Runestone (22 page)

“It is all right,” assured Flying Squirrel. He could hardly believe what he was saying. Almost an apology to one who had been a thorn in his flesh as they pursued the three fugitives.

“I am sad for this, my chief. Of course we will go. We did not realize that—”

“Enough!” said Flying Squirrel firmly. “Go, whenever you wish. We will give you supplies.”

“You are very generous.” Odin went on. “Truly a great leader. We are grateful for your hospitality. We will plan to leave soon. Two days, maybe?”

The chief nodded. “Where will you go?”

Odin shrugged, the odd little gesture that had become familiar now.

“I do not know. I will have to ask my holy man. To his people or mine, as he chooses.”

“It is good,” agreed Flying Squirrel. “You will need a boat, then?”

“My chief is too generous,” purred Odin. “That is good, indeed. White Wolf thanks you, and will make a prayer for your long life and your health.”

“It is good of him,” Flying Squirrel found himself saying.
How did this happen?
He turned and walked back toward the lodge.

“What was that about?” asked Nils. “Something about a boat?”

Odin nodded, trying to stifle his triumphant grin.

“Oh, yes,” he said calmly. “He offered us a boat and supplies if we will leave. And he said to thank you for your help and your prayers.”

O
din was delighted with the turn of events. He had thought the situation through correctly, to its logical conclusion.

With winter coming on, their captors would not be eager to have three extra mouths to feed. Three extra men, who were in fact contributing nothing toward the well-being of the village, but would require substantial quantities of supplies by the time of the world’s awakening in the spring.

Thorsson, to his credit, had suggested that they cooperate in the fall hunting that had been in progress. At first it had seemed like a good idea. But as he thought about it, Odin was convinced that it was not so. He wished to maintain a certain distance between their captors and White Wolf, the holy man. One obvious solution to the problem of winter supplies for the extra mouths would be to kill the honored prisoners. Odin saw that as a rather remote possibility. But, somewhere along the line, someone would think of it, and it would be suggested. Now, how to counteract such an idea?

He could see two possible plans. One would be to cooperate fully, join in the hunts, pour themselves wholeheartedly into the lives and the ways of their captors. That would be a reasonable course of action. Its disadvantages would be that
the more firmly they became part of this village, the more difficult it would be to leave. In addition, Odin feared that familiarity would lessen the prestige that White Wolf now enjoyed. People would begin to regard him as a mere man, although one with great powers. It was to the advantage of the three honored prisoners to remain as aloof as possible. Maintain and encourage the air of mystery that they now enjoyed.

This line of thought had led him to the other extreme in his planning. They did not want to become part of this village, nor to become useful to have around. With this in mind, then, Odin was skillfully able to manipulate their status. They must not become helpful. Rather, it should appear to their captors that they were a mild nuisance. But not too much. …

To balance the nuisance factor, they must from time to time make their powers visible. That had been a matter of careful timing. When it seemed to Odin that the people around them were beginning to treat them with indifference, he would contrive something to draw attention. Their uniqueness was their protection. Thorsson had been saved by his appearance of madness. Now, anything that called attention to the differences of the Norsemen would act as protection. The greatest of fears for humankind is the fear of the unknown. So, he must prey on that.

Yes…just the right balance. Enough doubt to keep active a level of fear for protection. Along with this, the mild irritation, the nuisance of having the strangers present.

Odin worked hard at this two-pronged plan. He showed an unusual amount of deference to White Wolf, playing to the fullest the role of assistant to the holy man. Thorsson resisted some at first, but only had to be reminded that this was the impression that was keeping them alive. Well, maybe Odin
had
overstated that part to the Norsemen. At least, a little bit.

Svenson already treated Thorsson with respect. Odin did not completely understand the relationship between the two, but had a fairly clear idea in general. Thorsson had been the chief of one of the big boats, a leader of many men. Svenson had been one of his subchiefs, an older and skilled warrior and boatman. So their present relationship, the picture Odin was trying to convey, was not far off. The fire-haired one was a
lesser chief, with special skills and powers of his own, while White Wolf was the primary leader.

From time to time Odin suggested things that would call attention to the differences of the Norsemen. He would ask Svenson, for instance, to play his role as Fire Maker sometimes. It was amusing to watch the looks on the faces of the observers. Odin himself was still impressed by the great power of the steel striker, though he tried not to show it.

Thorsson’s best act, other than turning into a wolf, was the changing of the stone from gray to blue. It was such a special thing, so unreal, that it was good
not
to use it often. They had done it only once, the morning after they arrived at the village. The reaction had been great, beyond his expectations. Odin had a vague idea that the real importance of the sun-stone was not the color change. It was the fact that the stone could find north, even without sun or stars. He did not reveal that to their captors. No reason, especially, except that the more mystery, the better.
Do not tell all you know
, he thought.
Save part of it
.

As Odin planned carefully this part of his scheme, he also worked at becoming a minor nuisance. That part was thoroughly enjoyable to him. He attempted to remember all of the things that had irritated his mother the most when he was a youngster. As the memories recurred to him, he put them into action. He would allow a sleeping robe to slip to the floor, and then simply leave it there. He would contrive to waste just a little food, a last bite or two, left untouched. Sometimes he would have loved to finish his portion, but felt that the irritation caused by the waste was more valuable. Yet all the while he remained polite, cheerful, and grateful. A little demanding, perhaps. And the Norsemen would have been surprised at the demands that he made in their behalf.

