Runestone (19 page)

Flying Squirrel now handed his pipe to Odin, who took a few puffs and handed it back. The other spoke a few words and declined to take it, gesturing toward the Norsemen.

“He says give it to White Wolf,” Odin explained, passing the pipe to Nils.

Nils was unprepared for the sensation that resulted when he took a deep breath through the pipe. The smoke burned his mouth, his lungs, his nose, and he was seized with a paroxysm of coughing.

“Too hard,” said Odin softly. “Be gentle with it. You do not know of these things, Thorsson?”

“No,” choked Nils, wiping tears from his eyes. The Skraelings were looking on in amusement. “Why do we do this, Odin?”

The man shrugged, as Nils might have expected.

“It is a thing to share with others. It tastes good.”

“Tastes?” There had seemed to be no taste at all, only irritation and heat.

“Yes,” Odin insisted, “when you learn how to do it.” He paused for a moment. “Of course, a pipe knows when a learner is smoking it.”

He seemed quite serious. Nils experimented with a few puffs, and after the burning in his throat subsided, was actually able to taste the fragrance of the burning leaves. It was not completely unpleasant, though he could not identify the
various aromas in the mixture. He started to hand the pipe back, but Flying Squirrel motioned to pass it on to Fire Hair. Svenson, having witnessed Nil’s experience, did slightly better at learning the pleasures of
kinikinik
.

Odin spoke a few words to the Skraeling leader, who nodded in understanding. Nils turned to Odin in question.

“I told him,” Odin explained, “that Fire Hair is more skilled in things of fire than you. Yours is a different gift.”

Nils felt chastised, but said nothing. What could he say? He had not understood, and had drawn too deeply of the hot smoke. However, the Skraelings seemed to think nothing of it, beyond mild amusement.
Well
, he resolved,
I will do better next time
. And the smell around the fire as others smoked was not entirely unpleasant, he noticed.

“Tell me more of this, Odin,” he requested.

“What is to tell?”

“Well…why did he throw some of this…
kinikinik?
Why did he put it on the fire?”

“A thing of the spirit, Thorsson. The smoke is pleasant to the spirits, and brings them close to us.”

“It is a religious … a thing of the gods?”

Odin considered. “Maybe. Sometimes, like now, just to feel good. But that first pinch, when the fire was lighted … That says ‘I am here. This is my camp tonight.’”

Nils pondered a moment, and then Odin spoke again.

“It honors the spirits of this place. We would not wish to anger them, no?”

“No, I suppose not. This asks their good feelings for us?”

“Yes, yes! That is it, Thorsson. It is good!”

Nils was a bit confused as to why he should be so pleased. Somehow, it was an honor to be praised for his insight.
Why
, he wondered,
is it so important to have the approval of this one-eyed savage?
He could not completely answer, but he was becoming more certain about one thing all the time. This man was far more intelligent, far more complex, than Nils had imagined. “Savage” was hardly correct. Was the entire world of the Skraelings as complex as this? Were there things that even Norsemen, with their highly developed knowledge and skills of navigation, did not understand as well as these Skraelings? Well,
kinikinik
, for one! He did not quite understand
that yet. A substance partly for worship and partly for pleasure? And
what
plants were involved? Well, maybe later. He did not want to think about it, now. Or about anything. He was tired.

It was odd, then, that he now found himself sitting and staring at the dying fire. Colors shifted in the embers as slight changes in the breeze gently stirred them to life. His thoughts drifted back to his childhood, and to long evenings shared with his grandfather. He had loved to watch the glowing heart of the fire then, and memories came flowing back.

“A fire contains memories,” his grandfather had once said. “Pictures of the past…Faces of friends and enemies, of good times and bad.”

Nils had not understood until now, but now he did. He wrapped himself in a robe and lay on his side, staring at the fire, lost in thought and memory. Beyond the fire, a rhythmic snoring came from the huddled form of Svenson. Odin was quieter, but sleeping soundly. The others, if awake, were still. Nils was alone. It was a good feeling of aloneness, though. He reviewed the events of the past weeks in his mind. The shifting light and shadow of the dying embers seemed to parade them before his eyes.

The ocean crossing, the landing at Straumfjord … Its people…Karlsefni, the headman…Thorwald Ericson, the bold explorer…The warm body and warmer kisses of Ingrid, the blue-eyed goddess. Ah, to share
her
bed tonight! That in turn brought to mind her miserable husband, Olaf the cooper. He wondered if what the man had was worth the heartbreak of watching his beautiful wife flirt with anything that wore trousers.
Strange
, thought Nils.
I have less sympathy for her now
.

How had that happened? He would still try to take her home when he returned to their homeland, if she still wished it. Possibly this was the first time he had actually stopped to think about that. All his thoughts had been concentrated on getting back to Straumfjord.
But what then?
He had no ship. He had lost it. Lost his command. Guilt flooded over him, as he thought of the deaths of all the brave Norsemen in the crews of the two vessels.

And of the loss of his friend, Landsverk. Helge had been a
little bit crazy, and had jeopardized the mission with his ambition.
No, I must not think ill of the dead
, Nils thought.
He was a brave man
. It was of some comfort now to think that Helge and the other brave Norsemen killed in the first battle had been given a heroes’ funeral.

Some comfort, but not much.

T
he actual journey on the magnificent fjordlike river was almost pleasant. Nils’s life and those of the people around him as he grew up had been focused on the sea. This was an opportunity to observe the boatmen of another people, to see their skills, their different methods of dealing with the same problems faced by those on the water anywhere.

