Now the Skraeling really began to work with a will. He brought logs and brush to help fill the hold, carried cargo, and more fuel on the return trip.
The work went well. The men moved up and down the trail, between the boats, like a caravan of ants, marching busily in single file. Nils began to see that they would complete the work by early afternoon. It would be well to proceed with the funeral, and be done with it. If they could sail some distance downstream with the Snowbird by nightfall, so much the better.
The crews reassembled on the bank, and Nils and Svenson prepared to board the Norsemaiden. The captured skin boat would be towed behind to allow them to return to shore.
“Odin, you come,” Nils commanded. “You can row the little boat back for us.”
The Skraeling nodded and trotted up the plank ahead of them. The three pulled the plank aboard and cast loose the lines.
Rowing the Norsemaiden would be out of the question. They must unfurl the sail and catch the brisk breeze that was in evidence. Nils and Svenson estimated the angle and trimmed the boom, tying the sheets fast. Then they loosened the ties and began to unfurl the sail. As they tied off the lines and the Norsemaiden swung away from her last mooring, Svenson moved aft to his steering oar. He brought the ship about and headed her up the lake while Nils dropped below, taking a small pot of coals from the fire on shore.
As he poured the coals out and began to add tinder and small sticks, he heard chanting above. Flames began to lick at the fuel he was adding, and Nils tossed brush and more sticks from the waiting supply. His eyes watered as smoke began to fill the ship, and he quickly climbed out, beginning to cough even as he did so.
Svenson was tying his steering oar in place to keep the ship on her course. The singing or chanting continued, and Nils turned to see the Skraeling standing in the bow among the dead. Odin’s arms were raised over his head as he sang, a sad, emotional dirge that could be nothing but a song of mourning in the tongue of his people. He was honoring the dead in his own way.
But now, flames were licking hungrily through the branches in the hold, leaping upward, fanning themselves as they grew.
Nils could feel the heat from below.
“Odin! Come on!” Nils beckoned.
The three men quickly assembled at the side and slid over into the skin boat. Odin took his paddle and Sven cut the craft loose from the ship. They sat for a moment, watching the ship draw away. Smoke poured from her hold, growing thicker as the larger timbers and then the ship itself began to burn. They watched, fascinated, as the dying Norsemaiden ran with the wind, carrying her cargo of dead toward their final reward, retreating into the distance.
There was an exclamation from Odin, and they turned to see him pointing downstream. Nils’s first reaction was that of surprise at the distance they had come. He could barely see the crew on shore. More important, however, was the sight at which Odin was pointing. A gray plume of smoke rose from behind the trees, beyond the Talking Water. It greatly resembled the plume that retreated in the other direction.
“The ship!” Svenson exclaimed.
“Odin, get us back there!” Nils ordered.
“No, Thorsson, they would kill us.”
“Damn your soul, I will kill you myself if you don’t!” Nils snapped.
The Skraeling looked at him with calm resolve.
“There is another way around the Talking Water.”
“Then take us there!”
Odin picked up his paddle and began to propel the craft downstream, working across the current, heading for the other side. It was too far to clearly see the crew waiting at the landing. Nils could not be certain whether they could see the smoke or not, from where they waited. If not, they soon would know. Just now, however, he felt that he needed to determine the fate of the Snowbird.
After what seemed an eternity, the little boat grounded on the other shore, and the three leaped out. Odin dragged the boat ashore and expertly flipped it over, pulling a leafy branch across it for partial concealment. He beckoned, and plunged into the forest along a little-used game trail.
They burst into the open below the rapids a little later, panting from exertion. Odin pointed. There in the distance against the other shore lay the Snowbird. She was dead in the water, burning fiercely along the entire length of her hull. Nils wondered for a moment what had become of the few men on board. For only a moment, of course. It was quickly apparent that they were either dead on board the burning ship, or had attempted to go ashore, where they would have met the attackers. Yes, beyond a doubt, they were dead.
