expedition. No matter, he told himself defensively. This one will he a success.

  He returned to reality from his daydreams as Svenson approached. The old sailor appeared concerned.

  “What is it, Sven?”

  “I would talk with you, Nils.”

  He had seldom seen Svenson so serious. Was there something wrong?

  “Yes?”

  “It is of this voyage downriver,” Sven began hesitantly. “Is it really … does it? … Nils, do we really want to do this?”

  Nils was caught completely off guard. This was unlike Svenson, who had never before hesitated to accept any challenge. What had changed? He studied the older man as if he had never seen him before. Sven’s image in Nils’s mind had always been one of gentle power. It was a childish image, perhaps, dating far back. Yes, he had built an idea based on the old sailor’s appearance and good humor. As a teenager, Nils had imagined that Thor probably looked much like this. The red hair and beard, the burly good nature of the man, his strength and determination. Nils had outgrown that mental picture as a childish diversion. At least he thought he had, until now. He had never told anyone of this daydream of Sven as Thor, but now he found it was still there. He still thought of Sven as invincible, unafraid.

  “What do you mean, Sven?”

  “I am not sure, Nils. At one time, I would have been as eager as you.”

  Nils did not know what to say. Could it be t
hat Svenson was afraid of such an adventure? He would certainly not accuse him.

  “We might get home,” Svenson continued, “or, maybe not. But would it really matter?”

  “I do not understand, Sven. What are you saying?”

  “Well … I suppose … is it worth the effort and risk?”

  “Sven … your family …”

  Ah, maybe that was it! Sven had a wife and children at home. Unlike Nils, who could return home with an exotic foreign wife, Svenson could not show up at home with Red Fawn. She must be left behind. That problem had not occurred to Nils. He now saw that he had touched on the heart of the matter.

  Sven took a deep breath. “Nils,” he said, “we have been gone seven years. You know that they think us dead, because those at Straumfjord will have heard of the battle. Now, Gudred—my wife, you know—we have always had an understanding. If I was lost at sea, she would remarry without hesitation, no?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Nils, she is remarried now. Our youngest child is grown.”

  There was silence for a little while, and Sven continued. “It is better if she thinks me dead. Less problem for her.”

  “And for you and Fawn?” Nils asked. He was uncertain as to what he thought of this.

  “Maybe,” Svenson admitted. “We are very happy together. Nils, I have slept more nights with Fawn than with Gudred. Besides, I am feeling my age a little. My bones are stiff on cold mornings. To give up a warm bed and a good life to brave an unknown river … it sounds like a big journey.”

  Nils had not thought of Svenson’s ever aging, but now he took another look, in a new light. Yes, the bright red of Sven’s hair was yellowing along the temples. There was a streak or two in his beard. The whole picture, Nils realized, was a bit incongruous. Here was an aging sailor, in the buckskins of a Skraeling, with his hair plaited in the style of the People, as was his own. The whole thing was striking Nils as funny, and he smiled.