Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  Walker feels it too, she thought. If we knew more of this carver of the stone…

  IV

  They huddled together in the little cave that night. The three of them, that is. Tracker seemed not to sleep at all. Each time that Elk Woman dozed from sheer exhaustion, she would rouse with a start, feeling guilty for her negligence. And each time, young Deer Mouse was sleeping soundly, his face peaceful in the dim moonlight that filtered into the canyon.

  Each time, she looked around for the others. The holy man was beside her, his knees drawn up to his stomach in the fetal position. She wondered if his dreams told him anything that would bring comfort in this hopeless situation.

  Once she rose to exercise her stiffening limbs. They had not risked a fire, and there was a chill to the night, even though it was late summer. It would soon be the Moon of Falling Leaves, one of her favorite times of the year” She had been married in that season. Aiee so much had happened since then. She and her husband, Shoots Far, had each season relished the remembrance of the establishment of their lodge. It had been good. Now, it was over….

  She moved stiffly, feeling her way along the path, flexing her knees to restore the circulation. Something moved ahead, and she crouched, reaching for the knife at her waist.

  “Sh … sh …” A whisper, from a pace or two away. “It is I, Tracker. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” she protested quietly. Then the ridiculous nature of both the question and the answer seemed to strike them both.

  “What could be wrong?” she asked with a wry chuckle.

  “Ah, I cannot imagine,” Tracker rejoined.

  He was sitting on a large block of the grayish stone. She wondered if he had been there all night, or if he had been prowling. She approached and sat down on another rock, close to Tracker’s.

  “Tell me, Tracker,” she asked, serious now, “is there any chance at all?”

  He was silent for a little while. He has always been quick to show hope before, she thought. But now, it was time for reality. She realized that he had not wished to cause useless pain to young Deer Mouse. She appreciated that.

  “I thank you that we are still alive,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

  “It is nothing,” Tracker said quickly. “We do what we must.”

  “So, about—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted, “I did not answer yet, your question.”

  He lapsed into silence again, and she waited, becoming a little impatient.

  “Elk Woman, wife of my friend,” he began seriously, “you see how it is. I cannot deceive you, and I would not. But yes, while we are alive, there is always the chance to stay that way. The only thing that can take that chance from us is our death, and that has not happened yet. Now, how we use this chance…that is what keeps us alive.”

  He paused, and somehow Elk Woman felt reprimanded for her lack of hope. He is not talking of whether there is a chance, but of how to use it, she thought.

  “It is not yet time to sing the Death Song,” he said bluntly. “If the time comes, we will sing it proudly. But not yet.”

  She thought of the words of the Death Song, used many times as a vow to die fighting when the odds were hopeless.

  The earth and the sky go on forever,

  But today is a good day to die.

  Yet Tracker seemed to have a genuine feeling of hope in this hopeless situation. Well, so far he had kept them alive. And what he said was true. The chance is always there until death actually occurs.

  No, she told herself irritably, it is stupid to think such thoughts. In the morning, it will be over, when the Shaved-heads attack.

  Tracker interrupted her morose thoughts.

  “You felt it, did you not,” he asked, “the strange spirit of this place?”

  She was startled at his question, yet she understood it. She had lain there in the cave for a long time, in wonder at the carving on the stone slab in the canyon. Here they were, facing certain death (well, almost certain), and the scratches on an ancient rock seemed somehow more important. Why? What was there about the carvings, about the place, that had seized the attention of them all?

  “We all did,” she said quietly. “Did you see how the holy man touched the stone, as if it were hot? What is it here, Tracker?”

  “I do not know. The spirit of the place reached out to me today. It must be a powerful spirit, Elk Woman. The holy man feels it, too.”

  “Yes. But does it have meaning for us?” she asked.

  Even as she spoke, she realized that it seemed so to her. Again, she was struck by the strange spirit-power that they were all feeling here. The importance of the place and the carvings.

