Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  “This place is special?” Nils finally asked.

  “What? Oh…Yes…well, no, not particularly. I camped here once, as a child, with my parents. Its spirit is good, no?”

  Yes, Nils realized, the feel of the place was good. Its spirit…There, again, was this custom of the Skraeling, thinking of all things in terms of their spirits. To Nils it seemed illogical, oversimplified, maybe even blasphemous to his family’s newly accepted Christianity. Yet it was such an easy way to see things. It simplified communication, allowing for variance in philosophy and theology, He found himself falling into thought patterns that permitted spirits to inhabit not only people and animals, but trees, rocks, places. The river, even. It sometimes seemed like a living thing, and when its restless murmur lulled him to sleep at night, it seemed to be talking to him. Sometimes he felt that he could almost make out the whispering words. Odin had mentioned this, too.

  “The river talks to us, and the wind, too. Hear?…”

  Yes, when they were near a growth of pines, Nils had noticed the soft song, a hushed hissing whisper that was almost constant. He wondered if the song was that of the wind or of the trees.

  “What does it say?” he asked Odin curiously.

  The Skraeling’s one eye stared at him for a moment, a slightly amused twinkle at the corner.

  “It is not in words, Thorsson. It is in the heart…the spirit. It sings a feeling.”

  Nils understood the gentle reprimand. Yes, it was a wordless feeling, one that could not be expressed. Grandfather would have understood, he thought. Why he believed that, he was not certain. Possibly his grandfather had never been as certain about the new religion as the younger members of the family. The old man, like many of his generation, quietly accepted the new stories and prayers and rituals, but retained a large segment of his previous beliefs. Nils had seen nothing illogical in this. Different names for deities, maybe. His grandfather, though he would discuss many things in great depth, never seemed comfortable about this.

  Nils roused from this nostalgic reverie of his grandfather as Odin spoke again.

  “I do not know how the sun comes up each morning,” the Skraeling mused, “but I am glad when it does. It feels good. The sun says nothing, in words. What feels good is its light and its warmth, no?”

  Nils nodded. Were these not just words? What did it matter, he asked himself, if the feel of this camp on the river was called its mood or its spirit? It could be felt more easily than described, and the feeling was good. So was the sigh of the breeze in the pines. Now it occurred to him that he had been listening for words, when Odin mentioned its “song.” But it was not a matter of words to express ideas. The ideas…the feelings were there, as the comfort of his mother’s lullaby had been when he was a child. It was the feeling of the lullaby that he held in his heart. He now realized that he could not even recall the words to the bedtime song, only the warm and protective feeling. The spirit. It had been a long time since he thought of that part of his childhood.

  Maybe it was like the chanting singsong of the priest when the family attended mass. That song was in Latin, he had been told. He had never quite understood why. What little he had been taught about the Savior led him to believe that the Latin had not been used by him and his followers. This he did not understand, but questions were not encouraged. It was true that the chanting ritual and the ornate pageantry of the Church brought forth great emotion in him. That feeling was a thing of the heart, a spirit that made him feel comfortable and fulfilled. So maybe that was it.

  He had tried to speak of this to his grandfather, and that was the point at which the old man would seem to change the subject.

  “There are many paths to the top of the mountain,” Grandfather had once said, “but they all lead to the top of the mountain.”

  Young Nils had not understood what his grandfather meant by that. They had not been talking of paths and mountains, but it was a pleasant thought. He also did not quite understand why the conversation then turned to Grandfather’s stories of the Olden Times, when there were gods and goddesses, whole families of them. Their trials and triumphs and adventures were amusing and interesting, and young Nils had loved to hear these stories.

  Somewhere along the way, he realized that the telling of these stories by his grandfather was not totally approved by his parents. It became almost a matter of conspiracy, the old man and the boy sharing and enjoying together. It was an unspoken rule that when someone else approached, they would change the subject.

