Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  94

  It was well before light, however, that Heron rose. He had not slept, and few of the others had. Soon, the sentry from the other side would join them, and they would be ready for the attack.

  They had discovered no other satisfactory place to descend, so he planned to have bowmen on the rim to protect the first man or two into the canyon. All knew the general attack plan, and would gather as they rose.

  The sounds below had ceased some time ago, and there had been nothing but silence from the canyon. He still wondered about the odd clinking sound that had taken place. It had ceased shortly after the chanting and the wolf howls. Those howls had certainly been disconcerting. A chill crept up his spine at the recollection.

  There had been a while after that, when a continuous grinding or scraping sound had issued from the canyon, as if someone was rubbing something very hard against a stone. A bone or a flint, maybe. He could not imagine for what purpose. The ritual medicine of the strange, possibly mad, holy man, no doubt.

  He still found it hard to think of that one as a serious threat, because of his white hair and blue eyes. Those marked him as old, and probably infirm. True, the skin of the holy man appeared young. The facial fur was white, too, and gave an odd appearance. Well, no matter. If the man was human, he would bleed and die like any other man. If he could actually change to a wolf, so be it. Wolves bled and died, too, did they not?

  The moon was still giving quite a bit of light as Heron walked again to the sentry near the path’s upper end.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “No. Some slight sounds below. Nothing like last night.”

  “It is good. Are you ready for a fight?”

  “Yes,” came the answer.

  At least the young man showed more confidence than he had earlier. “You can be a bowman here at the top,” Heron said softly. “The others are rising. Soon, now!”

  Heron turned to go, but caught a glimpse of motion at the sassafras bush that marked the head of the path. Something white, coming up and over the edge, a wolflike creature pulling itself up and over by its front legs. Then it saw him, and rose on hind legs to rush at him. Something—a weapon? was held in its right paw, and its white skin gleamed in the moonlight. The weapon caught the moon’s rays and reflected them like the flash of a silvery minnow in a clear stream. Blue fire seemed to flicker along its edges, and the white wolf-man raised it to strike. Heron knew that he was doomed, even before the horrible screaming howl came from a half-human throat. He could feel the creature’s hot breath, and looked for an instant into its hairy face. The eyes, wild and frightening — blue eyes.

  Behind the wolf-creature, other dark forms were pouring over the rim, and he heard the chanting, as he had in the night. All of these things were happening at once, flashing through his senses. There was a sound of running feet from the campfire, the twang of a bowstring, and the sound of a falling body. From the corner of his eye he saw the sentry struck down by one of the dark forms.

  Then the weapon in the naked wolf-man’s hand descended. There was no pain for a moment, only a numbness that began where his neck joined his left shoulder. He could not raise the arm. The blue eyes glared into his for another moment and the creature leaped high over Heron as he fell, to attack another foe.

  Heron’s sight was dimming fast. He tried to count … who was left? Anyone? And in his ears, the strange wail of the chanting mingled with another unearthly howl. …

  It was quiet now, the sun rising blood red behind the trees on the opposite rim of the canyon. Odin surveyed the scene, the dead bodies, and turned again to White Wolf.

  That one sat on the ground, slowly coming out of the trancelike state that had occurred before, many years ago. Odin had doubted that they could survive, this time. Truly, the Norseman must have powerful medicine.

  “We are not dead?” Nils asked, dazed. “Where is Dove?”

  “Dove is safe. She went down to see about her son.”

  “It is good. The Shaved-heads?”

  Odin looked around the area. “Dead, mostly. I am made to think there was a sentry across the canyon, but we did not see him. That is their chief, whom you struck down.” He pointed to a still form a few paces away.

  “Will they come back?” Nils asked dully.

  “There is none to come back, Wolf. The sentry is maybe halfway home and still running. He will warn of your power.”

  Nils shook his head to clear it, and turned to see Dove climbing over the rim, leading Bright Sky by the hand. She smiled and came to kneel beside him.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  He nodded. “What now, then?” he asked.

  Odin shrugged. “Whatever we want. I am made to think, though, that this is a sign. When we go away from the People, bad things happen, no?”

  “Say more,” Nils requested.

  Odin hesitated a moment. “Well … do you want to go back through the country of the Shaved-heads to find our canoe?”

  Nils thought about it for a little while, his head now beginning to clear. Somehow, it seemed vastly more important that his family was safe.

  “We could start to travel,” Odin mused, half to himself, “winter with somebody north of here. Anyone can use two extra hunters, and with your powers, Wolf … Then, on north in the spring.”

  Nils looked at his wife and son. Somehow, it did not seem so important now to learn where the Ericksons might be this season, or the next, or what might have transpired at Straumfjord. Or in Stadt. He placed an arm around the shoulders of Calling Dove as she knelt beside him, and the other around Sky.

  “It is good,” he said huskily. “Let us start home to the People.”

  Epilogue

  I

  Black Bear addressed his war party in the flickering light of their campfire. It was well away from the spot where the fugitives had entered the canyon.

  “Let us consider now, my brothers. Shall we wait for these people to come out? Or should we attack in the morning?”

