Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  She lunged to grab the boy as he was pulled under, kicking herself free of the doomed canoe as she did so. Her shoulder struck one of the limbs of the rolling tree and she pushed away from it, glancing behind as she did so. She saw White Wolf pulled under, tangled in the clawing branches. She could have screamed in her anguish, but made no sound, it would not be appropriate to waste effort in anything so useless. Dove did not stop to think this, but it was an instinct of survival. Above all, the People were survivors.

  She began to swim toward shore, still holding Bright Sky with one hand. He was helping, swimming strongly, and she felt a momentary thrill of pride at his skill and stamina. Her heart and spirit reached out, searching for her husband, but she was unable to concentrate on that for the moment. She reassured herself that he was strong and brave, and that his power as a holy man would help him. At least, she devoutly hoped so.

  They were being carried rapidly downstream by the current, and Dove struggled to escape its pull. If she could only reach the calmer water nearer the shore, it would not require so much effort. She could tell that Sky was tiring. She could not see the other canoe. To make matters worse, a sudden squall sent a patter of rain that obscured almost everything in sight, pelting the river’s surface into a frothy mist. They struggled on.

  Out of the mist and rain loomed a log, floating downstream like every other bit of flotsam. Dove pushed toward it. This was unlike the mighty tree with the clawing branches. It was a trunk, no more than four paces long, partly rotting away. It could almost be encircled by the arms. She grasped a short stub that protruded from its bole, and placed Sky’s hands on it. He grabbed at it eagerly, and held fast.

  “Do not climb on it,” Dove cautioned. “Just hold on.”

  “Look!” said Sky, indicating with a shake of his head.

  There, at the other end of the log crouched a large spotted cat. It was easily bigger than the boy, and potentially quite dangerous. Bobcats, known for ferocity when at bay, are equally recognized for quickness. And, for unpredictability. Dove stared hard into the yellow eyes, noting also the flattened ears held close to the head. The creature was ready and willing to fight.

  “Move slowly,” she cautioned Sky quietly, “or stay still.”

  The cat curled its lips in a defiant snarl, still unmoving.

  “My brother,” Dove spoke softly, “we have the same problem as you. We would share your log for a time, and then we go our separate ways, no?”

  The only answer was a low hiss and the continued unblinking stare.

  “It is good,” she said, as if she had received the desired answer.

  Very slowly and deliberately she began to swim, thrusting with her legs and pushing the log ahead of her, toward the unseen west shore. She paused to glance around for any sign of the others, but could see nothing. Once she thought she heard a shout. She would have answered, but dared not startle the cat at the other end of their log. It could easily decide to attack if it felt threatened.

  It seemed like a long while before the curtain of rain lifted a little way to show a fringe of willows ahead. It was even longer until they drew near the shore and Dove began to look for a place to land. Not that she had much control, but she would try to reach the shore where they would not have to fight their way through a thicket.

  A sandbar loomed ahead. Almost at the same moment, the log struck bottom, sending an impact that was felt rather than heard. At the first hint of grounding, the great spotted cat leaped to the sandbar. It was gone, disappearing into the thicket along the bank.

  Now she could call out without fear of causing something worse. She raised a long shout, then waited for an answer and tried again. There was only the quiet murmur of the river and the cries of birds as they began to come out after the shower.

  Well, she would try again later. Now there were things to do. They must try to build a fire, which would not be easy with the sodden timber.

  “Come, Sky, we will find some dry tinder.”

  “Will my father find us?” asked the boy, teeth chattering.

  “Of course. Wolf can do anything. We must make a fire to guide him.”

  Dove wished that she could be as confident as she tried to sound. It was certainly not yet time to mourn. We have been separated, she told herself, that is all. It was impossible for her to think otherwise about so bold and strong a man as her husband. Had he not been a leader among his own people, before? Odin had great confidence in him, did he not?

