Runestone (35 page)

“When it is the right time,” Odin answered with his noncommittal shrug.

“But should I be doing anything?” Nils asked in frustration. “Any ceremony? Among my people, a man tries to show his strength, to win a woman’s heart.”

Odin nodded. “That is good. You have done that, Thorsson. The hunt…Before that, our escape. But Dove sees you each day, too. That tells her that you are a good man.”

“But I am not good with your tongue, Odin. I am made to think that I learn very slowly.”

Odin appeared mildly surprised.

“So?” he asked. “Do you not hear much of what is said?”

“Yes, maybe. I hear more than I can speak. It is easier to hear words than to find them.”

“That is true. It is always so with a new tongue.”

This conversation utilized the Norse tongue, in which Odin was fairly proficient from his years at Straumfjord. That had been easy at first, and they had casually continued such usage.

“Odin,” suggested Nils, “maybe I should try harder to learn your tongue.”

Odin shrugged. “It is good, maybe. I will speak to you only in the tongue of the People, no?”

Nils had not intended to go quite that far, but the idea was good.

“Maybe. But you would help me if I need it?”

“Of course. But your wife … my sister…she will teach you much!”

Odin chuckled at his own double meaning, and Nils reddened.

“No, Odin, I—”

“Of course, Thorsson. I mean,
now
. You asked what you can do to know her better? Talk to her. That will let you learn quickly, too. It is good. And I will speak only in my own tongue.”

Somehow, Nils felt that he had just crossed a bridge and had burned it behind him. Of course he would still have Svenson. …But no, to make this work, Sven should use the People’s tongue, too. The sailor was already better than he at its usage. Yes, he would mention it to Svenson.

Sven, whose wounds were healing rapidly, agreed with the general idea of the proposal.

“I may forget sometimes,” he chuckled, “but so be it. A good idea. When is your marriage to happen?”

Nils sighed in frustration.

“I do not know, Sven. Do you notice how time means nothing here?”

Svenson nodded. “One day is much like another, no? Like being at sea, maybe. I like it, though.”

“But you should still keep your calendar.”

“Oh, yes. But you know, Nils, with no hourglass, even a sundial or an hour candle, each day is all one.”

“Yes, I had thought that, too,” Nils agreed. “But I wish sometimes—”

Svenson interrupted. “Does it matter, though? When the sun goes down, it will get dark.”

Nils laughed. “Sven, you are fitting into this much better than I.”

“Of course. I have had more time at sea. That breeds patience.”

“That must be true. Well, shall we try talking in their tongue?”

“It is good,” agreed Svenson in the People’s tongue, with a shrug and a guttural grunt like that of Odin. “And you know not the day of your marriage?”

Nils chuckled sheepishly, and answered in the same language. “I do not know that in either tongue. When the time is ready, Odin says.”

“And you are ready now, no?” Svenson teased.

“Yes, maybe so,” Nils replied, embarrassed and uncomfortable.

   It was actually not long before some of the answers to these questions were apparent. A day was set, three sleeps from the present. There were preparations, of course. Calling Dove and her mother were busily sewing, preparing new garments for the ceremony. Garments for both, in fact. They were much like any other garments of the People, but perhaps finer, softer, and sewn with more care. There were decorations, too.

A strange creature furnished these decorations. It was the size of a small dog, but its way of walking was slow and clumsy. The animal reminded him of a similar creature that was familiar to the Isles, a spiny dweller of hedgerows, called by the natives there a hedgehog. This similar beast was even more spiny, bearing sharp, barbed quills as long as a man’s finger. He had seen a young wolf dying because it could not eat, with these barbs sticking out of its lips, nose, and tongue.

“Wolf tried to bite the spine-dog,” Odin explained. “One does not do that!”

Fortunately, the spine-dog was not an aggressive beast. It seemed to eat mostly the bark of young pine trees, and was
active primarily at night. It was largely ignored or avoided by the People.

Even after he had learned of the spine-dog, Nils did not make the association between its quills and the decorative designs on garments, bow cases, and arrow quivers. He was astonished, then, when one day he encountered two young women tormenting one of the creatures. The spine-dog, a big specimen, was crouched against the base of a large rock, its quills erect and threatening. Each of the women held a pole with padding of dry grass wrapped tightly around the end. Each time the spine-dog tried to flee, the women would thrust their poles at it to prevent its escape. It would then whirl, lashing out with its thorny tail at the padded sticks.

“What are they doing?” Nils asked in amazement.

Odin laughed. “They are gathering quills.”

Nils saw now that the padded end of each pole was bristling with the white spines.

“Why?”

Odin pointed to the colorful decorations on his moccasins. “For this.”

It had not occurred to Nils to wonder about the source of the decorative material. It had no real similarity to the quills of the spine-dog.

“They will soak the quills in water, cook them, maybe, color with plant juices, pound them flat—”

“Wait!” Nils interrupted. “Why do they not just kill it? Then they would have all its quills.”

Odin shrugged. “Sometimes they do. In a bad winter, we eat the spine-dog sometimes. But he does not taste very good. His best quills are in his tail, and those are the ones they want.”

The women now backed away and began carefully plucking quills from their padded sticks. The spine-dog made his escape and disappeared into a dense pine thicket.

“See?” laughed Odin. “He can grow more quills for them now.”

Nils shook his head in wonder. Practical, that was it, maybe. This strange game had done exactly what was desired, no more, no less. These people and their ways were so different, yet in some respects, so similar to those of his own. The
annual shearing of the sheep at home for their wool, the subsequent preparation of that wool into yarn, to be dyed, woven. There were many similarities here.