Of the others, he was not so certain. It was possible that they had managed to mount a defense. Possible, even, that the survivors would scatter in the woods, some of them escaping. He felt an urgency to find out, to rejoin them, make plans, to find a way to survive.
“Listen!” Sven held up a hand and the three stood motionless.
Above the quiet murmur of the Talking Waters there came a more distant, more alarming noise. It took a moment to realize that the sounds, muffled and softened by distance and by the reassuring laughter of the water, were sounds of combat. There were shouts, screams, and cries that it seemed could not come from a human throat. Hair prickled at the back of Nils’s neck.
“We must go and help them!” he exclaimed.
Odin looked at him with a stolid expression that was almost patronizing.
“You cannot help them, Thorsson,” the Skraeling said sympathetically. “We must find a way to help ourselves.”
They stood, watching the flames devour the Snowbird before their eyes. Nils had felt the crush of defeat as they brought the crippled Norsemaiden back down the lake. That was nothing like this, however. He had completely destroyed the expedition in his stupidity. He had lost his entire command, including two ships. One he had actually burned with his own hand. The other, he had left virtually undefended, and allowed it to be lost.
Even so, it was a little while before the enormity of the loss sank into his consciousness. He had been thinking in terms of his dereliction of duty, of the loss of prestige with the loss of a ship. Slowly, he realized that they were watching their only way home burn to the waterline. Without a ship, he, Svenson, and any others who had managed to survive until now had absolutely no way to return to civilization. They could not even get as far as Straumfjord. Worse yet, most of their supplies had already been loaded onto the Snowbird, and were going up in greasy smoke before their eyes.
How could he have been so stupid? he fumed to himself. He had actually burned a ship that might have gotten them home. Now they were stranded in the wilderness of an unexplored land, probably to be hunted down and killed like animals. For some reason, Nils recalled the old saying of his grandfather’s, heard repeatedly throughout the years of his childhood.
“A man without a boat is a man in chains.”
12
They could see fires along the opposite shore as night fell after that darkest of days. They had watched the tragedy in progress as it unfolded before them. The Snowbird’s hull had burned to the waterline at her mooring, and scraps of her timbers were floating downstream with the current. The river that had looked so beautiful to Nils only days ago now appeared dark and ugly. Its pristine surface, clean and cold, was now dirtied with the greasy residue of burning supplies and human carnage. Black smoke still rose from the smoldering skeleton of the ship as darkness fell.
Skraelings moved along the shore, in and out of the woods, searching out survivors. Occasionally there would be a distant shout of triumph, a flurry of other snouts, and perhaps a scream, cut short in the middle. There was nothing they could do, even knowing well the meaning of the grim sequence of sounds.
Just before dark, there seemed to be a lessening of the search, pursuit, and killing. Skraelings began to sort through the supplies that had been stacked on the shore in preparation for loading on the ship. There began a methodical sacking and carrying along the trail. They would load the plunder into the boats above the rapids,
Nils supposed.
He was extremely depressed. Had they been on the other shore, he would probably have attacked every Skraeling he encountered until he himself was killed. At least, he could have died fighting, as a Viking should: with dignity, with sword in hand, not cowering here in the underbrush, watching his world and his future disappear in black smoke.
A time or two, he was about to suggest it, but Odin, anticipating such an idea, firmly refused to permit it. In this, the Skraeling was supported by Svenson. Nils was outnumbered, and the use of the boat to cross the river depended on Odin’s skill. So Nils sulked, suffering the dreadful guilt of responsibility that falls on a leader when things go wrong.
Sven sat quietly, muttering softly, occasionally crossing himself. Nils thought that he was praying, probably not only to the God of the cross, but to any of the deities in the tradition of the Norsemen who might have any influence. Sven seemed to hold no ill feeling toward the leader who had engineered the debacle. For this Nils was grateful, but it made his guilt even worse. Basically, both were numb with the enormity, the shock, and grief of the tragedy.
