Runestone (44 page)

“That will be many people,” Nils said. He could estimate that if the other towns were the size of their own, several hundred people would be involved.

Odin glanced at him. “Yes,” he answered. “This is a big move, Thorsson! But we are large enough to protect ourselves, no?”

Yes
, thought Nils,
there is security in numbers
. He still had some questions in his own mind about what sort of danger the People might expect, where, and from whom. It seemed, however, that he was unlikely to obtain any answers from Odin at this time.

He tried questioning Calling Dove, but she casually shrugged off his inquiries as if she had no idea.
Maybe she does not
, he finally decided. At any rate, he elected not to pursue it with Dove. She had enough to concern her, probably, with her pregnancy. Her belly was not beginning to enlarge much yet, but she tired easily. He was concerned for that. There were others in the procession who were with child, though. Surely the People knew the limits to which they could be pushed.

There was one bright spot in all of this. Her mood was better. She appeared to have passed the point of irritability that had characterized her early pregnancy. Now, though she was tired at the end of a day’s travel, so was everyone. The irrational anger and tears were becoming less frequent. Nils appreciated that greatly, though he did not understand it. No mere man ever does. He wished to tell her how he felt, but it was difficult. He did not want to risk a mistake that would send her into one of the tirades that had marked her early weeks with child.

He resolved to walk softly and to watch for ways to help her as best he could without making it a major issue. This seemed to work satisfactorily, at least most of the time. Day by day, her moods improved. They began to enjoy each other again, and the sharing of a sunset on a smooth stretch of the great river. They chuckled at the long-legged clumsiness of a newborn fawn, following its mother to the water’s edge. They watched the geese overhead.

Nils showed her the sun-stone, and the secret of its blue color when it was aligned to the north.

“It points the way, like the geese!” she exclaimed excitedly, clapping her hands like a child.

“Yes, that is its use.”

“Not just to show your power?”

“Well, that, too,” he admitted modestly, with a chuckle.

She laughed and tickled his ribs, and he decided that possibly their relationship was to survive the throes of early pregnancy after all.

   In a few days a routine had been established, and travel seemed easier. It had been the uncertainty, the change in day-to-day
activity from the town to the trail, that had been disconcerting. But, for a people whose existence is based on meeting the problems at hand day by day, change is easily faced.

Now they settled into each day without discussion. Rise at dawn, move out on the trail as quickly as possible … more quickly now than at first. Even with the combined bands from three separate towns, and the large number of people involved, it was becoming easier. Travel, rest, move on … Sometimes wait for the scouts to verify the trail or some questionable situation, move on … Camp before dark to allow time to gather firewood, move on at dawn.

Sometimes they passed towns of other tribes. Most of these had been known to the People for many generations. In addition, the scouts had made advance contact, paying their respects to the headman of each village and explaining the purpose of the People’s trek.

Twice in the early days they camped near towns that seemed to be much like the People. The language was similar but not quite the same.

“It is like Norwegians and Danes, maybe,” observed Svenson. “Almost but not alike.”

Other villages seemed to be close allies, but spoke an entirely different tongue. Most of the People understood them well and talked easily to them.

“We have lived near them for many lifetimes,” Odin explained.

The weather was a great help, and they were putting much distance behind them. It was to be expected that they would encounter some rain. Maybe cold and sleet, even, but for the first nine or ten days’ travel it did not happen.

Then came a day when the dawn was dark and gray-blue instead of golden. Wind howled through the budding trees, and the People drew robes around them and huddled against the chill.

“Cold Maker comes once more,” said an old woman. “He sees a chance to catch us in the open.”

Nils recalled that this one had been one of the more vocal against the move from the very first.

“No good will come of this!” she predicted.

They waited, and soon the word was passed: No travel today. There was a stir of activity to seek out the best places to camp before the expected cold rain would begin.

It started as a fine mist, deceptive in its softness. Invisible droplets hanging in the air so saturated everything that the whole world seemed sodden. Objects that were still and un-moving began to appear frosted with moisture. The tiny droplets merged, becoming visibly wet. Soon these coalesced into larger, fatter drops, which formed rivulets that trickled down tree trunks, down the spread robes that formed makeshift shelters, and began to puddle on the ground. There was still no real indication of falling moisture. It was simply hanging free, soaking the air, the trees and rocks and bushes, and the garments of the People. They crouched under the scant shelter of their spread robes, and prepared to wait out the weather. Fires blossomed here and there, providing warmth and light and helping the mood.

By noon it was growing colder. The air was still now, and it was apparent that the moisture in the air was no longer hanging, but drifting gently downward. The twigs on the bushes near the place where Nils and Calling Dove huddled together appeared wet and shiny. Still, it was some time before he realized that the shiny coat was not merely water, but ice. He reached out to touch a twig and found that the coating was thickening rapidly. By a unique combination of weather patterns, moisture was falling as fine droplets of water and then freezing as ice instead of snow. The Norse tales of ice-giants, gnomes, and dwarfs flitted through his mind. Maybe it was only because he had recently recalled those myths and legends for the story fires that he felt a sense of dread. Yet there seemed something evil about the silence, and the thickening of the icy coating on the world.

He glanced at Dove, and she snuggled closer and smiled.

“Cold Maker is not to be trusted,” she said.

Yes
, he thought.
That is a good way of saying it. Treacherous
…

He drew the robe more closely around them and tossed another stick on their little fire. The hiss of the icy fuel on the coals was like the sound of something evil. Nils found himself
wishing for the comfortable warmth of the crowded earth lodge.

