Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  “It is good to be home, my friends,” he said. “Many things have happened, and I will tell them later. First, I would see my parents.”

  “Ah, Bird, your father is dead,” an old man spoke. “My heart is heavy for you. He was my friend.”

  Walking Bird swallowed hard. “And my mother?”

  “She is well. Your sister, also. But it is good that you have returned. They need you.”

  “Who are these others?” someone asked.

  “The white-hair is called White Wolf,” he said quickly. “He is a great holy man. The other is Fire Maker. I will tell you all of this tonight, but now let me find my mother.”

  He brushed through the circling crowd and hurried toward his mother’s lodge. The crowd began to scatter. They would go their separate ways, spread the news and gossip, and then reassemble at dusk to hear the story of their lost son who had now returned.

  The people gathered early to find a good seat. There had not been such excitement in a very long time. Rumors flew, especially about the strange-looking companions who had accompanied Walking Bird. No one had seen men of such an appearance. White hair, though young…Blue eyes that are not blind. There had been rumors of outsiders from far away, who had established a town on an island in the salty ocean to the east. That part was probably true, but no one had taken seriously the story that their hair came in many different colors. Now they must accept that maybe that was true, also. The strangers had followed Walking Bird to his mother’s lodge, taking their packs with them. Well, soon the people would hear the story.

  It was nearly dark now. The fire had been lighted, and flames reached hungrily up through the pile of sticks and logs. A stick burned in half, allowing the pile to settle into a new position as it dropped. A shower of sparks hurried aloft like living things, to be lost in the darkness above. Or, maybe, to join the myriad of stars that spread like strewn sparks across the deep blue-black of the sky.

  The crowd’s murmur rose a little in anticipation as the returned Walking Bird approached, flanked by his mother and sister, and his two companions. There was joy in the eyes of the women, who clung closely to the repatriated Bird.

  He walked through the crowd, pausing to speak to friends and acquaintances as he passed. The pause was longer as he greeted the leader of the town. He had already paid his respects, in accordance to custom, but now spent a little more time and effort to honor the man’s position and prestige. Then he took his place before the assembled circle, carefully selecting to best advantage the light, the dark background of trees, and the position of the rising moon. Walking Bird was a natural showman, and would take advantage of every factor possible.

  The crowd quieted, waiting in anticipation.

  “My brothers and sisters,” he began, his voice choked with emotion, “much water has flowed down the Big River since I left this, the place of my childhood. Many things both good and bad have happened to me. But now I have come home, and it is good.

  “Now, it is usual for our storytellers to begin with the story of our Creation, of how our People climbed into this world of sunlight from the world below. The roots of a giant grapevine formed our ladder. We have heard that story many times, so I mention it in passing, though briefly. It is enough, for there is much more that I would tell.”

  He paused and took a deep breath.

  “You have noticed that I have lost an eye. I will tell of that, but first, know that the loss is partly gain. I am no longer Walking Bird. My name, given me by the people of my companions here, is Odin, father of the gods.”

  There was a murmur, and he waited for it to quiet.

  “These others are special men,” he went on. “The white-hair, who is called White Wolf, is a very powerful holy man. I have seen him change into a wolf when I thought…But forgive me, I am getting ahead of my story. You will see his powers later. The fire-haired one is his assistant, as I am. You need not fear either of them. They are our friends and allies.

  “But now, I begin my story. When I left this village and the home of my parents, I started downstream in a little boat. I was very young and very foolish, though I thought otherwise at the time. My heart was heavy and I wished to be away from here. Ah, I have learned much. Enough, my friends, to realize my stupidity.”

  There was laughter, and he waited for quiet.

  “I traveled for three days,” he continued, “before I began to see what I was doing to my life. I had determined to return. …”

  The story droned on, the listeners enthralled with the tale and with the manner of its presentation. The fire crackled and sang its soft songs to accompany the narration. Behind the speaker, a blood red full moon showed its glowing arc, turning to silver as it rose above the fringe of trees.

  Far back in the crowd, beyond the circle of light created by the story fire, a woman listened. Her attention was fastened on every word of the speaker. Hawk Woman had been told that he was back, but she had not seen him until now. It had been a long time since they quarreled, and she had shed many tears. She had not intended that it should end that way. Now, though she was glad that Walking Bird was alive, her heart was heavy with a new hurt.

  She shifted her baby on her lap, rocking it gently to prevent it from fussing. She wanted to miss nothing that the storyteller said.

  32

  Nils Thorsson sat, alternately staring into the fire and watching the crowd. The people of Odin’s village seemed completely absorbed in the storytelling. That was to be expected. One of their young men who had been lost and who was believed dead had now returned, with strange companions and a new name.

  It was apparent that Odin was a good storyteller. The man did it with a flourish, an enjoyment that verged on excitement. Such enthusiasm was easily transmitted to the crowd, and people hung on his every word.

