Runestone (16 page)

Once Odin sent a shaft in answer, just as a gesture of defiance. It was not very effective, and one of his precious arrows was lost. Still, it was probably worthwhile. Their enemies had no way of knowing how many weapons the fugitives
might have. Beyond one ax, of course. Sven’s stroke must have made quite an impression, because no one had tried to ascend to the ledge by the path again.

Nils picked up an arrow that had been shot from below and examined its construction. The shaft had been broken when it struck the rocky wall behind them, but it might be repairable. The stone point, delicately chipped to shape, was bound into the split end of the shaft with a slender strip of rawhide. Feathers, spotted black and white, were similarly tied to the rear of the arrow. What sort of bird? At home it would have been the feathers of a goose. Possibly a heron. Then he recalled some birds that he had seen in a pen at Straumfjord. Large birds, standing as tall as a man’s waist. Their naked red heads had reminded him of the head and neck of a vulture, but the colonists had reassured him. These were no carrion eaters, but a valuable bird for food. Much like a large chicken, it was said. The meat was white, in contrast to that of ducks or geese. The colonists called the creature by its Skraeling name, which seemed to be an imitation of its own call, a sort of gobbling sound.

“Are these the feathers of the gobble bird?” Nils asked Odin.

The Skraeling nodded, but said nothing.

“Our people use those of a goose,” Nils said.

“We, too, sometimes,” agreed Odin. “You do not have this bird?”

“No. I saw them at Straumfjord.”

Odin nodded. “They are good to eat.” He looked at the broken shaft in Nils’s hands. “Is the point broken?” he asked.

Nils handed the arrow to him.

“Did you want to shoot it back at them?” Nils inquired, half-amused.

“No. Maybe, but I am made to think not. That would tell them that we have few arrows. But the point…Yes, it is chipped, but it can be reshaped. I will save it.”

Odin drew his knife and cut the rawhide lashing to free the stone point. Then he held it up for Nils to see. It was a light amber in color, well shaped and sharp edged. The Skraeling tucked it into the pouch at his waist.

It took a moment for the significance of this action to
impress itself on Nils. Odin had gone to the trouble of saving the arrow point, to resharpen and use later. Therefore, he must think that there would be a “later.”
Odin does not think this is hopeless!
Nils told himself. If he had known what the Skraeling really thought, he might not have had the strength to go on.

As it was, however, this ray of hope helped to distract him from the sticky dryness in his mouth. They were using only enough water to wet their tongues at dawn and dusk, and still the waterskin grew flat and slim. To add to that, the enemy below knew their plight, at least to some degree, and took advantage of it. At any time they could be sure that the fugitives were watching, they would go through an elaborate act, a big show of drinking from waterskins, splashing, throwing water on each other. Nils licked dry and cracking lips as he watched.

One of those below held his waterskin aloft and shouted something. He was dripping wet, hair, body, and leather garments.

Odin shouted back something, and the man appeared disgruntled for a moment. Only a moment. Then he gestured an obscene insult, and proceeded to slowly empty the waterskin on the ground. He yelled something, and then laughed uproariously, as if he had made a great joke.

“What did he say?” asked Nils.

“He said to come down and share the good fortune of their water,” Odin said grimly. “I told him we do not need as much to wash our mouths, because we do not eat dung.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then went on. “Now he said that if we do not want it, he will pour it out. And he did.”

Nils licked dry lips again. He had suspected something of the sort. The taunting sight of clear cool water pouring out onto the ground was almost intolerable. He lifted his eyes to look beyond, and found that it was no better. Worse, maybe. The deep and wide river to the sea, its clear, cold water, appeared much like the fjords of his homeland. For an instant, he wished that he was a child again, sitting at his grandfather’s knee, listening to the old man’s stories. That had been a time of safety and security. There had been no Skraelings trying to kill him. The only terrors then had been in the exciting stories
of his grandfather. Giants who lived in dark ice caves somewhere to the north. They had been scary, but even as a small child he had known that they were not real.

He wondered what his grandfather would have thought of the new discoveries. The colonies to the west, the newfound land and the continent beyond. Skraelings…

“Here,” Odin was saying. “Put this in your mouth. Suck it.”

Odin handed Nils a small round pebble, and another to Svenson. Nils turned it over in his hand. Nothing unusual about it. Just a stone, polished round and smooth by tumbling in the stream for many lifetimes. He put it on his tongue, and found that it fit well. He could visualize it between the ranks of teeth in his closed jaws. He pressed it against the arched roof of his mouth with his tongue. Yes, it felt good.

“It will make water,” Odin told him.

Well, maybe…Nils had to agree that his mouth did not seem as dry, somehow. Maybe it was only a trick of his senses, but it did seem to help. A special kind of stone? Where did Odin get them? This sort of round stone was commonly seen in a small and rapid stream. Had Odin picked them up earlier?

“Odin,” he asked, “tell me of these stones. Where did you get them?”

“The stream.” Odin jerked his head in that direction. “They carry water.”

“What? Water?”

The Skraeling nodded seriously.

“Theirs is the spirit of the water,” he said. “They have lived there many lifetimes. How could it be otherwise?”

“But how?”

Odin shrugged his characteristic shrug.

“I do not know, Thorsson. I do not understand fire, either, but it warms me. Maybe this is spirit-water in the stone. It is not much, but it helps.”

The subject was obviously finished.

   The help given by the stones and their spirit-water was only temporary. In another day, it seemed no help at all. The waterskin was empty, and the parched throats of the beleaguered
trio had begun to swell. It was difficult to swallow now. At dawn they licked dew from the grasses, but they knew it would not be enough. Nils recalled that he had not emptied his bladder for at least a day. There had been no need.

