Runestone (33 page)

Reluctantly, Nils put the bow aside.

The Norsemen had been somewhat surprised to find that the Skraelings seemed to have no metal tools or implements at all. They had noticed this lack among their captors earlier, but had not fully realized its significance. Now, as they examined and tried to use stone-pointed arrows, they began to understand. This also helped to explain the preoccupation of the men over the shiny blade of the sword, and with Sven’s ax. As this situation sank into Nils’s understanding, he approached Odin to verify his impressions.

“Your people have no metal at all?” he inquired.

The Skraeling looked puzzled for a moment, then amused.

“Why would we want that, Thorsson? Our knives cut well, our arrows kill, no?”

Nils had no answer, but Odin continued.

“You see that some of our things are of metal. I am made to think that it is softer, though, than your long knife.”

Nils now recalled that he had indeed seen bracelets and necklaces that seemed to be made of copper or brass. Yes,
softer
metal. He was dimly aware that a much hotter fire is necessary to process iron ores than to melt the softer bronzes, but it was a subject of which he knew little.

But yes, this all seemed to make sense when he thought about it. Odin’s people had some access, probably through trade, to small quantities of copper. It would be considered of great value because of its scarcity, and would be used for ornaments and jewelry. Not for weapons. He had once seen a
bronze ax head, said to have been used by his Norse ancestors, but that was long ago. Modern skills had produced fine steel for weapons such as the sword he now possessed.

Nils thought, too, about Odin’s odd remark,
Why would we want that?
in reference to metal weapons. He would have scorned, at one time, any suggestion that in a modern world knives, arrow points, even axes of stone, would be practical enough to use. But if one had nothing else…No, that was not it…He had seen the flint knives in use, and watched their efficiency. The glass-hard, serrated edges were remarkably suited to skinning a deer or moose. A flint arrow point sliced through the hard skin of a target bag with deadly efficiency.

He recalled that not too long ago, he had thought of the one-eyed Odin as an ignorant savage. It was embarrassing now to realize how wrong that had been. Odin was probably as clever as any man he had ever known. Was it possible, then, that he had misjudged the entire situation? Was this simply a
different
civilization than his own?

No, he was not ready for that. Nils shrugged the notion aside. These were pitifully primitive people, without even a written language. His own modern culture, by contrast, boasted the skills of navigation, development of the swift and maneuverable longships, scientific discoveries like the
solar-stein
. Not to mention the cultural advances, poetry, literature. Not only one runic system, but two, the old and new alphabets. This made him think of his grandfather and of the evenings by the fire. He had loved the riddles, puzzles, and conundrums made possible by the two sets of runes.

No, that was far above the level that could be achieved by these simple people. Nils shoved the subject aside in his mind’s furthest reaches, burying it with other forgotten or outgrown ideas. Still, he reflected, it would have been interesting … He would have liked for his grandfather to be allowed the opportunity to meet Odin.

   There was one other thing that Nils observed just prior to the day of the hunt. It seemed inconsequential at the time.

He had been practicing with the bow, and had stopped when his fingertips began to protest. As he walked back
toward the lodge, he encountered Svenson, who was seated in the afternoon sun, carving on a wooden stick. Sven was constantly whittling or carving. It was a way to pass long days at sea, the old sailor had explained. His artistry was much admired by Odin’s people, and especially by the children to whom he gave simple carved toys.

The creation in his hands, however, was something different. It was not ornate, merely a smooth stick of hardwood with rows of notches. Nils now recalled that he had seen it before. It had not had nearly so many notches. But that had been some time ago. Why hadn’t Svenson finished it, whatever it was?

“What are you making, Sven?” he asked.

“What? Oh, nothing. A calendar.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A habit, Nils. At sea, it is hard to keep count of days. There is the ship’s log, of course, but for myself … I used to…Well, look. Each of these little notches is a day, then the deeper ones are Sundays. Today is late October, about the twenty-third.”

“You have kept count?”

“Well, yes. Not really, at first. I may be a day or two off. I just thought it would be a good idea to keep count. I tried to guess as near as I could when I started.”

“But that was back in the other village?”

“Yes. I thought—”

“A good idea, Sven. I should have thought of it myself.”

It was somewhat embarrassing. Nils, as leader of the expedition, should have been thinking of such a thing. He would want an accurate estimate of the time elapsed in each phase of their travels and adventures.

“It is good, Sven. Please continue this. It will help when we tell our story back home.”

Svenson nodded. Nils felt that the sailor did not completely understand how important such a record might be, later.

Or, maybe he did. Nils himself had not even thought of it. What a leader…

• • •

By comparison to all that the Norsemen had learned about the People and their weapons, the hunt itself was almost an anticlimax. There was not much organization about it. The scouts had been observing a band of about a dozen deer. The animals were, in their customary way, preparing for winter by gathering in a loose herd. They established territorial claim to a strip of dense brush and timber in a sheltered gully. It was, Nils noted, much like the behavior of the deer in the forests of his faraway homeland.

The plan, such as it was, would space hunters around the edges of the little valley, advancing toward the middle.

“Be careful not to shoot anyone,” cautioned Odin.

It was a moment or two before Nils realized that this was a joke. A half-serious joke, to be sure, a way of reminding themselves and each other that there was danger in the hunt. The responsibility was not to be taken lightly.

Nils found himself, shortly after daylight, stepping quietly with the other hunters, moving into position. The air was crisp, and a warm mist hung over the river and layered like fog among the trees. His hands trembled a little, not entirely from the chill of the autumn dawn. The excitement of the hunt made his heart beat faster.