He had thought these natives to be simple people. Simple in many ways, maybe, but he was constantly learning things that surprised him. Their customs, while more primitive than those of his own people, were certainly as intricate. But
different
. He wondered if there was anyone in Stadt, or in all of Norway, for that matter, who could take a shard of flint and fashion a knife that could dismember a deer as efficiently as those he had seen. And the quality of the leather produced by these people was softer, better, maybe, than that at home! Well, he would watch and learn for the next few months. There would be interesting tales to tell when he returned home.

   One thing Nils found disturbing as the days passed and the time for his union with Calling Dove came closer. He saw no preparation, no effort to construct another cubicle in the lodge for the new couple. That had been done with no hesitation for the three men, when Odin rejoined his people. A new partition had been erected for Odin and his bride. But there was no one who seemed to think of the fact that he and Dove would need a place to sleep. There must be something that he did not understand about the customs of the People. For Odin and Hawk Woman it was a remarriage of sorts. Did that make a difference? In the back of his mind a nagging doubt bothered him. Was the first union of this couple as they wed to be a
public
affair?

This began to concern him greatly. At best, romance in the lodge with other families was only semiprivate, even with separate compartments. Yet this was such a sensitive subject that he hesitated to inquire.

But, even so, if there was no other cubicle, the possibilities for living arrangements for Nils and Dove were quite limited. Surely they were not to be expected to share the cubicle where Nils now lived with Svenson. Not impossible, of course, but quite unsatisfactory. Another alternative would be for Nils to move into the living quarters of Calling Dove. The disadvantage
here was apparent. Dove shared her cubicle with her mother, Red Fawn.

It was not that Nils particularly disliked his prospective mother-in-law. Actually, he felt that he could be quite fond of her. Red Fawn, in her middle years, was still quite attractive. She was well respected, and highly intelligent,
it
appeared to Nils. She had raised two children, both of whom were well above average in wisdom and in appearance, even with Odin’s missing eye. But no matter how pleasant, how likable, how capable such a woman might be, a man would hesitate to share a bedroom with his beautiful new wife
and
her mother.

Nils felt that he was at a decided disadvantage in this odd situation. He was communicating better each day with Calling Dove, but to inquire of her might be construed as disapproval of her mother. The same with Odin, who would have been his first choice as a confidant. He felt close to no one else here. Snake, the boyhood friend of Odin, was a possibility, but Nils did not know him well enough for such intimate discussions.

Svenson!
Sven would not know the customs, but at least would understand this dilemma. Nils reverted to their own tongue for this conversation.

“Sven,” Nils asked when they were alone, “something worries me. No one seems to think of building a sleeping place for Dove and me. Should I be doing that?”

“Ah! You grow impatient, no?” laughed Svenson. “Of course they have thought of it. She will move into our compartment. Has no one told you?”

“No … I…”

What could he say now? He was angry, angry at the situation, and at Sven for taking it so lightly. The sailor was actually leering with an evil grin as he chuckled. Nils would never have suspected that a perverted streak of voyeurism would reveal itself here. He felt his face redden with rage.

“By God, Sven…” he began, glaring at the other.

Svenson now backed off, his face serious.

“Wait! Ah, you really do
not
know! You have been too occupied with your bride to notice, but I thought someone would have told you. I am to marry with Red Fawn! I will share her bedchamber, and Calling Dove will join you in this one, no?”

W
ith such questions as sleeping arrangements now based on better understanding, the late autumn became a time of romance. The warm weather held, though nights were cool and crisp. Mornings were beautiful and invigorating. Steamy fog rose from every body of water to hang in misty layers over ponds, streams, and over the river. This effect and its ghostly landscape lasted only a short time each day, until the sun’s rays began to warm. When the air was as warm as the water, it stopped abruptly. The last scraps of fog faded among the trees like the last grains of white sand slipping through an hourglass. Another day had begun.

Most of the common chores of preparation for winter had been completed, and even preparations for the double marriage. The day had been set. Nils Thorsson’s occasional bouts of apprehension were somewhat offset by Calling Dove’s attitude. She seemed not only to see his feelings, but to understand. She was spending a little more time talking to him as he tried to learn her language. They laughed together at his halting efforts. Dove found things to show him, things in which they could both take pleasure.

“See?” she pointed proudly.

She had seen a pair of fawns, half-grown now, their white spots nearly obscured by longer winter hair. They were grazing quietly in a clearing near the lodges, dimly seen in the morning mists.

Nils’s first reaction was that she wanted to show him game to shoot. But that was not her attitude, he quickly realized. This was simply a thing of beauty, a scene to share. It was startling that the animals would be so near. It was as if they knew that the People had no need for more meat now. They
were still cautious, of course. Any slight sound brought both graceful heads to attention, ears flared. A jay called its raucous alarm, and both deer looked and listened attentively until it was apparent that any danger would be to a jay, not to deer. Jays, Nils knew, are notorious for false alarms anyway, usually to distract from their own depredation.

The fawns resumed grazing, tails still flipping nervously, ready to signal the need for flight if it became necessary. They were only a stone’s throw away, and Nils was certain that the animals were aware of the presence of the couple. Dove had led him by the hand, moving quietly to their present position, half concealed by leafless bushes.

“Two,” she said, indicating the number with her fingers. “Twins.”

“Twins,” he repeated. “It is good.”

She smiled, pleased, and the light in her eyes, soft yet exciting, made him feel weak-kneed. It was an expression of absolute devotion.