Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  Odin’s people. The Norsemen had been welcomed, honored, treated with awe and respect. It would be interesting to know, Nils pondered, what Odin had told his people. Maybe he would know, some day. They were attempting to learn the language. Svenson, who could speak several of the dialects of the Norse coasts, was learning quickly, Nils a bit more slowly. Some people, Nils reflected, have a gift with languages. He had already decided that Sven had such a skill. Sven could communicate quite well almost anywhere, even in the islands. One of the sailors had once told him that Svenson could even talk to the Welsh.

  Odin, too, seemed to have this gift of tongues. The Skraeling could communicate quite well in the language of the Norsemen, with hardly an accent.

  Skraeling. Nils thought for a moment about their use of the term. The skraelingar, the “lesser people,” True, some of the natives were shorter in stature than the Norsemen. But some were not. In the first usage, the newcomers had undoubtedly seen some of the shorter natives, and remarked on it. The name had stuck, modified, perhaps, by the tendency of the old Norse raiders to regard anyone else as lesser people. Yes, that must be it, Nils thought. The modified meaning, unconsciously classifying all others as lesser humanity…Skraelings, the Lesser People…

  Once more, Nils felt the odd embarrassment that had occurred before. It was in essence the admission to himself that he had terribly underestimated the wisdom and cleverness of Odin. A cleverness, he knew, that had saved their lives.

  Nils still rankled a bit at their enforced stay here. If he had been able to choose, they would not have made plans to winter here. He was beginning to tolerate the idea more easily now, however. Odin’s explanation made much sense, when one actually looked at the situation. It was practical. Of course he had realized that from the first. It had helped considerably, though, that Odin’s beautiful sister was present during most of every day since they had arrived. Add to that the beautiful Second Summer…well, being there was, after all, not bad.

  It was different. That had become apparent very quickly when they arrived two weeks ago. The very form of the houses seemed strange. Rather than dwellings for individual families, these were large structures that served for several couples, their children, and assorted relatives. In that respect, the lodges were used much as the communal structures at Straumfjord. That, it appeared, was a temporary arrangement by the Norse colonists. This, among Odin’s people, seemed to be a long-established way of life. Nils wondered, with a certain degree of embarrassment, how it would be possible to make love in a big single room with no privacy. That question had occurred to him at Straumfjord, but he had cast it aside in the presence of more urgent activities.

  The gentle breeze shifted a little, and smoke from the square hole in the lodge’s dome drifted toward him. Nils blinked, coughed, and moved his position to a better place, upwind from the smoke hole. Below, he could hear the murmur of voices as the women prepared food. He tried to identify the voice of Calling Dove…that was her name, he had learned. He loved the sound of her laughter, and of the melodious syllables. He did not even understand their meaning, but their sound was pleasant to him. As pleasant as her smile, and the way she moved. He must learn more about the customs of courtship here among Odin’s clan. It would not do to push too rapidly. Go slowly, Thorsson, he told himself, until you understand their ways. In simplest terms, it could be dangerous to do otherwise.

  He had asked Odin to tell him of these people, and of their ways. Odin merely gave his characteristic shrug, looking a bit puzzled.

  “What did you wish to know?”

  “Well…” Nils stammered, “what do you call yourselves?”

  Odin responded with a nod and a series of syllables that had absolutely no meaning for Nils.

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “I do not understand, White Wolf. What is it that you want to know?”

  “Well, what is its meaning?” Nils paused in thought, then continued. “Ah! Our name, that of the Norse, is from the direction. You know, north, the North Star…Norsemen.”

  Odin nodded. “I see! I did not notice that! North,”

  “Good. Now, what is the meaning of your name for your people?”

  Odin’s puzzled expression was the same as before. “The People,” he said.

  “No … I mean…look, Odin. Those who held us captive, before? What are they called?”

  “Oh. They are called the same.”

  “The same?”

  “Yes.” Odin spoke a few more syllables that had no meaning for Nils. “They call themselves that. To them, it means the People…same as ours.”

