Runestone (83 page)
Authors: Don Coldsmith
Nils could practically
feel
his grandfather’s smiling approval from over his shoulder. In fact, he looked around. There was nothing of his grandfather, but the moon was rising, just past full. He felt a calm, yet at the same time an excitement and exhilaration.
He wondered what the Shaved-heads must be thinking about the clinking metallic sounds that he was making. They would undoubtedly think it a ritual of some sort. In addition, they had been liberally supplied by Odin with the story of the white wolf.
The entire situation now struck him as a great joke, one quite appropriate to the Moon of Madness. He paused in his stonecutting and raised his head to utter a long-drawn quavering wolf howl.
That
should give the Shaved-heads something to ponder!
Even as he did so, the entire scheme of the thing seemed to fall into place before him. It was still probable that they would all die in the morning. But was that not the entire purpose of the berserker, to go out with honor in a blaze of
glory? And was that not also the purpose of the Death Song of the People? It was much the same, except for the frenzy generated in the Norse berserker. Maybe even that, he thought.
As if in answer, there came floating down the ravine the high-pitched, plaintive melody of the Death Song, sung by two voices a little way apart.
“The earth and the sky go on forever. …”
Nils raised his head and gave vent to another full-throated wolf howl. He could have sworn that there was an answer from somewhere beyond the next ridge.
“What are they doing?” demanded White Heron of his sentry.
The white of the young man’s eyes showed plainly in the moonlight. He was very nervous.
“I do not know, Heron. A ceremony of some sort, maybe. That sound, like striking stones together, has gone on for a long time. I have seen nothing.”
“Huh! They try to make powerful medicine, I suppose.”
The young warrior nodded. It was plain that he would have preferred to be almost anywhere else this night.
Now a chanting song rose from another place in the canyon.
“How many are there?” the nervous sentry asked, as if to reassure himself.
Heron snorted indignantly. “You know there are only two men, a woman, and a child.”
“I … I thought … maybe it sounds like more. Could anyone have joined them?”
“No one of this world,” Heron snapped, and promptly wished that he had not said it. “Did you want to look over the edge to see?”
“No, no.”
There had not been much incentive to stick one’s head over the rim after what had befallen Ferret. His body was still lodged halfway down. At least, from what they had been able to determine from a quick look now and then. Now, with the chanting and the wolf howls, no one cared to take much risk.
“This is all a trick,” Heron explained. “We will kill them in
the morning, and they know this. They have no magic that can stop six warriors.”
He thought he saw doubt in the young man’s eyes, but decided to drop the thought.
“Blue Dog is across on the other side,” Heron informed the sentry. “We do not know if there is a way out there, but we must watch. I do not want these to escape.”
“We will attack them at dawn?” asked the nervous sentry.
“Yes, as soon as it is light,” answered Heron, turning on his heel.
I
t was well before light, however, that Heron rose. He had not slept, and few of the others had. Soon, the sentry from the other side would join them, and they would be ready for the attack.
They had discovered no other satisfactory place to descend, so he planned to have bowmen on the rim to protect the first man or two into the canyon. All knew the general attack plan, and would gather as they rose.
The sounds below had ceased some time ago, and there had been nothing but silence from the canyon. He still wondered about the odd clinking sound that had taken place. It had ceased shortly after the chanting and the wolf howls. Those howls had certainly been disconcerting. A chill crept up his spine at the recollection.
There had been a while after that, when a continuous grinding or scraping sound had issued from the canyon, as if someone was rubbing something very hard against a stone. A bone or a flint, maybe. He could not imagine for what purpose.
The ritual medicine of the strange, possibly mad, holy man, no doubt.
He still found it hard to think of that one as a serious threat, because of his white hair and blue eyes. Those marked him as old, and probably infirm. True, the skin of the holy man appeared young. The facial fur was white, too, and gave an odd appearance. Well, no matter. If the man was human, he would bleed and die like any other man. If he could actually change to a wolf, so be it. Wolves bled and died, too, did they not?