  She could not push from her mind her last glimpse of White Wolf as he sat in the back of the canoe, trying to dodge the clawing arms of the waterlogged old tree. It had reached for him like a living thing, intent on his destruction. She was certain that the canoe was destroyed. She had heard its frail shell crack. A tear came to her eye as she thought of her husband dragged under, fighting for breath. …

  I will not think so, she thought savagely. It would not only be disloyal, but she owed it to young Sky not to reveal any doubts she might have.

  And what of the others? She had no idea what might have happened to the other canoe. It had encountered water that was not quite so treacherous. Or was it? The tricky currents were so deceptive. There had been so little time, so little to see! Her heart was very heavy.

  “Come,” she said to Sky. “Here is a log that may have a mouse nest.”

  That would do for tinder, she was thinking, if we can find one. But then she would need dry twigs and some softwood for rubbing sticks. She had a small knife that she always wore in a pouch at her waist. It was fortunate that she had not lost it. But the day was drawing to a close. It must be, because they had been on the river for some time before the accident.

  Also, where would they camp? The sandbar would be the best place for a signal fire, to be seen by anyone on the river. But the flood was still rising. The sandbar might be under water by morning. Well, she had no fire yet, anyway. Build a fire on higher ground first, then another on the sandbar. …

  “We will camp here,” she indicated, pointing to a partly sheltered grassy knoll. She took a moment to establish the route of retreat to even higher ground in case … well, maybe it would not come to that.

  She kept looking toward the river at every opportunity, hoping for some sign, but there was none. Finally she resigned herself to the task at hand, and turned to the attempt to build a fire. It would be a long cold night without one. Even in this warm autumn, a night’s chill could be quite uncomfortable. And they had no robes. Their comforts of that sort were probably at the bottom of the river, or lodged in some pile of driftwood far downstream.

  Dove was able to kindle a fire before dark, for which she was grateful. The hollow end of a large dead log furnished not only the dry, finely shredded tinder of a mouse’s lodge, but an older structure. A pack rat had crammed the log with its characteristic armful of small dry twigs. She constructed makeshift fire-rubbing sticks, and in a short while had a blaze going. She removed the thong from her fire bow and tucked it back into her pouch. She might need it again.

  Carefully, they nurtured the fire with the dry sticks until some of the wetter fuel was dried enough to ignite. By the time darkness fell, their night’s supply of firewood was toasting and steaming, drying by the heat of the fire. Its warmth lifted her spirits some.

  “When will the others come?” asked Sky.

  “I do not know. Maybe we can build a signal fire!” Dove jumped to her feet to put the plan into action. At least, it would occupy their minds.

  They carried dry wood to the sandbar, and some twigs, building a pyramid of small sticks with tinder inside. Then, a square of larger sticks around it, leaning inward. Finally, she carried a burning stick from the campfire and thrust it into the tinder. The fire leaped quickly this time, catching the partly dried fuel. Sky spread his hands to the warmth as Dove looked up and down the river. She saw no signs of activity.

  “Mother, I—” Sky began, but she interrupted.

  “Ssh … I thought … Did you hear someone call?�
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  Both listened a little longer, but they heard nothing.

  “Maybe it was only a night bird,” she said finally. “Well, let us build up this fire and then stay at the other one. The wind is cold here.”

  She was practically certain that she had heard a shout, but hesitated to say so. It was as if too much confidence might make it untrue. She could see for some distance up and down the river, though not well in the fading light. But the signal fire was well located. They could build it up before complete darkness, and it would burn for some time. Just before they left it for the night, she shouted a few times, waiting for an answer that did not come.

  They made their way back to the campfire, away from the chill breeze on the river. Dove squatted by the fire, and drew her son close to her, giving him the warmth of her body as well as that of the fire. Her buckskin dress had partly dried from the activity and from the heat of both fires, and she was a little more comfortable now.

