Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  There was a glint of mischief in the eyes of the old man, and Nils felt a kinship. This one might not be a storyteller, but he certainly had a sense of the dramatic.

  “Tell them of Nidhug, the dragon,” whispered Svenson. “The People have not heard that story, either.”

  Nils nodded. “My people tell of an end to the world,” he went on. “Fire Man has asked me to tell of this.”

  His listeners were wide-eyed.

  “When is this to happen? Soon?” someone asked.

  “No, no. It has already happened, long ago,” Nils explained.

  “Then how are we here, White Wolf?”

  “Well … I … it was restored,” he mumbled. “But you are ahead of the story! Listen …”

  He recounted briefly the tales of the ice-giants, and their wars with the gods and the forces of warmth and light.

  “It is like Cold Maker,” he explained, “forcing Sun south in winter. My people have told of that. But there was a tree, a giant ash tree called Yggdrasil, whose leaves shaded all the earth and the heavens. And it was good. But at the base of the tree lived a great beast, who gnawed at the roots.”

  “Yes. A beaver?”

  “No, no. Not a beaver,” Nils insisted.

  “But a beaver does this, Wolf.”

  “Yes, but this is a monster creature, who breathes fire and smoke.”

  “Ah! We have none like that!”

  “That is true … but this is a story, Uncle.”

  “This animal is a spirit-beast?”

  “Well, yes … a spirit.”

  The other man nodded, and Nils continued. He had not thought of this tale for a long time, and was feeling his way, trying to remember.

  “The humans on the earth had become so evil,” he related, “that all the spirit-beings and Sun and Moon were sad. Some of their brightness was lost, and this let the forces of cold become stronger. This terrible winter lasted for three years, and it caused much hardship.”

  There was a sympathetic murmur in the crowd. This sort of hardship was a thing they could readily understand.

  “It was called the Fimbul,” he continued. “Snow fell from all four directions at once, and there were bitter winds. A thick layer of ice covered all the earth. Yet, after three years of this terrible Fimbul-winter, it started all over again. All hope was lost. The people of the earth turned to even more evil, and there was much killing.”

  Old women clucked their tongues and shook their heads at the thought of such a situation.

  “Under the darkness of these long winter nights, many evil things were done. Now, you remember the wolves who try to eat Sun and Moon? They were fed by a giant woman, and their food was the bones and marrow of evil men, murderers. With so much to eat, they grew and grew and became huge monsters. Finally they did swallow Sun and Moon, and there was darkness. Earth shook, stars fell. Just then the monster Nidhug gnawed through the great ash tree and it fell.”

  The crowd before him was tense, waiting. Suddenly, Nils realized that he had talked himself into a hopeless corner. The next part of the story was to tell how the red clarion-cock above Valhalla crowed the alarm. This caused Heimdall, the sentry of the gods, to blow a blast on his horn to announce the Rangarok, the Last Battle. Heimdall’s horn had never sounded before, because its only function was to announce the end.

  With a momentary panic, Nils realized that he was about to tell this story to people who had never seen or heard a horn of any kind. Or a rooster, for that matter. He paused, confused as to how to proceed. He glanced at Svenson, who seemed to be enjoying his plight immensely. Well, maybe he could move on quickly.

  “The sentry of the gods gave the alarm,” he went on, “and they rushed out to fight the evil ones: giants, wolves, and the great snake who lived in the ocean’s depths. But wait …” He turned to Odin. “I have never told the People of the great snake?”

  Odin shook his head, puzzled.

  “He lives in the bottom of the sea,” Nils explained. “His writhing causes the waves, no?”

  He realized now that many of the details of Rangarok, the last day, were nearly impossible to recount. The battle involved horses and chariots, and many things for which the People had no words. No concept, even. It was much like the time when he tried to tell of Allfather’s eight-legged horse to people who had never seen a four-legged one. This struck him as amusing, now, and he began to see a great truth. All of the detailed description was mostly for effect. The main part of the story, the important part, was that of the battle, a struggle between good and evil. He had never fully realized before, the purposes behind the tales of his childhood, the lessons learned from his grandfather. The old tales of the Norse gods were to teach.

  He took a deep breath and continued.

  “There was a great battle then, between Good and Evil. The earth caught fire, and all the forests burned. The warriors of evil had won. But everything began again. After a while, green sprouts began to show, and flowers and trees, and good spirits recovered. Finally they were able to force the giants to live in faraway mountains, and the gnomes—the Little People — to live underground.”

  “Ah!” said the old Hidatsu who had shown such interest. “We know of them. I am made to think, White Wolf, that many of our stories tell of the same things, yet with different stories.”

  “Yes, it must be so,” Nils agreed.

  “And it is good,” said the other. “We would hear more.”

  But it was now growing late, and further stories would be told at another time.

  It was autumn before Odin told them that soon it would be time to obtain the bark for canoes.

  “The tree must be asleep,” he explained. “If not, it will be sad and weep, and then its spirit will get angry and cut slits in the canoe.”