  “I am made to think so,” Tracker said thoughtfully. “If it does not have meaning for us, at least, it had for the one who carved the marks in the stone. Now, go and get some more sleep. Tomorrow is a big day.”

  Yes, she thought, a “good day to die,”

  Aloud, she said, “I will keep watch for a while. You need sleep, too.”

  Tracker chuckled softly.

  “No, you join your son. I am awake.”

  Elk Woman realized that it was useless to argue. She rose and made her way back to the cave. Her son appeared not to have moved. Old Spirit Walker muttered a little in his sleep, and she hoped that his night-visions were good. (Aiee, how could they be good?)

  She lay down next to her child, and drew her robe around them. Deer Mouse stirred but did not wake. Elk Woman doubted that she could sleep, but hoped to rest. She would need her strength when morning came. She hoped to cross over taking with her the spirits of enough Shaved-heads to make her husband proud. Already, Tracker’s assurance that there was a chance of escape was fading in the cold darkness of reason.

  Elk Woman wondered, though, about the carver of the stone. What had been his situation, to leave so powerful a spirit behind, to survive through many lifetimes? Was he happy? Sad? Desperate? Maybe, she thought as sleep was about to overcome her, maybe he died here, and crossed over.

  No matter … Her thoughts became confused, heavy. Maybe she would learn more when they too crossed to the Other Side. Maybe she could talk to him, and discover why the spirit presence was so strong here. She began to dream.

  • • •

  Strange, frightening dreams they were, linked maybe to the mystery of the place. Dreams of great canoes that held many people, men whose appearance was strange to her. One figure kept turning up in her visions, a tall warrior with white hair like that of an old man. Yet he did not seem old, but young and strong. She knew that it was a dream, even as she watched it, but could not escape it. It was frightening, this night-vision. Especially when the old-young warrior, before her eyes, seemed to change into a wolf who howled as he leaped into a battle to the death with countless enemies.

  She woke, startled. Spirit Walker was mumbling again, and she wondered if the holy man was having a similar dream. Maybe Walker would be able to make more sense of it.

  1

  Nils Thorsson stood in the foredecks, watching the other ship cleave her way through gray-green water. A white curl of foam spewed out on each side of the prow as she ran before the wind. Running with a bone in her teeth, the old men called it. It was a glorious feeling, the free-flying run of a well-built ship, looking alive as a bird in flight.

  It was easy, as he watched the Norsemaiden’s trim lines and the nodding of the tall dragon’s head on her prow, to see her as a living thing. The red-and-white sail bulged full-curving, filled with the wind’s push.

  The two sister ships raced forward, running parallel courses. The Snowbird, on whose deck he now stood, was slightly ahead.

  It had been a good voyage so far. Only once since they left Greenland’s south coast had the men been forced to turn to the oars. Even then, Nils thought, it might have been unnecessary. He suspected that the commander, Helge Landsverk, had ordered the stint at rowing only to test the mettle of his crews. Thirty-two oarsmen the ships each boasted, all hand-pick
ed for the voyage. They had done well, and soon a freshening breeze had made it possible to unfurl the sails again to run with the wind.

  He could sense the shudder of resilient timbers under his feet when they struck a slightly larger wave. The ship seemed to raise her head for a moment, and then plunged back to her task. Again he felt the life within her sleek hull. She was a living, breathing creature with a spirit of her own that seemed to communicate with his. Nils wondered if everyone felt this affinity for a good ship. Probably not. Some did, though. He could tell by the glow in the eyes of the old men when they told their sea tales of long ago.

  Why, too, did one ship have a different spirit, somehow, than another? These two, for instance. The Snowbird and the Norsemaiden were as nearly alike as the shipbuilder’s skills could make them, yet everyone knew they were different. Neither was better or worse than the other, only different. As two women may be different, perhaps, he thought. Both beautiful and desirable, yet different.

