Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  There was one thing about this one that was quite striking, though. His hair. The Skraeling had become accustomed to the wide variety of colors found in the hair of these Norsemen. Many were almost white, as he had heard. But from there, the colors ranged through all shades of yellow and brown or black, sometimes. Some even showed highlights of red, but never had Odin seen such a head of hair as that on the Svenson man. Svenson’s hair, by contrast to the bright yellow of Thorsson’s, was fiery red, redder than the reddest fox or even the noisy red squirrels in the trees. In the sunlight, flames seemed to circle the man’s head. At least, so it seemed to Odin. He had seen many things that were new and strange since he had been with the Norsemen, but this may have been the strangest of all. Except for the sun-stone, of course. That, thought Odin, was like a thing of the spirit. A stone that knew the direction of north!

  He paused, about to take the next step, startled by a noise in the bushes. I must be more careful, he thought. He was annoyed at himself for having been lost in thought instead of paying attention to the possible dangers in the night. Such carelessness could get them all killed. Some small animal scurried away, a rabbit or a fox, maybe. Odin relaxed.

  “What is it?” whispered Thorsson.

  “Nothing. Some small creature. It is gone. Come, we must go on.”

  He was concerned that even at their best pace, the three were traveling ever so much more slowly than their pursuers could.

  “Could we find a boat?” asked Thorsson.

  Odin was startled for a moment. He had been thinking the same thing. This yellow-hair was quite perceptive, and that was good. Maybe these two were well worth helping. He would like to take them back to his people, to show the Norsemen where he had grown up. Also to show them off to his people, maybe brag a little, exchange some stories. It would greatly expand his prestige.

  He paused, both in his thought and his stride. An idea…Yes, of course! Those who sought to kill them would expect the surviving Norsemen to try to return to the village on the sea. They would probably be unaware that a Skraeling was helping them. Yes, it had worked for him before! When he escaped, he had headed in the opposite direction from the one they expected. And he had succeeded. True, they had discovered the ruse, and had come after him again, but it had given him time. Time and distance.

  Now here was a similar situation, though in reverse. The enemy expected the fugitives to flee downstream, and that was what they were doing. In the morning, the trackers would be hot on their trail. But why not double back? Confuse the trail, gain a little time to travel upstream, and try to rejoin his own people. True, it was not the direction that the Norsemen would wish. But, from the safety of Odin’s own tribe, they could then plan their return to the Norse settlement.

  “What is it?” Thorsson asked again, more impatiently this time.

  “It is a plan, Thorsson. Until now we are just running, but I have a plan.”

  “What is it?”

  “I will tell you later. For now, we go on as we are. But let us leave a plainer trail.”

  “Leave a trail’?”

  “Yes. To confuse them.”

  “It confuses me!” the Norseman protested.

  “I know. We will double back later … try to lose them.”

  “But, I…”

  “I will tell you, Thorsson, later, when we have time. But for now, we must keep moving. And leave a trail.”

  Odin reached out to break a twig that protruded in front of him. He almost chuckled at the consternation he hoped that this plan would bring to the enemy trackers.

  15

  Shortly after daylight they came to a small stream. It was little more than a rivulet that came trickling down the rocky hillside to tumble into the fjord below. But the Skraeling seemed pleased. He halted the others at the point where the path crossed the flow of water.

  “Let us wait a little,” he suggested, “for more light.”

  Nils did not understand, but was willing to stop. Even though he had considered himself in moderately good physical condition, he was nearing exhaustion. Svenson, too, was showing the effects of the past two days and nights. Nils looked at Odin with a new respect. When he had first seen the one-eyed Skraeling, his impression was of a ragged wastrel, a savage. He had assumed that the man had attached himself to the Norse settlement because he was unable to function on his own. That was a life of comparative ease for the Skraeling, doing menial tasks in return for the opportunity to beg from the settlers.

  Only now had Nils begun to see how wrong he had been. This was no ignorant beggar, but a clever and inventive man. The Skraeling was much younger than Nils’s original impression had told him, and far more intelligent. Odin was largely responsible for keeping them alive thus far.

  The sun’s rays were striking through the trees now, and scraps of scattered fog hung in the low places. It would have been a fine morning under other circumstances. Birds sang in the trees, and there was little in the beauty of the rocky fjord that told of the imminent danger that stalked the three fugitives.

  “Now I will tell you,” Odin began. “First, they will think we mean to return to your town.”

  “But we do!” Nils protested.

  “Yes, it is so. And they can easily follow us, because they know that. But what if we go the other way, upstream, to confuse them?”

  Nils frowned. “And be farther from where we want to be?”

  “At first, yes. With my people. We will be safe, and when the time is right, we will bring you back to the village of your people. Down the river, in boats. But first, we must escape those who follow us.”

  “How do you know we are followed?” asked Nils.

  The Skraeling chuckled. “I know. Besides, they found our boat. They chopped it.”

  “So, what is next?” demanded Nils, not quite convinced.

  “I will show you. Watch what I do.”

  Odin walked to the stream, and carefully planted his foot so that it was mostly on a flat rock at the edge of the rivulet. But the toe of his moccasin protruded, and as he stepped forward, it touched the mud, leaving a partial track.

