Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  “It is good.”

  When the People first saw the huge body of water stretching before them, it was a time of great excitement. Some of them had seen the ocean, where the Big River empties into the sea and the water is salty. Even those were impressed by this magnificent expanse of open water.

  “You really cannot see the other side!”

  “And this is where the Big River begins?”

  “We are told,” said one of the scouts, “that there are other lakes beyond this, bigger still.”

  “Aiee! How can it be bigger than something that is too big to be seen already?”

  Mostly, there was only stunned silence at the magnificence of the view.

  To the Norsemen, such a body of water suggested only one thing: the possibility of putting a ship on it.

  “It would have to be built here, on this lake,” observed Svenson. “We have passed too many rapids.”

  “Yes,” agreed Nils. “If there had been only that first one …” He let the sentence go unfinished. As they had traveled, it had become apparent that the river, which seemed so fine for navigation, had a number of difficult areas. For some distance it would be wide and deep, but then a stretch of rapids would interrupt the smooth waters. It would be possible to take a boat, even a sizable ship, around the rapids. They had done it. Once, surely. A second place, possibly. But here, on this magnificent river that in long stretches appeared perfect for the use of their longships, were not merely one or two impassable areas, but at least three. Probably more.

  They had not spoken of it, but both Norsemen now realized that their dream was beyond reach. Ships might sail certain stretches of the river, might sail this inland sea, but not in continuity. Without speaking of it, Nils had several times thought of the old saying, A man without a boat is a man in chains. Somehow, it did not seem to carry the importance that it once had. He was experiencing a different kind of freedom.

  Now, however, the sight of this great body of water stirred his Norse blood. How could one look on such a sight without one overpowering desire, to put a ship on it? In his mind’s eye, Nils could see the billowing red and white sails of the longships cleaving their way through the blue waters of this unknown sea.

  “Is it really fresh water?” he asked one of the scouts. “Not salty?” That was the thing that seemed most incredible.

  The scout shrugged. “So they all say. We have not been clear down to the edge. But it must be. Our Big River runs out of it, does it not?”

  “Where can all this water come from?” Nils wondered.

  The scout looked at him strangely, and pointed to the sky. “Up!” he said. There was general laughter.

  It was tempting to try to go down to the lake’s edge to verify the puzzling freshwater description, but it did not seem practical. The trail ran along the ridges far above it, turning south rather abruptly at this point. They would follow along the very irregular east shore at some distance away. Then, it was said, the road would turn westward, and continue along the south shore, between the lake and the mountains. Maybe, thought Nils, they would have an opportunity for a closer look. Surely there were inlets on this lake that would make wonderful harbors.

  Meanwhile, days were growing warmer, the grass greener. Soon, they would have to choose a place to plant their crops.

  58

  The scout trotted into the walled stockade around the town and made his way to the lodge where the leaders waited.

  “They continue to come this way,” he reported. “It is as we heard. They are many.”

  “These are the same who lived near the Delawares last season?”

  “Not the Delawares,” said another. “Somebody else … an ally of the Delawares, was it not? No matter. These are the same.”

  “But what do they want? Why do they travel? And with families?”

  “It seems so,” the tired scout answered. “I saw women and children.”

  “Then they do not intend war.”

  “Does anyone know whether they planted last season?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “They must have,” said an old woman. “The Delawares grow only enough for themselves.”

  There was general laughter.

  “Not really Delawares, Mother,” said a younger woman, “but you are right. They must have planted to sustain themselves. How many are there?”

  The scout shrugged. “Many … hundreds, maybe.”

  A murmur ran through the group, followed by a silence.

  “If they are only passing through,” said an old woman, “they would not be dangerous.”

  “That is true,” said another. “But if they are growers, they must stop soon to plant. Then they would be here for the season. Is there room enough or game enough?”

  “Do we know what tongue they speak?” someone asked the scout.

  “Only that it is strange to us,” he reported. “They use some hand signs, and some of the trade language. At least, so the Mohauks say.”

  “You have talked with them?”

  “No, no. I spoke with a trader who had. The trader thinks that these whom he calls River People come from farther east, beyond the Abnaki, even. He thinks they are peaceable. He had traded with them.”

  “Ah! Does he know why they are moving?”

  “He thought maybe they were driven out by an enemy.”

  “Defeated?”

  “Maybe. Or to avoid a war. He did not know.”

  “There are more people all the time,” observed an old man. “It is more crowded than in my youth.”

  There were nods of general agreement.

  “The trader said he knows of others who are moving,” the scout interjected. “People to the south of us are crossing the mountains, moving west.”

  “There is more room there?” another asked.

  “Maybe so. At least, fewer people.”

  There was a brief silence, and then a question.

  “Well, what shall be done?”

  “I am made to think,” said an old man, “that we should know more of these people before we decide.”

  “Yes … where are they now?”

  “They have passed the place where the trail turns west, and are several days along it,” the scout explained.

