Runestone (61 page)

“The humans on the earth had become so evil,” he related, “that all the spirit-beings and Sun and Moon were sad. Some of their brightness was lost, and this let the forces of cold become stronger. This terrible winter lasted for three years, and it caused much hardship.”

There was a sympathetic murmur in the crowd. This sort of hardship was a thing they could readily understand.

“It was called the Fimbul,” he continued. “Snow fell from all four directions at once, and there were bitter winds. A thick layer of ice covered all the earth. Yet, after three years of this terrible Fimbul-winter, it started all over again. All hope was lost. The people of the earth turned to even more evil, and there was much killing.”

Old women clucked their tongues and shook their heads at the thought of such a situation.

“Under the darkness of these long winter nights, many evil things were done. Now, you remember the wolves who try to eat Sun and Moon? They were fed by a giant woman, and their food was the bones and marrow of evil men, murderers. With so much to eat, they grew and grew and became huge monsters. Finally they did swallow Sun and Moon, and there was darkness. Earth shook, stars fell. Just then the monster Nidhug gnawed through the great ash tree and it fell.”

The crowd before him was tense, waiting. Suddenly, Nils realized that he had talked himself into a hopeless corner. The next part of the story was to tell how the red clarion-cock above Valhalla crowed the alarm. This caused Heimdall, the sentry of the gods, to blow a blast on his horn to announce the Rangarok, the Last Battle. Heimdall’s horn had never
sounded before, because its only function was to announce the end.

With a momentary panic, Nils realized that he was about to tell this story to people who had never seen or heard a horn of any kind. Or a rooster, for that matter. He paused, confused as to how to proceed. He glanced at Svenson, who seemed to be enjoying his plight immensely. Well, maybe he could move on quickly.

“The sentry of the gods gave the alarm,” he went on, “and they rushed out to fight the evil ones: giants, wolves, and the great snake who lived in the ocean’s depths. But wait …” He turned to Odin. “I have never told the People of the great snake?”

Odin shook his head, puzzled.

“He lives in the bottom of the sea,” Nils explained. “His writhing causes the waves, no?”

He realized now that many of the details of Rangarok, the last day, were nearly impossible to recount. The battle involved horses and chariots, and many things for which the People had no words. No concept, even. It was much like the time when he tried to tell of Allfather’s eight-legged horse to people who had never seen a four-legged one. This struck him as amusing, now, and he began to see a great truth. All of the detailed description was mostly for effect. The main part of the story, the important part, was that of the battle, a struggle between good and evil. He had never fully realized before, the purposes behind the tales of his childhood, the lessons learned from his grandfather. The old tales of the Norse gods were to
teach
.

He took a deep breath and continued.

“There was a great battle then, between Good and Evil. The earth caught fire, and all the forests burned. The warriors of evil had won. But everything began again. After a while, green sprouts began to show, and flowers and trees, and good spirits recovered. Finally they were able to force the giants to live in faraway mountains, and the gnomes—the Little People — to live underground.”

“Ah!” said the old Hidatsu who had shown such interest. “We know of them. I am made to think, White Wolf, that
many of our stories tell of the same things, yet with different stories.”

“Yes, it must be so,” Nils agreed.

“And it is good,” said the other. “We would hear more.”

But it was now growing late, and further stories would be told at another time.

   It was autumn before Odin told them that soon it would be time to obtain the bark for canoes.

“The tree must be asleep,” he explained. “If not, it will be sad and weep, and then its spirit will get angry and cut slits in the canoe.”

Nils did not understand all of this, but he knew better than to question it. Through the years of experience with Odin, he had learned not to doubt. If the man said there would be holes in the canoe, it could be accepted as truth. The holes would be there. Why and how were really unimportant. It was easy merely to accept the idea of the tree’s resentment over the violation of its outer garment.

It was no great surprise to him, then, that when the time came, Odin performed an apology. It was quite similar to that over a kill for meat. Odin addressed the tree in just the same manner.

“We are sorry to take your robe, my brother. We require it for the things we must do. May your people have sunlight and rain forever, and be many.”

They had previously selected the trees that would be used, tall, straight and round, and with as few side branches as possible.

“The fewer patches, the fewer leaks,” Odin said.

The building process was somewhat longer and more complicated than Nils had imagined. It was necessary to shape the bark shell of the craft as it dried. Odin pried and propped and tied, tightening a thong here, loosening one there, adding a stick to establish width or depth. Svenson was active in the process.

“A bit wider in the midships,” he suggested. “That will lose a little speed, but make her more steady.”

The old sailor confided to Nils in the Norse tongue an old
saying of seafarers. The basic principle that he had just stated, that of speed, width, and stability, Sven said, applies to ships and women alike. Odin, being fairly fluent in their tongue, chuckled with them.

“Maybe,” he agreed, “but not always. And this is not a thing to tell a woman.”

“Especially one who is wide amidships,” Svenson added. “You might learn her speed very quickly.”

“What is the joke?” asked Red Fawn, who approached just then.

Svenson was more embarrassed than Nils had ever seen him. He reddened, mumbled, and seemed completely at a loss. Odin came to his rescue.

“Fire Man was telling me,” he explained, “how his people think of a ship as a woman. See?” He pointed to the trim, graceful lines of the canoe. “It is shaped much like their long-ships. You have not seen them, Mother, but the ships are beautiful and graceful. Like a woman.”

Fawn smiled, reached over and patted her husband lightly.