  “But you…what do you call them?”

  Odin smiled, and his one eye twinkled. “Many things, sometimes. Mangy dogs … dung eater. Worse. But I know what you mean, Thorsson. They are the Downriver People, to us. But for each, his own are the People, no? Do you not call yourselves that, sometimes?”

  Well, yes, thought Nils, recalling the pride with which his grandfather often referred to “Our People” and their exploits.

  “Yes, that is true,” he admitted. “I understand. A little better, anyway. The People.’”

  This may have been a turning point for Nils Thorsson. He began to realize the pride with which these people regarded themselves. The People. It was a thing that a Norseman could understand. This pride had enabled Odin to survive, to refuse to surrender, to overcome all the misfortune that had befallen him. That was the reason for the man’s joy in his new name…Odin, father of the gods! It was as if he wore the name, originally a cruel joke, as a badge of honor. Yes, that was it. Odin wore the name as he wore his empty eye socket, a symbol of his pride and his survival. From that day on, the realization of a kinship of spirit drew him closer to this remarkable man of the People, and to the People as a whole.

  There were eight of the big lodges in this village, and he estimated about twenty people living in each. Maybe a hundred fighting men. Or hunters, as the case might be. A few men seemed to have more than one wife.

  “How is this?” he asked Odin.

  “The women are sisters. The man of that one—the fat one, there—was killed by a bear. So her sister’s husband takes her in.”

  This seemed logical. Another thought occurred to Nils.

  “Odin, are there others of the People? Other towns?”

  “Oh, yes. Another, a day upriver, and one across the river.”

  “The same size as this town?”

  “One a little bigger…maybe ten lodges, when I left the People. The other, six or seven.”

  “Their lodges are like these? Yours are much different from the Downriver People.”

  Odin’s eye twinkled at the usage.

  “Of course,” he said simply.

  Nils had never seen houses like these domed structures before. Except for lack of privacy, it seemed an effective way to build. Four stout posts stood near the middle, forming the four corners of the smoke hole. Poles slanted like rafters from a circle that formed the outside wall. Then smaller poles were laid, covered with matting woven of rushes and piled with dried grass for insulation. Dirt dug from the inside was heaped over the roof like a dome, placing the floor a little below ground level. Sod was laid over this dirt to complete the structure. It was actually quite comfortable, Nils found.

  Privacy was achieved by separate compartments around the walls. These were made of skins over a framework of sticks, and were just large enough for the beds of three or four people, a family group. Odin, Svenson, and Nils had been provided with such a cubicle for their sleeping robes in the same lodge as Odin’s mother and sister.

  That part was not easy for Nils. Through each day he was in constant contact with Calling Dove. At least, with observation of her graceful form and friendly smile, and the sound of her voice. Then at night he would lie in the darkness, waiting for sleep to come, listening to her breathing, knowing that she was almost within arm’s reach on the other side of that leather curtain. So near, yet so far…

 
To add to his frustration, there was a young couple whose cubicle was directly across the lodge, who seemed exceptionally inclined to romance. Nils gathered that they had been married only a short while. Every night, it seemed, they retreated to the privacy of their cubicle before anyone else. There were remarks and jokes by the others. Nils could not understand the words, but the meaning was plain. The young couple, only slightly embarrassed, would retort with remarks of their own and then disappear for the night. Sounds of giggling, scuffling, and heavy breathing came from the little skin tent at intervals. All of this was very disconcerting to Nils, who could imagine the rapturous events taking place across the big room.

  One night the scuffling and giggling were more active than usual, and more prolonged. This is more than a man should be forced to endure, he thought as he lay awake in the darkness. I must talk to Odin soon.