Just at dusk, Odin rose.
“I go to hide the boat,” he said. “Stay here, no fire.”
He flitted into the shadows, and it was a moment before Nils realized that the one-eyed Skraeling had virtually taken command of the situation. His temper flared.
By God, well see about that! he told himself.
It was perhaps fortunate that Odin had disappeared, because before he returned Nil’s temper had cooled. When he took time to think, he realized that any slim chance of survival was totally dependent on the cleverness of this savage.
Time passed, and Odin did not return, Nils waited uneasily. Could it be that the Skraeling had abandoned them, to go off on his own? Or even worse…anger rose in him as the thought occurred. Would Odin betray them to the enemy to save his own worthless skin? It was possible. He fretted, pacing a few steps back and forth in the darkness.
When the drums started, it seemed to worsen their whole predicament even more. A dull throbbing, heard in the distance, like a barely perceived heartbeat. More accurately, felt rather than heard. It seemed to Nils that the throb was that of the earth itself, and it prepared to disintegrate under him. Then, with the beat of a humming sensation, rising and falling with the rhythm of the cadence. A chant or song, he realized. A celebration of victory. Or of defeat … he had never fully realized that before. When one side wins, another loses. Norsemen were not accustomed to defeat.
He glanced at the sky, at the position of the seven stars of the Great Dipper, wheeling their slow circle around the North Star. Come morning, he must have some decisions ready. He and Svenson might not even have a boat available to them, if the Skraeling did not return. Maybe they could make their way down the fjord on foot. It would be difficult, but he saw no other way, unless they could steal a boat from one of the villages downstream as they traveled. Even then, these native boats seemed so tricky to handle. …The entire situation seemed hopeless.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure materialized beside him. Nils jumped.
“Odin!” he whispered, startled. “What—”
“Ssh!” the quiet warning came in reply. “I have been to see … I will tell you.”
The three sat close together while Odin told his story. He had crossed the river and observed the activities of the Skraelings.
“They sing, dance,” he said. “For them, a great victory.”
“Did you see any of our Norsemen?” asked Nils.
The Skraeling shook his head. “No. I am made to think they are dead.”
Nil’s heart sank, even though he already knew. He wished he could have helped.
“And the ship? The other one?”
He knew the answer to that, too, but had to ask.
“Burned and sunk,” said Odin simply.
“What now?” asked Svenson.
“We try to get home,” Nils answered, as confidently as he could. He realized that they could do nothing for the others now. “Odin, can you take us back to Straumfjord in the boat?”
“Maybe. Not now.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“The Skraelings, there.” He pointed. “We have to wait till they leave.”
“But, can we not bring the boat around on this side? At night? We could slip past them and back toward the sea before they know.”
“No. This path is not as good. We could not see well enough at night. In the day, they would see us. We wait.”
Again, Nils experienced the flash of anger that his decisions were being made for him by this savage. But he had no choice. It was infuriating that the Skraeling was right, and that Nils could not argue with his logic.
“When will they leave?”
The Skraeling gave his characteristic little shrug, dimly seen in the starlight.
“Maybe today. Maybe two.”
“We will need food and weapons,” Nils observed.
They were poorly equipped, because when they left the main party their only purpose had been to fire the funeral ship and rejoin the others. Nils tried to remember … he had entrusted his sword to one of the other men, and had only his belt knife. Svenson, too, was unarmed, except for his knife, and Odin kept a blade at his waist. It took no stretch of imagination to realize that they were in desperate straits for such simple tasks as obtaining food.
“I have brought some,” Odin said simply.
“Brought what?” Nils demanded.
“Sword. Ax … a little food.”
“But how…where?”
The Skraeling shrugged again.
“It is much confusion over there. Dark … I picked up what I could.”
“You went ashore? Among them?”
Nils’s doubts began to return, in a strange mixture of pride in the man’s accomplishment and a question of his motives.