  The Snowbird always breasted the swells as if she challenged the sea, asking for the contest, daring the legions of the sea-god Aegir to do their worst. She savagely reveled in the struggle. Perhaps it was only something in the painted eye of the dragon’s head above the prow. There was definitely a proud, aloof expression. But no, it was more than that. She did have such a spirit.

  Norsemaiden, on the other hand, was more sedate. Perhaps her responsibility as the flagship of the commander gave her a more mature dignity.

  Nils could see the arrow-straight figure of Helge standing in the bows. He had known Landsverk since they were boys. It was because of this friendship, in fact, that Nils now commanded the Snowbird.

  It was a great adventure that his friend had sketched out for him. Helge Landsverk, skilled as he was at navigation, had been eclipsed by the dazzling exploits of an older relative, Leif Ericson. Leif had already led an expedition on the course they were now following, and had founded a colony on the new land. Vinland, Leif had called it, for the myriad of grapevines he found growing there.

  There were some who thought it a new continent, as large as Europe, perhaps. It was on this precept that Helge based his ambition. Let Leif explore the seas, establish colonies in the islands and extend the new religion that so obsessed him. He, Helge Landsverk, would push into the western continent itself, this Vinland that seemed so exciting. If grapes could grow, so could other crops. He spoke with admiration of Thorwald Ericson, Leif’s younger brother, who espoused similar ideas.

  Nils had once met the young Ericson, a bombastic, hard-driving youth of about his own age. It was easy to see, in the enthusiastic demeanor of Thorwald Ericson, the influence of the old Viking blood that coursed in his veins. It was said, Nils recalled, that Thorwald was much like his father, the irrepressible Eric the Red. Perhaps even old Thorwald, Eric’s father, who had fled to Iceland to escape prosecution for murder.

  Yes, there was little doubt that a generation or two ago, young Thorwald Ericson would have been the forefront of those who went a-viking, raiding and pillaging mercilessly along the coast and into the Isles.

  It was exciting to hear Helge’s stories of the sea, to see his eyes glitter in the light of the smoky oil lamp on the table.

  “Thorwald is somewhere over there now,” Helge had told him.

  “Where? Vinland?”

  “Yes!”

  Landsverk’s face was ruddy with excitement and wine as he described the deep fjords and clean cold water of the coasts. Nils was confused.

  “You have been there?” he asked.

  “No, no. Only as far as Greenland. But, Nils, Vinland is better. I have talked to Thorwald. There are bold headlands, sheltered harbors, all just waiting for settlement.”

  “There are no people there?”

  “No. None civilized. A few Skraelings.”

  “Skraelings?”

  “Yes. Primitives. Barbarians. They are no problem against civilized weapons.”

  Nils ignored the faint warning deep in his consciousness, the hint that his friend was actually anticipating such an opportunity for combat. He was excited at the possibilities, too.

  He became more so as Helge unfolded the plan, an exploring expedition paid for by Helge’s father. It was hoped to establish trade. In his semi-inebriated condition, it did not occur to Nils that the goal of trade was moderately incompatible with that of invasion and combat, leading to colonization.

  After much further drinking of wine and recalling of childhood memories, Nils had accepted Landsverk’s offer to command the Snowbird. He did protest, though not too strenuously, that he was not skilled in navigation. It was no matter, Helge had insisted; “I will be navigating anyway, and you will have a skilled crew.”

  They had embarked from Stadt in late May. Now, here he was, far from Norway, gaining experience as sailor and navigator, setting forth on another leg of their journey. And he had found it good.

  Thus far, they had made brief stops at Iceland and again on the southern tip of Greenland, where a vigorous colony flourished. Each time, the sailors spent a few days recovering from the pitching roll of the Atlantic and loading supplies for the next leg of the journey. To be light and fast, yet sturdy, a ship had little room for supplies and cargo. The crew was cramped for space. Even the larger ships, such as these two, carried little beyond necessities and a few items for trading.

  Water, of course, was one of the biggest problems on a long sea voyage. Casks were stowed amidships and refilled at every opportunity.