  Svenson’s soft snores and the deep breathing of Odin sounded in the cubicle of the three. Nils thought that no one else was awake in the entire lodge except for the athletic couple across the fire. Then, just as the sounds in the darkness seemed to reach a peak, there was a momentary silence. In this short space of quiet, he heard a sound that was perhaps the most frustrating of all. From the other side of the thin leather curtain at his elbow came a soft feminine chuckle that he recognized as quite familiar. He was greatly tempted to reach under the curtain’s edge and feel around in the darkness. His hand actually moved in that direction, but he hesitated.

  No, he told himself sternly, but I will talk to Odin tomorrow!

  34

  Walking Bird, now known as Odin, father of the gods, was almost ecstatic over his good fortune. His return to the People had been beyond his wildest fantasies. He was somewhat embarrassed that his long separation from family and friends was because of his own stubbornness and stupidity. Family and friends, however, seemed unaware of that factor. Unaware, or perhaps forgiving. There was a willingness to forget and forgive in the happiness of his homecoming.

  That homecoming, he realized, was a major event in the lives of the People, as well as in his own life. He had returned with an astounding story, a prolonged story with several individual parts to it. Any one of the separate phases of that story would have been good. His capture and repeated attempts to escape…His eventual success, flight and his sanctuary among the Norsemen at Straumfjord…The voyage of exploration, the great canoes with winglike sails that caught the wind…The destruction of that entire expedition, and the escape of the three survivors…

  Ah, he had not even had to exaggerate any of it in the telling! Best of all, he had brought with him the living proof of his story in the form of the two Norsemen. He had found it unnecessary even to demonstrate the powerful gifts of White Wolf. The appearance and demeanor of the light-haired holy man were enough to convince the People, once they had heard the story.

  Was he really a holy man? Odin had spent much time in thought about that. At the time of the White Wolf episode, Odin had initially thought that he, Odin, was performing a deception on their enemies. He had deliberately led them to believe that certain things of the spirit were happening. But somewhere along the line, reality had become blurred. Odin had lost track of what was real and what was part of his subterfuge. In his sincere efforts to convince their captors, he had been drawn into the story so completely…Ah, one must believe, to tell a story well. There were times when he himself believed that he had seen Thorsson turn into a wolf. In the final analysis, did it really matter? Events had occurred that brought about astonishing results. If he, in attempting to interpret those results, had brought about a belief on the part of others, so be it.

  There are many things in the world that cannot be explained, but that cannot be denied, either. Maybe some of these that defy explanation should merely be enjoyed. The colors of a sunset, the whisper of the breeze in the pines on a warm autumn afternoon, the uniform lines of migrating geese high above…how were they able to space themselves in such exact formation? Odin had wondered about such things all of his life, and had eventually decided not to worry about it, but just to accept it. Some things are not meant to be understood. The sunset will occur, the breeze will still whisper to the trees, whether anyone understands that conversation or not.

  And, Odin had decided, it is the same with things of the spirit. It did not matter whether Thorsson had really become a wolf, or had only appeared to. The result was the same, and it was good. Whatever the powers of the Norse holy man, they seemed beneficial to Odin. Had it not continued to be so? The most recent discovery, on his return to the People…Ah, had there really been any chance that Odin’s childhood sweetheart, with whom he had quarreled, would prove to be just emerging from her time of mourning for a lost husband? Hawk Woman had just become eligible for resumption of their once thwarted romance.

  The two had talked, embarrassed at first. Very quickly, however, it seemed that they had resumed a conversation they had stopped only a little while ago. Soon they were chattering and giggling like children again. The resumption of their interrupted romance was a subject of great interest and of joy to the People. Even the infant, who looked much like her mother, gazed at Odin with mischief in her large dark eyes, and smiled. And he found that that, too, was good.

  Who was to say? Was all of this, these good things happening to him, just by chance? Or were they somehow resulting from his association with White Wolf and the unknown strength of the holy man’s powerful gifts? In the joy of the homecoming, he did not know and did not care. But he was thankful. Next season when the People carried out their annual celebration of thanks for the return of the sun and the awakening of growing things, he would offer prayers and sacrifices. Yes, to the spirits that guided the lives of the People, and to those of the Norsemen as well. He must find out more about their gods.

