Runestone (14 page)

Now Odin stopped, feet firmly planted, balancing himself in midstride. Carefully he began to step backward, a deliberate step at a time. Each time his foot touched the ground, it was precisely in the damp track he had just made. Either that, or on an alternative spot, a rock or a clump of tough grass sod. When he reached the little stream, he stepped into the water with both feet, and beckoned to Nils.

“Now you, Thorsson. Make a set of tracks, but only that far. Then, come back in the same steps.”

The scheme was plain now, and the Norsemen quickly followed
his example, returning to stand in the icy water of the stream. Odin turned and waded upstream, motioning for them to follow.

“Now, leave no more trail,” he said over his shoulder.

It would be good
, thought Nils,
if that could be
. But he knew what was meant. The less trail sign, the more time-consuming for those who sought them.

The water was cold, chilling the toes, then the ankles. In a short while Nils’s feet were like wooden stumps. Doggedly, he followed the Skraeling, determined to show his resolve. Svenson brought up the rear, breathing just a little heavier at the steepness of the slope.

Odin remained in the cascading little stream for some time, stepping from one pool to another, letting the flowing water obscure their tracks. Finally they arrived at a spring that was apparently the source of the rivulet. Here, the clear stream gushed directly out of a hole in the rocks.

“We must leave no tracks here,” cautioned Odin.

He led the way around the damp earth at the water’s source, seeking rocks and grassy hummocks on which to step. Then he resumed the climb. Now, however, ail three were careful
not
to leave the slightest sign of a trail. No more broken twigs or intentional footprints. Again, Nils noted the innate cleverness of the man who led them. If they survived, he now realized, it would be because of the skill of the Skraeling.

They neared the top of the slope, and Odin paused to caution them. “They will be watching the ridge,” he noted. “We must not show ourselves against the sky.”

They paused to rest after the climb, carefully screened by a thin growth of trees near the summit. The view below was immense. It was possible to see for a long distance both up and down the great waterway. Almost directly beneath them, the rapids of the Talking Water stretched across the narrows. Below and on the far side, a smudge of smoke marked the location of the burned and sacked ship. Nils felt yet another pang of loss and regret, mixed with guilt over his lack of judgment. His first and maybe his last command, and he had lost his ship.

Tiny moving specks on the water were identified as the small boats of the Skraelings. Not as many as before, but now
Nils noticed a cluster of three or four just above the rapids on
this
side of the river.

“They look for us,” said Odin simply, pointing in that direction.

“
Why?”
Nils wondered aloud. “Why is it so important to find a man or two?”

Odin looked at him with his baleful one-eyed stare, and gave his strange characteristic shrug.

“We killed them first. They want your people to know that cannot be forgotten.”

“But if they kill us all, who is to know?” Nils persisted.

Odin nodded. “Your people would know when you do not return. But maybe they would leave one. Blind him, maybe. …” He pointed to his own shrunken eye socket. “Maybe cut off a thumb, so he cannot use a weapon. Maybe cut out his seed.” He pointed to his groin in explanation.

Nils gritted his teeth at such a thought, yet he knew that his own people had inflicted the same sort of dread among the Britons. It had never occurred to him that he might some day be on the receiving end of such violence. It was not a good feeling. His thoughts of combat had been of charging into the fray, boldly killing or being killed, dying like a Viking. …This was not as he had expected.

Odin seemed mildly amused at his reaction. “Maybe we will get away, Thorsson,” he said with a wry smile. “Now let us move on. We will stay on the high places, but try not to show ourselves. We go that way.” He pointed upriver.

“How far?”

“To my people?” Odin shrugged again. “By boat, maybe three, four sleeps. This way, much longer.”

Of course
, thought Nils.
A man without a boat
…

“Maybe we can steal a boat,” the Skraeling echoed his thoughts, “but not now. They will be watching the water. Now come!”

It was rough traveling along the crest of the headland, made even worse by the constant need not to expose themselves. It was already past midday when they had reached the ridge, and now the sun was lowering across the sound. Soon they must look for a place to spend the night.
Well, let Odin choose it
, thought Nils.
He knows this country
. Then again he
felt mixed emotions. Gratitude for the Skraeling’s help, but resentment that they should have to be dependent on the skills of this savage.

“Wait here,” Odin said. “I will look ahead.”

By this time the shadows were purpling distant coves and valleys, and the still of evening lay across the surface of the water below. In better circumstances, it would have been a setting of great beauty, to stand on this fine bold headland. But now, the darkening shadows lent a threatening tone to the whole panorama. Odin, who had gone ahead a little way, now returned.

“I have found a place to stop,” he said simply. “Ahead, there.”

He had chosen well, Nils saw. The place where they would spend the night was a broad shelf on the face of the promontory. Several paces in width at the widest point, its level area could not be seen from below. It was nearly a bow shot in length as it ran along the cliff’s face. At the far end the ledge diminished to nothing, and at the point where they had stepped upon it, it was quite narrow. Persons could pass only in single file. Nils realized that there were many good things about this place. It was hidden from casual passersby. It was defensible, because the only route of approach was by the path they had taken. The cliff above protected from that direction, and the slope below was likewise too steep to climb. One man at the narrow spot could hold off any number of attackers.

One great disadvantage, however, was the lack of water. It took only a glance to see that the shelf was dry. No trace of a seep or spring was apparent. Any flow of water, of course, would have eroded the ledge through the many generations of its existence.
What an odd idea
, Nils thought.
We could not have both. Water or this shelf, but not both
.