  “It will be dangerous to attack,” observed Sees All. “Their tracker is very skillful. He can be expected to have some more tricks.”

  “The woman, too,” said another man. “The women of these plains people fight like men.”

  “Do you think this tracker is her husband?” said another.

  “No,” answered Sees All. “I am made to think we killed her husband, before. I have watched her. But the child is hers.”

  “Yes. But she is pretty, no? Maybe she would like a new husband tomorrow,” said Spotted Cat with a leer.

  There was a ripple of soft laughter around the circle.

  “Do you think you are man enough for her, Cat?”

  More laughter.

  “We will see, come morning.”

  “Enough!” said Black Bear sternly. “There are decisions to make.”

  “I say we wait,” said an older warrior. “There are only a few places where they can come out. We put a man or two at each—”

  “How do you know of this?” demanded another warrior. “You have been in Madman’s Canyon?”

  “No, but what of that?” responded the other. “Some talk so boldly of going in to attack. Is it not dangerous to tempt such a spirit as this? Do you want to be the first to enter the canyon?”

  “Those are tales to frighten children,” snorted another warrior disdainfully. “I say we go in after them.”

  The answering silence told more than words. Brave warriors they might be, but to take chances with things of the spirit … There were few who would argue that it was worth the risk. There were many doubts, and not all were well informed about this powerful spirit-place.

  One of the younger members of the party spoke.

  “My chief, may we know more of the story of this place, and its name?”

  Black Bear nodded, turning to one of the older warriors.

  “Crane, you are a storyteller. Can you answer this?”

  Crane rose, with the storyteller’s instinctive feeli
ng for visual effect. He placed himself at best advantage to use the firelight, shadow, and the thin light of the half moon. In the woods behind him, the listeners could hear the cries of night birds, and the hollow call of a hunting owl, like the cry of a lost soul. It was not reassuring.

  “It was many lifetimes ago,” the singsong chant of the storyteller began. “Many of the details are forgotten now, but the story lives.

  “A people who lived here—maybe our ancestors—had captured some intruders. One was a very strange medicine man, with powerful gifts of the spirit. He was, maybe, a little bit mad. It was said that he could change the color of stones, merely by holding them in his hands. His party was spared by their captors, who feared these powers.

  “But the captives escaped, led by this madman and his assistant, who had only one eye, in the center of his forehead. They were pursued, and took refuge here, in this canyon, as evening came on.”

  “As these have done?” asked the young warrior uneasily.

  The storyteller looked at him sternly. It was partly the interruption of the story, but the similarity could not be missed. The storyteller decided to ignore it, and to go on with his tale.

  “Just at dawn,” he continued, “the war party was attacked by the madman, whose powers had caused him to change into a white wolf. Many warriors were killed before they managed to escape, leaving most of their supplies and belongings behind.

  “Since that time, people have been afraid to go into the canyon very much. And that is why it is called Madman’s Canyon. The power of his spirit is still there. It can be felt,”

  Crane sat down. The circle around the fire seemed to draw closer. No one spoke. Sees All tossed another stick on the blaze, and a shower of sparks flew upward. Despite this, the shadows that circled the firelight seemed to press forward, rather than retreating.

  Black Bear started to speak, but his voice was tight and high-pitched. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and tried again, with better success.

  “Now, my brothers, let us decide what we will do.”

  II

  Tracker rose sometime before dawn. He had felt it essential to sleep a little, but had drunk much water before retiring, so that his bladder would wake him early. He attended to that need, and glanced at the sleeping forms of the others in the dim light of the setting half moon.

  There seemed little point in fleeing farther, but he wanted to get some idea of the enemy’s strength, and how eager they were to attack. Possibly he could lead his little party up and out over the other wall of the canyon. The attack would not come before dawn, surely, but they would have watchers posted. Tracker had always felt confident in the dark. Maybe he could find and silently kill one or two of their scouts. That would slow the pursuit, because the war party would take more time to be cautious.

  • • •

  He had hardly departed when Elk Woman awoke and looked quickly around. Deer Mouse still slept, but Spirit Walker stirred, coming awake quickly. The yellow-gray of the false dawn was beginning to shed its ghostly sheen over objects in the canyon.

  “Where is Tracker?” asked the holy man.

  “I do not know, Uncle. I am made to think he is watching.”

  The old man coughed and spit, clearing the phlegm from his throat.

  “Uncle,” Elk Woman began hesitantly, “I have dreamed.”

  Instantly he was alert, attentive.

  “What was the nature of your dream, daughter?”

  Now she was hesitant. Would he think her crazy?

  “I—I,” she stammered. “It was probably nothing, Uncle. A strange dream of a warrior with white hair, though he did seem young, somehow. He … this is the strange part … it seemed that he changed into a wolf, and attacked the enemy. He ran howling up the path. …” She paused, confused. “That path, Uncle!”

  She pointed to the rocky animal trail down which they had descended into the canyon.

  The light was growing stronger, and she saw his eyes widen.

  “What does it mean, Uncle?” Elk Woman asked in wonder.

  The old holy man shook his head.

