Runestone (18 page)

Now the leader of the Skraelings approached, and spoke to Nils, a firm but respectful tone.

“He asks if you are feeling better,” Odin translated.

Nils thought for a moment. He must be, but he could not even remember exactly how it had happened.

“Much better, I think.”

Odin relayed the answer, and Nils began to think how he should handle this.

“Tell him,” Nils requested, “that we thank him for his help, for the food and water, and we will be leaving in the morning to return to my people.”

Odin’s one eye widened. “I think this is not wise, Thorsson. We need boats—”

“Tell him.”

Nils was feeling that he had lost control over his life, and felt a need to regain it. Maybe this sort of decision would make his authority felt.

Odin, obviously bothered by the request, still apparently relayed its main theme. The Skraeling leader retorted angrily.

“He says no,” Odin reported. “He will not let us leave. He came to tell us that tomorrow, we go to
his
town.”

Nils started to retort angrily, but then realized the futility of such an action. They had virtually no choice.

“We would seem to have no choice,” he said. “Tell him we will come.”

He never knew exactly how Odin relayed that speech, but might have been surprised. It was more like,
Tell my brother that we thank him for his hospitality, and are pleased to accept
.

The conversation continued for a little while, with Odin translating. Nils had the vague feeling that the interpreter was modifying the talk with his translation to meet his own desires. Probably, that of both parties. There was no way to be certain.

He did learn several things during the course of this conversation. The leader’s name, which was a series of syllables without meaning to Nils, proved when translated to be Flying Squirrel.

“A squirrel who flies?” Nils asked Odin.

“Of course. You do not know them in your country?”

The whole idea seemed preposterous. Surely there was no such animal. A squirrel with wings? He dismissed it as a fantasy. Curious, though, that such a fantasy would be used as a name by the Skraelings. But he had yet another surprising bit of information to learn.

“Your name,” said Odin, “is White Wolf.”

“
White Wolf?
In the name of God,
why?”

“Ah, you do not remember, Thorsson. You changed into a wolf, almost, howling and dancing. And without your garments you are very white, no? Your skin, your hair. So, you are White Wolf, in their tongue. Of course, I told them that among your own people you are Thorsson, son of the god of
fire and thunder. This is part of the reason for your power as a holy man.”

Nils was not certain that he understood that last statement. Did Odin believe that Nils had such power? Or had he only told the Skraelings that this was the reason? There seemed no point in pursuing it just now, and he let the matter drop. The whole thing was so confusing, so complicated, that Nils could not grasp it. He was still somewhat puzzled that they were alive. That had happened while he was dreaming or in whatever sort of trance he had entered.

That was another thing. Looking back, he realized that he had not really expected anything except that he would be killed when he attacked the Skraelings. He would take a few with him, die bravely, and make a lasting impression on the savages. But, he had been totally unprepared for the result, for whatever it was that
did
happen. He truly did not know, and it seemed unlikely that he would learn. The Skraelings, including Odin, seemed to accept the whole transformation as an important spiritual event, but not entirely unusual. Transformation? Had something like that really happened? Had he
really
almost changed into a white wolf? The whole thing was preposterous. Yet he remembered leaping from the ledge, rolling, and standing on all fours for a few moments while he howled a challenge. He could not remember it well, but…had he looked like a wolf? His memory was unsure, and Odin was vague about it. “Almost” a wolf…

Svenson was little help.

“What happened, Sven?” Nils asked the Norseman. “You saw it.”

Svenson shook his head in bewilderment.

“I am not sure, Nils. We were all weak, dying of thirst.”

“But did I took to you like a
wolf?”

“Of course not. Well, not really. You were howling…on all fours. …Ah, Thorsson, I do not know
what
I saw. If they thought it was magic…or the work of the devil…” He paused and crossed himself. “I do not know. Whatever happened, it
saved
us. I will not argue with that.”

“Nor I…but Sven, their attitude is so different. How can it be that what happened, whatever it was, is thought by
them to be a miracle, but not unusual? How can
we
be honored, respected, feared a little, maybe, but still be
prisoners!”

“I do not know, Nils. Their ways are strange. We know that.” He was silent for a moment, then changed the subject. “Do you suppose there are any others still alive?”

Nils had wondered, too. Maybe Odin could find out, but he had hesitated to ask. Besides, so much had happened, so much that was hard to deal with anyway.

“I will see if Odin can ask them,” he suggested.

The Skraeling was dubious at first, but quickly changed.

“Why not? I will ask.”

He strolled over to talk to Flying Squirrel, they exchanged a little conversation, and Odin returned.

“He does not know, either,” he reported. “There were some, at first. His people were hunting them down. Flying Squirrel and this party were following us, and the others were across the river.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then continued. “I am made to think not, Thorsson. Not alive. There were few who could change into a white wolf, no?”

Thorsson was unsure whether this was a serious question or merely a bit of whimsy on the part of the Skraeling. Did
Odin
actually think he had seen it happen? Nils started to ask, but decided against it.

“We must consider,” Nils said to Svenson as an aside, “that we are the only ones.”

It was a hard thing to admit.

But what now? It was nearing sunset, and Flying Squirrel had told them that tomorrow they would start back upstream. Upstream, away from Straumfjord. Not that it mattered. They were still prisoners, even though honored prisoners.

“How far to the town of these people?” he asked Odin.

“A day…maybe two or three,” Odin answered. “It does not matter.”

Nils’s anger flared for a moment.
It does matter
, he thought.