A long whistle, like the scream of a hawk, drifted across the valley as a signal, and the hunters moved forward. Odin was on Nils’s left, and Svenson beyond. Sven had decided not to attempt the use of the bow. His progress with that weapon still left something to be desired. The old sailor gripped a spear. Nils smiled to himself at the incongruity of the red-haired Svenson, dressed in rough native skins and carrying a primitive stone-tipped weapon. Sven would have been more comfortable with an ax, probably, but a broadax is hardly suitable for hunting deer.

Nils glanced to his right, making certain that he was keeping in line with the others. His eye caught that of the nearest hunter. The other man acknowledged the glance with a nod and a nervous smile.

Ahead of them, some large creature moved noisily through the underbrush. Nils caught a glimpse of a tawny form, but it was gone before he could raise his bow. There was a distant shout, and then suddenly a frightened doe burst out
of the brush, leaped between Sven and Odin, and was gone. No one had been able to release a shot.

The hunters paused, and the noise of creatures running through fallen leaves came rapidly closer. Nils half raised his bow.
There
… a shadowy form flitted among the trees…a yearling buck, with spike antlers no larger than a man’s finger. The animal was fat from the summer’s lush feeding. It was looking back the way it had come, toward the noise of distant shouts. Nils lifted the bow, released his arrow, and missed.

The buck seemed not to notice. Maybe … he reached for another arrow, and the animal, attracted by the motion, turned its head to look. At that instant, an arrow from the bow of Odin struck it just behind the foreleg. The deer took three long leaping jumps directly toward Nils, and then fell kicking in its death struggle.

Other deer were crashing past between the hunters. Now the shouts were closer as the hunters from the upper end of the valley approached. Nils took a shot at a fat doe. He thought that he struck his target, but the animal turned and ran toward the hunter on Nils’s right. The man drew his bow.

Nils’s attention was diverted by a yell of genuine alarm from somewhere in the thicket. He turned to see a dark shape crashing toward where Svenson stood seeking an opportunity to use his spear. But these cries of warning…there was something wrong here! He could not tell what. His meager understanding of the language was a great hindrance. Annoyed, he focused on the hurrying dark shape, and at last he realized the danger. A
bear
.

Apparently, by sheer accident, the net as it tightened had enclosed not only the band of deer, but a wandering bear. Nils was not certain that Svenson could see what sort of danger faced him.

“Look out, Sven!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “A bear!”

Svenson did not even look around. Nils expected him to run, but this was not the way of the old sailor. He held his ground, and then to Nils it seemed that Svenson actually stepped to meet the creature. Surprised, the bear stopped and rose to its hind legs, as tall as a man, roaring its challenge.
With a mighty shove, Sven drove his spear deep into the soft underbelly of the animal. The bear roared again and struck out at its tormentor, striking a glancing blow to Svenson’s shoulder as he tried to dodge away. Even so, he was flung like a rag doll. He rolled and rose to run, but it was unnecessary. The bear had collapsed, rolled over, and now lay kicking feebly as its eyes became vacant and began to glaze.

I
t was all over very quickly. Excited hunters were crowding around Svenson, who stood swaying like a tree in a high wind. His right shoulder was bleeding, and his leather shirt was in tatters. Several long parallel cuts from the bear’s claws knifed across the smooth white skin of his shoulder and back. Sven seemed weak and confused, and a couple of hunters helped him lie down.

Yet at the same time there was rejoicing and celebration. The hunt was good, and it was apparent that Fire Man’s injuries would not be serious. The leather shirt had given some protection, and this was only a skin wound. To people whose everyday lives are filled with violence and danger, such a wound is nothing. More important is the courage and bravery of the hunter who sustains the wound. Already there were shouts and chants of honor to be heard as word spread of the bravery of the fire-haired outsider. In time, the song of Fire Man and the Bear would become part of the legendry of the People.

The success of White Wolf, too, was a cause for celebration. His arrow
had
flown true, and his quarry, after running wildly for some fifty paces, had collapsed. It was identified by the individually marked arrow. It was good that an outsider,
unskilled in the use of weapons of the People, could prove himself in this way. The People rejoiced for him, and his prestige increased.

Women were coming now to the area of the hunt, beginning to skin and butcher the harvested game. The men were assisting with the heavier work, rolling the larger animals to allow easier access to skinning and removal of the entrails. The mother and sister of Odin quickly stanched the bleeding of Svenson’s shoulder and bound it tightly, using strips from his tattered shirt. After making him more comfortable, they were joined by Hawk Woman, and turned attention to the carcass of the bear. Its fur was growing long and thick in preparation for winter. It would make a warm robe, to be worn with honor by Fire Man.

Nils was not certain how many deer kills there were, scattered through the woods in the little valley. At least four, he thought. He could see people gathering around a fallen buck in a clearing a bow shot away. There were the two near at hand, and Odin had mentioned another kill farther up the valley. Maybe there were more.

Since the women were occupied with skinning the bear, Nils turned his attention to the deer that had fallen to his arrow. The throat should be cut to bleed out the carcass. Odin joined him, after assisting in positioning the bear for skinning.

“It is good, White Wolf,” he laughed. “A good hunt!”

They began the process of butchering, and Calling Dove, sister of Odin, joined them.

“Let me help,” she said quietly, with a shy smile.

Though she spoke in her own tongue, her meaning was clear. Nils smiled at her, excited by her nearness. His blood was still racing from the thrill of the chase, and he found it translating in a strange way. It was an urge to celebrate the successful hunt by enfolding this desirable woman in his arms and … He stopped short.
What an odd thought!
The young woman turned her glance away from him, and seemed embarrassed. He wondered if his thoughts had been so obvious that she had seen…that she
knew
what he wanted to do. That in turn embarrassed him, and they avoided each other’s eyes.