  She devoutly hoped that the others had seen their signal fire. There was no way of knowing, of course. She and Sky would stay here, keep the fires going. Tomorrow she must think of food of some sort, in case they were not found. She tried to ignore the gnawing doubt that maybe the others had not survived. Or not all of them.

  Sky was asleep now, snuggled against her. Her muscles were cramped, but she did not want to disturb him, and the ground was too wet for either of them to lie on. She finally compromised by sinking to a sitting position and extended her legs to ease the muscles. She managed to feed the fire a stick or two, and noticed that the stars were out, the clouds moving on to the east. A beaver splashed on the river, and from somewhere in the distance came the booming call of a night heron. A coyote gave its chuckling cry.

  She was dozing off when she was rudely awakened by a screaming cry near at hand. It took her a moment to realize its source. A hunting cat … Possibly the one with which they had shared the log. She smiled, and rocked her sleeping son gently.

  “Good hunting, brother,” she murmured softly.

  A short while later there was another sound, the dying scream of a rabbit. Their friend the bobcat had found good hunting.

  Now, if their own peril could come out so well …

  83

  Odin had seen the other canoe trapped and crushed by the rolling tree. The grasping arms … later he would realize the significance of the accident in connection with Wolf’s dream.

  Just then, however, he had been preoccupied with saving his own life and that of his companion. Trapped in an odd whirl of the new river’s cross current, the canoe had shot helplessly past the dangerous tangle and on into the center of the combined stream. He could feel the powerful current catch the craft and speed it on, overtaking and passing the doomed canoe of Wolf and Dove. He caught only glimpses of someone struggling in the water. He could not tell who.

  Their paddles were useless, puny against the might of the current. The canoe seemed to take on a life of its own, surging on downstream, out of earshot of the others. He called out, but felt the futility of the effort. He was not even certain whether he might have been heard.

  It was some time later before the two men, exhausted and shaken, managed to bring the canoe out of the powerful current and into a quiet backwater near the west bank. Snake looked over his shoulder, eyes wide.

  “Let us go ashore.”

  “It is good!” answered Odin, though there was very little in their situation that fit such a term.

  “Did you see?” asked Snake.

  “Yes. We must look for them.”

  “The tree … it was alive!” Snake muttered, badly shaken by the tragedy he had just witnessed.

  They drew the canoe up on shore a little way, and then stretched themselves on the ground, still breathing heavily. Odin found himself shaking as his tired muscles quivered in the ecstasy of relief from straining.

  “I saw your sister grab the boy,” Snake panted. “Did she reach land?”

  “I did not see,” Odin answered, “but she is a strong swimmer. Maybe so.”

  “What about White Wolf?”

  “Ah, I do not know, Snake. He was caught … pulled under. I fear for him.”

  “But the holy man said—”

  “I know. But we know, too, what we saw. Still, his gifts are powerful. I have seen him—”

  “Yes, yes! You saw him change into a wolf, no? Maybe he could change to a beaver or an otter, even a fish!”

  Odin saw that Snake too was greatly impressed with the mystic powers of their companion.

  “Yes, maybe,” he agreed. “But Snake, even though Wolf has great power, he needs help. And we must find my sister.”

  They were recovering now, breathing more normally. The discomfort of protesting muscles was subsiding.

  “We must go,” Odin stated, rising stiffly and beginning to shove the canoe back into the water. It would soon begin to grow dark.

  “Let us stay near the bank,” Odin said as they stepped into the canoe. “We cannot fight the current.”

  “Do you think they were swept out into the middle, as we were?” Snake asked.

  “I cannot tell,” Odin shrugged, “but maybe not. We were pulled past them … no, I am made to think they are all behind us, alive or not.”

  He hated to think in such terms, even, but they must be realistic. The chances of survival for any of the people in the other canoe were pretty grim.

