Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  “Your holy man, White Wolf, asks this?” inquired Flying Squirrel.

  Odin nodded. “The lighting of the first fire is important to him.”

  “And to us,” the chieftain agreed. “It is good. Let it be so.”

  Odin felt that the other had some doubts, but hesitated to challenge the unknown powers of the stranger’s gifts. He had been prepared to call attention to the morning when the Norseman had almost become a wolf. There was a smug feeling of satisfaction that he had not even had to use that. But now, these people must be made to respect the powers of the other outsider, the fire-haired Svenson. Sven would not be completely safe from harm until he, too, had gained a certain amount of respect by some special deed. He approached the two Norsemen.

  “I have told them,” he explained, “that you have a custom of the lighting of a first fire in a new place.”

  “It is true,” Thorsson answered. “We do have.”

  “Yes, yes,” Odin hurried on, “we do, too. But we can use this, Thorsson. They will let Fire Hair—Svenson, here—perform it. And they have not seen your way of striking a spark with the metal striker.”

  “Ah, yes.” Nils began to understand. “Sven, can you make it a real show for them?”

  The old sailor smiled. “Of course.”

  “It is good,” said Odin. “Just before dark. There must be enough light for them to see.”

  Svenson nodded, a mischievous grin on his face.

  The crowd began to gather, and Odin accompanied Svenson and Nils to the spot where the council fire would be. A quantity of wood had been gathered to fuel the fire, and Odin busied himself with preparing the tinder and small sticks so that it would kindle quickly. A little opening under the stack of larger logs would provide a good place to plant the spark. He gathered more fine dry tinder than usual, to make the blaze flare up well. Dry grasses, cedar bark, tiny twigs. Normally, materials of this sort would be carefully saved and used in small quantities. Just enough, in fact, to allow the fire to start. This, however, was a special occasion, mostly to provide a spectacular show. Odin was careful, however, to arrange the fuel and tinder so that his lavish use of the finer materials was not readily apparent.

  “There,” he pointed, showing Svenson his handiwork. “You can put your spark in this little mouse nest of grass.” Sven looked, and nodded eagerly in understanding.

  More people were arriving now, reserving the best places to sit.

  “Let us wait just a little longer,” Odin suggested. “It would be good to have their chief here.”

  It was a matter of timing. To wait too long as darkness fell would destroy part of the impressiveness of the ceremony. But too soon, before the Skraelings’ leader arrived, would be an affront to him. In addition, it seemed good to impress the leader with the fire-striker. It would seem to have great power to people who were familiar only with rubbing-sticks.

  Odin began to prepare his scene.

  “Here, Thorsson, you stand here. I will be there, on the other side, and Svenson, the Fire Maker, will be here. I will—”

  His explanation was interrupted by the approach of Flying Squirrel, flanked by two of his warriors.

  “It is good,” muttered Odin to the Norsemen. “Now I will tell them—”

  He broke off short and stood, raising his arms to get the attention of the crowd. Flying Squirrel and his party entered the circle and seated themselves. Good. Not quite dark …

  “My chief,” Odin addressed the leader, “and my brothers,” to the crowd, “it is good to share your council fire.”

  He spoke in their own tongue, ignoring the sarcastic sneers on a few of the faces. It was to be expected that they knew the status of these three. Captives, though not without honor. But now, he must hurry on, before it became too dark.

  “I speak for my leader, the holy man, White Wolf. Some of your men have seen his power. I, and this one, the Fire Maker, are very unimportant beside him. But enough. Tonight Fire Hair, the Fire Maker, will light the council flame. It is their way.”

  He made a grand sweeping gesture toward Svenson. The lighting of a first fire was completely familiar to the Skraelings, of course, and they sat waiting as Svenson knelt and readied his little scrap of charred cloth.