“I go to bring water,” said the Skraeling, who must have had similar thoughts. “There is a good spring below.” He pulled an empty waterskin from his makeshift pack.

“Let us all go,” Sven suggested. “Water is easier to carry in the belly than in a skin.”

Odin smiled and nodded, turning to lead the way. In a
short while all three had drunk their fill, and they returned to the ledge with a full skin of water.

“Now,” said the Skraeling seriously, “I am made to think that we should all eat. We will need strength.”

He produced some dark, greasy-looking sticks of a leathery substance and handed one to each of the others.

“What is it?” asked Nils.

“Meat.”

Odin began to chew, and the others joined in the primitive meal as darkness fell and the night creatures began to fill the shadows with their distinctive cries.

   “There are three of them,” said the tracker, returning to the waiting war party. “One is very clever.”

“What do you mean, Tracker of the Wind?”

“Two are the men from the big boats. I can tell by their tracks. Their shoes are different.”

“But what of the other?”

Wind Tracker shrugged. These fugitives were forcing him to use every bit of the skill for which he was renowned.

It had been an interesting campaign. They had attacked the invaders in the raid at dawn and had caught them completely off guard. Even so, the white-hairs had fought well, and had managed to get their great boat under way. Then, for some strange reason, they had burned it. And after all the work of portage around the rapids! This had seemed a good time to attack the other boat, before the invaders had time to unite their divided force. That move had been highly successful, and had resulted in the capture of many supplies and many trophies of war. It was good, and there would be stories and songs for many generations in celebration of the great victory.

Some of the invading white-hairs had fled into the woods, and these were systematically hunted down and killed or captured for later amusement. Then came a discovery. One small boat, captured and used by the invaders, had apparently crossed the wide river above the rapids, and landed on the other side. There must be at least one or two fugitives over there. The leaders of the successful war party asked to utilize
the skills of their best tracker to find these who had escaped the battle.

Wind Tracker was proud of his skill, and of the prestige that it had brought him. It had taken a lifetime to perfect, and he was not a young man. He rose to this challenge.

The scouts who had found and destroyed the small boat took him there. It did not take long to determine that the occupants of the boat had tried to hide it, and had then gone downstream around the rapids on foot. Obviously, they hoped to rejoin their own people at the settlement many days’ travel downstream among the islands. He had to admire their determination, because that was a long way on foot, through very rough country.

It had not been long, however, before the tracker realized that there was something unusual here. At first there had been little attempt to conceal the trail. Then for a while, it appeared that there
was
such an effort. And abruptly, another change. The trail was quite plain.

At first he had thought that the fugitives believed themselves safe, and were becoming careless. But it seemed more complicated than that. It was a broken twig that had caused him to guess that he was dealing with an expert, and Wind Tracker rose to the challenge.

When a twig is broken by someone brushing past it, the break is in the direction of motion. He studied this twig for some time, broken and dangling by its strip of bark, There was something wrong about it. …Ah! He almost chuckled aloud as he realized. This twig had been bent
upward
until it snapped. So, it was not an accident, but a deliberate sign. Someone had taken this twig in his hand and broken it to
leave
a trail. But why? Wind Tracker squatted and held the broken and still-dangling stick in his palm, trying to read the thoughts of the one who had snapped it. It must be part of a planned deception, one for which he must be alert.

When the trail stopped abruptly, he was puzzled for a short while. He thought that he had lost it, but a quick circle revealed that the tracks led to a dense area of brushy growth and then simply stopped. If they did not go on, then, the tracks must go…
back!

He dropped to all fours, examining the plain tracks in the game trail.
Yes, there!
Someone had stepped again in his own track. But not exactly. There were two overlapping impressions of the heel, not quite the same. Instantly he realized … the stream, the little rivulet that came tumbling down the rocks. Of course! Quickly, he trotted back. It was growing late, and if he could unravel this puzzle before dark…Well, a fresh trail is always easier.

He glanced up and down the rivulet. The fugitives would not go down toward the water, because of the boats of the searching parties. So,
up!
He began to climb upstream, wading from puddle to pool as if he were trying to hide his tracks. And there! Yes … a stone, no larger than his fist, lying in the shallow water. Growing on its surface was a single patch of lichen. But the lichen was under the water. It could not exist there for very long, so that stone must have been dislodged only a short while ago, and fallen into the pool.

He hurried on. Now that he knew more of the minds of the fugitives, he knew what he sought. Even so, it was probably only luck that caused him to spot the place where they left the little stream. They had reached the spring that was its source. Now, which way?

It was with some degree of surprise that he realized that they had doubled back. Then, when he thought again, maybe it was no surprise at all. Because, by this time he had become familiar with the tracks of the three men, and was beginning to know them well. Two were men of the invaders, one a trifle heavier than the other, with a wider foot that made a deeper track in soft dirt. The third, however, was probably the one who had laid such a skillful and deceptive trail. From the tracks of that one’s moccasins, it was apparent that he was
not
one of the outsiders. This was one who knew the country, a native here. One of their traditional enemies, most likely. Special tortures should be reserved for
that
one!

Wind Tracker hurried back to where the dozen others waited. He would report his findings and then wait for the moon to rise. Now that he knew the fugitives so well, he could practically track them in the dark. He knew their direction, and game trails were few. He felt confident enough that he
could gain nearly a day’s time in the pursuit. And that would certainly present a surprise for the clever man, whoever he might be, who had caused all this trouble.