“My holy man should have a softer sleeping robe. It befits his status.”

Odin’s slightly mischievous nature came to the fore as he enjoyed this opportunity. Not too much—that would be counterproductive—but just right. It was much like tuning a drum, he thought. Just the right tension on the skin of the drumhead. Too much, the laces would cut through the edges
of the thin-scraped rawhide. Too little, the tone would be soft and flat. But just the right amount…Yes, if he could produce the correct amount of irritation, especially to the women of Flying Squirrel’s lodge, it would be as satisfying for his purpose as the melodic ring of the well-tuned drum.

He had achieved results. The cross words and angry scolding of the women told him that. He was always apologetic, professing ignorance of their ways.

“Ah, I am indeed stupid! You must help me do better,” he would exclaim, apparently in all innocence.

Odin had discovered, quite early in a mischievous childhood, that it is impossible to argue with one who agrees with you. He had put this to good use. When the time came for a reprimand from his parents, he would listen contritely for a few moments. (Timing was important.) Then, his large dark eyes wide with open honesty, he would look straight into the face of his mother and humbly phrase his reaction.

“You are completely right, Mother, and I am full of sorrow at my wrong.”

It was a delicate thing—too open a confession would produce anger. But at just the right moment, and with just the right amount of self-deprecation, it always worked perfectly. There could be no further discussion, because there was complete agreement. He would watch the frustration in his mother’s face, her helplessness when there was much more that she wished to say but could not. The skill with which he had come to do this had saved him much in the way of reprimand.

He had used the techniques before as a captive of these same people, and found that it worked well. In fact, if he had been content to continue as a slave, he could have survived in that way. But to him, life was somewhat more than survival. He had tried to escape, and had lost an eye as a result. He tried again, with greater success, fortunately. He had only one eye left.

When he had been forced to take refuge among the Norsemen, his old technique was again valuable. He appeared humble and cooperative to the people of Straumfjord, repentant when he made a mistake, and no great threat to anyone.
He might still be there, he realized, spared much that had happened since, if he had been willing. But he had longed to return home to his people. He still hoped to do so.

Now, in the present situation, all his previous experience was proving valuable. An occasional mild scolding from one of the women was a sign of success with his carefully crafted plan of irritation. He could shut it off when he wished.

“I am truly sorry, Mother, it was stupid of me to drop such a beautiful sleeping robe to the floor. I must do better, to deserve your hospitality.”

He would manage a look of complete repentance as the woman’s temper cooled. But he knew that the nuisance factor was there. There was no way that these women would let the winter begin with these three strangers, even honored strangers, in their lodge.

And his plan had worked. They were about to leave, with the blessing, the protection, even, of the headman of the village. And with a boat and supplies! Ah, here was success beyond belief. He thanked the spirits who guided him for the success of his efforts.

There were, of course, a couple of things to be resolved. He must make certain that Thorsson was completely convinced of their course of action. Odin suspected that the Norseman might wish to go downstream, toward his own people. Well, that was a logical desire. The same as Odin’s, actually, to return home. But there were advantages to the upstream journey. A return home would bring the protection of his own. Then they could plan the next step. At that point Odin would be glad to help the Norsemen do whatever they wished. Boats, supplies, assistance. He did owe them something. Besides, he rather liked them, both of them. Two very different men, but fascinating, each in his own way. Yes, he could help them return to their people, as they had unwittingly helped him return to his. It was good.

But he must be ready with his arguments for joining his people. He thought that he could do that. One thing he had so far avoided, though, in talking to the Norsemen. He was not certain that they understood that winter was almost upon them. He actually felt that they might not be able to reach
Straumfjord before the first storms of winter. Well, if need be, maybe he could use that as an argument to join
his
people, who were much closer. Yes, that would be an argument to hold in reserve.

He turned to his other side in his sleeping robes, unable to sleep because of the excitement of the coming days. Two nights from now they would be camped upriver, on the way home!

He listened to the breathing of the others in the lodge, and to the soft snores of one or two. What more, now, should he be ready to do as they prepared to leave? Their supplies, the boat, weapons. Knives…For some reason, the thought of a knife brought to mind the one who was called Knife Woman by Thorsson.

He had a vague uneasiness about that. At first, it had been anything but vague. The woman, in her grief over the loss of her son, had been a real threat to Thorsson. She had apparently singled him out as the leader, one on whom she could wreak her vengeance. It was ironic that she had chosen Thorsson. He had had no connection whatever with the death of her son. From what he could learn, the skirmish in which the young man lost his life had been with the warriors of the other chief, the one called Landsverk. And that one was dead already. He had considered trying to explain it to her, but it seemed a futile effort. People are not rational over such things.

Well, she had calmed down now, to some extent. Maybe time was healing the wounds of her spirit. He hoped so.

There was one annoying thought that kept nagging at the dim recesses of his mind, though. What if the woman had only been biding her time? What if now, with the coming departure of the Norsemen, she saw this as her last chance for vengeance? It was a very disturbing possibility, one that he must consider carefully. It would be no surprise if the distraught mother decided to make one last try on the life of those whom she blamed for the death of her only son.