  “He has no sticks,” someone whispered. People began to stretch their necks, trying to see. There should have been a spindle, a fire-board, and a short bow. What?…

  Svenson raised his hands and looked upward at the darkening sky, playing his part well. Now, thought Odin, if his sparks will only fall right. He held his breath. Svenson now took the nodule of flint in his left hand, and fitted the steel striker around the knuckles of his right. Very deliberately, he struck…once, twice, three times.

  Odin saw the fat spark jump from the steel and land on Sven’s charred cloth. Svenson, working with all deliberate haste, picked it up smoothly and placed it in a handful of cedar bark that he had prepared. Quickly, he folded the fluffy mass around the spark and lifted it high, blowing his breath through the shredded cedar, to fan it into life. White smoke poured from his hands, and just before the tinder burst into flame, Svenson bent to thrust it into the little grass pocket prepared by Odin.

  Odin’s one eye twinkled. Just right! There was a gasp from the front rows. It was apparent that this ceremony was something special.

  “He did it with his bare hands!” someone whispered.

  “No. He plucked it out of a stone.”

  “… touched the stone three times …”

  Everyone had seen it slightly differently. But their attention was now distracted by the fire itself. It seemed to leap into life, the orange tongues licking upward through the dry grasses and small sticks, leaping between the larger logs and thrusting out of the top of the well-built pile. Sparks flew upward toward the darkening sky, and the crowd stared in amazement at the speed with which it had happened.

  During this distraction, Svenson quietly slipped the flint and steel back into his pouch and stood, hands raised toward heaven. The glow of the growing fire was pushing back the shadows now, enlarging the circle of light. The reflection of the flames on the red of Svenson’s hair made it look alive, glowing in the twilight. People watched as the Fire Maker made a turn toward the crowd, a short bow, and sat down.

  “What happened?” asked someone in the rear.

  It had all been accomplished so quickly that those not watching closely had missed it.

  “The Fire Hair just waved his hand and it blazed up!” insisted another.

  Odin was pleased. It had gone well, and it was good to leave some observers dissatisfied. But he had accomplished his purpose.

  Flying Squirrel was trying hard to appear unimpressed, but with little success. The blazing council fire spoke for itself.

  “It is good,” said the chieftain seriously. “Now, let White Wolf show the people his power.”

  Odin had not foreseen this, and he cursed himself for the oversight. It had not even occurred to him that the Skraelings might want to see more. Thinking rapidly, he tried to gain a few moments to plan something.

  “What would my chief have him show?” he asked innocently.

  Flying Squirrel thought for a moment, and then smiled.

  “Let him change himself into a wolf!”

  Odin thought for a moment. He must be very careful, now.

  “My chief,” he said as calmly as he could, “is this wise?”

  Flying Squirrel appeared offended, but seemed to choke back a hasty retort.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have seen him when the spirit takes him. He is like a madman. There must be some risk. …”

  He paused, letting the thought sink in. Flying Squirrel looked uncomfortable, and finally nodded.

  “That is true. Let him do something else.”

  “What would that be, my chief?”

  Now Thorsson interrupted. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “He is asking that you show your power. He wants you
to change into a wolf. I told him no, it is too dangerous.”

  “What? I cannot—”

  “Yes, yes, Thorsson, I know. I am trying to think. Can you do the thing with the sun-stone?”

  “Of course not!” Nils snapped. “It needs daylight. That is why it is called that, the ‘sun-stone.’”

  Now a new idea occurred to Odin. He turned back to Flying Squirrel.

  “My chief, I have discussed this matter with the holy man. He says that to become a wolf is too dangerous to others. The children, here.” He paused and gestured around the circle. There were nods of agreement, and a few looks of apprehension.

  “So,” Odin went on, “White Wolf thinks that you are right. It is best not to do that.”

  He hurried on, having planted the idea in the minds of the listeners that their leader had made such a choice in the interests of their safety. There was no way that Flying Squirrel could react except with thanks. The chieftain nodded. He knows, thought Odin. He knows that I left him no choice but to agree. Very careful now.

