Runestone (24 page)

She stepped back toward her boat, which had been partly in the water, partly out. Ah, that was it. The craft was sliding farther into the water, making a soft noise on the sand as the little waves rocked it. She would drag it up a little way.

Just then a slightly higher ripple lifted the boat free and it curled out away from shore, turning slowly. The woman waded into the water to her waist, reaching for the boat. There must have been a hole in the river’s bed, because she
missed her footing and fell, her head going completely under water. She came up sputtering, still not particularly alarmed except for the noise she had made. The boat was drifting, an arm’s length away, and she swam after it. She was a good swimmer.

But the boat was now moving into the current, elusive and just out of her grasp. A little more effort, another stroke or two…She was tiring now. Her arms and legs were stiff already from the unaccustomed exercise with the paddle all through the day. Now they failed to respond. She no longer had the resiliency of youth. The boat was farther from her now than when she had entered the water. She turned back toward the shore, to save herself.
Let the boat go!

The shore was surprisingly far away. The deceptive current at this gentle bend of the shore had carried not only the boat, but the woman, too, well out into the stream. She struck out, swimming more weakly now. She could no longer raise her arms far enough for an efficient stroke. Then, it became too hard even to try. She relaxed, resigned to her fate. She had been guilty of poor judgment. The power of White Wolf’s gifts as a holy man was greater than she had thought. He had won, after all. These were her last thoughts as the water closed over her head like a pall, and there was darkness.

I
t had been a new experience to learn the use of the canoe. As a boatman since childhood, Nils expected to adapt quickly to a new craft. He found, however, that this was far different. The thin shell of the bark canoe behaved unlike any boat he had ever seen. Its responsiveness, the way it moved under the stroke of the paddle, its sliding motion across the
surface, were all a new experience. Along with the sensitive response of the craft came the inevitable disadvantage, however. It was also sensitive in balance. Any motion on the part of one of the passengers was magnified quickly. A casual shift in the weight of the canoe’s contents instantly produced an alarming instability, a rocking of the boat that seemed out of all proportion. The natural tendency on the part of one experienced on the water was to shift his weight to correct the list. With the canoe, however, it was easy to overcorrect, producing an even more remarkable amount of sway. Once, Nils was certain that they would capsize the craft. There was actually a splash of water that poured over the side of the canoe to slosh around the bottom.

Nils was embarrassed by his ineptness in becoming familiar with the canoe. He felt somewhat better when it became apparent that Svenson, even with all his years of experience, was no better at it. There was simply an indescribable feel to the craft, one that must be experienced in its own right. It was quickly apparent that the very responsiveness of the canoe would make it fast and maneuverable. The two Norsemen had discussed this around the fire on the first evening.

“It is like a longship, Nils,” Sven observed, “quick and fast. Their little round boats behave like a
knarr
while this is like a dragon ship.”

Nils nodded. He could see the similarities that the steersman had quickly observed, now that Sven pointed them out. The shallow draft of the canoe, the way it rode on top of the water instead of
in
it, was like the longship. The squat, ugly
knarr
, with its cargo deck deep below the waterline, was slow and cumbersome by comparison. The two ships were for different purposes, the one for speed and mobility, the other for moving large quantities of freight, people, and livestock. And so it was with the small boats of the Skraelings.

“That is true,” Odin said of the observations by Svenson, “and their spirit is different.”

“Their spirit?” Nils asked. He was surprised that their companion understood the discussion of the types of ships. But now that he thought of it, he should have expected this. Odin was quite proficient in their Norse tongue. He had also been with the colony for some time. A boatman in his own
right, the Skraeling had probably spent many afternoons watching ships maneuver in the harbor at Straumfjord. Of course he would have understood the variables involved. But this thing of different spirits?

“How do you mean, their spirits, Odin?”

Odin answered with his characteristic shrug.

“Each has its own,” he explained. “The canoe has a quick spirit, the round boat a slow one.”

Yes, that is true
, thought Nils.
I never thought of it that way
.

“And each boat has its own spirit, too,” Odin went on.

For a moment, Nils thought that Odin was referring to each type of boat. But no, the realization came quickly. Each
individual
boat … a different
spirit!
He thought of the
Norsemaiden
and the
Snowbird
, so similar and yet so different. Different
spirits!
Did this Skraeling understand that much about the handling properties of those two ships, both now gone to their watery graves? He shook his head to clear it. He knew that Odin was a highly intelligent man, but after all, things of that sort were beyond the understanding of most.

But Odin was injecting yet another idea, an extension of the concept of spirit as applied to boats.

“A canoe knows when a learner tries to use it,” he observed.

“What?” asked Svenson.

“It knows. It tries him at first.”

Ridiculous
, thought Nils.

Then he thought again. The first time he had stepped into the canoe, his balance was not right. The craft had wiggled like a living thing, he could feel it vibrate from bow to stern, a tremulous wobble that was all he could do to stabilize. He had finally achieved stability, and…yes, he could see the simile … a living spirit.

“When you feel its spirit, it understands,” Odin was explaining offhandedly, there at the campfire. “Then it becomes easier.”

It was a reasonable, if simple way of looking at the situation.

“You have done well today,” Odin went on, “and the canoe knows.”