He had already noted the skill with which they maneuvered the small round boats. Now he became even more impressed as they embarked above the rapids. A simple stroke or two at just the right time and place would right the spinning craft and steady her course. He recalled the clumsy efforts of the Norsemen in the first captured boats, trying to learn their handling. Now it occurred to him that those men, who had learned to paddle the Skraeling boats with such difficulty, were skilled sailors in their own right. But this was a
different
culture, a different way of doing the same things.

By noon of the first day of travel on the water, he had become quite impressed with the skill of these Skraeling boatmen. They had made good progress upriver, and stopped to disembark and stretch cramped legs. Odin was talking to one of their captors, and Nils saw them pointing across the wide river.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Your boat. The one that you burned for your dead.”

“The
Norsemaiden?
What about it, Odin?”

“It went over there…stopped near the shore and burned.”

“It is gone?”

“Mostly, yes. Part of it sank.”

Nils had a strange sense of relief. For a dreadful moment he had thought that maybe that, too, had gone wrong. He imagined that the fire might have gone out, leaving partly consumed bodies aboard a still-floating hulk. But no, this was as it should be. Helge and the others, honored in death by the funeral pyre of their ship, bodies consumed by the cleansing fire as their spirits were carried aloft. Helge would have wished it so. Still, there was a sadness as they moved on after the pause. To Nils it was the final farewell to the brave yet troubled friend of his childhood. How different it might have been.

Nils saw familiar landmarks as they traveled, and in time recognized the spot where they had first encountered the Skraelings under the upturned boats. How long ago that seemed, like half a lifetime. Then, they had been an expedition of bold explorers, well provisioned, well equipped, and confident in the strength of their youth. He would have thought that nothing could threaten them. Now, only a few days later, it was all gone. Only he and Svenson had survived. The pall of guilt and sadness descended on him again, like a dark cloak thrown over him. He remained deeply depressed.

They did not stop at the site of that first skirmish, but proceeded on upstream. Nils assumed that their captors were from another village, and that proved true. By midafternoon there was an air of expectancy, much talk and joking. The Skraelings called across the water to each other, and there was a general feeling of happiness and satisfaction.
They must be nearing home
, thought Nils, whose spirits were falling even lower as those of their captors rose.

Now they were greeted by a couple of other boats from upstream, paddled by excited young men. The newcomers shouted and sang and turned their boats to travel with the returning victorious warriors. They stared at the captives, and there were busy conversations that obviously pertained to the
Norsemen. Again, Nils was frustrated at his lack of understanding of their tongue. He would have liked to know what they were saying.
Damn that Odin
, he thought.
He could have begun to teach me!
His depression deepened.

They reached the shore where a crowd of people waited excitedly. It was a good landing, apparently much used. Nils could see a cluster of huts that must constitute the village, a little way up the gentle slope. Their captors were now scrambling out of the boats, pulling them up on shore. Flying Squirrel motioned to the captives to step out, and they did so, greeted by hostile faces. A woman spat at Nils, her spittle striking his cheek, to trickle down his jaw. He tried not to react, but wiped it away with his sleeve. Another held a stone knife menacingly in her hand, staring suggestively at Nils’s crotch. He was more concerned about that one. It was a very uncomfortable feeling.

Then Flying Squirrel began to speak, and Nils watched the facial expressions change from hostility to wonder and awe. The woman who had spat at Nils looked positively repentant. The one with the knife, who had appeared more threatening to him, now lowered her weapon. Her expression was now one of curiosity. Curiosity and something else—respect.

“He told them about your great powers,” said Odin at his elbow. “It is good. They will not harm us now.”

That was reassuring, but it was still a tense situation, to be closed in on all sides by these Skraelings. A few days ago, any one of them would have gladly killed the intruders. Even with the protection of their strange mixed status as honored captives, Nils was uneasy.

The entire crowd moved up the slope toward the village in a confused procession. Children and dogs ran alongside, shouting and barking, respectively. It could have been a scene in his own country, Nils reflected. They could be Norsemen, Vikings of an earlier generation, welcomed by their families when they returned from raiding and sacking in Britannia and the islands. Now, of course, with the development of better navigation and the emphasis on trade rather than raiding, that day was passing. Still, it was a strange feeling, as if he were seeing his own past.

There was another thing that came as a surprise, somehow.
Until now, he had seen no Skraelings at close range except fighting men. Here, there were old people, the children he had noticed before, and the women. He thought of the woman who had tried to spit on him, and the one with the knife. His skin still crawled, and the muscles of his groin tightened at the thought of her implied intentions. He wondered whether their captors would allow him to defend himself in an emergency. He would have to try it and see, he decided, if worse came to worst. And what that woman’s hostile stare implied could have been a major tragedy.

He looked at her again, as the crowd moved along toward the town. A not unattractive woman, now that she was not quite such a threat to his manhood. Middle-aged, tall and proud, moving with grace and dignity. A woman who could take care of herself. Like one of the Norse women. There was a saying among the Britons, he recalled, a result of the traditional fighting along the coast and among the islands. “Never kill a Norseman, for then you will have to fight his wife.” Maybe that was the case for this Skraeling woman. Had she lost a husband or son to the invaders?

Women were said to be experts at torture, and as bloodthirsty as any old-time Viking. Was there not a story…Yes! He had forgotten, in all the excitement of the expedition, and the hectic pace at Straumfjord. There had been a grisly murder a year or two ago, by a red-haired beauty who killed a rival woman with an ax. And was it not a sister of the Ericsons, Leif and Thorwald, who had done the killing?
By Thor’s hammer
, he thought,
I think it was!
He could not remember the details, but there had been much gossip. He was glad that he had not thought of it while he was at Straumfjord with Thorwald. It would have been difficult to relate normally to the girl’s brother.