The moon was still giving quite a bit of light as Heron walked again to the sentry near the path’s upper end.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No. Some slight sounds below. Nothing like last night.”
“It is good. Are you ready for a fight?”
“Yes,” came the answer.
At least the young man showed more confidence than he had earlier. “You can be a bowman here at the top,” Heron said softly. “The others are rising. Soon, now!”
Heron turned to go, but caught a glimpse of motion at the sassafras bush that marked the head of the path. Something white, coming up and over the edge, a wolflike creature pulling itself up and over by its front legs. Then it
saw
him, and rose on hind legs to rush at him. Something—a weapon? was held in its right paw, and its white skin gleamed in the moonlight. The weapon caught the moon’s rays and reflected them like the flash of a silvery minnow in a clear stream. Blue fire seemed to flicker along its edges, and the white wolf-man raised it to strike. Heron knew that he was doomed, even before the horrible screaming howl came from a half-human throat. He could feel the creature’s hot breath, and looked for an instant into its hairy face. The eyes, wild and frightening —
blue
eyes.
Behind the wolf-creature, other dark forms were pouring over the rim, and he heard the chanting, as he had in the night. All of these things were happening at once, flashing through his senses. There was a sound of running feet from the campfire, the twang of a bowstring, and the sound of a falling body. From the corner of his eye he saw the sentry struck down by one of the dark forms.
Then the weapon in the naked wolf-man’s hand descended. There was no pain for a moment, only a numbness that began where his neck joined his left shoulder. He could not raise the arm. The blue eyes glared into his for another moment and the creature leaped high over Heron as he fell, to attack another foe.
Heron’s sight was dimming fast. He tried to count … who was left? Anyone? And in his ears, the strange wail of the chanting mingled with another unearthly howl. …
It was quiet now, the sun rising blood red behind the trees on the opposite rim of the canyon. Odin surveyed the scene, the dead bodies, and turned again to White Wolf.
That one sat on the ground, slowly coming out of the trancelike state that had occurred before, many years ago. Odin had doubted that they could survive, this time. Truly, the Norseman
must
have powerful medicine.
“We are not dead?” Nils asked, dazed. “Where is Dove?”
“Dove is safe. She went down to see about her son.”
“It is good. The Shaved-heads?”
Odin looked around the area. “Dead, mostly. I am made to think there was a sentry across the canyon, but we did not see him. That is their chief, whom you struck down.” He pointed to a still form a few paces away.
“Will they come back?” Nils asked dully.
“There is none to come back, Wolf. The sentry is maybe halfway home and still running. He will warn of your power.”
Nils shook his head to clear it, and turned to see Dove climbing over the rim, leading Bright Sky by the hand. She smiled and came to kneel beside him.
“Are you feeling better?”
He nodded. “What now, then?” he asked.
Odin shrugged. “Whatever we want. I am made to think, though, that this is a sign. When we go away from the People, bad things happen, no?”
“Say more,” Nils requested.
Odin hesitated a moment. “Well … do you want to go back through the country of the Shaved-heads to find our canoe?”
Nils thought about it for a little while, his head now beginning
to clear. Somehow, it seemed vastly more important that his family was safe.
“We could start to travel,” Odin mused, half to himself, “winter with somebody north of here. Anyone can use two extra hunters, and with your powers, Wolf … Then, on north in the spring.”
Nils looked at his wife and son. Somehow, it did not seem so important now to learn where the Ericksons might be this season, or the next, or what might have transpired at Straumfjord. Or in Stadt. He placed an arm around the shoulders of Calling Dove as she knelt beside him, and the other around Sky.
“It is good,” he said huskily. “Let us start home to the People.”
I
B
lack Bear addressed his war party in the flickering light of their campfire. It was well away from the spot where the fugitives had entered the canyon.
