Runestone (20 page)

He shrugged off the flight of memory, and returned to the present.
Yes
, he thought,
that woman, the one with the knife. She could and would use an ax on someone
.

While he was still thinking about the woman of the Skraelings, he noticed another fact. He had been thinking of these women as savages, either dirty and unkempt, or like the knife-woman, a dangerous warrior. He had not expected them to be attractive. But the little girls were pretty, as they ran along
with the boys and dogs. And many of the older girls, blossoming into womanhood, were really quite attractive. The pleasing shape of a well-turned calf, the willowy swing of the hips drew his eyes. There were soft curves under soft buckskin dresses. Some were tall and slender, and the exotic dark eyes and long lashes in well-shaped faces were nicely framed by the gloss of hair as blue-black as the wing of a crow.

Nils was not certain why he was surprised. He did not know what he had expected. Maybe the long separation from women, on the voyage and then the expedition, after a frustrating stop at Straumfjord?…
No
, he decided,
that is not it
. It is true that chastity, like wine, makes a passing woman attractive. And the unfamiliar exotic appearance of these…
No, they really are attractive. Some of them downright beautiful!
He noted an inviting smile.

His reverie was interrupted as the crowd arrived among the houses. They were built of logs and chinked with mud, he saw, much like those that would be encountered in the more primitive parts of his own country. The thatched roofs, too, were similar. Some of the structures were of a size that would shelter a family, but some were larger. For an extended family, maybe. He thought of the communal structures at Straumfjord. There was also one long building that reminded him of a meeting hall, or longhouse.

“This is a meetinghouse?” he asked Odin.

The other merely nodded.

There was a brief discussion among their captors, some pointing, and more talk. Finally, Flying Squirrel, who appeared to be the village headman as well as the leader of the war party, spoke.

“He says that we will be his guests,” Odin translated, pointing to one of the larger houses.

It appeared to be well kept, and there was a generally affluent character about it. A cooking fire smoldered outside, and women seemed to be tending it, even as they watched the proceedings.

“There will be a council tonight,” Odin was saying. “We will be honored. I have thanked them for us.” He paused for a moment. “I had thought to use Fire Hair’s fire-striker now,
but maybe at their council…Yes, that is better. Give them time to wonder!”

Flying Squirrel now beckoned, inviting them inside. They entered the house, and paused while their eyes adjusted to the dim light. Nils found the interior of the building much as he had expected. One major difference from those with which he was familiar was the absence of a chimney. But there was a place for fire, and an opening in the roof for the smoke to escape. The ashes were cold now. Apparently the Skraelings lived and cooked mostly outside in warm weather.

One of the women pointed to an area in a corner of the room.

“She says we may sleep there,” Odin said.

There was a sort of ledge or bench that ran along the walls, completely around the room. This apparently served as furniture, in lieu of chairs, tables, and even beds. It was obvious that certain areas held sleeping robes, and that others were reserved for storage of food supplies.

Nils went over to the area indicated, dropped his few possessions on the ledge, and sat down. It was good to sit. Suddenly, he was exhausted, and wanted nothing but to sleep.

“Do not get too sleepy,” Odin suggested. “We will eat, and then, the council.”

“What will they do at the council?”

Odin gave his characteristic shrug.

“Who knows? They will talk. It is so with councils. They may ask us questions. We will show them the powers of Fire Hair.”

There was a mischievous smile of satisfaction on his face. Nils did not ask further. There was no point in it. The one-eyed Skraeling would tell them what he wanted, when he wanted. That was mildly irritating, but Odin
had
kept them alive, and this was working as he had said.

There was one inescapable fact, though, Nils realized as he watched Odin settle their few possessions on the assigned portion of the ledge.

The bastard is actually enjoying this!

T
he council was held, not in the longhouse, as might have been expected, but outside under the sky. Odin had thought much about that, and finally inquired.

“Outside,” Flying Squirrel answered. “Too hot and smoky inside.”

At this season, that was true. Now, how to use their assets to create the best impression? Odin had planned to use every trick he could think of to amaze their captors, and as soon as possible. First impressions lasted, and there was no harm in trying.

“It is good,” Odin smiled approvingly. ’The Fire Hair wishes to make their first fire in this place tonight. He can light the council fire, no?”

Odin watched as the thoughts flitted through the chieftain’s head. To his credit, it took Flying Squirrel only a moment to consider. There must be hazards, of course, in allowing the strangers full freedom. On the other hand, to challenge the power of the holy man, which was obviously so great, might bring even more risk.

“Your holy man, White Wolf, asks this?” inquired Flying Squirrel.

Odin nodded. “The lighting of the first fire is important to him.”

“And to us,” the chieftain agreed. “It is good. Let it be so.”

Odin felt that the other had some doubts, but hesitated to challenge the unknown powers of the stranger’s gifts. He had been prepared to call attention to the morning when the Norseman had almost become a wolf. There was a smug feeling of satisfaction that he had not even had to use that. But
now, these people must be made to respect the powers of the other outsider, the fire-haired Svenson. Sven would not be completely safe from harm until he, too, had gained a certain amount of respect by some special deed. He approached the two Norsemen.

“I have told them,” he explained, “that you have a custom of the lighting of a first fire in a new place.”

“It is true,” Thorsson answered. “We do have.”

“Yes, yes,” Odin hurried on, “we do, too. But we can use this, Thorsson. They will let Fire Hair—Svenson, here—perform it. And they have not seen your way of striking a spark with the metal striker.”

“Ah, yes.” Nils began to understand. “Sven, can you make it a real show for them?”