  They made their way along the shore, searching for any sign of the lost ones. It was more reasonable to do so than to watch the flotsam out in the main current. Any object there after the accident would be far downstream now. If it were a person, that person would be dead. Even so, they cast a glance toward midstream occasionally, but saw no bodies. That, at least, was gratifying.

  Evening was drawing near when Snake suddenly exclaimed and pointed ahead. Something light in color, trapped against the roots of a large tree that stood partly in the water.

  “The canoe,” said Snake softly. “Part of it.”

  They circled past it, looking, searching. The stark white of the birchbark gleamed like bleached bones in the deepening dusk. It was an ominous sign.

  “Let us get a little closer,” Odin suggested. “Is that the front or the back part? It is twisted.”

  They moved in, searching for any bit of information they might find. This section of bark had once composed perhaps a third of the canoe’s length.

  “The back,” said Snake. “It has no eyes.”

  So it could not see, Odin thought. The symbolic eyes had been painted on the prow, to look forward. This, then, would have been the rear portion of the canoe. The part where White Wolf sat

  Snake, sitting in the prow of their own canoe, was practically close enough to touch the torn shell when he jumped suddenly. His movement was so violent that the canoe rocked alarmingly.

  “What is it?” asked Odin, who could not yet see closely.

  “Someone … there is somebody under it!” Snake exclaimed.

  Now Odin could see what had startled his companion. A hand jutted from beneath the bark shell, grasping the roots of the tree in a last dying effort.

  “Who? Can you tell?”

  Snake gingerly grasped the edge of the shattered canoe and pulled it aside. It floated, drifting clear, to reveal a human form.

  “White Wolf!” Snake gasped. “His powers …”

  Odin’s heart sank. They had come so far, survived so much. And a man of the water, one who had crossed the sea … Maybe this was a fitting end. But they had been brothers, almost. He knew the intensity with which White Wolf must have clung to life. It was apparent in the way the grasping hand still held tightly to the tangled cottonwood roots. He could imagine that grasp tightening rather than loosening as consciousness faded. The flowing yellow hair and beard were muddy and matted now. Tears filled Odin’s eyes, and he lifted his head to begin the Song of Mourning for his almost-brother.

  “He lives!” Snake gasped.

  Hastily, Odin wiped t
ears aside and looked more closely. Yes, clearly Wolf was trying to raise his head. There was a low moan.

  A stroke or two of the paddles beached the canoe. Snake pulled it ashore while Odin splashed back into the water.

  “Wolf! It is Odin! Wake up!” Odin pried loose stiff fingers and half carried, half floated his friend to shore.

  “We need a fire,” he said to Snake.

  Snake trotted off to look for fuel and tinder, while Odin continued to rub and massage Wolf’s chilled limbs. Wolf opened his eyes, confused, poorly focused, only half-conscious.

  “Dove?” he whispered. “Where is Dove?”

  “We will find her, Wolf,” Odin said shakily, wishing that he could sound more confident than he really was.

  Snake returned with a handful of dry grass and some bark and twigs, and began to prepare the tinder. Odin reached into his pouch for fire-making tools. When they had parted far upriver, Fire Man had insisted that he take the steel striker and nodule of flint. It would be much quicker now than trying to construct the rubbing-stick bow and fire-sticks.

  Just as the welcoming warmth of the fire began to grow, Odin thought he heard a distant shout. He answered, but heard nothing further. The fine drizzling rain, which had been starting and stopping, seemed a little heavier just now, and he crouched nearer the fire. They had spread a robe and placed it around White Wolf, who was slowly regaining his senses.

  “What about Dove and Sky?” he asked again.

  “We do not know, Wolf,” Odin told him. “It is too dark to search now, but she is strong. We will find them as soon as it is light.”

  When Dove opened her eyes, the sun was shining, and it was warm. She had not expected to rest at all, but exhaustion had done its part. It must have been nearly morning when she closed her eyes for a moment, and now … She turned to look at Bright Sky, curled up beside her and sound asleep.