“It is good,” she said. “That is a nice thought, Fire Man. I will remember it.” She cast a flirtatious sidelong glance at him. “How is the boat coming?”

“It goes well,” answered her son. “Soon we will patch with pine tar and try her.”

“Her? Yes, I see. …”

When they finished the canoes a few days later, Odin painted a large eye on each side of the prow. Nils asked about this.

“To let it see where it is going,” Odin explained. “Your ships have an animal’s head on the front, no?”

Nils thought of the gargoylelike carvings on the prow of the Norse longships. Dragonships, they were sometimes called, for this reason. He had never thought much about it. It was simply a custom. How had it started? And was it not, after all, much like the custom just carried out by Odin?

“Come,” said Odin, “let us try them!”

T
he first launching of one of the canoes was a momentous event.

They had had some experience with a canoe when they left the Downstream Enemy long ago, but that was a smaller craft. It could be handled much more easily, and during the journey upstream to reach the People, there had been no occasion to lift or carry it. Odin, who was the only one present with any real experience, instructed the others.

“Stand beside the canoe, like this.”

“Facing the
stern?”
asked Svenson in Norse. “The river is behind us!”

“Yes. You will see. Now, bend over and put your hands on the sides, so. …”

He reached across to the opposite gunwale of the craft with his right hand, and placed his left on the closer side, next to his knee.

“Now,” he went on, “I will count. On three, we all lift the canoe, turn it, and hold it over our heads.”

“Wait,” protested Svenson. “How can this be? We will be twisted!”

“No, no,” Odin laughed. “As we lift, we turn, too. We will be facing forward.”

Sven still appeared to have his doubts, but the canoe was not heavy. A boat of this size built of planks could not be lifted by three men.

They bent and gripped the sides, and Odin counted. “One … two …
three!”

Together they lifted and pivoted, turning the canoe bottom up as they did so. It was much easier and less complicated than Nils expected. In the space of a heartbeat, the three were
now facing forward, holding the canoe aloft over their heads. Svenson laughed with delight.

“It is good!” he shouted.

Cautiously, they moved toward the water, careful not to fall into step. Odin had explained that earlier. If their steps were exactly matched, the rhythm would cause the weight of the canoe to begin to swing. That would make it much harder to control, because they would be fighting not only the weight but the motion.

“It is like carrying a long beam or plank,” Svenson noted to Nils. “It is the same thing. The men on the front and back ends are careful not to be in step.”

Nils had never had much experience in carrying long planks, but he could see that the principle would hold true.

They reached the river, and Odin gave his instructions. “Now we turn and put it down just as we lifted.”

“Turn to face backward?”

“Yes. I will count.”

In another moment, the canoe stood on the bank, her prow pointing into the river. It was apparent that the maneuver was quick and efficient, and would be even more so with practice. They slid the craft into the water, careful to keep a grasp on the upturned stern.

“Now we must take care getting in,” Odin advised.

“Of course,” Sven agreed.

The principle was much as they had learned before. Place a foot directly in the middle to achieve balance. Step forward, one foot exactly in front of the other, sit or squat to stabilize the tremor and sway of the canoe in the water.

Again, Nils was impressed by the feel of a canoe under him. It was a living thing, with a spirit of its own, and he could sense the life as he adjusted his position. There was a melding of the gentle lapping motion of the river with the tremor of the canoe, and the reaction of his own muscles to the rhythms of these motions.

There was a good feel to it, one that had been absent for a long time. He had not realized how much he had missed it. And this feel, that of the big canoe, was completely different from the feel of the somewhat smaller one they had used
before. He mentioned this to the other two as they pushed off to try a run up and down the shore.

“Of course,” Odin agreed. “The spirit is different.”

“Yes, the size and width.”

Svenson chuckled. The old sailor had an instantaneous feel for this.

“No, no, Nils. That is only a small part of it. It is as Odin says, her
spirit
is different. Remember, the
Snowbird
and the
Norsemaiden?
Built to the same plan, alike yet different in spirit. Ah, they are like women in
many
ways!”

It had been some time since Nils had thought of the two ships. That seemed another world, so far away in time and place. And yes., in spirit, too. How odd, that here in the interior of this world so different, that Sven’s words would set him off on flights of fancy. Maybe it was the gentle motion of the great river, maybe the union of the spirits of river and canoe.

Maybe it was merely the heritage of the Norsemen, out of reach but not forgotten. Under appropriate circumstances, it had awakened in a powerful surge. The pulse of Nils Thorsson began to quicken with the feel of a boat under him. He did not realize how much he had missed this feeling.

It is good
, he told himself softly, as the strange mixture of two cultures spread warmly over him.

“What did you say, Wolf?” asked Odin, plying his paddle as steersman in the stern.

“What? Oh, nothing, I only said ‘it is good.’”

“Yes,” agreed Odin. “It is!”

Nils realized that they were talking of different things.

They spent a little while learning the ways of the new canoe, up and down the river for a few bowshots’ distance each way. Quickly, the three learned the feel of the craft, her responses and their own.

“I do not know about the other one,” observed Svenson, “but this one is good. Maybe we did not need the other.”

“Maybe,” Odin answered. “But it is nearly finished. We can use two.”

There were a few places in the canoe’s hull that leaked a drop or two of water as they maneuvered up and down the river.

“Mark them!” Odin advised. “Here!” He tossed a piece of
charcoal to Svenson. “A little pitch from the pine tree will stop that. But we must take it out to dry.”

They marked the tiny leaks and headed back to the landing area. Their families waited there, excited over the achievement.