  “You do not need to do that,” Odin said. “One is enough for them to find. But now, see what I do.”

  The Skraeling stepped into the water and out onto the other bank, striding confidently down the trail a few paces. There the dim path seemed to disappear among a heavy growth of ferns, shrubs, and grasses. Nils knew that somewhere beyond, the trail would reappear, but what?

  Now Odin stopped, feet firmly planted, balancing himself in midstride. Carefully he began to step backward, a deliberate step at a time. Each time his foot touched the ground, it was precisely in the damp track he had just made. Either that, or on an alternative spot, a rock or a clump of tough grass sod. When he reached the little stream, he stepped into the water with both feet, and beckoned to Nils.

  “Now you, Thorsson. Make a set of tracks, but only that far. Then, come back in the same steps.”

  The scheme was plain now, and the Norsemen quickly followed his example, returning to stand in the icy water of the stream. Odin turned and waded upstream, motioning for them to follow.

  “Now, leave no more trail,” he said over his shoulder.

  It would be good, thought Nils, if that could be. But he knew what was meant. The less trail sign, the more time-consuming for those who sought them.

  The water was cold, chilling the toes, then the ankles. In a short while Nils’s feet were like wooden stumps. Doggedly, he followed the Skraeling, determined to show his resolve. Svenson brought up the rear, breathing just a little heavier at the steepness of the slope.

  Odin remained in the cascading little stream for some time, stepping from one pool to another, letting the flowing water obscure their tracks. Finally they arrived at a spring that was apparently the source of the rivulet. Here, the clear stream gushed directly out of a hole in the rocks.

  “We must leave no tracks here,” cautioned Odin.

  He led the way arou
nd the damp earth at the water’s source, seeking rocks and grassy hummocks on which to step. Then he resumed the climb. Now, however, ail three were careful not to leave the slightest sign of a trail. No more broken twigs or intentional footprints. Again, Nils noted the innate cleverness of the man who led them. If they survived, he now realized, it would be because of the skill of the Skraeling.

  They neared the top of the slope, and Odin paused to caution them. “They will be watching the ridge,” he noted. “We must not show ourselves against the sky.”

  They paused to rest after the climb, carefully screened by a thin growth of trees near the summit. The view below was immense. It was possible to see for a long distance both up and down the great waterway. Almost directly beneath them, the rapids of the Talking Water stretched across the narrows. Below and on the far side, a smudge of smoke marked the location of the burned and sacked ship. Nils felt yet another pang of loss and regret, mixed with guilt over his lack of judgment. His first and maybe his last command, and he had lost his ship.

  Tiny moving specks on the water were identified as the small boats of the Skraelings. Not as many as before, but now Nils noticed a cluster of three or four just above the rapids on this side of the river.

  “They look for us,” said Odin simply, pointing in that direction.

  “Why?” Nils wondered aloud. “Why is it so important to find a man or two?”

  Odin looked at him with his baleful one-eyed stare, and gave his strange characteristic shrug.

  “We killed them first. They want your people to know that cannot be forgotten.”

  “But if they kill us all, who is to know?” Nils persisted.

  Odin nodded. “Your people would know when you do not return. But maybe they would leave one. Blind him, maybe. …” He pointed to his own shrunken eye socket. “Maybe cut off a thumb, so he cannot use a weapon. Maybe cut out his seed.” He pointed to his groin in explanation.

  Nils gritted his teeth at such a thought, yet he knew that his own people had inflicted the same sort of dread among the Britons. It had never occurred to him that he might some day be on the receiving end of such violence. It was not a good feeling. His thoughts of combat had been of charging into the fray, boldly killing or being killed, dying like a Viking. …This was not as he had expected.

  Odin seemed mildly amused at his reaction. “Maybe we will get away, Thorsson,” he said with a wry smile. “Now let us move on. We will stay on the high places, but try not to show ourselves. We go that way.” He pointed upriver.

  “How far?”

  “To my people?” Odin shrugged again. “By boat, maybe three, four sleeps. This way, much longer.”

  Of course, thought Nils. A man without a boat…

  “Maybe we can steal a boat,” the Skraeling echoed his thoughts, “but not now. They will be watching the water. Now come!”

  It was rough traveling along the crest of the headland, made even worse by the constant need not to expose themselves. It was already past midday when they had reached the ridge, and now the sun was lowering across the sound. Soon they must look for a place to spend the night. Well, let Odin choose it, thought Nils. He knows this country. Then again he felt mixed emotions. Gratitude for the Skraeling’s help, but resentment that they should have to be dependent on the skills of this savage.

  “Wait here,” Odin said. “I will look ahead.”

  By this time the shadows were purpling distant coves and valleys, and the still of evening lay across the surface of the water below. In better circumstances, it would have been a setting of great beauty, to stand on this fine bold headland. But now, the darkening shadows lent a threatening tone to the whole panorama. Odin, who had gone ahead a little way, now returned.

  “I have found a place to stop,” he said simply. “Ahead, there.”