  Nils did not understand all of this, but he knew better than to question it. Through the years of experience with Odin, he had learned not to doubt. If the man said there would be holes in the canoe, it could be accepted as truth. The holes would be there. Why and how were really unimportant. It was easy merely to accept the idea of the tree’s resentment over the violation of its outer garment.

  It was no great surprise to him, then, that when the time came, Odin performed an apology. It was quite similar to that over a kill for meat. Odin addressed the tree in just the same manner.

  “We are sorry to take your robe, my brother. We require it for the things we must do. May your people have sunlight and rain forever, and be many.”

  They had previously selected the trees that would be used, tall, straight and round, and with as few side branches as possible.

  “The fewer patches, the fewer leaks,” Odin said.

  The building process was somewhat longer and more complicated than Nils had imagined. It was necessary to shape the bark shell of the craft as it dried. Odin pried and propped and tied, tightening a thong here, loosening one there, adding a stick to establish width or depth. Svenson was active in the process.

  “A bit wider in the midships,” he suggested. “That will lose a little speed, but make her more steady.”

  The old sailor confided to Nils in the Norse tongue an old saying of seafarers. The basic principle that he had just stated, that of speed, width, and stability, Sven said, applies to ships and women alike. Odin, being fairly fluent in their tongue, chuckled with them.

  “Maybe,” he agreed, “but not always. And this is not a thing to tell a woman.”

  “Especially one who is wide amidships,” Svenson added. “You might learn her speed very quickly.”

  “What is the joke?” asked Red Fawn, who approached just then.

  Svenson was more embarrassed than Nils had ever seen him. He reddened, mumbled, and seemed completely at a loss. Odin came to his rescue.

  “Fire Man was telling me,” he explained, “how his people think of a ship as a woman. See?” He pointed to the trim, graceful lines of the canoe. “It is shaped much like their long-ships. You have not seen them, Mother, but the
ships are beautiful and graceful. Like a woman.”

  Fawn smiled, reached over and patted her husband lightly.

  “It is good,” she said. “That is a nice thought, Fire Man. I will remember it.” She cast a flirtatious sidelong glance at him. “How is the boat coming?”

  “It goes well,” answered her son. “Soon we will patch with pine tar and try her.”

  “Her? Yes, I see. …”

  When they finished the canoes a few days later, Odin painted a large eye on each side of the prow. Nils asked about this.

  “To let it see where it is going,” Odin explained. “Your ships have an animal’s head on the front, no?”

  Nils thought of the gargoylelike carvings on the prow of the Norse longships. Dragonships, they were sometimes called, for this reason. He had never thought much about it. It was simply a custom. How had it started? And was it not, after all, much like the custom just carried out by Odin?

  “Come,” said Odin, “let us try them!”

  68

  The first launching of one of the canoes was a momentous event.

  They had had some experience with a canoe when they left the Downstream Enemy long ago, but that was a smaller craft. It could be handled much more easily, and during the journey upstream to reach the People, there had been no occasion to lift or carry it. Odin, who was the only one present with any real experience, instructed the others.

  “Stand beside the canoe, like this.”

  “Facing the stern?” asked Svenson in Norse. “The river is behind us!”

  “Yes. You will see. Now, bend over and put your hands on the sides, so. …”

  He reached across to the opposite gunwale of the craft with his right hand, and placed his left on the closer side, next to his knee.

  “Now,” he went on, “I will count. On three, we all lift the canoe, turn it, and hold it over our heads.”

  “Wait,” protested Svenson. “How can this be? We will be twisted!”

  “No, no,” Odin laughed. “As we lift, we turn, too. We will be facing forward.”

  Sven still appeared to have his doubts, but the canoe was not heavy. A boat of this size built of planks could not be lifted by three men.

  They bent and gripped the sides, and Odin counted. “One … two … three!”

  Together they lifted and pivoted, turning the canoe bottom up as they did so. It was much easier and less complicated than Nils expected. In the space of a heartbeat, the three were now facing forward, holding the canoe aloft over their heads. Svenson laughed with delight.

  “It is good!” he shouted.

  Cautiously, they moved toward the water, careful not to fall into step. Odin had explained that earlier. If their steps were exactly matched, the rhythm would cause the weight of the canoe to begin to swing. That would make it much harder to control, because they would be fighting not only the weight but the motion.

  “It is like carrying a long beam or plank,” Svenson noted to Nils. “It is the same thing. The men on the front and back ends are careful not to be in step.”

  Nils had never had much experience in carrying long planks, but he could see that the principle would hold true.

  They reached the river, and Odin gave his instructions. “Now we turn and put it down just as we lifted.”

  “Turn to face backward?”

  “Yes. I will count.”

  In another moment, the canoe stood on the bank, her prow pointing into the river. It was apparent that the maneuver was quick and efficient, and would be even more so with practice. They slid the craft into the water, careful to keep a grasp on the upturned stern.

  “Now we must take care getting in,” Odin advised.

  “Of course,” Sven agreed.

  The principle was much as they had learned before. Place a foot directly in the middle to achieve balance. Step forward, one foot exactly in front of the other, sit or squat to stabilize the tremor and sway of the canoe in the water.

