Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  I really did not want to consider Mandans in the novel that was beginning to shape itself in my mind. That nation has always been the subject of wild speculation, somehow. Mandans were considered “different.” There have been theories that they were descendants of the Welsh explorer, Modoc, that they were one of the Lost Tribes of Israel, and everything between and since. I resisted joining such flights of fancy, but decided to spend a little time in the study of Mandans, anyway.

  Again, I was in for a surprise. Mandan legends tell of a time when they lived far to the east, on a salty shore. Their creation story tells of men climbing from inside the earth by means of the roots of a giant grapevine. They came into the sunlight, saw the world covered with vines bearing grapes, and took some of the tasty fruit back down to show the others. Is it coincidence that the name that the Norsemen gave to the new continent in the same area was Vinland, because of the grapevines they saw? There are accounts of the wine-making activities of the colonists.

  By now, I had abandoned the idea of having my fictional Norsemen sail around Florida and up the Mississippi, though this would be possible. Oceangoing ships do pass today within two days’ walk of the Heavener runestone. The Port of Catoosa, near Tulsa, Oklahoma, is some hundred miles upstream. Norse longships could have navigated the Arkansas River.

  But I thought it more likely that a lost Norseman might travel west with migrating tribes. It was quite common among native cultures until more recent times to “adopt” a visitor or even a captive. There was a distinct advantage to the acquisition of another hunter or fighting man. And yes, I learned, several of the Siouan tribes, probably including the groups who became Mandans, did migrate westward at about that time, A.D. 1000.

  In the process of re-creating the overland trek, I attempted to learn what tribes and nations they might have encountered. Many connections are obscure, but it seems quite likely that they would have encountered the Cherokees in the northern Alleghenies, so this meeting is included in the story. I chose one of several variant spellings for that nation. Since written languages were rare or nonexistent, these names were handed down in oral tradition, and were completely phonetic. I chose Chalagee arbitrarily, with the advice and consent of Robert Conley, Cherokee author, who uses Chalakee. Other spellings include Tsallaghee. There is a theory that even Allegheny is a form of that nation’s name, in the ancient Eastern Trade Language. That was a simplified mixture of tongues that would be analogous to the more modern Pidgin English.

  Likewise, the Mandans and the Hidatsa seem to have become closely associated at about this time, possibly on the trek westward. It seemed logical to include this contact, but in a minor role. I had envisioned a meeting between the Mandan and Hidatsa at some point where both crossed the Mississippi. In my story, the Hidatsa have crossed, and the Mandans are building boats on the east bank to cross the following spring. There is some limited contact between the two.

  Some time later I was startled when, in a reference book nearly a century old, I discovered a mention of the early association of these two tribes. The Mandan word for the Hidatsa was Minitari, “they who crossed the water.” The Mandans’ term for themselves however, was “the people on the bank.” I had written it exactly that way several months earlier, in what I thought was a fictional account.

  At any rate, this migration would put our lost Viking on the Mississippi watershed, still longing for a return to the sea, and home. Downstream, the tributaries that would lead him to the site of the runestone. An accident, capture, or pursuit might easily lead upstream on such a river as the Arkansas. Maybe even simply curiosity, and the explorer’s classic mindset, “Because it’s there.”

  There are very few Mandans left now. They were decimated by smallpox in the nineteenth century. But I talked to Indians of nations who were once their neighbors. All agreed that in their own various cultures, the Mandans were considered different. Light skins, different bone structure, some with curly hair … “Just different.” I had been talking to one man about this, and as I turned to go, he gave me another idea to ponder.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “you know they had green eyes?”

  I found myself uneasy about the possible Mandan connection. There have been many wildly speculative theories, including that espoused by Hjalmar Holand. Holand was convinced by the existence of the Kensington runestone in Minnesota that Vikings visited there in the 1300s. They moved on westward across the continent, he insisted, and remained with the Mandans in the Dakotas, thus accounting for some Mandan physical and cultural anomalies.

  Holand wrote several books in defense of his theories. The Kensington stone has been largely discredited as a modern hoax, perpetrated by one Olaf Ohman and a couple of his fun-loving neighbors as a prank. The Minnesota Historical Society possesses a taped interview with relatives who knew of the fraud, but Holand remained unconvinced until his death in 1963.

  It must be admitted that it is possible that the Mandan characteristics so often described are simply a genetic result of intermarriage. It is equally possible that there was some infusion of outside genetic material. It seems to me more likely, however, that such contact, if it occurred, was probably before or with the pre-Mandans’ move westward at about A.D. 1000. The Norse are known to have been active in the area where the pre-Mandans lived. It was the appropriate time for an adopted Viking to accompany them on the westward migration. Actually, many of Holand’s somewhat fanciful observations on the Mandans seem to fit this theory better than they fit his own.

  By 1300, climatic changes had gripped northern Europe as well as America. Winters were colder and more forbidding and the north Atlantic crossing had become more dangerous. Seagoing powers were now the nations of southern Europe, where the crossing to America involved almost insurmountable distances. The continents were virtually isolated again, not by cultural change as much as by ever-changing world climate.