  “Ah, they draw close! Could we capture and question one of their scouts?”

  “Maybe. They travel two or three days ahead. I have seen them.”

  “Talked to them?”

  “No, I avoided them.”

  “How do they act? Warlike?”

  “Who knows? They are well armed, but I have talked to no one who knows of trouble with these people. They are just cautious, maybe.”

  “Yes, they have to be. Especially, if they seek a place to plant. How soon must they do that?”

  Several people glanced around at one of the kutani, a priest or holy man who had said nothing yet. His garments marked his difference in calling. He wore a capelike robe woven with feathers and strips of fur. His was the responsibility for ceremonies for the crops, for needed rain, and for time of planting.

  “I do not know their crops,” he observed, “but I am made to think that corn must be in the ground soon. Half a moon … maybe a little longer.”

  “So, they must find a place very soon, no?”

  “That is true. Our planting is nearly finished.”

  “Look!” a woman said. “We could not kill them all and it would be dangerous to try. Maybe we could get rid of them faster if we help them find a place to plant.”

  “But then they might want to stay!” protested another.

  The argument rambled on. Finally it was decided. They must learn more of the intruders, and the most practical approach would be to question the advance scouts.

  “What if they resist?” someone asked.

  “Then we capture one. … Or kill him, if he seems too dangerous.”

  There was a chuckle, at the thought of one or two scouts presenting a danger to the warriors of the Real Peo
ple.

  “Well,” said one of the elders, “let us catch one and see!”

  The trail had broadened into a well-used thoroughfare in this area. After the People reached the westward bend of the road, it was apparent that it was heavily traveled. They met more travelers, in ones and twos like the traders they had seen previously. There were also other parties of varying sizes. Some may have been hunters, moving into an area favorable for a day’s hunt. Others included women and children. People looked at the procession of outsiders curiously as they passed, sometimes smiling and signing a greeting. It was obvious that the presence of the People was of no surprise to anyone they met. The approach of such a large body would be news that had traveled quickly up and down the trail. Probably, word had spread in other directions, too. There were spurs and branches along the way, leading to other areas.

  At the point where the route turned westward, a well-traveled branch split away to wind into the mountains to the south. The main trail seemed to continue to the west, however. There had been only one brief discussion before the People chose their route. Their most urgent need for the coming summer was a place to plant. Certainly, the likeliest spots would be in the rolling plain between the great lake to their right and the mountains to the south. It was really no decision at all. One seeks flat lowlands to plant corn, not mountains. They moved on westward.

  Now, however, there was beginning to be a certain urgency. It was time to plant. They must find a site. The complicating factor was the presence of unexpectedly large numbers of people. The entire area seemed heavily populated. On some days they had passed not only several dwellings, but several clusters of lodges as well as a village or two. Still, information that they gleaned from traders suggested that there was more room and fewer people to the west. They moved on.

  There was growing concern, however. In strange country, the seasons might be quite different. Not everyone was aware of this, but there was quiet discussion, always skirting around the question: How long is it until we must plant, or lose the crop?

  Odin, more widely traveled than most of the People, was quite concerned over this. He sought out Nils one evening as they camped.

  “White Wolf,” he began seriously, “you have traveled much.”

  It was an odd statement, coming from Odin.

  “Of course,” Nils answered, puzzled. “We are here, no?”

  “No, I mean … I am not sure what I mean, Thorsson.”

  Odin usually called him White Wolf, or simply Wolf. The use of the Nordic name sometimes indicated that Odin was in a very serious or philosophic mood. They sat in silence for a little while, watching the stars appear over the lake to the north. It was a warm evening, the air soft and quiet. The busy sounds of a large encampment were settling to a muted hum as darkness deepened. Halfway up the deepening vault of northern sky hung the North Star. Now Odin pointed to it.

  “There,” he said, “the Real-star.”

  “Yes,” Nils answered after a long silence. “What about it?”

  “It is always there, no? All others turn around it.”

  Nils was puzzled. “Of course.” He had become aware in the past year that the Skraelings were far more knowledgeable than he had supposed. At least, more aware of the movements of the heavenly bodies. Even so, the observation that the North Star does not move like the others is a primitive thing. His puzzlement and surprise was that Odin would remark on a thing so simple. There must be something else. He waited, and in due time Odin spoke again.

  “Thorsson, is the Real-star not lower in the sky here?”

  Nils was caught completely off guard. He had come to realize that this was a highly intelligent man, but this question indicated a great depth of thought. Odin was showing an understanding, or at least a glimmer of knowledge that involved the basic principles of modern celestial navigation.

  “Yes,” he said. “We are farther south.”

  Nils would soon be almost embarrassed by his lack of understanding of Odin’s knowledge. He was still thinking to himself that it was clever of a primitive Skraeling to notice such things. But now Odin continued.

  “And as we go farther south, the Real-star is lower, no?”