There was a sudden rumble to their left, and a scream split the silence. Nils tossed aside the robe and sprang stiffly to his feet, reaching for his sword. But it was nothing that a mere human could fight. A huge cedar tree, weighted slowly by a thicker and heavier coating of ice, had split apart. A great limb in the top, as thick as a man’s thigh, had broken away from the trunk. Ponderously propelled downward in a rolling motion by the tons of ice that coated every branch and twig, it struck the limbs below it. These in turn gave way, in a grinding, churning avalanche of greenish ice and timbers, to strike the ground with an earthshaking force.

It was fortunate that those who had taken shelter beneath that tree were not crushed. But it was understandable, Nils saw. The heaviest buildup of ice was, logically, on the north side of the trees. The best shelter was on the south, facing away from the stirring of any north breeze. This had spared those who crouched under the south branches of the stricken tree.

Nils saw that one of those was Clay, the holy man. The old man scrambled free of the debris and retreated a few steps to look back.

“No one is injured?” he called.

“No, Uncle,” someone answered.

“Good. The signs are good, then!”

Nils thought that perhaps that interpretation might be a bit too optimistic. From somewhere farther down the trail came another grinding roar, and another.

U
ltimately, the interpretation that was placed on the ice storm by the People was mixed. The Norsemen noticed how much their thinking was influenced by their holy man. Is it not always so?

“It is good,” Clay had explained. “We have only to look at all the destruction. Many trees have been crushed, yet we have no loss of life!”

“So the signs are good, for our journey?” a woman asked.

“I am made to think,” said Clay, “that this is the meaning: There are dangers on the trail we travel, but we will escape them. Not all of us, maybe, but yes,
the signs are good!”

It was another day before travel was possible. The trail was too slippery underfoot, and even then, there were places where the way was blocked by fallen limbs and trees. Some could be moved aside, but in places it was necessary to move out and around, or over. It was very frustrating to Nils. By the end of that day’s travel, they had covered less than half the distance that they normally achieved. This did not seem to bother the People, beyond the mild inconvenience.

“Some days travel is good, some not so good,” Odin said philosophically.

They traveled on, and the weather continued to warm. They encountered rains, but the season had taken the chilling bite out of the wind. The flow of air was from the south or southwest, a refreshing breeze that held promise of better things to come. Nils felt it, smelled and savored its qualities. He was regarding this breeze from the viewpoint of a sailor. How best would he set the sails, how would he navigate the broad river that was still a prominent feature on their right as they traveled? It was apparent that the river
was
navigable. In
his mind’s eye, he could see the longships, their bright sails bellied before the wind, slicing through the clear waters of the great river, pushing upstream to trade. He wondered about the depth. In most places, it appeared, there would be plenty of water for even the draft of the heavy
knarrs
with their freight. They had been following the river almost continuously, and he had seen no rapids since the Talking Waters, the site of the expedition’s destruction.

But now, in the optimism of springtime, his imagination soared in flights of fancy. Suppose, after he and Svenson returned to Straumfjord, they could interest someone in financing an expedition. Even a ship or two, to ply this inland waterway. It
could
be done. They
had
done it, in fact, the transport of a ship around the rapids. Why not leave a vessel or two in the upper waterway, and transport only the goods around the rapids? This would open lines of trade into the interior. This country seemed rich in furs. There might be ores. Yes, he recalled the copper ornaments worn by some of the People. There must be metal ores. Iron, probably, somewhere. The People only lacked the tools and the sophistication to mine it.

Yes! If he could get the backing … Start small, trade metal tools for furs. It would be necessary to have a treaty with the Downstream Enemy, of course. Then expand, open mines. A smelter upstream, maybe. Plenty of trees for fuel … Maybe they could
build
a ship or two on the upper river!

“What is it, my husband?” Dove asked at his elbow.

“Uh … what?”

“You seem far away.” She cuddled provocatively against him.

“Oh … I was only thinking. It is a good country, no?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “It is good.”

They were on one of their frequent rest stops. He looked at her, and saw that she looked tired.

“You are all right?” he asked.

Dove smiled. “Oh, yes. Tired. But it is late in the day. We will stop soon to camp.”

He could understand that she might tire more easily now. Her pregnancy was just beginning to show a little. Not in an
enlarging belly. Not yet. The change was in her balance, her way of moving, her walk. He recalled now that the old women at home in Stadt always said that a woman walks differently when she becomes pregnant.

“There is a pride in pregnancy,” he had once heard a woman say. She had been a friend of his mother’s, and the women had not known that young Nils was eavesdropping on their conversation. There were four of them.

“Pride?” asked one of the others.

“Yes! A woman throws her shoulders back, head up, shows the pride in her pregnancy.”

One of the other women snorted indignantly.

“Huh! That is not pride, Helga. It is
balance
. She throws her shoulders back to keep from falling on her face with the new weight in front!”

The women had laughed, and Nils crept away, afraid that his presence would be discovered and disapproved. Odd that he would remember that now, so far from home. Yet it was true that he understood it better.

He wondered what Calling Dove would think of his previous flight of fancy. Would she be able to envision ships in the broad river below? Then it struck him:
Of course not
. Dove had never seen a ship. Neither had any of the People, except for Odin. Possibly one or two others. It gave him an odd feeling. Maybe he should try to tell her, to explain the great longships and his ideas for establishing trade up the inland waterway.