“Let us consider now, my brothers. Shall we wait for these people to come out? Or should we attack in the morning?”
“It will be dangerous to attack,” observed Sees All. “Their tracker is very skillful. He can be expected to have some more tricks.”
“The woman, too,” said another man. “The women of these plains people fight like men.”
“Do you think this tracker is her husband?” said another.
“No,” answered Sees All. “I am made to think we killed her husband, before. I have watched her. But the child is hers.”
“Yes. But she is pretty, no? Maybe she would like a new husband tomorrow,” said Spotted Cat with a leer.
There was a ripple of soft laughter around the circle.
“Do you think you are man enough for her, Cat?”
More laughter.
“We will see, come morning.”
“Enough!” said Black Bear sternly. “There are decisions to make.”
“I say we wait,” said an older warrior. “There are only a few places where they can come out. We put a man or two at each—”
“How do you know of this?” demanded another warrior. “You have been in Madman’s Canyon?”
“No, but what of that?” responded the other. “Some talk so boldly of going in to attack. Is it not dangerous to tempt such a spirit as this? Do you want to be the first to enter the canyon?”
“Those are tales to frighten children,” snorted another warrior disdainfully. “I say we go in after them.”
The answering silence told more than words. Brave warriors they might be, but to take chances with things of the spirit … There were few who would argue that it was worth the risk. There were many doubts, and not all were well informed about this powerful spirit-place.
One of the younger members of the party spoke.
“My chief, may we know more of the story of this place, and its name?”
Black Bear nodded, turning to one of the older warriors.
“Crane, you are a storyteller. Can you answer this?”
Crane rose, with the storyteller’s instinctive feeling for visual effect. He placed himself at best advantage to use the firelight, shadow, and the thin light of the half moon. In the woods behind him, the listeners could hear the cries of night birds, and the hollow call of a hunting owl, like the cry of a lost soul. It was not reassuring.
“It was many lifetimes ago,” the singsong chant of the storyteller began. “Many of the details are forgotten now, but the story lives.
“A people who lived here—maybe our ancestors—had captured some intruders. One was a very strange medicine man, with powerful gifts of the spirit. He was, maybe, a little bit mad. It was said that he could change the color of stones, merely by holding them in his hands. His party was spared by their captors, who feared these powers.
“But the captives escaped, led by this madman and his assistant, who had only one eye, in the center of his forehead. They were pursued, and took refuge here, in this canyon, as evening came on.”
“As these have done?” asked the young warrior uneasily.
The storyteller looked at him sternly. It was partly the interruption of the story, but the similarity could not be
missed. The storyteller decided to ignore it, and to go on with his tale.
“Just at dawn,” he continued, “the war party was attacked by the madman, whose powers had caused him to change into a white wolf. Many warriors were killed before they managed to escape, leaving most of their supplies and belongings behind.
“Since that time, people have been afraid to go into the canyon very much. And that is why it is called Madman’s Canyon. The power of his spirit is still there. It can
be felt
,”
Crane sat down. The circle around the fire seemed to draw closer. No one spoke. Sees All tossed another stick on the blaze, and a shower of sparks flew upward. Despite this, the shadows that circled the firelight seemed to press forward, rather than retreating.
Black Bear started to speak, but his voice was tight and high-pitched. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and tried again, with better success.
“Now, my brothers, let us decide what we will do.”
Tracker rose sometime before dawn. He had felt it essential to sleep a little, but had drunk much water before retiring, so that his bladder would wake him early. He attended to that need, and glanced at the sleeping forms of the others in the dim light of the setting half moon.
There seemed little point in fleeing farther, but he wanted to get some idea of the enemy’s strength, and how eager they were to attack. Possibly he could lead his little party up and out over the other wall of the canyon. The attack would not come before dawn, surely, but they would have watchers posted. Tracker had always felt confident in the dark. Maybe he could find and silently kill one or two of their scouts. That would slow the pursuit, because the war party would take more time to be cautious.