And he was growing weaker. This bothered him greatly. During the times when he despaired of survival, he imagined how he would go out, weapon in hand. Like a Viking…But if he became too weak to fight, it would be hard to die proudly. He was also finding that his thoughts were confused part of the time. This, too, worried him. To die was one thing. To die weak and confused was quite another. A drink of cool, clear water was becoming the most important thing in the world.

In his fantasy, he imagined that Odin could ask the Skraelings for water, in return for which the three would come out and fight. Then the dreamy confusion would pass and he would know that such a thing was ridiculous.

No, it would take something else, and as far as he could see, there
was
nothing else. If he was to go out proudly, he must do it before weakness and confusion overcame him. He hardly wondered what the others would do. They too were weak, and they talked little, now. Maybe they needed to talk about it. …Attack the enemy together in a last glorious fight.

Nils was curled up in the fetal position, half-asleep or half-stuporous, with such thoughts drifting through his head. It had just grown dark, and he was trying to make some sort of decision. What was it? Oh, yes … To attack the enemy. It should be at dawn. Dawn tomorrow, probably. He did not know if yet another dawn would find him capable of fighting, or even thinking. He wondered what his grandfather would have done.
Grandfather
, he thought,
help me, here!

He began to think again about the stories of his grandfather. Stories of valor…fights against hopeless odds. Berserkers, fighting with superhuman strength in a trancelike state…
berserkers!

Suddenly, he was wide awake, and his thoughts had cleared.
Yes! Thank you. Grandfather
, he said silently. Now, he must try to remember…how did they become that way? In his grandfather’s story, they had stripped to the skin. …
Yes, in midwinter, in the snow. That sounded good…you could eat snow. …
No, Thorsson!
he told himself.
Forget the thirst. Think!
The Viking warriors in his grandfather’s story had stripped and become animals, almost. Animals with superhuman strength and courage, invincible, howling and screaming like madmen as they attacked. This had so unnerved the enemy that they had fled in panic and the day was saved. As Nils understood the berserker legend, though, that was not actually the purpose. It had only happened that way. The purpose was to die honorably, like a Viking, fighting for a cause against odds. By berserking, a warrior who for all practical purposes is already dead could enhance his passing. He could take more of the enemy with him.

What better situation than the one in which he now found himself? He had arrived at a point where he had to concede that it was over. There was no way in which the three fugitives could escape. They could stay on the ledge and die of thirst, or attack the enemy and die fighting. His Norse blood began to race at the mere thought that the one alternative meant curling up to die helplessly. It was not the way a Viking would choose. At least, he would retain that right, the choice of his manner of dying. He would concentrate on the frenzy of battle, and make himself known to these savages. He would give them a battle they would never forget. The tales of his valor and his death would be recounted for generations around the fires of the Skraelings.

Excitement rose in him. The urge to move, to shout, and dance was strong. Maybe it was partly the fasting. He had been avoiding the dried food from Odin’s pack because it made his thirst more uncomfortable. Maybe that now accounted for the remarkable clarity of his senses. Now that he had reasoned out what he must do, the entire world seemed in harmony. He looked at the night sky above him, dotted with the myriad of stars. They seemed close enough to reach up and touch, now that he had the understanding of the way of things.

A night bird called, and he smiled at the very appropriateness of the sound.
Everything fits
, he chortled to himself. Now he must begin his final preparations. It was not long until
dawn, and he had decided that dawn would be the time for his climactic triumph. Yes, as soon as it was light, he would begin.

Svenson rolled over and came sleepily awake. He glanced around at the empty place of Odin, who was on watch, and then at Nils, who was standing, staring into the sky.

“What is it?” Svenson asked.

Nils turned to look at him in the dim light of the waning moon.

“Sven,” he whispered excitedly, “when dawn comes, I am going berserk!”

S
venson did not try to stop him, or to convince him otherwise. It was an honorable thing, a proud way to die. It was also a private thing, an individual decision. Svenson did not offer to join in the berserking, and Nils did not invite him to do so. When the fighting began, he assumed that the others would join in. Odin’s arrows might work to good effect, fired from the ledge into a fight below. Sven would probably wade into the Skraeling attackers with his ax. If they did, it would be good. If not, so be it. The event that would be handed down in Skraeling legend would be that of the mighty warrior who had killed so many before he fell.

Nils waited until it was growing quite light before he began. The Skraelings were stirring in the camp below, rising sleepily and stumbling a few steps into the trees to relieve full bladders.
But I shall wake you!
thought Nils.

When the time seemed right, he stepped to the rim of the ledge.

“Gather here, you mangy sons of dogs,” he yelled. “I will show you the event of your lives!”

He knew, of course, that none could understand him except Svenson. Yet the result was the same. The Skraelings began to gather and drift toward the slope, laughing and joking at this strange action of one of the fugitives.

Odin came running from his post.

“What is it?” he asked Svenson.

Svenson shrugged. “It is a way of our people. A warrior decides to die fighting.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

The Skraeling seated himself to watch, but kept his bow ready. He was also near enough to the edge to see what was going on below. There were no arrows this morning. The enemy was concentrating on the figure at the rim of the ledge, curious as to what he would do next.

Now Nils began to dance and sing. It was a very crude thing, without much reason or sensibility. In fact, it had little except rhythm to characterize it. The words were partly threat, partly insult, and to a great degree, nonsensical. As he moved in the rhythms of his improvised dance, he began to disrobe. He ripped loose the laces of his tunic and threw it aside. Then his shirt. Nils tossed the garment over the edge and it fluttered to the grass below. He loosened his belt and laid it aside more carefully, because it held his fighting knife. His leather pantaloons slipped to his ankles and he stepped out of them, now wearing only his wrapped footgear with the thongs that bound them to his ankles. They did not seem important now. Nothing did anymore, except the frenzy and excitement of the moment.