Runestone (28 page)

There were many things that he had seen in the past few moons that he had thought could never happen. The changing color of the sun-stone…The white wolf episode…There had been no chance that the three fugitives could have survived that. Yet it had happened. Truly, the man now called White Wolf must have a powerful gift of the spirit, Odin had decided. It was thrilling and exciting to be associated with such a man, and he was proud to have been chosen to be a part of it.

All in all, he was returning with a certain amount of triumph.
He was the helper to White Wolf. He had survived captivity, enslavement, and torture. He had lived with and observed the customs of the Norsemen, as had no other of his people.

A major concern for him was the manner in which he would be accepted by Hawk Woman. His parents, his friends, all would welcome him home. He was not so handsome as when he left. The empty eye socket with its shriveled and scarred lids was not pretty. He had seen it, reflected in a still pool. That would evoke only sympathy from his parents. Friends, too, probably. But, as for Hawk Woman, how would she see it?

Then he would become irritated with himself. What did it matter? She would be someone else’s wife now. Whose, he could not even imagine. Surely not Old Dog…The thought made his stomach tighten. He had spent many nights of sorrow through the years, lying quietly awake in the darkness, thinking of Hawk Woman in the arms of another man.
Any
other man. His heart had always been heavy at such thoughts, but until now there had always been a possibility, a slight chance that she had not married, that she had waited for him. As long as he did not know for sure, that chance existed.

Now, however, the closer he came to home, the more he was forced to realize that it could not be so. One of the most eligible, beautiful, and desirable young women of the village would not be still unmarried. He must resign himself to that. It was hard to do so and still smile, though. This was one area where he could not quite avoid taking himself seriously. The best that he could do would be to conceal it. At that, he was an expert. To conceal emotions was to survive, and he was a survivor. It would be hard, but he had done it before, and though his heart was heavy—

Odin paused, his thought interrupted by a flash of motion in the trees along the shore. Or had he only imagined it? He wished for the keenness of vision that he had once possessed, as he studied the forest. The leafy colors were turning, showing startling hues of red and yellow and brown. It was hard to distinguish shapes among such patterns. A deer? Bear? He
blinked his one eye to clear it, but still could distinguish nothing. Maybe he had been mistaken.

   The observer drew back into the red-orange of the thicket, stepped to the shadowy shelter of a giant spruce, and watched the canoe slide past and out of sight. Only when he was certain it was gone did he make a further move. Then he trotted a few steps to a well-worn trail, set his feet upon it, and began a systematic routine. He loped for some time, an easy distance-eating pace through the trees and along the slope. Then, breathing heavily, he slowed to a walk for a while, resting even as he continued to move in long strides. When his breath began to come easily again, he shifted the bow to his other hand and resumed the loping gait that covered so much ground. When opportunity offered, he cast a glance at the river, but he did not pause to study it. It did not matter.

The young man did stop at a clear spring beside the trail, cupping water in his hand to rinse his mouth and spit. Then a little more water, swallowed this time. Not too much…His entire stop could have been measured in heartbeats, before he turned back to his mission.

It was a little past midday when he jogged wearily into the village, between the lodges and toward the center of the community. He did slow to a walk as he neared the council house. He must let his breathing slow, because he must be able to talk.

Several older men were sitting in the sun outside the long-house as he approached, relaxing and sociably smoking. They looked up, nodded a greeting, and waited for him to speak. The young warrior pointed downstream.

“Someone comes…Strangers,” he said, still breathing deeply.

“How many? Where?”

“One canoe, three men. They dress strangely.”

There was more interest now, and a readiness to move into action if necessary.

“Where?”

“Downstream…half a day. I have run. They will be here tonight.”

“Are they heavily armed?”

“I could not see. Not for war, I think. But they are very strange. The hair of one is white.”

“Ah! They are old men?”

“I do not know. The white-hair does not move like an old man. And the other…maybe he wore a fox cap, but it seemed to me that the red fur
grew
on his head.”

The little group of elders chuckled, and the scout turned away, insulted by their disbelief.

“It is as I say,” he said over his shoulder. “You will see.”

W
ord spread quickly through the village, and observers were posted to give information about the progress of the strangers. It was possible, of course, that the canoe containing the travelers would not even stop. The village was not readily visible from the river, being a couple of bowshots upstream on a small tributary.

It was a matter of some import, then, when the canoe veered directly into the stream’s mouth and toward the landing. There seemed to be no major threat in the coming of a canoe with only three men, whose actions were not particularly suspicious. It was prudent to be cautious, of course. The watcher at the river tensed when the canoe altered its course and came straight toward him. It was not long before the newcomers were close enough for him to see their faces. He gasped and drew farther into the bushes that concealed him. It was as young Black Hornet had said. The man in the front of the canoe
did
have hair that was almost white, yet he did move like a young man. They had laughed at Hornet, and he had gone home in anger. Now someone would have to apologize.
The watcher turned his attention to the man in the middle. This one did seem a bit older, but the fox fur cap…Ah, it
did
seem to grow directly from this man’s head! Again, Hornet had been right, or so it seemed.

The scout turned attention to the steersman in the back of the canoe. This one seemed familiar, somehow. His face, his manner … He wore ragged and disheveled garments, but not quite like the others. The canoe was sliding past at close range now, and the scout studied the profile.
Do I know this man?
He thought…
A man with one eye?
He could recall no one. Then he wondered…
Did he lose the eye since I knew him?
He studied the profile again and almost gasped aloud.
Walking Bird!
Close on the heels of that thought hurried another:
But he is dead!