  “We spoke of the changing of the colors of stones,” Odin went on. “His power is of—” He had started to say “of the sunlight,” but stopped himself in time. That might imply that White Wolf was powerless at night. That could be a dangerous idea.

  Then the answer occurred to him, itself like a gift from above. He cleared his throat.

  “His power is the greatest of gifts,” he went on with confidence. “He will use it for the good of your people when he can. But, my chief, you know the dangers of misuse of such a gift. As your own holy men will tell you, to misuse such a gift is bad. He would not only lose it, but might sicken, or die.”

  He paused, hoping that the thought would occur to the chief that on White Wolf’s dying, the evil spirit might be released to look for another body in which to dwell. That had worked once.

  “Do you not think, my chief, that to change the color of stones for amusement of the crowd here might be questionable?”

  He saw that he was reaching the chief. Flying Squirrel did not seem happy about it, but realized that Odin had left him with the decision-making power.

  “That is true,” the chief said crisply. “Let us not ask anything that is unsafe. Now, we go on with the council.”

  23

  The Norsemen settled uneasily into the routine of their captors. It was exceedingly frustrating to go about the day-to-day living, not knowing what might come. Mainly, it was a boring existence. Their needs were cared for, they were respected, even honored to an extent, but their captors did not seem to have a plan beyond this.

  Nils was picking up a few words of the Skraeling tongue, which helped some. Odin shrugged it off with a gesture that said it was a waste of time. Nils still did not completely understand why. He had the vague idea that Odin expected at any time to leave the hospitality of these Skraelings, if it could be called that. Yet nothing was happening, and that fact did not seem to bother Odin. Nils tried to question him about it. What did he expect, and when? He received no answers at all, which was even more frustrating than trying to learn the Skraelings’ language without help.

  “What happens will happen,” Odin said, “when it is time.”

  There was a certain degree of hostility toward them, mostly from a few individuals. The woman with the stone knife still made him quite uneasy. She eyed his groin suggestively at every opportunity.

  “She lost a son,” Odin explained in answer to his questions.

  Her attitude was understandable, then, Nils realized. He could even feel a certain compassion for her. This, however, was far overshadowed by his concern for the threat to his own private parts. He resolved to watch her closely, and to maintain his guard. He began to think of her as the Knife Woman, though he did not know her name.

  Once, when the woman had been especially aggressive toward him, at least by suggestion, she was reprimanded by Flying Squirrel. She backed down, sullen and with a glance over her shoulder that was unrepentant. The point was clear. She waited only for an opportunity to act, to accomplish her vengeance.

  Svenson was amused by all of this, much to the discomfiture of Nils.

  “She wants you, White Wolf,” Sven leered.

  “It is not funny, Sven,” Nils snapped at him. “You see how she looks at me.”

  “That is true,” the sailor agreed. “I have seen women look at you there before, but they did not carry a knife!”

  He slapped his knee and roared with laughter.

  “You would not think it so amusing if your parts were the ones in danger,” flared Nils.

  “Do not talk so,” cautioned Odin. “They must not think you are quarreling. Anyway, this woman will not be allowed to harm you, Thorsson. Just do not be alone with her.”

  Ah, so there is danger! thought Nils.

  “Why me?” he asked Odin. “Why not you, or Svenson?”

  Odin gave his shrug. “You are our leader, maybe. The one with power. She would cut off your power.”

  Nils’s groin tightened defensively at the mere thought. Svenson chuckled to himself, but then quieted as both Odin and Nils turned a stern glance at him.

  “Just be careful,” Odin cautioned.

  It was a warning that was not really needed. Nils’s concern was already an active, constant thing.