  It was more difficult for the Norsemen to remain attentive. They knew only a few words of this language. There were times when Nils thought that he knew which part of the account was in progress, but he was not certain. His attention wandered. He was seated between Svenson and the mother of Odin. They had been told that Odin’s father was dead. Somehow that information had struck deeply into his emotions. From time to time Nils had thought of his own parents and his home. Usually it had been in times of peril, or when he was sure that he was about to die. At these times he would picture them in their grief, wondering about the circumstances of his death, knowing that they could never know the details yet hungering to do so. This made him long for home, to be a child again so that he could run to the welcoming arms of his mother for comfort and protection.

  Watching the reunion of Odin with his family had stirred such feelings to a remarkable degree. One meets a person, knows him for some time, yet many times does not think of his family, his home, or wonder about his childhood. There is a tendency to assume that this person arrived as he now is, fully grown, skipping over the formative years. Nils had been somewhat embarrassed before, in regarding the one-eyed Skraeling as a lesser human being. He had slowly realized the quickness of Odin’s wit, the keenness of his mind. Both Nils and Svenson owed their lives to this man several times over.

  Now it seemed strange to see Odin, once called Walking Bird, in the bosom of his family. In an odd way, Odin’s mother reminded him of his own mother. She would have related to the unexpected arrival of foreign guests in just the same manner. The woman, still handsome in her middle years, bustled around the lodge preparing food for the guests and for her long-lost son. In this, she had been assisted by her daughter, the sister that Odin had mentioned before.

  Nils leaned back to steal a glance at the girl, her face flushed with the flickering glow of the firelight. She was completely absorbed in her brother’s story, her expression changing from interest to anxiety to amusement as the tale unfolded. He watched her for a little while, trying not to stare. Her attention was so completely focused on the storyteller that she seemed completely unaware of all else. How beautiful, Nils thought, how very beautiful. He had cert
ainly not expected this. From Odin’s infrequent mention of his younger sister, Nils had expected a gangling child. Actually, he had thought almost nothing at all about what sort of a person this sister of Odin’s might be. A child…

  “She grew up,” Odin had said as they were introduced.

  That was obviously a monumental understatement. This was no knobby-legged teenager, clumsy in her attempts to adapt to her new growth. Here, instead, was a beauty, in the first fullness of the flowering of young womanhood. Long-legged, yes. He had seldom seen such well-turned calves and ankles, or such length of thigh. Her buckskin dress could hardly conceal the exquisite artistry of the soft curves beneath. That was only the beginning. The rest of her body, equally well formed, seemed to flow with a willowy grace as she moved. There was a catlike dignity in the way that she walked, stood, or sat. It was sensuous without appearing seductive, pure and unconscious in its quality.

  Now, while her attention was diverted, he took advantage of the opportunity to study her face. In profile, her perfectly chiseled features were striking. Many times Nils, in observing a woman, had told himself, Surely this is one of the most beautiful women in the world. Yet now all others paled to insignificance beside this, the sister of his friend. Even the image in his mind of the golden-haired Ingrid, wife of the cooper at Straumfjord, suffered by comparison. The face at which he covertly stared now was veritable perfection. Large, deep-set eyes with long dark lashes, a well-formed nose between high cheekbones, full and sensuous lips … He could imagine the ecstasy of nibbling at the ripe fullness of that lower lip.

  He was absorbed in that pleasant fantasy, then, when the girl suddenly turned and looked straight into his eyes. Nils had a brief moment in which he experienced a wave of guilt. It was much like the feeling when he was a child, and had been forbidden to play near the fjord. He had done so anyway, encouraged by some older boys. Fortunately, no harm had resulted, but they had been caught. He had been deeply hurt by the look of disappointment in his mother’s face. It was like that now. He had been trapped in an activity that might not be forbidden, but he was not sure. At worst, he might have violated custom in some way by ogling the girl. At best, he feared that she would be offended by his blatant stare. He reddened under her gaze. He might be able to protest his innocence to her brother, but he would never forget the startled and surprised expression on that lovely face.

  Then, to his amazement, she smiled. The smile still held traces of surprise, but it was a friendly, open smile without anger or resentment. It was contagious, and he smiled back. A bond of friendship passed between them in the odd way that it sometimes does, a sort of recognition without any implication of anything else. Nothing seductive or suggestive, just the acknowledgment of another human being’s presence, one that might be interesting. In that moment both knew it for what it was, and it was good.

  I do not even know her name! Nils thought. He now had a tremendous longing to learn the language of his friend. The girl’s name had been spoken, but it was a group of meaningless syllables to him. No one had made an effort to translate. Well, he would ask later, but he looked forward to being able to talk with this fascinating creature.

  The two people of different worlds turned their attention back to the storyteller, still smiling. Nils wondered if Odin had said something about “White Wolf” in the course of his narrative, to cause the attention of the girl to turn his way. He thought not. No one else had turned at that moment. He felt that more likely, the force of his thoughts had attracted her. He had reached out, and she had answered, though not in exactly the same context.

  A thought struck him: Do these people have something that we do not? Some understanding, maybe, of the nature of the spirit? Odin sometimes talked about “things of the spirit,” which Nils found rather confusing. Did this spirit-thing extend to communication? Did they have a way to speak without words?

  He shook his head to clear it, and turned his attention back to the storyteller. They had spoken little since arriving here. Odin had been completely occupied with the enormous task of relating again to his people, and had had no time for anything else. Will it be like that for me, when I return home? Nils wondered. Of course, Odin had been absent for several years. But I might be, too, he thought.