  “Yes, that is true. When we sail on the sea, we use that to—”

  Odin waved that aside, as if it were unimportant. “And this,” he continued, “because we are farther from the lodge of Cold Maker in the north.”

  It was a statement, not a question. A statement that reflected the childlike simplicity of the Skraelings. Nils smiled and nodded patronizingly. Therefore, the next comment from Odin was a surprise, a complete shock.

  “So,” said the Skraeling, “that is why we can expect a longer growing season here.”

  Nils’s mind whirled in confusion. He knew nothing of growing seasons, but it was apparent that once more he had badly misjudged Odin, and probably the People as well. The simple remark about Cold Maker was not childish whimsy at all. It was merely a way to express an understanding of the principles of climate in relation to latitude.

  “So,” Odin went on thoughtfully, “maybe we have more time to find a place to grow, more time than we thought.”

  Nils thought for a moment. The logic seemed to escape him.

  “I do not know,” he admitted. “Does the corn always ripen in the same number of days?”

  “Yes, mostly. Some kinds shorter, some longer. And some difference with what sort of season, how much rain.”

  Nils had no comment. This was far more complicated than he had imagined. Odin was nodding to himself, lost in thought.

  “Thorsson,” he said finally, as if he had solved his dilemma, “here is my thought. If the corn takes the same number of days, but the season has more days, we could plant earlier, or later. It does not matter so much, here.”

  The Skraeling glanced over to see if an answer was forthcoming, but it was not. Nils’s knowledge of agriculture was limited. He was aware that different crops are grown in different places, but the complexity of it all! He had not really wondered about it, but now he felt a little foolish. He had just learned something. He had been taught some very important principles by an illiterate Skraeling, a man he had once regarded as an ignorant savage. Nils hoped that his embarrassment would not show in the gathering darkness of early evening.

  Odin seemed not to notice.

  “I think I will go with the scouts tomorrow,” he said thoughtfully. “I would like to see how the crops of those who live here are planted.”

  59

  Odin was glad that White Wolf did not express interest in the idea. It was one thing for an extra scout to travel out ahead of the column. It would be quite another if the extra scout had blue eyes, yellow hair, and facial fur. It would be much better not to confuse further the initial contact with these Chalagee by the presence of the Norsemen. Man fears that which he does not know, and fear leads to unpredictable behavior.

  He sought out Big Tree and told the headman of his idea. It was received with approval, although not with wild enthusiasm.

  “Yes, it is good. See what you can learn.”

  The scouts were more interested. It would be pleasant to have a companion with whom to visit on the trail, and Odin was generally popular among the People. He would depart next morning with the runner who had returned to bring the latest news. There was a constant rotation to relay information daily, a shuttling of messengers back and forth from the advance scouts to the column. Usually there were two warriors together at the front at all times. If some misfortune befell them, one would try to return word to the main party.

  So it was that Odin had decided to accompany the runner as he returned to the front to relieve one of the others.

  “You will be careful, my husband?” Hawk Woman asked seriously. “I do not want to lose you again.”

  “Of course, Hawk. This is nothing. I will maybe not even talk to anyone among these Cave People. We just want to see their crops.”

  This was not quite true. He did intend to
make contact, and possibly negotiate if he could. This had intentionally been left somewhat vague when he talked to the headman. Actually, Odin was looking forward to the challenge of meeting and communicating with these people.

  “I will be careful,” he assured his wife as he lifted the small traveling pack to his shoulders. “I will be back in two, maybe three days,”

  “It is good to have company,” said the scout as they jogged along the well-beaten trail. “To travel alone is not my favorite thing.”

  Odin nodded. He was having a little trouble matching the stride of the runner. He was in fairly good condition, but this steady jog-trot for half a day at a time was using different muscles. There was little possibility of communication as they moved, because it required most of the breath in his lungs just to keep the pace. He resented, just a little, the youth and vigor of his companion.

  They stopped to rest, and the tired muscles of his calves and thighs reminded him again that it had been some time since he had used the message-runner’s jog. That was a task for younger men, like this youth by his side. That one now glanced at the sun, rose, and started on.

  It was midmorning of the next day when it happened. The three men of the People had suspected since the sun rose that they were watched. There was much evidence of human habitation, but they had seen few people, except for the occasional travelers on the road.

  On either side of that road were plots where fresh dirt gave indications of planting. Corn, probably, Odin thought. He had examined the little hillocks, taking care not to disturb anything.

  A time or two, they had seen a hint of motion that suggested that they were watched. They discussed this, and decided to continue at their deliberate pace, an easy walk.

  “It is often so,” one of the scouts told Odin, making much of his experience on the trail. “They will contact us later, maybe. See, on the rocky hill to the left … do not be too obvious. There is a man in the rocks, watching us.”

  “He is not well hidden,” observed Odin.

  “Yes. He wants to be seen, to see what we do, how we act.”