Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  Besides, there was the advantage of maintaining his own status as a holy man by implying magical gifts or powers. He had not begun the evening’s stories with this idea in mind, but it had happened that way, and he was not quite certain just how. There was hint of mystery in that, even. How had it happened? He had certainly not caused it. Not intentionally, at least. He felt a recurrence of a feeling that he had experienced before for short periods of time. Mostly, since he had met the People. It was a feeling that he was caught up in a series of events over which he had no control at all. There was a strong temptation to fight it, to deny it. Yet equally strong was the feeling that denial would be useless, and understanding impossible. It was much more pleasant, it seemed, to relax and be carried along on the current of whatever it was that was happening.

  It had been an evening of great power and mystery and magic. He felt very close to some of the truths of eternity that all men seek. Yet there was the strong feeling that many things are not meant to be learned or understood. The thought came to him that he felt much like the mythical Odin, dangling over the bottomless abyss, realizing the limitations of understanding. That, of course, was the point of the story.

  Just then, the present-day Odin caught his eye, across the fire. Odin was looking at him and smiling knowingly. Singing Moose, the storyteller of the People, was beginning his tale of how they had acquired fire.

  But Odin held his gaze on his friend for a moment, and silently communicated by a simple hand sign.

  “It is good!”

  Nils felt it too. Something had happened tonight, something that was important. Odin knew, as did Nils, but Nils was not sure what it was that they knew.

  56

  With the first signs of the Moon of Awakening, there began to be talk of travel. Odin was quite uneasy as to how the Norsemen would react. He found himself trying to avoid the inevitable confrontation. He knew, possibly more than most of the People, that it would be important to travel as fast and as far as they could before they stopped for the season to plant.

  There was also a faction that was prepared to argue, favoring another year in their present location. That, of course, would be a mistake. The entire success of their friendly relations with those who lived across the ridge depended on the temporary nature of their stay. The People had initially stated their intention to move on. To do otherwise now would discredit their honesty. Their leaders knew it, and would not allow consideration of anything else. At least, Odin hoped not. It could lead to a dangerous confrontation, if not managed skillfully. A visiting nation of strangers might be treated with friendly curiosity if they were only passing through. Even if they stayed for a season, with appropriate diplomacy. Any longer, and they would appear to be a threat. No, they must move on, and as soon as it became practical.

  Some of the more foresighted of the People were already packing. Each day brought a little thawing in the middle of the day, a steady patter of dripping snow-melt from trees and bushes. Falling drops punched small round holes in the smooth surface of the snow beneath. That, too, began to melt, first in tiny rivulets, joining into larger ones, which hurried downhill toward the great river.

  Most of this runoff refroze each night, with resulting slippery footing. Certainly, it was not yet time to travel. It was time to think of it, though. Before long there would be patches of bare earth showing, and sprigs of green awakening from beneath the white robes of winter’s snows.

  As Odin had feared, Nils sought him out with questions. The confrontation could be postponed no longer.

  “Has it been decided when we move?” the Norseman asked.

  “No, White Wolf. It is not yet time.”

  “I know, but some have begun to prepare.”

  “That is true. But as you can see, it is not yet good to think of travel.”

  He motioned casually toward the sodden slope behind them, still largely covered with drifts.

  Nils nodded.

  “When the footing is better,” Odin went on. “We can tell when the time is approaching.”

  Nils sighed impatiently. “Which way will we take?”

  Now, thought Odin, comes the difficult part. What if they demand to return? Well, he might as well meet the question head-on. He feigned surprise.

  “Why, on the trail,” he pointed. “It goes two ways. We have seen one of them. Now, we try the other. Is it not so with your people, Thorsson?”

  Nils had increasingly been called by the name that Odin had given him, White Wolf. Many of the People knew no other. Odin himself usually used Wolf, or White Wolf. Now, however, maybe due to the subject, he found himself slipping back into the usage that had begun at Straumfjord. It was partly unconscious, but he continued it for a reason. To be called by his Norse name might recall Nils’s reason for his being here, exploration and discovery. At least, Odin hoped so.

  The Norseman frowned. “I had thought of returning,” he said flatly. “The trail here leads farther southwest.”

  “Have you talked of this with Calling Dove?” Odin asked.

  “No … I thought to speak with you first. But the baby is old enough to travel.”

  Ah, thought Odin, that answers one question. He does not intend to leave his wife.

  “Yes,” Odin agreed, “but I had wondered. When you do go back, who do you plan to take? You spoke of the child. … His mother, of course. Fire Man?”

  The Norseman appeared indecisive. “I suppose. We have not talked of it.”

  “Ah … and Red Fawn? Would she wish to go?”

  “I do not know. She would go if she and Sven wished it, I suppose.”

  Odin nodded thoughtfully. “That is four, not counting the baby. Two small boats, or one of the bigger ones …”

  “Well … yes … I had hoped that maybe you would go to guide us.”

