Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  Abruptly, this brought him to thoughts of the blue-eyed Ingrid, wife of the cooper at Straumfjord. That seemed a lifetime ago, now. He had known her only a few days, had never been intimate with her, but she had had a profound effect on him. He had dreamed of her, sometimes, the lovely curves of her body, the shape of her long legs. The blue of her eyes, deep and full of sadness … He had promised to take her away. Maybe by this time she had found someone else. If there were someone who could do what she asked, he was certain that the girl would have gone with him. Nils held no delusions that Ingrid would wait. He wondered whether all women were like that. …Surely not. His parents had always had a steadfast loyalty to each other, so it must be possible.

  Nils’s thoughts returned to Odin, and he wondered again if there had been a woman. One like Ingrid, maybe, who had taunted and enticed and then stopped the sequence of events before it went too far. That sort of experience could make a man leave his own town in disgust, not caring whether he ever returned. He might reconsider later, and want to go home, but it would be apparent that such a woman must have some man.

  These thoughts were becoming depressing, because he wondered now, who shared the bed of the blue-eyed Ingrid tonight?

  30

  Odin was becoming increasingly thoughtful as he neared more familiar territory. It had not been easy to sit still, or to sleep from time to time during the enforced day of waiting under the canoe. He had managed to conceal his true feelings from the others. It did not seem appropriate to him to appear as childishly excited as he felt.

  Yes, childish. That was it. He had been little more than a child, he realized, when he last saw his home, friends, and family. He had not seen himself that way, of course. He had thought he was a man. But a man does that, Odin now understood. In the triumphant bloom of youth, he considers himself complete, not realizing his shortcomings. Because he has the strength of his elders, he assumes that he also has their wisdom. It requires some time and some bitter experience to learn that this is not true. Some, he had now learned, never know it. At least, he now understood his limitations. Anyway, he thought so. He no longer took himself so seriously. That, he had decided, is probably a young man’s biggest mistake. Pride.

  That is not quite it, either, he thought. There is a pride that brings self-confidence, and that is good. Pride in heritage, in strength, in accomplishment. Yet there is a pride in self that can become a hindrance, even a danger. Maybe that is it. Self-importance, his thoughts continued.

  The paddles dipped rhythmically, and the canoe moved upstream. Certainly, his self-esteem was far different than the last time he had traveled this stretch of water, moving away from his people. It was almost embarrassing to think of the mistake that had brought on the tragedy of the past few years.

  A quarrel, a simple lovers’ quarrel, and a stubborn refusal on his part to admit that he might have been at least partly at fault. His heart was heavy when he thought of their angry parting. So heavy, in fact, that there had been a time when he thought he would never go home, even if he could. He could not face the shame of his youthful stupidity. That had been some years ago, however, when he still suffered under delusions of self-importance. It had been a gradual thing, the realization that in the fullness of all things, it did not really matter very much. It had taken some severe, ugly, and very painful lessons to arrive at his present way of thinking, and it had not been easy.

  It was possible, now, for him to take a certain wry amusement from his earlier mistakes. That had sustained him, sometimes. The one mistake at which he could not smile, however, was the one which had turned his life upside down. He had abandoned the most important things in his young life over a simple thing like hurt pride. Of course, he told himself, I would have realized it But of that, he was not certain. How long would it have taken him, he wondered, if he had not been captured? Would his temper, his hurt, have cooled and allowed him to go home, to apologize to Hawk Woman? Even now, there was a spark of anger when he thought of it. She should not have teased him and threatened to marry Old Dog. Even though he had realized long since that it had been a taunt, a thing to make him angry and jealous, it still hurt. She should not have hurt him that way.

  As a logical extension of that angry thought came the next, each time he relived the scene. I should not have told her what she must do.

  “You have no right to tell me!” Hawk had hissed at him, eyes flashing fire. “You do not own me. I will do as I wish, and marry who I choose.”

  If he had not been so angry at the time, he might have realized that she would not be serious about Old Dog. Dog would eventually find a wife, but certainly one with the desirability of Hawk Woman would not have been interested. Yet this, too, bothered him. Was this idea yet more evidence of his youthful pride, his thinking that he, the man now called Odin, was more important than one with lesser skills, less athletic ability, and less handsome features? He had considered himself superior to Old Dog…even the young man’s name had been a cruel joke by the other boys, he now realized. Dog was not handsome or skilled, and was actually clumsy in his motions. Like…well, like an old dog.

  This one question still haunted him, after all the years. Had Hawk Woman actually been serious? She had always been a girl with a great instinct for mothering. An injured puppy, a baby bird…any creature in need, it seemed, could count on her help. But Old Dog? It had tortured him for years, this question.

  He had, in his rage, taken a boat and started downstream. It had been an irrational, possibly stupid thing to do, he now realized, but he wanted only to get away. It had not taken him long to realize, however, that it was not solitude that he sought. It was a desire to disappear, to punish Hawk Woman for her cruelty to him. She will be sorry, he vowed.