  Again, Nils was impressed by the feel of a canoe under him. It was a living thing, with a spirit of its own, and he could sense the life as he adjusted his position. There was a melding of the gentle lapping motion of the river with the tremor of the canoe, and the reaction of his own muscles to the rhythms of these motions.

  There was a good feel to it, one that had been absent for a long time. He had not realized how much he had missed it. And this feel, that of the big canoe, was completely different from the feel of the somewhat smaller one they had used before. He mentioned this to the other two as they pushed off to try a run up and down the shore.

  “Of course,” Odin agreed. “The spirit is different.”

  “Yes, the size and width.”

  Svenson chuckled. The old sailor had an instantaneous feel for this.

  “No, no, Nils. That is only a small part of it. It is as Odin says, her spirit is different. Remember, the Snowbird and the Norsemaiden? Built to the same plan, alike yet different in spirit. Ah, they are like women in many ways!”

  It had been some time since Nils had thought of the two ships. That seemed another world, so far away in time and place. And yes., in spirit, too. How odd, that here in the interior of this world so different, that Sven’s words would set him off on flights of fancy. Maybe it was the gentle motion of the great river, maybe the union of the spirits of river and canoe.

  Maybe it was merely the heritage of the Norsemen, out of reach but not forgotten. Under appropriate circumstances, it had awakened in a powerful surge. The pulse of Nils Thorsson began to quicken with the feel of a boat under him. He did not realize how much he had missed this feeling.

  It is good, he told himself softly, as the strange mixture of two cultures spread warmly over him.

  “What did you say, Wolf?” asked Odin, plying his paddle as steersman in the stern.

  “What? Oh, nothing, I only said ‘it is good.’”

  “Yes,” agreed Odin. “It is!”

  Nils realized that they were talking of different things.

  They spent a little while learning the ways of the new canoe, up and down the river for a few bowshots’ distance each way. Quickly, the three learned the feel of the craft, her responses and their own.

  “I do not know about the other one,” observed Svenson, “but this one is good. Maybe we did not need the other.”

  “Maybe,” Odin answered. “But it is nearly finished. We can use two.”

  There were a few places in the canoe’s hull that leaked a drop or two of water as they maneuvered up and down the river.

  “Mark them!” Odin advised. “Here!” He tossed a piece of charcoal to Svenson. “A little pitch from the pine tree will stop that. But we must take it out to dry.”

  They marked the tiny leaks and headed back to the landing area. Their families waited there, excited over the achievement.

  “It is good!” cried Calling Dove, clapping her hands like an excited child. “A beautiful thing!”

  “May we ride in it, Father?” asked Bright Sky, as he stood with the daughters of Odin.

  “Not now,” Nils told them. “We have a few small leaks. We will fix those, and next time we launch her, yes! We will all go.”

  They drew the canoe up on the bank and turned it over to dry in the sun. Svenson stepped over and gave his wife a quick hug.

  “Ah, Fawn, she is a fine craft,” he told her. “You will see!”

  Nils sat that evening, staring at the coals of the dying fire for a long time. Dove came to sit beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. She was silent for a long time. The fire made little crackling noises, and from downriver a night bird called.

  “What is it, my husband?” she asked.

  “What is what?” he asked. “The bird?”

  “No, no. I spoke of you. You are troubled?”

  Nils was startled. He had been so deep in thought that it had not occurred to him that anyone else might notice.

  “No, not troubled. I was only thinking.”

  “Of wha
t, Wolf?”

  “Of, many things … the canoes …”

  She had realized that this must have something to do with the canoe. He had not been quite the same since they returned from the river after the trial run. But she knew him well. When he was ready, he would talk to her, so she merely snuggled closer against the chill of the night. He reached to toss another stick on the fire. Most of the People had retired to the longhouses, and the village was quiet.

  “Are the children asleep?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to ask him to come in and join her in the sleeping robes, but felt that he had something that he must think on, so she waited, staring with him into the bright glow of the fire. What is it? she wondered. What does he see in the fire? And the answer came to her: He is thinking of his people, his home. … The canoe has done this!

  For a moment, she felt a wave of resentment. Of anger, almost. Was this to come between them? Maybe she could destroy the canoes. Then the situation struck her has ludicrous. Could she have actually felt a pang of jealousy against a boat? The thought flitted through her mind that the Norsemen do think of their boats as female. No! This is stupid, she told herself. There were things that she could do for him that a boat certainly could not. It would help if he would come to bed.

  But this was not unpleasant, to share his warmth and that of the fire, with his buffalo robe drawn around the shoulders of the two of them.

  “I am sorry,” he said suddenly. “I was thinking of my people.”

  Ah, I was right, she thought. A touch of fear crept into her consciousness. In what way? Is it now that he will leave?

  She hesitated to phrase it, even in her thoughts, but her fear was becoming quite real. Now that he had the boats, would he some day soon decide that it was time to go home?

  Hot tears filled her eyes, and she hoped that he would not notice as they overflowed and slid down across her cheeks. She was glad for the darkness as the flames died.

  He stirred and stretched his legs in front of him, preparing to rise.

  “Come, let us go bed,” he said.