Something that was almost terror gripped the young man as he turned to run.
If Bird is dead and this is his ghost, then the others must be also from the spirit-world
, he thought.
They are coming for someone!
This was such a dreadful idea that he sprinted all the way to the village and arrived breathless and unable to speak.

“I…They…” he gasped. “They are coming!”

“Who? The canoe Hornet told of?”

“Yes, yes!” His breath was beginning to come more easily now as he became calmer in the presence of other people. “Walking Bird…one of them is Walking Bird.”

“No, no. Walking Bird is dead.”

Now doubt gripped the young scout. He hesitated a moment, then spoke.

“His ghost, maybe. Or somebody who looks like Bird.”

There was a chuckle around the circle, and he felt an uncomfortable mixture of anger and embarrassment.

Even as this occurred, several men were reaching for their weapons and moving toward the landing place. No matter who or what, someone was approaching, and they must be prepared. A few children started to follow the warriors, and a mother called after them.

“Be careful! We do not know who these men are! Best you stay here.”

There seemed to be no real danger, however. Anyone intending
harm to the village would surely not approach openly this way. And, with only three, at a disadvantage in the canoe as it neared shore…The appearance of the newcomers suggested more interest and curiosity than any threat of danger. Their confidence, too, was reassuring. The strangers seemed open and friendly.

It was only prudent, however, to meet the unknown with a show of strength. A dozen men with weapons ready formed a casual half circle around the spot where the canoe would ground. It was one of these who first voiced recognition.

“
Aiee!”
he cried. “It is…Walking Bird, is it really you? We thought you dead!”

The canoe touched the bank, and the white-haired man in the prow leaped nimbly ashore to pull the craft farther up the gentle slope. The other men moved forward and stepped out, too. The one who had been the steersman was smiling and laughing now.

“It is long since I was called Walking Bird,” he answered, “but I am the same one.”

There was a volley of questions. A couple of boys who had followed the greeting party despite their mothers’ cautions now ran to spread the word of Walking Bird’s return. They could scarcely remember such a person, or his disappearance. The story of the unfortunate young man, however, had been used as an example to frighten children into obedience ever since.

“Walking Bird has come home!” the boys called.

People began to stream from the houses and hurry toward the landing place.

“Is it true?” a woman asked one of the youths.

“Of course! I heard him say so!” the boy called over his shoulder as he ran on.

The crowd gathered quickly, and the scout who had been ridiculed now hurried to bask in the pleasure of vindication.

“Is it not as I said?” he demanded. “It is Walking Bird, a white-hair who is not old, and one who grows fur like that of the fox upon his head!”

“On his face, too!” said an astonished bystander.

Now Walking Bird was holding up a hand for silence.

“He has lost an eye!” a woman whispered to her companion.

“Yes. Too bad! He was a very handsome boy.”

“He still is … as a man, I mean. Some woman…” She rolled her eyes suggestively.

“True. Was he not friendly with Hawk Woman, before she married Dog?”

“Yes, I think so. Something like that. They quarreled and he left, was it not?”

“That is true! I had nearly forgotten. Odd that he would return just now, no?”

“Ssh! He is going to speak!”

The repatriated Walking Bird now began to talk, his voice choked with emotion.

“It is good to be home, my friends,” he said. “Many things have happened, and I will tell them later. First, I would see my parents.”

“Ah, Bird, your father is dead,” an old man spoke. “My heart is heavy for you. He was my friend.”

Walking Bird swallowed hard. “And my mother?”

“She is well. Your sister, also. But it is good that you have returned. They need you.”

“Who are these others?” someone asked.

“The white-hair is called White Wolf,” he said quickly. “He is a great holy man. The other is Fire Maker. I will tell you all of this tonight, but now let me find my mother.”

He brushed through the circling crowd and hurried toward his mother’s lodge. The crowd began to scatter. They would go their separate ways, spread the news and gossip, and then reassemble at dusk to hear the story of their lost son who had now returned.

   The people gathered early to find a good seat. There had not been such excitement in a very long time. Rumors flew, especially about the strange-looking companions who had accompanied Walking Bird. No one had seen men of such an appearance. White hair, though young…Blue eyes that are not blind. There had been rumors of outsiders from far away, who had established a town on an island in the salty ocean to the east. That part was probably true, but no one had
taken seriously the story that their hair came in many different colors. Now they must accept that maybe that was true, also. The strangers had followed Walking Bird to his mother’s lodge, taking their packs with them. Well, soon the people would hear the story.

It was nearly dark now. The fire had been lighted, and flames reached hungrily up through the pile of sticks and logs. A stick burned in half, allowing the pile to settle into a new position as it dropped. A shower of sparks hurried aloft like living things, to be lost in the darkness above. Or, maybe, to join the myriad of stars that spread like strewn sparks across the deep blue-black of the sky.

The crowd’s murmur rose a little in anticipation as the returned Walking Bird approached, flanked by his mother and sister, and his two companions. There was joy in the eyes of the women, who clung closely to the repatriated Bird.

He walked through the crowd, pausing to speak to friends and acquaintances as he passed. The pause was longer as he greeted the leader of the town. He had already paid his respects, in accordance to custom, but now spent a little more time and effort to honor the man’s position and prestige. Then he took his place before the assembled circle, carefully selecting to best advantage the light, the dark background of trees, and the position of the rising moon. Walking Bird was a natural showman, and would take advantage of every factor possible.