  Soon, he was not even certain of that. Sitting by his lonely campfire he had come to the conclusion that it was he who was now sorry. Hawk Woman was at home with her family, while he shivered in the night’s chill and slapped mosquitoes. And the longer that he stayed away, the more stupid it would make him appear.

  He had already decided to turn back, that night so long ago. He had been ready to apologize, to admit that he had been angry and jealous, and that he surely had no right to tell her what she must or must not do. He had decided at his fire that night that with the coming of dawn he would be on the river, going back upstream, to repair the damage to his life that had been caused by pride and jealousy. It was almost at that moment that the chance had been taken from him. The warriors had burst out of the bushes, subdued him quickly, and tied him. He had fought. That, too, was probably a mistake, he now realized. He had managed to inflict enough injury to his attackers to anger them, and the torment and subsequent torture had begun. He was probably fortunate to be alive, even.

  These events had destroyed the possibility of reconciliation with Hawk Woman. Probably forever, he knew. There were many times through the years when he was certain that an opportunity would never present itself. He had been carried by ongoing events progressively farther from home.

  Until now. The coming of the light-haired Thorsson had somehow begun a time of change. True, there had been some times when it had not seemed good. Each time it was so, however, something good seemed to emerge. Even now, they traveled back toward his people, something that he had almost believed could never happen.

  There were many things that he had seen in the past few moons that he had thought could never happen. The changing color of the sun-stone…The white wolf episode…There had been no chance that the three fugitives could have survived that. Yet it had happened. Truly, the man now called White Wolf must have a powerful gift of the spirit, Odin had decided. It was thrilling and exciting to be associated with such a man, and he was proud to have been chosen to be a part of it.

  All in all, he was returning with a certain amount of triumph. He was the helper to White Wolf. He had survived captivity, enslavement, and torture. He had lived with and observed the customs of the Norsemen, as had no other of his people.
/>   A major concern for him was the manner in which he would be accepted by Hawk Woman. His parents, his friends, all would welcome him home. He was not so handsome as when he left. The empty eye socket with its shriveled and scarred lids was not pretty. He had seen it, reflected in a still pool. That would evoke only sympathy from his parents. Friends, too, probably. But, as for Hawk Woman, how would she see it?

  Then he would become irritated with himself. What did it matter? She would be someone else’s wife now. Whose, he could not even imagine. Surely not Old Dog…The thought made his stomach tighten. He had spent many nights of sorrow through the years, lying quietly awake in the darkness, thinking of Hawk Woman in the arms of another man. Any other man. His heart had always been heavy at such thoughts, but until now there had always been a possibility, a slight chance that she had not married, that she had waited for him. As long as he did not know for sure, that chance existed.

  Now, however, the closer he came to home, the more he was forced to realize that it could not be so. One of the most eligible, beautiful, and desirable young women of the village would not be still unmarried. He must resign himself to that. It was hard to do so and still smile, though. This was one area where he could not quite avoid taking himself seriously. The best that he could do would be to conceal it. At that, he was an expert. To conceal emotions was to survive, and he was a survivor. It would be hard, but he had done it before, and though his heart was heavy—

  Odin paused, his thought interrupted by a flash of motion in the trees along the shore. Or had he only imagined it? He wished for the keenness of vision that he had once possessed, as he studied the forest. The leafy colors were turning, showing startling hues of red and yellow and brown. It was hard to distinguish shapes among such patterns. A deer? Bear? He blinked his one eye to clear it, but still could distinguish nothing. Maybe he had been mistaken.

  The observer drew back into the red-orange of the thicket, stepped to the shadowy shelter of a giant spruce, and watched the canoe slide past and out of sight. Only when he was certain it was gone did he make a further move. Then he trotted a few steps to a well-worn trail, set his feet upon it, and began a systematic routine. He loped for some time, an easy distance-eating pace through the trees and along the slope. Then, breathing heavily, he slowed to a walk for a while, resting even as he continued to move in long strides. When his breath began to come easily again, he shifted the bow to his other hand and resumed the loping gait that covered so much ground. When opportunity offered, he cast a glance at the river, but he did not pause to study it. It did not matter.

  The young man did stop at a clear spring beside the trail, cupping water in his hand to rinse his mouth and spit. Then a little more water, swallowed this time. Not too much…His entire stop could have been measured in heartbeats, before he turned back to his mission.

  It was a little past midday when he jogged wearily into the village, between the lodges and toward the center of the community. He did slow to a walk as he neared the council house. He must let his breathing slow, because he must be able to talk.

  Several older men were sitting in the sun outside the long-house as he approached, relaxing and sociably smoking. They looked up, nodded a greeting, and waited for him to speak. The young warrior pointed downstream.

  “Someone comes…Strangers,” he said, still breathing deeply.

  “How many? Where?”

  “One canoe, three men. They dress strangely.”

  There was more interest now, and a readiness to move into action if necessary.

  “Where?”

  “Downstream…half a day. I have run. They will be here tonight.”

  “Are they heavily armed?”

  “I could not see. Not for war, I think. But they are very strange. The hair of one is white.”