  Even so, their stay in the village of Flying Squirrel was not unpleasant. The wives of the chieftain were skilled in the preparation of food. Nils found some of the new tastes quite pleasant, and of variety that had not been available at Straumfjord. Or, he now realized, at home in Stadt. There were vegetables that he had never seen or tasted. One such item appeared to be a basic food for the Skraelings. It was a large gourdlike globe, yellowish in color, which was seen to grow on vines. The women were in the process of harvesting and drying fleshy slices of this vegetable for winter storage. Pumpkin, it was called. The seeds were also saved and dried. They, too, would provide food.

  In and among the pumpkin vines were large numbers of another plant that seemed an important crop. Each stalk was as tall as a man’s head, and along its sides were from two to four ears of grain, of a kind Nils had never seen. The large corns reminded him of teeth in shape and size. Maize, Odin called it. This grain was sometimes ground to a meal, but the women also cooked it as whole grains, mixed with yet another seed that was unfamiliar to the Norsemen. This was another vine, bearing pods much like those of peas or lentils. The seeds inside were larger, however, oval in shape and flattened. The mix of these beans with the maize provided a colorful and quite pleasant eating experience.

  By contrast to these new vegetables and grains, the Skraelings seemed to have no source of meat except from hunting. It seemed strange that there were no cattle or sheep or poultry. The only domestic animals at all, in fact, were the few wolflike dogs that skulked around the huts.

  Even so, there was abundant game. Deer were plentiful, as well as waterfowl. There was a large bird that was prized for its flesh and its feathers, larger than a goose but a creature of the forest. It was the same bird, he finally realized, whose feathers were used by the Skraelings to fletch their arrows.

  The long days of late summer now began to grow shorter. Lines of high-flying geese trumpeted their way across the sky. Squirrels busied themselves with gathering and storing nuts. There was a restlessness in the air. The Skraelings accelerated their process of gathering, preparing, and storing food supplies for winter. Even the Knife Woman was too preoccupied to present a major threat to Nils.

  There was at the same time an easing of the curiosity toward the Norsemen. Partly it was because everyone was busy with the harvest and its tasks. But it must have been also that familiarity, while breeding not necessarily contempt, certainly led to tolerance. The strangers were accepted for what they were. Outsiders, whose ways were strange and whose powers were great, were dwelling among them. Yet these men seemed harmless enough. White Wolf and the Fire Maker even took part in a hunt or two, which made their differences seem less.


  As that change took place, there was another. Flying Squirrel recognized it, but was unsure what to do about it. He said nothing, for a leader does not admit that he is unsure. At least, not publicly. Most people still seemed unaware that a decision was needed. Thus it was easy to postpone such a step.

  People will forgive many things in a leader. They will even forgive a mistake. One thing that is difficult to forgive, though, is the absence of decision. Even a wrong decision is better than none, because inaction gives the appearance of weakness. Flying Squirrel, being a wise leader, was aware of this, but was not certain what he wished to do. It was easier to let the days pass, and to see the calm acceptance of the strangers, than to face his dilemma. Sooner or later, he must decide what to do with them, but each day he told himself, maybe tomorrow.

  All of this came abruptly to a halt one summer afternoon when he was approached by his head wife. Flying Squirrel was seated comfortably, smoking, when he saw her approaching. There was something about the way she walked that told him much. He wondered again at the many things a woman can express merely by the way she swings her hips. In the present case, Turtle Woman expressed stolid determination as she marched up to where he sat and planted her feet firmly before him. What is it? he wondered.

  “Squirrel,” she began, hands on her hips, “what are you going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About these strangers. They are a bother to have in the lodge. They eat a lot, and we have none too much room.”

  Ah, he thought, so that is it!

  “And winter is coming,” she went on. “Are we to plan for them, too, this season?”

  Well, it was out in the open. Now he must face it, though he realized that he had been avoiding the obvious. He took a long pull on his pipe and tried to look thoughtful.

  “Yes, I have thought much on this,” he said thoughtfully. That much was true, at least. He still had no real idea what he would do. Maybe he could distract her. “I thought you liked having the handsome White Wolf around,” he teased.