“Of course. I look much like them. I stayed in the shadows. Everyone is picking up what he can.”
It was logical, but such bravery! This man was truly remarkable, bold as well as clever.
“You have brought food, too?”
There was no urgency, no immediate threat of hunger. Nils could not have eaten now anyway, with the shock of destruction still upon him. But soon their bodies would need sustenance. Meanwhile, the fast would only sharpen their senses. Eventually, though, they must eat, and it would not be easy to procure food.
“A little,” said Odin shortly. He pointed to a bundle, wrapped in skins and tied with a thong.
Nils wondered momentarily what it might be, but the thought was soon gone. When the time came, whatever was in the bundle might be edible or not. For now, there were more important things to consider. Survival, mostly. The boat, Odin had said, was well hidden. They must wait until the way was clear, and then row across the river above the rapids, carry the boat around the portage, and relaunch it below. As for when the way was clear, it seemed that they must rely on the one-eyed Skraeling. That, too, rankled in Nils’s soul. He was not accustomed to asking for help in anything.
Yet he must admit that of their little party of three, Odin was the only one who was really equipped to make the decisions. Only Odin could effectively handle the boat. Only he could mingle with the other Skraelings undetected. He had proven himself already, procuring weapons and food.
“How long till they leave?” he asked again. “A day or two?”
“Maybe. I will watch to see.”
Again, the frustration of becoming dependent on anyone, much less this savage whom he did not totally trust. What were the man’s motives, anyway? He could merely have left them, or worse, brought back the enemies who even now were probably hacking to death any surviving Norsemen, between orgies of plundering the supplies. Yet he seemed to be trying to help them. Why was he doing so?
“Odin,” Nils demanded with authority, “why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Helping us escape our enemies.”
&n
bsp; Again the shrug, with palms upward and spread wide. That could become irritating, thought Nils. It was not really an answer, but an evasion. It could mean anything.
“They are my enemies, too,” the Skraeling reminded. “See?” He pointed to his shrunken eye socket.
“But you could have slipped past them and started back to your people.”
“Yes. I thought of that. But you were good to me. You did not throw me to the fishes.”
Nils thought that he saw a flash of humor in the one eye that looked straight into his. Straight through, perhaps. Every time the Skraeling looked at him, he felt that. What was it, this feeling that the man, even with only the one eye, could see directly into his soul?
“How are you called?” asked the Skraeling, unexpectedly.
“What? You mean, my name?”
“Yes, maybe so. How shall I call you?”
“Thorsson…Nils Thorsson.”
The Skraeling nodded. “Thorsson…What means that?”
“I…well, Thor is one of our gods. The thunder-god. Thorsson means a son of Thor.”
Odin chuckled, though very softly.
“So you are a son of thunder?”
“Maybe. I guess my name says it, no?”
“Maybe. Now, tell me, Son of Thunder, what my name means.”
For a moment, Nils was puzzled.
“I am called Odin by your people,” the Skraeling went on. “What means this Odin? No one ever told me.”
“Ah! I see. Odin is another of our gods. The father of all the gods. The father of Thor, even.”
The Skraeling was now thoroughly puzzled. “Why, then, am I called this? An honor?”
Disbelief shone in his one eye, and sarcasm in his voice.
“No,” Nils answered. He was a bit embarrassed, though he was not certain why. “The god Odin has only one eye.”
Nils was uncertain how this would be received, but he was surprised by the reaction. The Skraeling appeared delighted.
“Ah, I am Odin, father of the gods! It is good.”
Nils started to tell the man that this was hardly an honor. The name had been given as a joke, a cruel joke that was designed to make fun of the man’s infirmity. He had not completely realized that before. That, he thought, was why I was uncomfortable when he asked. He found himself searching for a way to apologize, but could not. Even more startling, maybe, was a new realization. Odin understood the joke, and even enjoyed sharing in it. Nils remembered again his thought that this was far from an ignorant savage. Odin was a clever man.
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