Runestone (76 page)

Nils’s palms were moist and clammy. The emotion and uncertainty of the situation were weighing heavily on him. One quick glance around the town … There, that lodge … The one where his wife and son lay captive. He must not look at it again, because the Shaved-heads must not learn what the newcomers knew.

They walked boldly past an astonished sentry, who seemed thoroughly confused. Should he stay on watch or challenge the trio, or merely accompany them into the village? He compromised with a halfhearted challenge, and then trotted along with them, signing questions.
Good
, thought Nils. It was good to have an adversary uncertain, off-balance.

Odin stopped and casually, almost haughtily, signed a question at the young man.

“Your leader?” he asked, pointing to one of the larger dwellings at random.

The warrior nodded, and Odin walked with confidence toward the lodge. A crowd was beginning to gather, and a woman looked out the door and quickly withdrew. There was a conversation inside, quick questions and answers, and a tall Shaved-head stepped outside. He straightened to face the newcomers.

“Greetings, my chief,” Odin signed, trying to take advantage by opening the dialogue. “We come in peace. Our leader, here, is White Wolf, a famous holy man. We seek—”

He was interrupted by an impatient gesture from the Shaved-head leader.

“Stop! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“This is what I am trying to tell you, Uncle. We are called People of the River.”

“There is no river here.”

“True. We were on the Big River, and an accident … our boat was broken.”

The expression on the face of the Shaved-head was grim. “What is that to us?”

“Nothing, Uncle. But we seek a woman and child. The wife of our holy man, here. We were separated in the flood, and the woman and child came this way,”

“There is no such woman here,” the other signed. “You are mistaken.”

“He lies,” Snake said quietly. “I saw—”

Odin held up a hand to his companion. “I know,” he agreed, “but let me—” He turned and began to sign again. “It is good to know, my brother. But the powerful gifts of our holy man have pointed us this way. We would ask that you let us camp near you, and continue our journey tomorrow.”

The Shaved-head leader looked a bit uneasy. “What gifts?” he asked. “Who is this old man with the white hair on his face?”

“Ah, you have never heard of the great White Wolf, Uncle? The most powerful of all holy men!”

“Talk is easy,” scoffed the other. “I have seen nothing!”

“We will tell you ail,” Odin signed, “but let us have a council fire. Here! I will start one.”

He selected an open spot, sank to a squatting position, and drew out a handful of tinder and sticks and the striker. “Could someone bring more wood?” he asked.

In the space of a few heartbeats his kindling was blazing. Snake, who had carried a few sticks the diameter of a finger, handed them to Odin, who added them to the fire.

It had all happened so quickly that the observers were silent, lost in wonder for a few moments. Now a murmur of excitement began to ripple through the crowd.

“What is this?” demanded the leader. “This is your power? Anyone can build a fire!”

Odin looked up in innocent surprise. It was apparent that
the Shaved-head leader was impressed but was determined not to admit it. Odin decided to use this for all it was worth.

“This?” he signed. “No, no, of course not. This fire … White Wolf has given me just enough power to start fire with my hands. So much easier than rubbing sticks.”

The Shaved-head nodded, as if he saw such things every day. “Tell me of your holy man,” he signed. “His hair is old, his eyes are blind, yet his skin is young.”

“His eyes?” Odin pretended to be puzzled. “No, no, Uncle. These blue eyes are not blind! They have a special vision. White Wolf can see into the souls of men!”

There was a gasp of surprise around the circle, but the leader remained unconvinced.

“Can he not talk for himself? And I have still seen none of his powers.”

“Ah, I had hoped this would not be needed,” Odin signed sadly. “He is a little dangerous sometimes. I am his assistant, and talk for him so that he can think on holier things, but—”

“Enough talk!” interrupted the Shaved-head. “Show me!”

“Uncle, it will be as you say. I have, with my own eyes, seen this holy man change himself into a white wolf. That is how he got his name. But he is dangerous, then. These people, the children here … Also, a leader of your wisdom must know the dangers of misuse of such powers?”

Odin could see that the Shaved-head was growing more impatient. It was time to go on with the plan they had devised. He spoke quietly to Nils. “It is time for the stone.” He turned back to the Shaved-head.

“Here, Uncle!” he signed, as if a great thought had just come to him. “There is a simple thing that White Wolf can show you. He can change the color of stones by holding them in his hands.”

Nils stepped forward, drawing the sun-stone from the pouch at his waist. They had done this before, and he now understood much more of the ceremonial effect that was needed. The stone could be aligned to the north very quickly, but more slowly was much more impressive. He held it up for all to see, then high over his head, and began to rotate it.

“A chant would be good,” Odin said quietly. “I will do it!”

He raised his voice in a long, quavering singsong melody.
He half expected to be stopped, but the Shaved-heads could not know what he was singing.

“We have come to help you, my sister. Be ready to go when we come. Watch well. We do not know yet how it will go.”

He continued to chant, mixing nonsense with a repetition of the message.

Now the stone was nearing the alignment that would give the color change. Nils knew the general direction of north, and was ready. The dull gray of the translucent stone flickered to blue, back again as he manipulated it, and finally steadied to a radiant blue tone. The crowd gasped. Even their leader seemed impressed.

Nils had followed the lead of Odin so far, but now an idea struck him. He had noticed that when the stone was aligned, it was pointing almost directly toward a tall tree on a distant ridge. Now he raised his voice in a soft ritual chant.

“Odin, the tree on the ridge to the north … The star will be straight over it. I will tell them that.”