  “It is much like the runes, Nils,” the old man explained. “You need to learn both the new and the old.”

  The boy was confused. “Both alphabets?”

  “Yes. And to know the old ways, too.”

  “Old ways of what?”

  “Old ways of the gods … the earth. But…ach! Here comes your mother!”

  And the subject would change. They seldom returned to the subject after such an interruption. Gradually, Nils realized that there were two different stories of how the world came to be. It did not seem to him that it made any difference, because both were pretty good tales. Grandfather’s was the most exciting, but it seemed to be in disrepute, somehow, in favor of the other one about Adam and Eve and a garden somewhere.

  Another mystery involved the reason the old runic alphabet was tolerated, but not the old creation story. Grandfather would only shrug and change the subject when asked. Nils always had the feeling that some day his grandfather would explain it to him, but that was not to be. The old man, who had become progressively more feeble and more forgetful, died during the winter of Nils’s sixteenth year, and it was a great loss to the boy. There had been much that he wished to ask. Now there was no one to care, no one to whom he could turn. His own father was never quite approachable. Even that possible source of information was closed when Death again found his way to the house a few months later, and Nils’s mother again went into mourning. Nils had never known his paternal grandparents, both having died before he was born, and now he felt lost.

  Why am I thinking of these things? Nils asked himself. It had been a long time since he last did so. Well, the spirit-place that seemed to have meaning for Odin. Thoughts of things of the spirit…that may have started it.

  Nils rose, tossed a couple of sticks on the fire, and turned back to his robe. He glanced at the rocky point where he knew Odin stood watch. The soft snores of Svenson came from across the fire, and all seemed good. They had seen no sign of the Knife Woman, but still kept close watch.

  Two more sleeps, Odin said…one after tonight, and they would be among his people. That would be a great accomplishment, Nils thought. They would be safer than at any time since they lost the ships. Of course, he realized that he would immediately need to begin planning their return to Straumfjord. Not this fall, Odin had assured him. There was not time. But he wished to be ready by spring, so that he would lose no time. There was much to do, and he would have to arrange passage home for himself and for Svenson. He wondered how often ships from home would stop at Straumfjord next season. He did hope to find them berths on a long-ship. It would be a real comedown to leave home as master of a dragon ship and return in the wallowing sowbelly of one of the knarrs. Finally, he fell asleep, the clutter of thoughts racing through his mind. He awoke what seemed like only moments later, with Odin rousing him to take the morning watch.

  The next morning dawned cold and overcast. The time since Nils rose from a warm bed to take the watch was among the most miserable times of his entire life. He had longed to go back to the fire, but had not dared to do so. It was too dangerous, in case they were attacked by the Knife Woman. Or by anyone else, of course, but there seemed little chance of that. Nils stood shivering, his robe tight around him, nose and toes tingling in the frosty night.

  It was not fully light when he heard the cries of geese above him. Large numbers, by the sound. He could not see them, because they were above the low-hanging clouds, but he could visualize the long lines, their apex poi
nting southward. It was an exciting song, and had always stirred a restless feeling in him, a need to follow. Now, however, it struck him that the songs were new. These birds might not be like the great flocks of home, yet their habit, their migration, their song, all reminded him of home. How odd, he thought, that the sound that had always called to him to wander now called with a message that was almost the opposite. The slight twinge of homesickness gnawed at him, and he drew his robe closer.

  How much longer, he wondered, before the others wake up, and we can move on?

  29

  As it happened, they did not move on that day. The cold drizzle changed to a wet slush that soaked everything and chilled the bones. Odin seemed disappointed, but shrugged philosophically.

  “It is not fit to travel,” he announced, and turned to gather more wood for the fire. He also began to construct a shelter.

  “Hmm—yes…here and here,” he mused to himself, examining the forks of a couple of small trees.

  He began to cut a pair of poles, and propped the upper end of each in one of the tree forks.