  There was to be yet one more surprise in the production of this book. After the manuscript was finished, I learned of a new proposed translation of the cryptic message on the stone. To quote the brochure of the Oklahoma State Parks Board, “… research is never static … further discoveries or research could change the thinking on the history of the origin of the runestones.”

  Dr. Richard Nielsen rejects the Monge translation and believes that the actual message is a name: “Glome’s Valley,” and not a date. I have no quarrel with that, or with any other translation. That is not my area of expertise. My purpose is to tell a story, and that story is not about what the stone’s inscription says, but how it came to be there.

  What did Nils Thorsson carve on the stone in my story? We don’t know. A date, a name? Was Glome the name of his honored Grandfather? Of Helge Landsverk’s father?

  Yes, it’s all speculation. I’m sure that there are those who will be quick to criticize my premise. Of course, their criticism will be speculation, too. It, too, must be within the same historical framework and the factual geographic and cultural reality in which I have attempted to work. I only claim that within this framework of known fact, it could have happened this way.

  Don Coldsmith 1995

  About the Author

  DON COLDSMITH served as a World War II combat medic in the South Pacific, graduated from Baker University, and received his M.D. from the University of Kansas. He has been a rancher and a horse breeder, among other professions and avocations, and currently teaches at Emporia State University when he is not writing his award-winning novels. There are nearly six million copies of Don Cold-smith’s books in print.

  Turn the page for a special preview of

  BEARER OF THE PIPE

  by Don Coldsmith

  In Don Coldsmith’s next novel in the bestselling Spanish Bit Saga, a young man of the People takes his first steps toward a new career—for he is destined to follow a path few can take. He will be the next holy many and take the mantle of tradition and wisdom from one of the most important members of the community. Here is the opening of that no
vel, the latest triumph in one of the most-beloved series in historical fiction. Don’t miss Bearer of the Pipe, on sale now from Bantam Books.

  1

  On the day of his birth all who saw this, the child of Dark Antelope and Gray Mouse, smiled. It was a smile of amusement at the baby’s droll appearance. Some infants have this quality. It brings out the best of feelings, a warming of the heart and a sense that the spirit in this new being is a good one.

  Partly, it may have been the appearance of his hair. It was not unusual for babies of the People to possess a quantity of hair at birth. Some had more than others, of course. There seemed to be no particular connection. Facial hair, which appeared on males as manhood approached, was sometimes heavier than usual, especially in the Southern band. This was assumed to be because of the influence of Heads Off, the Spanish outsider who had brought the First Horse to the People. That story was told in pictographs on the Story Skins.

  Many young men boasted when a fringe of dark hair began to sprout along the upper lip. This was a sign of noble ancestry, an evidence of a link with the fabled Heads Off. Though his status as an outsider had prevented his rise beyond the office of a minor band chieftain, Heads Off had held great prestige. His heroic deeds against the Head Splitters were legend. Head Splitters were now allies of the People, but at that time, long ago, had been a dreaded enemy.

  The possession of heavy facial hair might be a thing of pride for a young man, but it was a mixed blessing. The extra time and discomfort required for plucking a heavy growth with the clam-shell tweezers was certainly a thing to test one’s manhood.

  All of this, though, seemed to have no connection to the amount or texture of the hair on the heads of newborn babes of the People. And this child, son of Antelope and Mouse, had a considerable amount. It did not lie flat, as it might have, but stood on end in a furry round globe, some two finger breadths long. This, with his deep-set eyes, wide with wonder at this new world, gave a serious yet comic appearance. And smiles … The sort of smiles that one might see on the faces of people watching a litter of fox pups at play.

  Yes, that was it! The emotion evoked by the charming appearance of a young, furry creature.

  “Where did this pup get the fur?” asked an old woman. “It is not that of an Antelope.”

  “Nor of a Gray Mouse, either,” teased another.

  “But,” reminded another, “the grandfather of this one is Singing Wolf, the holy man. Maybe that is why it looks like a wolf pup.”

  It was all good-natured, happy bantering, a teasing of new parents to have a part in their joy. The result in this case, however, was that a name was created which this child would wear for many years.

  Wolf Pup. There were other names. Little Bear was one which might have been more appropriate considering the color of the fur on the child’s head. He was also somewhat plump and roly-poly, like a cub of the black bear.

  But no name seemed quite as appropriate as Wolf Pup. The keen understanding in his gaze, even in his first days of life, told of far-seeing thoughts, And, with his grandfather being the respected Singing Wolf … aiee, how could it be otherwise? In a matter of days, the new child in the lodge of Antelope and Mouse was known to everyone as Wolf Pup.

  The name fit well as the child grew. He was serious and thoughtful, yet fun-loving, and could move from one approach to the other in the space of a heartbeat.

  “His is a spirit that is old and wise,” proclaimed Running Deer.

  No one remembered any longer how many winters the old woman had seen. She was the grandmother of Dark Antelope, but had also raised the orphaned Gray Mouse. Thus she was twice the “grandmother” of this, their child. There was no blood relation to Mouse, of course. That point had arisen when the two young people, raised within the extended family of the holy man, Singing Wolf, had decided to marry.