  “Ah! They are old men?”

  “I do not know. The white-hair does not move like an old man. And the other…maybe he wore a fox cap, but it seemed to me that the red fur grew on his head.”

  The little group of elders chuckled, and the scout turned away, insulted by their disbelief.

  “It is as I say,” he said over his shoulder. “You will see.”

  31

  Word spread quickly through the village, and observers were posted to give information about the progress of the strangers. It was possible, of course, that the canoe containing the travelers would not even stop. The village was not readily visible from the river, being a couple of bowshots upstream on a small tributary.

  It was a matter of some import, then, when the canoe veered directly into the stream’s mouth and toward the landing. There seemed to be no major threat in the coming of a canoe with only three men, whose actions were not particularly suspicious. It was prudent to be cautious, of course. The watcher at the river tensed when the canoe altered its course and came straight toward him. It was not long before the newcomers were close enough for him to see their faces. He gasped and drew farther into the bushes that concealed him. It was as young Black Hornet had said. The man in the front of the canoe did have hair that was almost white, yet he did move like a young man. They had laughed at Hornet, and he had gone home in anger. Now someone would have to apologize. The watcher turned his attention to the man in the middle. This one did seem a bit older, but the fox fur cap…Ah, it did seem to grow directly from this man’s head! Again, Hornet had been right, or so it seemed.

  The scout turned attention to the steersman in the back of the canoe. This one seemed familiar, somehow. His face, his manner … He wore ragged and disheveled garments, but not quite like the others. The canoe was sliding past at close range now, and the scout studied the profile. Do I know this man? He thought…A man with one eye? He could recall no one. Then he wondered…Did he lose the eye since I knew him? He studied the profile again and almost gasped aloud. Walking Bird! Close on the heels of that thought hurried another: But he is dead!

  Something that was almost terror gripped the young man as he turned to run. If Bird is dead and this is his ghost, then the others must be also from the spirit-world, he thought. They are coming for someone! This was such a dreadful idea that he sprinted all the way to the village and arrived breathless and unable to speak.

  “I…They…” he gasped. “They are coming!”

  “Who? The canoe Hornet told of?”

  “Yes, yes!” His breath was beginning to come more easily now as he became calmer in the presence of other people. “Walking Bird…one of them is Walking Bird.”

  “No, no. Walking Bird is dead.”

  Now doubt gripped the young scout. He hesitated a moment, then spoke.

  “His ghost, maybe. Or somebody who looks like Bird.”

  There was a chuckle around the circle, and he felt an uncomfortable mixture of anger and embarrassment.

  Even as this occurred, several men were reaching for their weapons and moving toward the landing place. No matter who or what, someone was approaching, and they must be prepared. A few children started to follow the warriors, and a mother called after them.

  “Be careful! We do not know who these men are! Best you stay here.”

  There seemed to be no real danger, however. Anyone intending harm to the village would surely not approach openly this way. And, with only three, at a disadvantage in the canoe as it neared shore…The appearance of the newcomers suggested more interest and curiosity than any threat of danger. Their confidence, too, was reassuring. The strangers seemed open and friendly.

  It was only prudent, however, to meet the unknown with a show of strength. A dozen men with weapons ready formed a casual half circle around the spot where the canoe would ground. It was one of these who first voiced recognition.

  “Aiee!” he cried. “It is…Walking Bird, is it really you? We thought you dead!”

  The canoe touched the bank, and the white-haired man in the prow leaped nimbly ashore to pull the craft farther up the gentle slope. The other men moved forward and stepped out, too. The one who had been the steersm
an was smiling and laughing now.

  “It is long since I was called Walking Bird,” he answered, “but I am the same one.”

  There was a volley of questions. A couple of boys who had followed the greeting party despite their mothers’ cautions now ran to spread the word of Walking Bird’s return. They could scarcely remember such a person, or his disappearance. The story of the unfortunate young man, however, had been used as an example to frighten children into obedience ever since.

  “Walking Bird has come home!” the boys called.

  People began to stream from the houses and hurry toward the landing place.

  “Is it true?” a woman asked one of the youths.

  “Of course! I heard him say so!” the boy called over his shoulder as he ran on.

  The crowd gathered quickly, and the scout who had been ridiculed now hurried to bask in the pleasure of vindication.

  “Is it not as I said?” he demanded. “It is Walking Bird, a white-hair who is not old, and one who grows fur like that of the fox upon his head!”

  “On his face, too!” said an astonished bystander.

  Now Walking Bird was holding up a hand for silence.

  “He has lost an eye!” a woman whispered to her companion.

  “Yes. Too bad! He was a very handsome boy.”

  “He still is … as a man, I mean. Some woman…” She rolled her eyes suggestively.

  “True. Was he not friendly with Hawk Woman, before she married Dog?”

  “Yes, I think so. Something like that. They quarreled and he left, was it not?”

  “That is true! I had nearly forgotten. Odd that he would return just now, no?”

  “Ssh! He is going to speak!”

  The repatriated Walking Bird now began to talk, his voice choked with emotion.