  “Now, let us put the canoe here,” he indicated.

  Nils was beginning to see the design of Odin’s efforts now. They lifted the canoe, carried it, and placed it across the slanting poles. It would form a waterproof roof for Odin’s shelter, big enough for them to sit under, and with plenty of space for their provisions. The Norsemen carried the supplies to the shelter while Odin completed its construction. He piled the brush he had trimmed from his poles along the back of the canoe, forming a rear wall for the makeshift lean-to. It required only a fire directly in front, now. That was quickly accomplished with brands from their night fire. Now they could spend the day in dry protection, comparatively warm and comfortable.

  The day did seem to drag. They slept, ate a little, and from time to time, talked.

  “Tell me of your people,” Nils requested of Odin. Svenson was snoring peacefully near the other end of the shelter.

  “Tell you of what?” Odin asked.

  “What are they called? How do they live? What do they wear, what are their homes like?”

  “Oh. Well, you will see, yourself, but … we call ourselves the People. That is true for everyone, no? We are the People and there are those others across the river, or in the next valley.”

  It was a strange way to express it, but it was quite true, thought Nils. He was thinking of his native Norsemen and their long-standing enmity with the inhabitants of the Isles and the coasts. English, Normans, Saxons, Scots, Welsh, Irish…We and they. It was no different here, it seemed.

  “Your houses?”

  “Much like the others, where we were. Like yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Your people. Straumfjord. But no wall around it.”

  “Yes. But we do not have such a wall in my own country.”

  The Skraeling nodded. “Nor do we.”

  “Your houses,” Nils went on, “they are made of logs?”

  “Yes. Sometimes bark.” He paused and tapped on the shell of the canoe over their heads. “Like this. If we will use it only a short while…summer, maybe.”

  “A house for each family? Like the people we just left?”

  “Pretty much so. One big house for meetings. Big enough for everybody.”

  Nils nodded. The longhouse…Another thought came to him.

  “Do your people plant crops?”

  “Crops?”

  “Yes, like these. …” He pointed to the bundle of dried pumpkin among their supplies.

  “Oh. Yes. Several different kinds. Potatoes, beans, maize…what you call corn. We hunt, too, for meat.”

  “Hunt what? Deer?”

  “Yes. Deer. Moose, like we saw, sometimes bears. Ducks, geese, the gobble-bird.”

  “You said you would teach me your tongue.”

  “Oh, yes. That would be good. We can do that.”

  Even as the lesson began, Nils was thinking that the exercise would be useless. He did not intend to stay with Odin’s people any longer than he must. A few weeks…through the worst of the winter. Just enough of the language to get them by.

  Another flight of geese passed overhead, calling as they headed south, unseen in the low-hanging cloud cover. Nils felt the pull of their migratory instinct. Or of his own, he was not certain which. When they returned, though, he would be moving with them, he vowed. Not exactly with them…The return journey to Straumfjord lay north and east, while the migrating flocks would head almost due north. No matter. He would be starting home. He could identify with the feelings of Odin, who was going home now.

  He, Nils, had until now been a bit discontented with that decision. Why should it be that they should now be hurrying to the Skraeling’s home, rather than toward their own? He had felt that other options had not been considered, and the deep-seated resentment had smoldered in the dark recesses of his mind.

  Now he began to see the point. Winter was coming, and its onset would be unpredictable. They dared not undertake the longer journey back to the sea and to Straumfjord at this season. Odin had tried to tell him that, but he had not been completely convinced, until now. But this day had made it easy to see. He watched a wet icicle grow, drop by freezing drop, dangling from a fragment of fiber on the edge of the upturned canoe. Finally he had to admit that this was the best course of action. He did not know the climate or the country, but Odin was one who did. Like it or not, they must take the Skraeling’s advice to have their best chance at survival.

  But now, the slush was turning to snow. By noon the ground was nearly white, except for protected areas where trees were thick. Svenson awoke, surprised and a bit alarmed.