• • •
He had hardly departed when Elk Woman awoke and looked quickly around. Deer Mouse still slept, but Spirit Walker stirred, coming awake quickly. The yellow-gray of the false dawn was beginning to shed its ghostly sheen over objects in the canyon.
“Where is Tracker?” asked the holy man.
“I do not know, Uncle. I am made to think he is watching.”
The old man coughed and spit, clearing the phlegm from his throat.
“Uncle,” Elk Woman began hesitantly, “I have dreamed.”
Instantly he was alert, attentive.
“What was the nature of your dream, daughter?”
Now she was hesitant. Would he think her crazy?
“I—I,” she stammered. “It was probably nothing, Uncle. A strange dream of a warrior with white hair, though he did seem young, somehow. He … this is the strange part … it seemed that he changed into a wolf, and attacked the enemy. He ran howling up the path. …” She paused, confused. “That path, Uncle!”
She pointed to the rocky animal trail down which they had descended into the canyon.
The light was growing stronger, and she saw his eyes widen.
“What does it mean, Uncle?” Elk Woman asked in wonder.
The old holy man shook his head.
“I do not know, daughter,” he said thoughtfully. “It may have been this man who carved the stone.” He was silent for a few moments before he spoke again, and then his words came in hushed tones that were almost reverent. “My dream was much like yours.”
Tracker reached the rim where the trail came over the edge, and spent a long time in watching and listening. There was nothing. He had already determined the best places for the Shaved-heads to post watchers, but these places seemed unoccupied. Puzzled, he reconnoitered each spot very carefully, then went looking for their camp. He had a good idea
where that would be, a level area at the point where the grassy valley met the wooded hills.
He circled twice, still puzzling over the absence of the enemy. Finally, still fearing a trick, he approached the still-warm ashes of their fire. He could find no sign that anyone had even slept here. But he hurried back to the canyon, fearing that the campfire itself had been a deception. No, the graying light of dawn still showed no sign of their pursuit.
He climbed to a vantage point and watched in all directions until the long rays of the rising sun touched the valley and the hills beyond.
It was rising, too, he knew, on the distant Sacred Hills of the Tallgrass country. He left his post and hurried back toward the cave in the canyon. He glanced in the direction of the stone, whose spirit now seemed to him to dominate the area.
His heart was good, and for the first time in many days his thoughts hurried ahead of him. He was eager to rejoin those who waited below. It had been difficult for them, he knew, but they had not complained.
He was sure that the medicine of old Spirit Walker had helped to guide them.
Aiee
, what wisdom in the heart of that old man.
The child, tired though he might be, had never complained, and had done more than his part. Deer Mouse seemed much like his father, Shoots Far. Ah, it had been hard to lose his wife, family, and such friends as Shoots Far.
A lump rose in his throat as he moved toward the canyon. He thought of Elk Woman, widow of his friend. She had suffered the same grief as he, yet had managed to do her part. There had been no time to mourn yet. Now maybe theirs could be a shared mourning for what both had lost.
It would take time, but those who have shared much grief have closer ties. She had many fine qualities, was strong, sensible, enduring all the hardships they had suffered. And she was really quite beautiful. Well, time would tell. …
Tracker made his way down the path and saw the others waiting in the mouth of the little cave. He glanced aside at the stone with its strange carved characters as he passed. He could feel again the power of its spirit. He did not understand it, but must one always understand?
Alee
, Elk Woman looked tall and proud, there in the light of a new day! He strode up to the waiting trio.
“They are gone,” he said simply.
“The Shaved-heads?
Gone?”
asked Spirit Walker.
“Yes, Uncle. They left last night.”
The holy man nodded, as if somehow he had expected it all along.
“It is good,” he said.
Tracker was looking at Elk Woman’s face, and at the look of hope, though there were tears beneath her long lashes.
“Yes,” said Tracker gently, “it is good. We are going home.”