“It is good …,” chanted the holy man’s assistant.

Nils lowered the stone, and for the first time turned directly to the Shaved-head leader.

“The color of a stone means nothing,” he signed. “Its purpose is to let me see the stars in daytime.” He swept an arm in a dramatic gesture. “There!” he went on. “There is the Un-moving Star, the North Star. There above the tree!”

It was a moment before the onlookers began to realize the importance of this. They were staring northward, straining to see what was obviously
not
visible. Gradually they began to realize that this strange holy man was right. He had never been here before. He had no other way of knowing that the North Star did indeed hang above that tree on the ridge.

Their leader could not help but be impressed, but was reluctant to admit it. “It is only a guess,” he signed. “Why should I not kill you and take the pretty stone?”

Even his own people were shocked. To challenge a holy man of such powers … ah, could this not be dangerous for them all?

The visiting holy man shrugged and smiled. “My brother
knows the danger of trying to use another’s gifts,” he signed. “Would you risk it?”

“I only asked,” the Shaved-head answered quickly. “It is good … for you to stay here tonight, that is. But we have no woman. That is another thing. Now our young men will show you where to camp. But the day grows later. Let us sit and talk, and our women will bring food.”

The hand-signed conversation was mostly about the weather and the season, very light talk. They exchanged Creation stories, including Nils’s tales of the Norse frost-giants, and Odin’s of the grapevine. The Shaved-heads were greatly impressed.

Their own story told of a race of subhuman beings who climbed from underground, up a giant red oak tree, up three more layers of existence, and reached a place in the sky where they were given souls. Then they descended back to earth and divided into two bands, the Peace People and the War People. All Shaved-heads are descended from these two groups, the storyteller said.

“That is a very good story,” Odin signed. “Tell us … from which of those does your band come?”

The Shaved-head leader gave a contemptuous grunt. “The War People, of course!”

   It was long after dark now. The people of the village had looked and marveled at the North Star, precisely where the holy man had said. They had discussed and argued, and had now gone to bed.

The strangers had made their camp outside the perimeter of the lodges, in the place assigned. They were quiet and presumed to be sleeping. A sentry watched them from a little distance.

White Heron had called a quiet council of a handful of the most respected men in the band. There was a brief ceremonial smoke, and Heron began the discussion.

“You have seen our problem,” he said simply. “What is to be done with these strangers?”

No one spoke for a little while.

“Otter,” said an old man, “you should give them the woman and boy.”

Black Otter bristled. “No! She belongs to us! These men will travel on in the morning.”

“But Otter … the holy man sees the stars in the daytime. He knows you have the woman,” said another.

“He cannot see through the walls of my lodge,” Otter retorted. “We have kept her quiet. My brothers and I found her. She is ours.”

“I am made to think,” said the elder statesman, “that she is bad luck. You should give them up.”

“And if I refuse?”

Heron spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Then it is your problem. You and your family. We will not let you bring trouble on the whole band.”

“You would tell the strangers where the woman is?” demanded the enraged Otter.

“Maybe we should kill the three men,” suggested another.

“But this holy man appears dangerous,” yet another voice joined in.

Finally White Heron silenced the discussion. “Let us sleep. See if they move on in the morning. But Otter, you and your family have brought this on us. If there is trouble, it is on your shoulders!”

D
ove sat in the dim corner of the lodge, her eyes fixed on her son and the threat that hovered over him. She was completely helpless to assist him, her hands tied behind her.

The threat was real. An old woman knelt behind Bright Sky, her left hand grasping his hair as he sat between her knees, pulling his head backward to expose the throat. A flint
knife in her right hand rested under Sky’s left ear, ready for the fatal slash.

One of the men had confronted Dove a few moments before, and had bluntly explained the situation in hand signs. “Any sound from either of you, the woman cuts his throat. Tell the boy.”

Dove spoke softly but urgently. “Be very quiet, my son. Do not make any sound.”

There had been a growing sense of expectation in the village since shortly after they arrived. She and Sky had not been harmed, although they were pushed around somewhat roughly. But then had come this change in attitude, the strong impression that they were waiting for something or someone. It did not take her long to realize that whatever it might be, it had a direct connection with her and her son. It must be, then, that their captors had discovered something that presented a threat.

It could be only one thing: There were other survivors of the ill-fated party after the accident on the river. The men had followed her trail of broken twigs.

Her heart had been heavy all during the day, as they traveled farther away from the area where she would have searched. Her main concern was for her husband, but she knew Wolf’s medicine to be strong. Her last glimpse of Odin had shown his canoe being swept on downstream. He and Snake had probably survived.

She had no idea whether the survivors were being brought in as captives, or just what their status might be. As she thought about it now, however, she began to realize:
If they were captives, there would be no reason to keep us quiet!
Her heart beat faster with hope, then with dread. The men—whoever might have survived the dreadful river—might be walking into a trap. She must … but she could
not
warn them, without watching her son die in the hands of a cruel stranger. Tears of anger, frustration, and fear welled up and flowed down her cheeks.

Excitement outside began to grow, and she realized that the newcomers, or newcomer, must have entered the village. Sky rolled his eyes to look at her, and she shook her head in a warning. He
must
make no sound.

She could see nothing. The position in which she had been placed had been selected so that she could not look outside. For the same reason, no one outside could see the captives. She listened to the mutter of talk among the Shaved-heads, and realized that their leaders must be talking in signs with the newcomers.