It was odd, sitting here at a campfire in the wilderness,
Nils reflected. The odd part was that he was so pleased by this expression of approval. It made him proud, to be the recipient of a compliment from the Skraeling…from a
savage!
Somehow, it seemed quite logical, though in another way, it was not logical at all. Helge Landsverk would never have understood it at all, Nils reflected. Poor Helge … he had come so close, and had missed the mark so widely! What had it been? Nils wondered as he stared into the glowing coals. He and Helge had once been very close, much alike in their youth. At least, he had thought so. Yet, by the time of his friend’s tragic death, there were many differences between them. How did he know now that Helge would never have understood the thing of the spirit that Odin had mentioned?

Maybe it was Helge’s attitude toward people. That had changed, certainly. Once he had been a cheerful and friendly youth, liked and admired by all. A popular young man. More popular than Nils, actually, because he had been more outgoing. That had certainly changed. Not the outgoing part, but…well, the interest and concern for others, maybe. Yes, that was it. Helge had come to regard other people as something to be
used
, not respected. Used, to achieve his own goals. The incident of the severed hand drifted through his mind for a moment, a troubling commentary on the last days of the man who had been his friend.

“Let us sleep,” said Odin shortly.

Nils wrapped himself in his robe and lay waiting for sleep to come. The soft night sounds and the crackle of the fire were a comforting lullaby. Through half-closed eyes he watched the ghostly flicker of firelight reflected from the trees. Somewhere a hunting owl called, and its mate answered. The quiet murmur of the water provided a droning background that lulled his senses.

He was almost asleep when he heard the splash…Ah, a fish, jumping to escape a larger one, probably. He listened, but it was not repeated. Still, he had the feeling that something was not right. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he rolled out of his sleeping robe and stepped toward the river.

The fire was dying and the light was poor, but he could see the white of the canoe’s birchbark shell. It seemed not to have been disturbed, and he moved on past its upturned hull and to
the shore. There was something on the river’s surface, maybe a stone’s throw away, a mere blob of darker hue on the dark water. It seemed alive, seemed to move. There was a moment of splashing, and then quiet. The dark shape slid on downriver in the current, or disappeared under the water, he was not certain which. Anyway, his doubts were answered.

“Beaver,” he grunted half aloud to himself.

Then he turned back toward the fire, and to the warmth of his sleeping robe.

   The three travelers were on the river early the next morning. Odin was eager to put distance behind them. He had not given any definite answer as to how long a journey it might be to the village of his people.
Maybe
, thought Nils,
he does not know
.

Later, they wondered how they could have failed to notice the problem as they embarked. It should have been apparent. Looking back, they realized that there should have been footprints, but none of the three recalled having seen any.

They had embarked when the light was still poor, the rays of the rising sun filtering in crazy striped patterns between the trunks of the forest’s trees. Odin, with all his experience in this woodland, was still distracted by the excitement of starting home. The other two were unfamiliar with the country, the weather, and the intricacies of the craft in which they traveled. So it was not unusual after all, maybe, that they noticed nothing.

To further complicate the morning, there were areas of patchy fog on the river and in low inlets, hanging like white smoke among the trees.

It was not long, however, before a problem became apparent. Odin had steered their course to a distance out from shore to avoid rocks, stubs, and snags that might rip the delicate underbelly out of their craft. They were not quite in the main current, which seemed to hug the far shore at this point. They were moving well.

“Ah! The fog is damp this morning,” noted Svenson as they came through a wisp of the mist and emerged on the other side.

Svenson was seated in the middle, with Nils in front and Odin in the rear in the steersman’s position.

“That is true,” agreed Nils.

A little while later, Odin grunted to attract their attention, and pointed quietly with his paddle. Near the distant shore on their left, a large antlerless deer stood in the water with her calf by her side.

“Moose,” whispered Odin.

The animal raised her large, ungainly head to stare at them as they moved past.

“Moose?” asked Svenson.

“Yes.”

“It looks much like our red deer,” Sven said to Nils, “but bigger, maybe. The stags have antlers, you think?”

There was a moment of confusion in language. There was difficulty in expression as the Norsemen’s word for a male deer was tentatively clarified. Then Odin laughed.

“Yes, it is as you say. The father has big flat horns, so.”

He placed his hands on his head to illustrate the appearance of the bull moose, and Svenson chuckled as he glanced over his shoulder. It was such diversions as this that prevented the immediate discovery of their problem.

Soon, however, there was an exclamation of surprise from Svenson.

“Water!”

“What?” asked Nils.

“Water! In the boat…that is why it seems so wet!”

Sven was shifting the bundles of supplies, which were packed around him. The change of balance rocked the canoe, and it took a moment to steady it. Water sloshed among the bundles, rolling back and forth on the flat bottom.

“We must go to shore!” said Odin quickly. He thrust his paddle into the water and swung the canoe’s prow. “There!” he pointed at a level strip of shore. “No, too many rocks…to the left!”

The prow swung again. Water was deeper beneath them now, and the rolling weight was slowing their progress. The canoe rocked from the shifting mass of the water, and more water spilled into the left side as it dipped. Too much correction…now the right side…more water…

They were within a stone’s throw of the shore when they capsized, spilling them into the water as the canoe rolled.

“Catch the paddles! Hold to the canoe!” called Odin.

They began to swim toward the shore, pulling the dead weight of the canoe and its sodden load. The three stumbled into shallow water and managed to drag the craft partially up on shore. Then they fell forward, trying to catch a breath, exhausted from the exertion.

“What happened?” asked Nils when he was able.