  Across the waves, Landsverk waved and pointed ahead. A waterspout spewed into the air as a whale breached the surface and rolled. The creature was close enough for the men to see the great eye, fixed for a moment on the intruders before the monster slipped beneath the sea again.

  They had seen whales before, east of Greenland. It was a frightening thing, a feeling of vulnerability, to watch the creatures calmly approach. There had been a moment of terror while the mind tried to comprehend the enormity of the creatures. Longer than the ship, they could have destroyed the entire expedition with a flick of the tail. It was only slight consolation to recall that there had never been an instance of one of these giants attacking a ship.

  The shiny gray bulk slipped out of sight and they were alone on the sea again. Svenson, the steersman, had relinquished his task to a relief man and was making his way forward.

  “You see him?” Nils asked.

  “Aye, a big one!” Svenson grinned.

  “It always surprises me. I’m never expecting it.”

  “Right. Ye never get used to it.”

  The men stood at the prow, studying the sea, but the whale did not reappear. Svenson was pulling his cloak around him more snugly.

  “By the hammer of Thor, there’s a bite to the wind. It will be a cold one tonight.”

  Nils nodded, amused. Svenson wore a crucifix around his neck, symbol of his conversion. Still, in matters like the sea and the weather, he swore on the names of the old gods. Such habits die hard.

  “Sven,” he asked, “you have been to Vinland before?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How many days yet?”

  The old sailor chuckled.

  “You grow impatient, lad.”

  He looked at the sky, the horizon, and the gently nodding sea, as if for a sign.

  “Maybe two, three days.”

  Nils nodded again.

  “There is a harbor?”

  “Yes. It is much like the coast at home. Fjords, deep inlets. They were building a dock when I was there.”

  “That is good.”

  “Yes. It will be much easier.”

  Abruptly, Svenson turned and made his way back to the stern to take the steering oar again. Only for a short while was he ever willing to relinquish the responsibility. That, Nils supposed, was one of the qualities that made Sven a good steersman.

  Nils shivered a little against the wind, and pulled his wolf-skin cloak up around his ears. Even the setting sun looked cold and watery
. Svenson was right. This would be a chill night.

  2

  The colony nestled in a meadow that sloped down to the sea on the north shore. Nils wondered at the exposed location, but soon realized its advantages. The little harbor opened on a deep channel, with plenty of room for maneuvering. In the distance to the north lay a massive headland, tall enough, it appeared, to provide some degree of shelter from the winter’s blasts.

  The land mass where the colony stood stretched southward as far as eye could see, green with vegetation during this summer season. There were trees and meadows and rolling hills, much more hospitable in appearance than the barren slopes of Iceland, or even Greenland.

  Of course, they were now farther south. For the past several days, it had been apparent that the Polestar was lower in the sky at night than in the more northern regions. Svenson had demonstrated an old sailors’ method of reckoning position. He lay on his back on the deck with his head pointing south, knees raised and feet near his rump. Then he placed a fist on his right knee with the thumb sticking straight up.

  “See?” he invited. “When ye’re this far south, the Polestar is not far from the thumb. Farther north, she’s farther away, higher in the sky.”

  It was reasonable, and so simple that Nils was surprised that he had never heard of this trick. Of course, he had never had to reckon his position north and south to any extent. Most of his sailing experience had been along the coast, seldom out of sight of land.

  More important in the open sea was identification of direction, rather than position. In clear weather it was no problem, by the position of the sun. At noon a shadow, cast by a stick, pointed due north. At night, the Polestar provided orientation. It was more difficult in overcast weather, especially in the absence of prevailing wind. Then the whole world became a faceless, unfeeling gray. Nils could well remember the first time he had felt the terror of the hafvilla, the panicky feel of being lost at sea. It was all he could do to maintain his composure until the sky cleared enough for him to see the red stripe of the sunset far to the west along the horizon.