The old sailor smiled. “Of course.”

“It is good,” said Odin. “Just before dark. There must be enough light for them to see.”

Svenson nodded, a mischievous grin on his face.

   The crowd began to gather, and Odin accompanied Svenson and Nils to the spot where the council fire would be. A quantity of wood had been gathered to fuel the fire, and Odin busied himself with preparing the tinder and small sticks so that it would kindle quickly. A little opening under the stack of larger logs would provide a good place to plant the spark. He gathered more fine dry tinder than usual, to make the blaze flare up well. Dry grasses, cedar bark, tiny twigs. Normally, materials of this sort would be carefully saved and used in small quantities. Just enough, in fact, to allow the fire to start. This, however, was a special occasion, mostly to provide a spectacular show. Odin was careful, however, to arrange the fuel and tinder so that his lavish use of the finer materials was not readily apparent.

“There,” he pointed, showing Svenson his handiwork. “You can put your spark in this little mouse nest of grass.” Sven looked, and nodded eagerly in understanding.

More people were arriving now, reserving the best places to sit.

“Let us wait just a little longer,” Odin suggested. “It would be good to have their chief here.”

It was a matter of timing. To wait too long as darkness fell would destroy part of the impressiveness of the ceremony. But too soon, before the Skraelings’ leader arrived, would be an affront to him. In addition, it seemed good to impress the leader with the fire-striker. It would seem to have great power to people who were familiar only with rubbing-sticks.

Odin began to prepare his scene.

“Here, Thorsson, you stand here. I will be there, on the other side, and Svenson, the Fire Maker, will be here. I will—”

His explanation was interrupted by the approach of Flying Squirrel, flanked by two of his warriors.

“It is good,” muttered Odin to the Norsemen. “Now I will tell them—”

He broke off short and stood, raising his arms to get the attention of the crowd. Flying Squirrel and his party entered the circle and seated themselves.
Good. Not quite dark …

“My chief,” Odin addressed the leader, “and my brothers,” to the crowd, “it is good to share your council fire.”

He spoke in their own tongue, ignoring the sarcastic sneers on a few of the faces. It was to be expected that they knew the status of these three. Captives, though not without honor. But now, he must hurry on, before it became too dark.

“I speak for my leader, the holy man, White Wolf. Some of your men have seen his power. I, and this one, the Fire Maker, are very unimportant beside him. But enough. Tonight Fire Hair, the Fire Maker, will light the council flame. It is their way.”

He made a grand sweeping gesture toward Svenson. The lighting of a first fire was completely familiar to the Skraelings, of course, and they sat waiting as Svenson knelt and readied his little scrap of charred cloth.

“He has no sticks,” someone whispered. People began to stretch their necks, trying to see. There should have been a spindle, a fire-board, and a short bow. What?…

Svenson raised his hands and looked upward at the darkening sky, playing his part well.
Now
, thought Odin,
if his sparks will only fall right
. He held his breath. Svenson now
took the nodule of flint in his left hand, and fitted the steel striker around the knuckles of his right. Very deliberately, he struck…once, twice, three times.

Odin saw the fat spark jump from the steel and land on Sven’s charred cloth. Svenson, working with all deliberate haste, picked it up smoothly and placed it in a handful of cedar bark that he had prepared. Quickly, he folded the fluffy mass around the spark and lifted it high, blowing his breath through the shredded cedar, to fan it into life. White smoke poured from his hands, and just before the tinder burst into flame, Svenson bent to thrust it into the little grass pocket prepared by Odin.

Odin’s one eye twinkled.
Just right!
There was a gasp from the front rows. It was apparent that this ceremony was something special.

“He did it with his bare hands!” someone whispered.

“No. He plucked it out of a stone.”

“… touched the stone three times …”

Everyone had seen it slightly differently. But their attention was now distracted by the fire itself. It seemed to leap into life, the orange tongues licking upward through the dry grasses and small sticks, leaping between the larger logs and thrusting out of the top of the well-built pile. Sparks flew upward toward the darkening sky, and the crowd stared in amazement at the speed with which it had happened.

During this distraction, Svenson quietly slipped the flint and steel back into his pouch and stood, hands raised toward heaven. The glow of the growing fire was pushing back the shadows now, enlarging the circle of light. The reflection of the flames on the red of Svenson’s hair made it look alive, glowing in the twilight. People watched as the Fire Maker made a turn toward the crowd, a short bow, and sat down.

“What happened?” asked someone in the rear.

It had all been accomplished so quickly that those not watching closely had missed it.

“The Fire Hair just waved his hand and it blazed up!” insisted another.

Odin was pleased. It had gone well, and it was good to
leave some observers dissatisfied. But he had accomplished his purpose.

Flying Squirrel was trying hard to appear unimpressed, but with little success. The blazing council fire spoke for itself.

“It is good,” said the chieftain seriously. “Now, let White Wolf show the people
his
power.”

Odin had not foreseen this, and he cursed himself for the oversight. It had not even occurred to him that the Skraelings might want to see more. Thinking rapidly, he tried to gain a few moments to plan something.

“What would my chief have him show?” he asked innocently.

Flying Squirrel thought for a moment, and then smiled.

“Let him change himself into a wolf!”

Odin thought for a moment. He must be very careful, now.

“My chief,” he said as calmly as he could, “is this wise?”

Flying Squirrel appeared offended, but seemed to choke back a hasty retort.

“What do you mean?”

“You have seen him when the spirit takes him. He is like a madman. There must be some risk. …”

He paused, letting the thought sink in. Flying Squirrel looked uncomfortable, and finally nodded.