  “Snow?” he asked.

  “It is nothing,” Odin told him. “The ground is warm, and it will go away.”

  That prediction proved true. The snow had stopped by midafternoon, and before dark the ground that had been white was merely wet. They gathered armfuls of sodden wood and placed it near the fire to dry for the night fire. The sun actually peeked through the dissipating clouds for a brief while just before night, creating a gorgeous sunset. Nils watched it, wishing for a better view than one through the trees. A view over the sea, maybe, at the far western horizon. Still, it was a moving experience, and one that held promise.

  The blazing display was short, giving way to the chill of a crisp autumn evening. They used their robes, not to sleep but to wrap themselves in for warmth as the meager warmth of the sun’s dying rays began to diminish. Nils had given some thought before to the condition of his apparel. His footwear had worn out and had been replaced with the gift of soft native moccasins. He found that he rather enjoyed them. They were lightweight and comfortable. But his shirt was wearing thin, and would soon be in tatters. The leather tunic that he wore over it would be some protection, and his knee-length fur breeches still had some wear. Nils’s questions to Odin about the customs of his people had been partly to learn of their manner of dress. The conversation had taken other directions, and he still did not know.

  Odin himself wore a ragged assortment of garments, but these were largely castoffs from either their recent captors or from the Norse settlement. Nils wanted to ask about the possibilities of winter garments when they reached Odin’s people, but did not know quite how to approach the subject. He drew his robe closer around his neck and shoulders, and resigned himself to some discomfort for the present.

  “Do you think there is still danger from the Knife Woman?” asked Svenson as darkness fell.

  Nils had not thought of that for some time. They had posted watch each night, but there had been no sign.

  Odin seemed to consider for a moment, and finally spoke, slowly.

  “I am made to think not,” he said. “By now, she would make another try, or turn back. We have seen nothing, so maybe she gave up and went home.”

  “She did not seem the kind to give up,” observed Svenson.

  “That is true,” Odin mused. “But would she not have tried again?”
/>
  “It seems so. We should keep watch, no?”

  “Yes, one should stay awake,” Odin admitted. “But travel would be hard today. That is why we are here. She could not travel either.”

  • • •

  By contrast, the next day was ideal for travel—clear, crisp, and sunny. Odin seemed pleased with their progress, and his excitement was apparent when they camped for the night. It was understandable, thought Nils. What a thrill, to be coming home, after an absence of several years! How many, had the Skraeling said? Five? It occurred to him that he did not know whether Odin had a family. That thought was a trifle unsettling to him. Was he still thinking of this man as a nonperson?

  “Tell us of your family, Odin,” he suggested.

  The Skraeling’s one eye widened in surprise.

  “Mother, father,” he said simply. “A younger sister. When I left, anyway. Now, I do not know.”

  “You have no wife?”

  Odin smiled, a little sadly.

  “No, never. It is good, maybe. If I had one, she would have remarried by this time.”

  There was an aura of sadness that made Nils suspect that there was more to this story. There must have been a girl, a sweetheart, maybe. Odin had never said how he happened to have left his people. Only that he had been captured and was unable to return. Was this part of the story? Had he left because of a disappointing romance?

  No, Nils told himself. I am reading too much into this. Surely, the Skraelings do not have courtships like ours.

  This did not satisfy his curiosity, though. Odin’s remark about a wife having remarried…Maybe that was it! A girl to whom the young man had been very close. Then, in his absence, no matter what its cause … Of course! Any woman in whom Odin had had a romantic interest would surely have married by this time. Five years, or more!

  This gave Nils a whole new perspective on the impending homecoming. What a thing of dread this must be, mixed with the joy of reunion. His heart reached out, for the hurt in the heart of his companion. He could not totally relate, because he had never had a serious relationship with a woman. At least, not one of any duration. There had been girls, but none with whom he wished to share his future.