  Perhaps he had been neglecting the newcomers, Odin thought. Once he had arrived home, he had been almost totally absorbed with reunion. Everyone wanted to talk to him and to listen to his tales of adventure. That was exciting and flattering, but it had begun to be a nuisance. He needed time to spend with his mother, his friends, and most of all, with Hawk Woman. It had become apparent at their first conversation after his return that they would be together. It was, however, for her to say when, and in the hope of a speedy resolution to that question, he was spending much time with her.

  Therefore, White Wolf and Fire Carrier had been left to fend for themselves much of the time. Certainly, they had seemed to have no problem in adjusting to their new surroundings. Odin had expected none, because he had seen these two adjust quickly to the ways of fugitives, and again to those of their captors. One thing he had not anticipated was the reaction of children toward the Norsemen. To the children of the People, the most remarkable thing about the newcomers was their appearance. Their light-colored hair and eyes, and the bushy beard that grew directly from Svenson’s face seemed to fascinate the young ones. It had not been so with the children of their captors, but of course that had been a different situation altogether. That stay had been based on mutual distrust. Yes, that must be the difference.

  Still, it had been startling to see the rapidity with which the children related to the strangers. To Svenson, especially. Within three days, Sven’s every move was followed by a handful of children. When he sat, his lap was quickly occupied by at least one or two small ones. He reacted warmly, which in turn pleased the children. They laughed and teased and playfully tugged at the beard of the “Fire Man.” He in turn teased them, and it was not unusual to see a child riding on his back as he made his way around the village.

  “Does Svenson have children at home?” Odin asked Nils.

  “Yes, three or four. They are grown, I think.”

  “It is good to see him with the little ones,” Odin observed.

  The mothers, cautious at first, soon relaxed, seeing the obvious quality of the relationship. One extra advantage in all of this was that Svenson’s use of the People’s language was greatly helped. Naturally quick
with language anyway, he rapidly began to communicate with his young followers in their own tongue. This in turn helped Nils, who was not quite so gregarious.

  In half a moon, both were beginning to communicate, gradually improving their understanding as their usage increased. Nils had discarded his linen shirt, which had become threadbare, and was wearing a buckskin shirt that had been offered by Odin’s mother. Little by little, the two were becoming more comfortable with the customs and dress of the People. Odin felt pleased at that, and it helped to soften the slight pangs of guilt that he felt at having neglected them.

  One of his concerns dealt with how well the outsiders would winter. There was a closeness, a forced association that was always somewhat of a problem in winter. During the Moon of Long Nights and the Moon of Snows there was frequently a period when no one could move farther than the adjacent lodges. Sometimes not even there, for a day or two. The People spent the time in visiting, telling stories, smoking, or gambling. Even so, tempers often became short before spring allowed more freedom of movement. By that time the lodges would have become stagnant and foul smelling, like the den of an animal. It was a joke among the People that some tolerated all of this better than others. Even so, it was an annual problem that was understood by the People. Odin’s concern was that it might not be understood by the newcomers.

  Yet, surely, he thought, they had crossed the salty Big Water in their great canoes. That had taken many days, he understood. And they had had no women to comfort them, to warm their beds on the long, cramped sea voyage. That was another thing. The way things were now progressing, Odin felt that before Cold Maker swept down in full attack, Hawk Woman would have announced her intention to remarry. That was a matter of great anticipation for him. But what of White Wolf and Fire Carrier? How great was their need? He did not know their customs. He had seen the way Wolf looked at Calling Dove, and was not certain that he approved of such intentions toward his younger sister. After all, he did not even know the Norseman’s intentions. He could see the admiration and desire in the blue eyes, but what did it imply? A temporary dalliance, or something based on a sense of responsibility toward one’s bed companion? Odin was concerned, but did not know how to approach the subject with the Norseman. Even more disconcerting was the look in the eyes of his sister when she looked at White Wolf.