Runestone (23 page)

T
he parting was basically without regret. There were polite farewells, and the villagers gathered to watch the travelers embark. It was not from any sense of sadness, yet there was no animosity either. A certain sense of curiosity, perhaps. But basically, it was a fascination with the unusual and unfamiliar. The same attitude, in fact, that had hovered over their entire stay in the odd double role of guests and captives.

In the most basic of terms, it was a desire on the part of Flying Squirrel’s people to avoid offending the outsiders. The unusual powers of the light-haired holy man and his assistants had been clearly demonstrated, had they not? Time had lessened the fascination, of course. The presence of the three had become a common sight. With familiarity, there was less of the awe and wonder that had marked the early days of their presence. No harm had come to anyone as a result of their stay, so they were not considered really dangerous.

Still, an aura of distrust had remained. In the presence of someone whose powers and gifts of the spirit seem almost limitless, it is only prudent to be cautious, is it not? What if, for instance, the strange holy man were to change himself into a wolf again? Little was known about that. White Wolf seemed calm and easygoing in everyday contact. Likable, even, though few dared to engage in much social interaction with him.

Yet there were many who wondered. Did the light-haired stranger have the power to
decide
when he would become a wolf? Or, did it just happen to him unexpectedly? Those who had been present spoke of how the holy man had seemed confused at the time. It had required the skill of his one-eyed assistant to explain what was happening. More importantly,
even, once he became the white wolf, did he retain any control over his actions? Maybe, someone suggested, he became like the mindless animal who is stricken by the spirit that fears water, and whose bite causes certain death by the same spirit. There had been an incident only last year, when a crazed smell-cat had wandered into the village in broad daylight. It had bitten two people, a small child and her father, as he tried to intervene. Both had died in the anguish of the fears-water spirit. Could the affliction of White Wolf be similar? It was good that the war party had not killed him. Ah, what tragedy, if such a dreadful thing had been released.

So it was good, the people thought, that the strangers were leaving. They were not being driven out, so there was no resentment. But it would be more comfortable not to have them around, to be constantly in doubt as to what might happen next. At best, it had been a worrisome thing. At worst, an ongoing dread. So there was almost an aura of happiness over the departure. (Not too happy—one must not offend the spirits in question.) Such risks were avoided by the giving of small gifts to the departing strangers, such as food and ornaments of shell beads. One woman, who had noticed that the footwear of White Wolf had shown much wear, brought a new pair, sewn in the pattern of her people. The holy man seemed very grateful, and she was pleased to be the recipient of his smile. It should bring good luck, to be looked on with favor by so powerful a gifted one.

This same mixture of respect, curiosity, and a little fear and dread extended also to the Norsemen. They held the other side of the mutual distrust. It is always so when those of widely different customs meet for social interchange. We know what our own culture would produce, but are unsure of the other. In this short stay, it had not really been possible to progress beyond that point. And, it must be noted, without the presence of the one-eyed Odin, who knew something of both these cultures, it would not have been possible at all.

Even so, it was with an underlying sense of distrust on both sides that the parting took place. Flying Squirrel spoke in a dignified manner of the honor that had been his to host the stay of such an important holy man. And, of course, his important assistants, the one who makes fire and the one who
understands the needs of the great White Wolf. (Let there be no misunderstanding, nothing to offend these outsiders as they left.)

By the same token, after translation by Odin, White Wolf gave an answering speech. It will never be known exactly how much of each side of this exchange was subject to editorial alteration by the interpreter. But is it not always so? Those who translate bear an awesome burden. Apparently, however, in this case the general tone was correctly exchanged, and understanding reached. The essence of the message was probably identical on both sides:
I do not really trust you, but I fear you a little, so I do not wish to offend you. I will thank you for the good we have exchanged and be pleased to part company with no further harm
.

Translated into more diplomatic phrasing, the speeches became, to all appearances, a congenial exchange of admiration and respect. And it was good.

There was one more thing. Flying Squirrel requested it with hesitation. In a way, he hated to give up all of the reflected glory.

“Would you ask your holy man,” he requested, “if he would change the color of the stone for us again?”

Odin seemed to consider.

“It is not a thing to do lightly and without reason,” he reprimanded gently. “But I will ask him. He may see fit to do so, in honor of this occasion. It might be good.”

There were those who had not seen this striking ceremony before, and the gasps of amazement were quite gratifying as the sun-stone turned slowly from gray to blue, with the rotation in Thorsson’s hand. That, too, was good.

The three men stepped into the boat and willing hands assisted in the shove away from the bank.

By the hammer of Thor
, thought Nils Thorsson,
I am glad to be out of there!

On shore, as the Skraelings watched the boat move up the broad river, there were many whose thoughts were remarkably similar. There was almost a unified sigh of relief. The people were pleased that no harm had come to them through the stay of the powerful holy man. Theirs was a good leader,
they told each other. Flying Squirrel had managed the whole thing well, and without harm to any.

His wives, of course, were pleased. They hummed cheerfully as they turned back to their routine tasks.

“It is good,” said the youngest of the wives to the others. “We have three fewer mouths to feed!”

She received a sharp glance from the first wife, but a smile and a nod from the middle one.

“It is best not to speak of it,” that one said. “It would not do to offend. …”

“But they are only people.”

“Are they? We only saw them around the lodge. You were not there, little sister, when he changed himself into a white wolf!”

Privately, Flying Squirrel was thinking thoughts that would have indicated great relief.

They are gone! Now we can return to our ways
.

Things would never be the same, of course. They had met a powerful invader, with great boats and fearsome warriors using unknown weapons. And they had been able to destroy the invader! Apparently there had been only these survivors. Two, actually, because one was a member of a neighboring tribe. That one
… ah, a clever fellow!