  “I do not know, daughter,” he said thoughtfully. “It may have been this man who carved the stone.” He was silent for a few moments before he spoke again, and then his words came in hushed tones that were almost reverent. “My dream was much like yours.”

  Tracker reached the rim where the trail came over the edge, and spent a long time in watching and listening. There was nothing. He had already determined the best places for the Shaved-heads to post watchers, but these places seemed unoccupied. Puzzled, he reconnoitered each spot very carefully, then went looking for their camp. He had a good idea where that would be, a level area at the point where the grassy valley met the wooded hills.

  He circled twice, still puzzling over the absence of the enemy. Finally, still fearing a trick, he approached the still-warm ashes of their fire. He could find no sign that anyone had even slept here. But he hurried back to the canyon, fearing that the campfire itself had been a deception. No, the graying light of dawn still showed no sign of their pursuit.

  He climbed to a vantage point and watched in all directions until the long rays of the rising sun touched the valley and the hills beyond.

  It was rising, too, he knew, on the distant Sacred Hills of the Tallgrass country. He left his post and hurried back toward the cave in the canyon. He glanced in the direction of the stone, whose spirit now seemed to him to dominate the area.

  His heart was good, and for the first time in many days his thoughts hurried ahead of him. He was eager to rejoin those who waited below. It had been difficult for them, he knew, but they had not complained.

  He was sure that the medicine of old Spirit Walker had helped to guide them. Aiee, what wisdom in the heart of that old man.

  The child, tired though he might be, had never complained, and had done more than his part. Deer Mouse seemed much like his father, Shoots Far. Ah, it had been hard to lose his wife, family, and such friends as Shoots Far.

  A lump rose in his throat as he moved toward the canyon. He thought of Elk Woman, widow of his friend. She had suffered the same grief as he, yet had managed to do her part. There had been no time to mourn yet. Now maybe theirs could be a shared mourning for what both had lost.

  It would take time, but those who have shared much grief have closer ties. She had many fine qualities, was strong, sensible, enduring all the hardships they had suffered. And she was really quite beautiful. Well, time would tell. …

  Tracker made his way down the path and saw the others waiting in the mouth of the little cave. He glanced aside at the stone with its strange carved characters as he passed. He could feel again the power of its spirit. He did not understand it, but must one always understand?

  Alee, Elk Woman looked tall and proud, there in the light of a new day! He strode up to the waiting trio.

  “They are gone,” he said simply.

  “The Shaved-heads? Gone?” asked Spirit Walker.

  “Yes, Uncle. They left last night.”

  The holy man nodded, as if somehow he had expected it all along.

  “It is good,” he said.

  Tracker was looking at Elk Woman’s face, and at the look of hope, though there were tears beneath her long lashes.

  “Yes,” said Tracker gently, “it is good. We are going home.”

  Afterword

  Readers may have wondered about the runestone. Is it a real place; does the stone exist? Yes, it rests in the setting described, just outside the town of Heavener, Oklahoma.

  I had heard of this runestone, and finally took a few days to go and see it for myself. Frankly, I was prepared to be unimpressed. There are several runestones in various parts of North America, some known to be fraudulent, and I was suspicious. I came away completely convinced that regardless of any others, this one is real The feel of the place, its spirit, as my Indian friends say, is very powerful. I decided to do a little more research, to verify or to refute my impress
ions.

  This began a period of eight years of research and study (intermittently, of course) during which the manila file folder labeled “Vikings?” grew fatter and fatter. I learned that the Choctaws, when they came into the area shortly after 1800, knew of the runestone, and regarded it as ancient at that time.

  Translation of the inscription, a date in the early eleventh century, was not accomplished until after World War II. Parts of it had been translated, but other runic characters seemed to be incorrect. Alf Monge, the Norwegian cryptographer who studied this mystery, theorized that it involved the use of both “old” and “new” runic alphabets. The new system came into use in the ninth century, so the date, November 11, 1012, would be appropriate for the lifetime of a person who knew both alphabets.

  But what were the Norsemen doing at that time? It did not take long to learn that the Viking days of raiding the Isles were behind them, and they were turning to colonization and trade. Apparently the climate was somewhat milder then, and the longships crossed the north Atlantic regularly, colonizing on Greenland, Iceland, and Newfoundland. The colony at Straumfjord is historical fact. Archaeological excavations at L’Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland, in the 1980s, are strongly suggestive of this colony. There is some evidence of trade along the east coast of North America, possibly as far south as the Carolinas.

  But Oklahoma? I studied maps, and to my astonishment, discovered that I could put a Viking within a few miles of the runestone by water, by either of two routes. Now I was hopelessly hooked on the idea.

  It was at about that time that I learned of one of the Norse epic poems entitled ’The Death of Thorwald.” Thorwald Erickson, brother of Leif, was killed by natives while attempting to explore the “interior” of the continent. The description of the locale is highly suggestive of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The date was within a decade of that on the runestone. Further, the description of the round skin boats used by those natives is remarkably like the later “bull boats” used by the Mandans. But the Mandans were on the upper Missouri River, not the east coast, were they not?