  “Of course it may be done,” Wolf had explained to the council. “The girl is not even of the People. You all remember how we found her as an infant in the Camp of the Dead? Her people had died of the spotted sickness, the poch.”

  There were nods of agreement. The Year of the Spotted Death was recorded on the Story Skins.

  “My mother, Running Deer, took the child who seemed to be dying. It was thought that she, too, would die. But both lived. That is how these children were raised in the same family, but in different lodges. So, I am made to think there is no problem here. These may marry.”

  The marriage had taken place, and it was good.

  Now, with such strong ties of family, this child was blanketed with love and affection. His grandparents, Singing Wolf and Rain, showered him with adulation, and his twice-grandmother thought that there had never been such a child. Not even since the People came through the hollow log into the world.

  This is not to say that the upbringing of Wolf Pup was overly permissive. With so many adults feeling such a closeness, the child could hardly move unobserved. And, according to the customs of the People, any adult might also discipline a wayward child. Thus there was plenty of direction and guidance for this special child.

  Yet little guidance was needed. Wolf Pup cheerfully adapted without complaint to whatever occurred. His unquestioning acceptance of the day-to-day problems of the People was remarkable. Cold, heat, rain, or snow might cause most infants to complain at such discomfort. Yet this one seemed unimpressed. It was as if he understood the ways of this new environment. The placid look in his large dark eyes seemed to say so. It was a look of patient insight, as if his thoughts were expressed without words. If this is the way of things, let it be so. Insight, understanding, possibly even gratitude for those good things that did happen to go his way.

  His baby name still seemed to fit. There were a few suggestions in the family as to other possibilities. In his more solemn moods, the expression on the child’s face—especially the eyes—was positively owlish. And had there not been an ancestor long ago called Owl? Nothing, however, seemed as fitting as the name he already wore. Wolf Pup.

  As everyone knew, it did not matter anyway. The baby name was quite a temporary thing. This, the eldest son of Dark Antelope and Gray Mouse, would receive his real name at the end of his second year. Already, before he could walk, the early preparations had begun. The child’s hair must not be cut or trimmed. It was fortunate, though, that it was soon long enough to begin to twist it and plait the strands. Narrow strips of finest otter skin were interwoven with the natural hair to produce a heavier plait on each side. It would create a handsome effect at the child’s First Dance, the ritual day when he would also receive his name.

  That name, the People assumed, would be that of his grandfather, Singing Wolf. That part of the ceremony belonged to the older man, and the name would be his choice. Almost always, a man would bestow his own name on a young relative. There was good reason for this. Among the People, it brought ill fortune to speak the name of the dead. Therefore, some living person must wear it.

  There had been an extreme case, many generations ago, when a popular young subchief was killed in battle before he had given his name. No one else in the entire nation happened to be wearing the name at the time, and two words were dropped from the language to be replaced by new ones. No one now even remembered what the old words for the young chief’s name had been, because they must never be spoken again.

  So it seemed logical that at the time of the Naming ceremony and First Dance, little Wolf Pup would become Singing Wolf, the younger. No one even spoke of it, so certain was that expectation.

  Even that name might be changed later when the young man reached the age of maturity. He might earn a name of his own through some significant act or event in his life, and give it away in turn to his heir. But for now he was Wolf Pup, and the name seemed to fit, and he grew and played and learned with the other children in the Rabbit Society.

  The day came for the ceremony of the First Dance and the Naming. There were several children who had become eligible, and it was a day of joy. A little bit of sadness,
too, for Gray Mouse. One does not have babies long, she thought. They grow up too quickly.

  Still, she was proud. The children circled the dance area, hopping to the rhythm of the big dance drum as they performed the Rabbit Dance. Then the other simple steps, and finally the most vital of ceremonies, the ritual of Naming.

  One by one, each small boy was presented to his older relative and received the name he would bear for many seasons. For his entire life, maybe. Red Dog … Bloody Knife … Yellow Hawk … Each youngster stood with pride as he received his name.

  Then came Wolf Pup, grandson of the holy man. His was a family of great prestige, and it was an honor for the spectators to even be present at this ceremony. The boy stood straight and tall, and there were quiet murmurs among the old women that this generation would continue the greatness of the family and of the Southern band.

  “… and your name will be,” Singing Wolf announced, half speaking, half chanting, “Wolf Pup!”

  There was a quiet gasp of surprise. Had the holy man made a mistake? He was expected to give the boy his own name, Singing Wolf. Instead, he had reassigned the same childhood name by which his grandson was already known. No one spoke aloud. To do so would be unseemly, but there was a quiet mutter of whispered questions. Why had Singing Wolf done this?

  Probably no one noticed the twinkle in the eye of the holy man. No one except his wife, Rain, that is. She knew him well, and smiled to herself. He must have a reason, she thought. She would ask him later.

  • • •

  “A reason for what?” he asked innocently.

  “You know quite well, my husband,” she answered. “Why did you not give our grandson your name?”