It was a great honor that he, Flying Squirrel, had been the leader of the war party that had captured White Wolf. It was an honor to have been the host of the three. It had also been an awesome responsibility, and he was glad it was now over. He had gained in prestige, and the honor would last for a generation. It had turned out well, but a great load seemed lifted from his shoulders as the boat grew smaller in the distance.
It is good
, he thought.

And in the boat, Odin plied his paddle with true pleasure. He could hardly believe that it had come out so well

His quick decision on the ledge at the time of their capture had been a desperate thing. When he had seen the war party hesitate and draw back, he had realized their dilemma, and had been able to take advantage of it. And it had worked! So well, in fact, that now he half believed that he himself had seen the transformation into a white wolf.

Since that time, everything had seemed to fall into place.
Odin was beginning to think, in fact, that there are no coincidences.

Since he first met this Norseman, he now recalled, many strange things had happened to him, mostly to the good. There had been times when things
seemed
bad, but turned out well. Only a few moons ago he had considered that his situation was hopeless. Well, not quite. He had never
really
given up hope. But then came this Thorsson, who had talked to him as one would to another man. He was glad that he had hidden in Thorsson’s ship, though there had been times when that had seemed a mistake that bordered on sheer madness. But since then, good things had happened, even when the situation appeared the worst. It would never do to
expect
such things, but now he began to wonder.
Maybe
, he thought,
just maybe this White Wolf is really a holy man. He is thoughtful, and modest, and does not misuse his gifts. Even when he was a leader, he did not misuse that power, as the other one did, the one who died. Did that one, the Landsverk, die because of his ways?
It was a thing to wonder.

Meanwhile, the paddles dipped rhythmically, and the boat moved on upstream. Odin watched the little streams of water flow quickly from the tip of Svenson’s paddle in front of him. The Norsemen were quickly learning the use of the boat. He was glad that Flying Squirrel had offered a canoe, rather than the round skin craft. It was more difficult to build, and so represented a greater gift. Its long, narrow shape, however, was much better for a major trip than the other type. His companions had seemed pleased with the canoe, of course. It was much more like the shape of their longships, and familiarity gives a feeling of security.

He had been amused that at first the Norsemen had wanted to sit facing backward. That was still hard to understand. But they quickly learned the new technique, and were doing quite well with their share of the paddling. They would travel well today.

Odin was not certain how many days it might take to reach the village of his people. He could watch for landmarks later. But it had been a long time. Three, no, four seasons ago.
Five
, next spring! He wondered about his parents, about his sister, just younger than he. She would be a woman now. And his
older brother, who had just married before the attack that had cost Odin his freedom.

There was a girl, too, the friend of his childhood. They had talked of marriage. Hawk Woman…how beautiful she had been! He wondered how life had treated her. Ah, it was no use to wonder now. A woman as desirable as that one would be someone’s wife by now. Probably have children … He dug his paddle into the water so vigorously that the canoe rocked and nosed out toward the center of the stream.

Careful
, he told himself.
Give attention to what you are doing
. A deft stroke or two steadied the craft and straightened her course.
First things first
, he thought.
At least, I am going home!

   Odin’s mood might have been more somber if he had been watching the shore. Behind a dark leafy screen in a little cove, a woman peered through the leaves to watch their canoe pass. Her face darkened with hate at the sight of the men who to her represented her son’s death. There was no way, she vowed, that she would permit them to escape vengeance. She had been prevented from exacting physical retribution on them. That was as well, perhaps. It
was
dangerous to release the spirit that dwelt in a madman. But now she had a plan.

Before dawn, she had crept quietly out of the village and launched her little skin boat, unseen. She might be carrying a few years, but she could still handle a boat. Had been quite good at it in her youth, actually. She traveled upstream for nearly a half day, and then drew ashore to hide the boat and wait. The canoe, with three paddlers, would travel faster than she, and she had no desire to be overtaken by them.

Her timing was good. She had barely settled herself to watch when the canoe came in sight. She touched her knife to reassure herself, and watched them pass. It was unfair, she thought for the hundredth time, that Flying Squirrel had prevented her vengeance. But now…her plan
would
succeed. It was based on avoiding close contact with the escaping spirit of White Wolf as he died. Avoiding
all
physical contact, in fact. It was not as good as it would have been to see the anguish in his face as she slashed away his manhood, of course. But less dangerous.

The canoe was out of sight now, and she carefully slid her boat back into the water. Hugging the shore, she followed their course, careful not to overlook the fact that they might stop to rest. She did not want to blunder onto them accidentally.

She tried to guess when they would stop for the night, halting to wait until they established camp. Then, as soon as it was dark, she moved on, slowly and carefully, searching for the smell of smoke or the glow of a campfire.

Ah! There
… a flicker of light through the trees along the shore. She moved very slowly, urging the shell of her little boat against the bank. Only a little way up on the sand, for dragging a boat could be noisy. Now she hurried on to the upturned canoe, drawing her knife as she went. It had been a stroke of wisdom, she thought, this plan of hers. It would not require her to expose herself to the danger of the wandering spirit of madness. There would be no direct contact at all. She would only make tiny holes in the bark skin of the canoe. When they discovered the damage, it would be too late. She would be far away, and they would drown in the chill waters of the river. At least, she hoped so. Especially their light-haired leader. She hated everything about him, his light hair and skin, disgusting and pink. …This would be her revenge for the loss of her son. They might call her crazy, but no one else could devise a plan like this one, could they? She smiled in the darkness.

Suddenly she paused.
Was there a noise?
No, the sleepers were quiet, only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness of the clearing a few steps away. She almost returned to her task. She had made only two small slits in the canoe’s shell, and another partway through. Such small holes would not be noticed.
Wait! The sound again
…
from the river!