  Odin appeared to consider a little while. Actually he was using the time to create a doubt. He knew quite well that it would be possible to guide them to Straumfjord and then return to his family, but he wished to make it appear as complicated as possible.

  “Let me see,” he said thoughtfully. “Myself, Hawk Woman, the children … Four more … Six grown people and three small children altogether. A big party, White Wolf. It becomes more dangerous with the children. The Downstream Enemy, you know.” Maybe he could take a risk here. “Of course,” he continued, “you and I and Svenson could go, and then I could return.”

  That remark fell into the conversation like a heavy stone into a still pool. The look on the face of the Norseman was quite gratifying, a look of distaste, almost of horror.

  “No! I would not leave my wife and child.”

  Odin smiled inwardly. He now knew that he had won. He had correctly judged the relationship between White Wolf and Calling Dove. Well, he might leave a chance open for now. …

  “Maybe,” he suggested, “after the People find a place and settle there, we could make a trip back.”

  “Yes!” The Norseman jumped at the bait. “I can make some maps to take back. It is good, Odin!”

  Yes, it is good, thought Odin. That is resolved for the season. Svenson would probably go along with whatever Thorsson decided. It was quite apparent, however, that as Fire Man, Sven was quite content in his present situation. He and Red Fawn seemed pleased with each other. Fire Man was increasingly popular with all children. Yes, he should be no trouble.

  Nils approached Svenson with some misgiving. He was not certain how the old sailor would react.

  “Sven,” he began, using the Nordic tongue, “we must talk.”

  Sven appeared concerned at the serious tone.

  “Yes?” He was whittling on a stick, and paused to brush away the chips in his lap.

  “You know,” Nils began, “that the People are preparing to move on.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Well, we had talked earlier of going back to Straumfjord.”

  “You mean, now?” Sven asked.

  Now Nils was pleased. This might be somewhat easier than h
e feared.

  “Not necessarily. After all, we are exploring new country, are we not?”

  “Of course,” Sven agreed.

  “We can map the river, no?”

  “Yes,” agreed Svenson. “Did you know they talk of a sea of fresh water farther upriver?”

  “Ah, I had forgotten that! Maybe we should learn more before we go back?”

  “I am made to think so. See the People established … that will give us a base … a port. …” Svenson began to whittle again.

  It had been easier than Nils thought.

  “But you do want to go back? Later, I mean?” he asked.

  “Of course. But we came to explore, no? We are learning much here, Nils. Are you making maps?”

  “Ah … I had not. It would be good to do so.”

  “Yes. I do not know the runes as you do, Nils, but I can help you with maps, maybe. Will you draw on skins?”

  Nils had not really considered this, but now began to wonder. He could hardly approach the quality of a parchment for his map, but a skin could be painted. All that would be really necessary was a directional arrow to indicate north, and lines to show the seacoast, the river, and the direction of flow. It should not be difficult to make such a map.

  He had found himself staring at a small tree, one of the birch used to make boxes and containers of various kinds. Larger trees of the same species were used for canoes. The white bark was scarred here and there by the teeth of deer and elk that had chewed at it in winters past. Curiously, those scars were black, as if they had been painted on the smooth white surface. Painted! Why not? The idea grew quickly. A pair of square pieces of the bark, laced loosely together along one side … the inside surfaces could be painted with the map, and then tied shut to protect the diagram.

  “Sven!” he said. “Look, the birch tree, there! Could I not paint the maps on birchbark?”

  “Why not? The People paint on it, to decorate their boxes and packs, or anything else.”

  “It is good! I will try it.”

  He was thinking of something else, just noticed. Twice in this short conversation, Svenson had used the term “the People.” That in itself was not unusual, but it was the way Sven said it. It was a hard thing to explain, but Nils had a strong impression about it. Sven said it as one would say “our People.” A slight inflection of the voice, a subtle thing, a mere suggestion of a distinction between “we” and “they” … “ours” and “theirs.” Sven had not really said “our,” but “the.” It was only an innuendo. Maybe, even, Nils was picking up on something that was not really there. Yes, that must be it.

  He walked away, satisfied that he had been imagining the reaction by Svenson. He must have been mistaken.

  Then he stopped short. He had forgotten for a moment that he had come to explain to Sven why it was best not to go back downriver just now. Before it was finished, Sven had been telling him the advantages of remaining with the People another season.

  Now how had that happened?

  57

  It was easier this time, to prepare and to begin travel. Last season the first few days had been a total disorganization. Now the People were seasoned travelers. Within a day or two the march had fallen into an efficient pattern. The distance covered daily was much greater than it would have been a year ago, and the confusion much less. The scouts were now more experienced, and consequently more skillful at their tasks.

  The roadway spread before them, running parallel to the river. It was not a road built by anyone’s intent, simply one that existed, shaped through eons of time by generations of moccasined feet. Maybe by bare feet, before that. Bare feet and the hoofed or clawed feet of the creatures that sought the easiest path from one place to another.