  He had chosen well, Nils saw. The place where they would spend the night was a broad shelf on the face of the promontory. Several paces in width at the widest point, its level area could not be seen from below. It was nearly a bow shot in length as it ran along the cliff’s face. At the far end the ledge diminished to nothing, and at the point where they had stepped upon it, it was quite narrow. Persons could pass only in single file. Nils realized that there were many good things about this place. It was hidden from casual passersby. It was defensible, because the only route of approach was by the path they had taken. The cliff above protected from that direction, and the slope below was likewise too steep to climb. One man at the narrow spot could hold off any number of attackers.

  One great disadvantage, however, was the lack of water. It took only a glance to see that the shelf was dry. No trace of a seep or spring was apparent. Any flow of water, of course, would have eroded the ledge through the many generations of its existence. What an odd idea, Nils thought. We could not have both. Water or this shelf, but not both.

  “I go to bring water,” said the Skraeling, who must have had similar thoughts. “There is a good spring below.” He pulled an empty waterskin from his makeshift pack.

  “Let us all go,” Sven suggested. “Water is easier to carry in the belly than in a skin.”

  Odin smiled and nodded, turning to lead the way. In a short while all three had drunk their fill, and they returned to the ledge with a full skin of water.

  “Now,” said the Skraeling seriously, “I am made to think that we should all eat. We will need strength.”

  He produced some dark, greasy-looking sticks of a leathery substance and handed one to each of the others.

  “What is it?” asked Nils.

  “Meat.”

  Odin began to chew, and the others joined in the primitive meal as darkness fell and the night creatures began to fill the shadows with their distinctive cries.

  “There are three of them,” said the tracker, returning to the waiting war party. “One is very clever.”

  “What do you mean, Tracker of the Wind?”

  “Two are the men from the big boats. I can tell by their tracks. Their shoes are different.”

  “But what of the other?”

  Wind Tracker shrugged. These fugitives were forcing him to use every bit of the skill for which he was renowned.

  It had been an interesting campaign. They had attacked the invaders in the raid at dawn and had caught them completely off guard. Even so, the white-hairs had fought well, and had managed to get their great boat under way. Then, for some strange reason, they had burned it. And after all the work of portage around the rapids! This had seemed a good time to attack the other boat, before the invaders had time to unite their divided force. That move had been highly successful, and had resulted in the capture of many supplies and many trophies of war. It was good, and there would be stories and songs for many generations in celebration of the great victory.

  Some of the invading white-hairs had fled into the woods, and these were systematically hunted down and killed or captured for later amusement. Then came a discovery. One small boat, captured and used by the invaders, had apparently crossed the wide river above the rapids, and landed on the other side. There must be at least one or two fugitives over there. The leaders of the successful war party asked to utilize the skills of their best tracker to find these who had escaped the battle.

  Wind Tracker was proud of his skill, and of the prestige that it had brought him. It had taken a lifetime to perfect, and he was not a young man. He rose to this challenge.

  The scouts who had found and destroyed the small boat took him there. It did not take long to determine that the occupants of the boat had tried to hide it, and had then gone downstream around the rapids on foot. Obviously, they hoped to rejoin their own people at the settlement many days’ travel downstream among the islands. He had to admire their determination, because that was a long way on foot, through very rough country.

  It had not been long, however, before the tracker realized that there was something unusual here. At first there had been little attempt to conceal the trail. Then for a while, it app
eared that there was such an effort. And abruptly, another change. The trail was quite plain.

  At first he had thought that the fugitives believed themselves safe, and were becoming careless. But it seemed more complicated than that. It was a broken twig that had caused him to guess that he was dealing with an expert, and Wind Tracker rose to the challenge.

  When a twig is broken by someone brushing past it, the break is in the direction of motion. He studied this twig for some time, broken and dangling by its strip of bark, There was something wrong about it. …Ah! He almost chuckled aloud as he realized. This twig had been bent upward until it snapped. So, it was not an accident, but a deliberate sign. Someone had taken this twig in his hand and broken it to leave a trail. But why? Wind Tracker squatted and held the broken and still-dangling stick in his palm, trying to read the thoughts of the one who had snapped it. It must be part of a planned deception, one for which he must be alert.

  When the trail stopped abruptly, he was puzzled for a short while. He thought that he had lost it, but a quick circle revealed that the tracks led to a dense area of brushy growth and then simply stopped. If they did not go on, then, the tracks must go…back!

  He dropped to all fours, examining the plain tracks in the game trail. Yes, there! Someone had stepped again in his own track. But not exactly. There were two overlapping impressions of the heel, not quite the same. Instantly he realized … the stream, the little rivulet that came tumbling down the rocks. Of course! Quickly, he trotted back. It was growing late, and if he could unravel this puzzle before dark…Well, a fresh trail is always easier.

  He glanced up and down the rivulet. The fugitives would not go down toward the water, because of the boats of the searching parties. So, up! He began to climb upstream, wading from puddle to pool as if he were trying to hide his tracks. And there! Yes … a stone, no larger than his fist, lying in the shallow water. Growing on its surface was a single patch of lichen. But the lichen was under the water. It could not exist there for very long, so that stone must have been dislodged only a short while ago, and fallen into the pool.