  He glanced at Svenson, who was nodding sleepily at his elbow. The old sailor’s head sank lower and lower, then suddenly rose with a jerk as he opened his eyes wide again. Sven glanced from side to side to see if anyone had noticed, but then slumped again and quickly resumed his nodding.

  Now, Nils noticed, people were beginning to turn and look at the two outsiders. Odin was pointing. There were gasps of amazement. Yes, now it must be their part of the story. He nudged Svenson with his elbow.

  “Wake up, Sven.”

  Svenson came awake. “What?”

  “Wake up. Odin is talking about us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “People are looking this way. I think he is telling about how we three fell together.”

  “Yes … it may be. What should we do?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. Look dignified?”

  Svenson, feeling all eyes on the two of them, waved a nervous greeting. Nils followed his own original suggestion and tried to appear stern and dignified, with moderately good results.

  Odin asked them to stand and join him as he told of the climactic events leading up to and following their capture. Now there were many expressions of amazement. Some of the few words of this language known to the Norsemen were their own names, White Wolf and Fire Maker. This part of the story could be followed to some extent. They saw the storyteller recount the changing of the color of stones and Sven’s creation of fire by bringing it directly from a flint nodule. Now the onlookers were staring at the newcomers with something akin to awe. Nils caught the phrase “holy man,” and tried to behave as if he knew what that role entailed. He had had some practice in this, during the time they had spent in the village of their captors. Yes, he thought that he could continue in this role, with the help of Odin. Such honor was certainly a pleasure.

  Just then his glance caught the eye of Odin’s beautiful sister. She was looking at him almost worshipfully, as if he were some kind of a god. No, he wanted to say, I am nothing like that! I am a man, an ordinary man, but one who wants very much to know you better.

  He must talk to Odin as soon as possible, he knew. He must learn the girl’s name, and more importantly, ask about the customs observed by young men and women among these people. In this, he did not want any mistakes.

  There was one other conversation that evening, a very short one, but of great significance to the returned Walking Bird, now Odin. In turn, it would become of importance to the Norsemen.

  The gathering was over, and the crowd was breaking up, people going to their various lodges. Several people hung around the dying fire to welcome their friend home. There had been little time until now. He had barely had time to visit with his own family and introduce the newcomers before the story fire was lighted. There had been no time for news of friends or for village gossip. This came to an abrupt end as a boyhood friend greeted him warmly.

  “Snake!” Odin cried. “It is good to see you. You had just married—”

  “Yes, and now I have two daughters.”

  “It is good! Ah, I cannot believe! You, a father!”

  The other shrugged. “It is as it should be. Have you seen Hawk Woman yet?”

  Odin’s heart jumped. “No … I … I had supposed that she must be married.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. She married Old Dog, the year after you left.”

  Grief descended over Odin like a thrown robe. Why had he come back at all? He had known that it must be. His thoughts raced, wondering how he could leave. No, he could not, he must care for his mother! The idea of seeing Hawk Woman day after day, and seeing her go each night into the lodge of another…Old Dog?

  Snake was talking, but Odin’s thoughts prevented his hearing. His heart was very heavy. Now Sn
ake was shaking him by the shoulder to get his attention.

  “What? I am sorry, Snake. I was not listening.”

  “No one has told you, then? Yes, she married Old Dog after you left.”

  “You just told me that,” Odin snapped angrily.

  “But you did not listen to the rest. Old Dog died last winter, in the Moon of Snows. Hawk Woman’s time of mourning is past and she needs a husband. You have come home at a good time.”

  Odin’s heart, as heavy as stone a moment ago, was suddenly as light as the breath-feathers of Kookooskoos, the owl.

  33

  Nils Thorsson sat on the curving slope of the lodge’s domed roof, watching a line of geese high in the blue. The birds were so far above him that he could barely hear their barking cries as they hurried southward.

  You had best hurry, he thought. Winter comes!

  After the first light snow of autumn, experienced as they traveled, the weather had moderated again. Days were warm and nights cool. The stillness of the air and the sights, sounds, and smells of autumn made it a joy to be alive. At home in Norway, this would be called the Second Summer. It did not happen every year, but when it did … ah! was the sky ever so blue, the changing colors of the trees so rich? There was an all-pervasive feeling of well-being now, a sense that all things are in order. A confidence. Yes, that was it. He had not felt so confident since their disastrous expedition had left Straumfjord.

  There was a pang of sadness and pain at the thought. The pain of guilt and failure swept over him for a moment, as it always did at the memory. Two lost ships, the dozens of good men…Helge Landsverk, his friend.

  But what could I have done? he asked himself. By the time he, Nils, had assumed command at Helge’s death, the final events were already in motion. It had taken some time to accept this, but he found that now he was more willing. His periods of guilt and regret were shorter. And, as Svenson said, they were lucky to be alive at all. While it is good to die bravely, as Sven had once noted, one is still dead. And they, at least, were alive. Alive, to relish this uncommonly good weather, this Second Summer, here in a strange land, among strange people.