  Basically, it is so with all roads. No one knows who was the first to use them. It happened many lifetimes ago, maybe at Creation itself. All creatures, seeking an easy path, follow that taken by someone or something that went before. The trail may change sometimes. An individual, dissatisfied with the path he follows, sees a better way. At least, he thinks he does. A short-cut, when weather permits … A longer but more comfortable way around a muddy area. The trail divides and comes back together again, to unite for a while.

  An old trail, like that followed by the People on this journey southwestward, has changed many times through the ages. Climate changes, political changes take place, new groups come into the area, old enemies become allies, or vice versa, and trading patterns change. Still, over all, there are people who wish to go from one place to another despite disadvantages or risk, and the trail remains, becoming a roadway that will be used for centuries into the future.

  Sometimes the People encountered lone travelers or small parties on the trail. A trader, alone or with a partner or perhaps his family. All of these used the hand signs fluently. They exchanged news and information about the trail, the weather, and the availability of game. Most of these travelers had passed along the trail many times. There are always restless spirits who must do this, who would be hopelessly lost if they ever settled down.

  There are others, of course, who would be equally uncomfortable if they were unable to settle down. These must sink roots into the soil of a place that becomes their heritage. Mother Earth nurtures them and enables them to become identified with place. They become part of it, and it, part of them.

  Mankind probably needs both of these spirits to grow. One extreme represents stability, the other exploration, a reach for that elusive something that is just over the next hill, or maybe just beyond the stars.

  Travelers whom they met on the trail now more frequently mentioned the great freshwater sea. How far? The question often met with a shrug and a question in return: “How fast are you traveling?” The rate of travel of a large group is limited to the speed of its slowest member.

  There came a time when people they met on the trail began to refer to “where the trail turns south.” This seemed to be an important landmark.

  “Why does the trail turn south?” someone finally asked.

  “It cannot go on west,” the trader signed. “There is the Big Water, the Ontario. One must travel south many days. Then the trail turns west again. How far will you go?”

  “It has not been decided. We have to stop and plant soon.”

  “Of course … But there is a longer season as you go south. You should do well.”

  That was the attitude of every trader they had met, an eternal optimism. It must be so, for a trader, Nils thought. He must not hesitate to go into strange country. But precisely because the trader is occupied with what he does, he is considered immune to many of the local feuds and conflicts. He serves a useful purpose, which is respected by all, because he is needed.

  “Is there danger where we are going?” Nils asked.

  The trader laughed. “No, I trade with all.”

  “I mean, danger for us”

  “Oh … I am made to think not. Your scouts, a day or two ahead, talk well with the signs.”

  “What nations will we see?” asked Odin.

  The trader paused in thought. “Many different ones. Some are related.” He thought a little longer. “Each is known by several names. One they call themselves, then maybe two or three others they are called by different neighbors.” He spoke several names aloud, sometimes accompanied by a hand sign. “Abnaki … you have seen them—People of the Rising Sun. I am told you wintered near some of them. Mohauck, People of the Flint Place. Not the same as Mahican, Wolf People. Their tongues are different. Some say they are treacherous, but I trade with them. Delaware, related to them, also called Wolves. Oh, yes … after you turn south you will meet Chalagee, People of the Caves.”

  “Aiee! They live in caves?” asked Odin.

  “Some do. It is a place of caves. Mostly in towns, sometimes a wall of poles around it. And they build mounds.” He made the hand sign for a little hill.

  “Hills?” asked Odin. “Really? They build them? Why?”

  “It is part of
their worship. A house on the mound for their holy men.”

  “We do not know of these Chalagee. Are they dangerous?”

  “Not really. They are strong fighters, but not warlike, I think. They use a hollow stick to shoot darts at rabbits.”

  There was a pause while the problems of translation were attempted. The People were unfamiliar with the blowgun.

  “Of course, they use a bow and arrow for deer,” the trader went on. “And they are growers. Then, if you go on west, you would find Erie, Long-tail Cat People. Even farther, the Illinois nation, several different nations in one. But not this year. Your people cannot travel that far this year.”

  “It is good to know these things, my brother,” signed Odin in thanks. “Come, will you eat with us?” “It is good,” signed the other.

  It was only a few days later that the scouts sent back word that they had reached the place where the trail turned south.

  “I have seen the Big Water,” the messenger said. “The other side cannot be seen! It is big!”

  “Have you met some of the people along the trail?” asked Big Tree.

  “Yes, some. We told them of our plans. Some are called Mohauck. They have flint to trade. We might think of that as we go through their country.”

  “It is good,” said Big Tree. “Any others?”

  “We were told there are Delaware, the Wolf People. They are related to the Abnaki.”

  “The ones with whom we wintered?”

  “Yes … they are the same, but different, maybe.”

  “But you see no danger from any of these?”

  “It seems not. All appear to be friendly.”