As if in answer to his unspoken protest, the Skraeling spoke again, more slowly, almost gently.

“It does not really matter, Thorsson. Farther from your
people, closer to mine. We are
alive
. We will escape, some day. Then, we go … to your people or mine. It is no matter where, or when. For now, we are treated well, here.”

I
t was three days’ travel to the town of their captors. It was accomplished in the skin boats of the Skraelings, one Norseman sitting with two Skraelings who wielded the paddles. There were several other boats, loaded with plunder from the sacking of the supplies from the two longships.

It was quickly apparent that the three were to be closely watched. They were captives at best, even though with a certain degree of respect. During the first portion of the journey, that on foot back to the rapids, they were separated. On the trail, which permitted only single-file travel, there was always a Skraeling in front of each Norseman, and one behind. Nils noted that the same close observation was bestowed on their companion, Odin. Perhaps even more. Their captors seemed to distrust him somehow, though he spoke their language fluently. Maybe that was
why
.

Nils quickly realized that it would be of great advantage to learn their captors’ tongue. He could communicate directly, then, without the troublesome translation through their fellow captive, Odin. Nils was feeling enough better now to begin to think of such things. Of the future…For a little while it had seemed that there
was
no future.

But now he had eaten and drunk, his strength was returning, and his kidneys were functioning once more. It was remarkable to him, how quickly his entire attitude improved with the simple act of emptying his bladder.

During a brief rest stop on the trail, the captives were
allowed to mingle and communicate. This offered opportunity to speak to the others.

“Odin,” he asked, “could you teach me some of the Skraelings’ tongue?”

Odin looked at him in surprise.

“Why?”

“It would be easier if I could talk with them.”

“Yes…but maybe we will not be with them long.”

What does he have in mind?
thought Nils.

“Escape?” he asked.

“Maybe. Maybe they let us go.” He shrugged. “If you want to learn a Skraeling tongue, learn mine!”

“Your people speak a different tongue, then?”

“Yes. Did I not tell you that?”

“Maybe. Ah, Odin, much has happened!”

“That is true.”

Now another thought came to Nils. If their captors were to let them leave, would it not be better to go downriver, toward Straumfjord, than away from it to Odin’s people? Why would the one-eyed Skraeling think otherwise? Of course, Odin wished to go home, he supposed. But—

His thoughts were interrupted by their captors, who urged them up to travel again. Well, maybe he could speak with Odin later on this matter.

That opportunity came as they camped for the night. The three were permitted to communicate without interference. It was apparently only during travel…
They are afraid we will try to escape
, he realized.

They were given food and treated with respect. Even a fire of their own, against the chill of the night. There were three fires, each with its group of men. Nils had never thought about it before, but he began to wonder. At what point does a group need a second fire? A single fire is good for one or two people. Three, even. Maybe four, but beyond that point, there is a change in attitude. The campfire is no longer such a personal thing when so many share it. Its warmth and spiritual contact are spread too thinly for comfort. Emotional comfort.

He stared into the glowing coals as darkness deepened and closed around them. He was tired, from lack of sleep and from the physical strain of the day. Maybe that was the reason
for the strange wandering of his thoughts. After several nights without a fire, the luxury of a campfire seemed beyond description. He stretched his tired muscles and extended his legs toward the fire to warm his feet. Even as he did so, he realized with some amusement that it was not merely for warmth. Not physical warmth, anyway. Partly, it was
light
The cheery yellow flames pushed aside the shadows of the night, enlarging the circle where they now rested. It was a thing of comfort, and not merely physical comfort, but spiritual.

His thoughts along those lines had begun as the fires were lighted. Odin had suggested that Svenson
not
use his fire-striker.

“Let them do it. We will make a ceremony of the fire-striker later.”

So the Skraelings had started a fire with their rubbing-sticks, and carried a blazing twig to the other fires. Nils noticed that Flying Squirrel, the Skraeling leader, took a pinch of something from a pouch to toss on the growing blaze of the first fire. A ritual of some sort?

“To honor the spirits of this place,” Odin explained in answer to his question.

“What is the powder?”

“
Kinikinik
. Smoke.”

“I do not understand.”

“Made of dried plants, Thorsson. You do not know of this?”

“No.” Nils was irritated at the condescending tone.

“You will see, later.”

It was sometimes extremely frustrating to talk with this Skraeling. Yet they must trust him. Because of him, the two Norsemen were still alive.

And Odin was correct. They did see, later, the mystery of the
kinikinik
explained. At least, partly. It was just growing dark, and the party was settling in for the night. Most of the men had finished eating, and they gathered around the largest of the three fires.
Different fires have different purposes for these people
, Nils thought. This was a sort of social gathering at the end of the day. A larger fire was different in spirit, somehow, from the small private fire. It was almost a formal gathering, though men were laughing and joking as they assembled.

Flying Squirrel took out an object that seemed to have a small stone bowl at one end, attached to a stem about a hand span in length. From his pouch he took another pinch of the shredded plant material he had tossed into the fire earlier. He packed it into the bowl of the object. Nils glanced at Odin. The Skraeling met his eyes, said nothing, but motioned for him to watch. Now Flying Squirrel placed the stem in his mouth and took a burning twig from the fire to thrust into the bowl.

Fascinated, Nils watched while the man sucked smoke into his mouth and blew it back out in fragrant bluish clouds. The stem of the thing, he now realized, must be a hollow reed or pipe through which to draw the smoke. Others of the men around the fire had also taken out similar pipes and were beginning to light them.