Runestone (38 page)

One thing he could do, however. He would share his concerns. Moose was one of the three most influential men in the village. The others were Big Tree and Clay. Tree was the headman of the village. He was young, strong, a good headman. Not much of a thinker, Moose sometimes believed,
but that was not his real strength. He was a leader, and could inspire people to do better than they really should be able.

Moose sought out Big Tree to seek his counsel. The day was sunny though cold, and they stood outside to breathe the fresh, crisp air and to indulge in the luxury of private conversation. Somewhat to the consternation of Moose, Tree seemed to recognize no problem at all. He had apparently overcome any jealousies over the marriages of Calling Dove and Red Fawn. The headman was as entranced by the stories of White Wolf as anyone else.

“Is that not a good one, about cutting up the giant to make the world?” he chuckled. He pointed to the sky. “Look, there are a few of his brains in the sky now.”

Singing Moose glanced up at the few puffs of convoluted clouds against the blue of winter sky. Yes, they
did
resemble brains. That was the problem. … He saw no use in talking further to Big Tree. Maybe Clay would understand the danger here.

Clay was older, a contemporary of Singing Moose, and he was a holy man. They had long been friends.

“Let us walk and smoke,” Moose suggested. They could stroll for some time along the tramped-down paths around and between the lodges. It would provide privacy, too. They walked and smoked, not talking for a little while.

“I am made to think,” Clay said finally, “that your heart is heavy. What is it, my friend?”

Moose smoked a little longer, and then spoke. “You were at the story fire?”

“Yes. It was good.” His tone was noncommittal.

“Yes … too good, maybe.”

“How can this be?” Clay asked.

“Maybe the People will follow the stories of White Wolf instead of their own.”

“Well, they are good stories,” admitted Clay. “The buffalo licking the ice away…” he chuckled at the thought.

This did not help the heavy feeling in the heart of Singing Moose.

“You think their stories are better!” he accused angrily.

Clay took a few more steps and then paused, puffing his pipe. A woman carrying wood came toward them, and they
nodded a greeting, stepping aside to allow her to pass. Then the holy man answered, slowly and thoughtfully.

“Not better, my friend, or worse. They are
different
. Strange creatures, strange ways. But do not all storytellers tell the
same
story?”

“What do you mean?” Moose was unconvinced, and a bit ruffled.

“Well, look at it. White Wolf’s story has ice-giants and gods who are of the fire … the sun, no? They battle, good and bad. Is it different than ours? We have Cold Maker, in his lodge in the north. He comes out and tries to drive Sun to the south. Then Sun wins, and drives Cold Maker back to his lodge. It happens each year.”

Moose was not quite convinced. “But White Wolf has not told of Sun.”

“True. I am made to think that he will, though. Do you not think so?”

“Maybe. There is more to his story.”

“Yes. But do not all people tell the same story as it seems to
them?”

Moose nodded, grudgingly, and then Clay resumed his conversation.

“Now, friend Moose, consider
my
problem for a little while.”

“Your problem?”

“Of course. You think you are the only one? Look, here comes a man who is strange in appearance, who changes stones to different colors with his hands, who can even turn himself into an animal and back again. You think this is not a danger to my importance among the People? Is his gift stronger than mine? Is he more powerful?”

Clay paused, but Singing Moose, staring at the snow, said nothing.

“I had thought,” Clay went on, “that I might kill him, or have someone do it. Maybe both of them, the Fire Man too. That would remove the threat, no?”

Moose stared at him in astonishment, and Clay continued.

“I thought then about it, and that they are younger and stronger than I. Maybe they would kill me, and my family would mourn. And I thought too that maybe the powers, the
spirit gifts of White Wolf are stronger than mine, anyway. Maybe I could not kill him at all. And if I used my gifts to do him harm, that is bad. To use my gifts for evil might kill me.”

Moose was still speechless. He had had no idea that his friend had suffered much the same problem as he himself.

“So,” Clay went on, “I came to think that it would be unwise to test his power. He has his gifts, I have mine. They are different. Maybe one is stronger, maybe not, but they are
different
. White Wolf can change the color of stones. I can listen to Kookooskoos in the night, and talk to him. Maybe both are good, but different. The same with Fire Man. We make fire with sticks, Fire Man with his striker, but it is all fire.”

“What are you saying, Clay?” Singing Moose asked, still confused.

“Only that they are different. They have shown no wish to harm us. They have helped us in the hunt. I am made to think they are not a danger to us. White Wolf’s power is no threat to me, as long as mine is not, to him. It is the same with the stories.”

“But…how?”

“Wolf’s people tell the story one way, you tell it another. Same story, same purpose. I am made to think so.”

Singing Moose walked along in silence. Maybe so. He was surprised that his friend had already seen the threat, and had reasoned out this answer. The holy man’s danger had been greater than his own, maybe, because of the possible clash of power in the strength of their respective gifts. He happened to glance at his friend and was surprised to see a gleam of mischief in the holy man’s eye.

“Besides,” said Clay, “Kookooskoos tells me I am right.”

Moose was not certain that Clay was serious, but said nothing.

“Tell me,” Clay went on, “when will we have another story fire? I want to hear about Sun, and Moon. And you know, Wolf has no people yet! And is it not interesting, the Allfather looking over both good and bad?”

Moose nodded, still perplexed that his friend had already been through all of this soul-searching.

“We will speak of all this again,” said Clay confidentially,
“but let us listen carefully to their story. Maybe we will still need to kill them.”

But this time, Moose was sure that there was a gleam of laughter in the eyes of the holy man.

   “White Wolf, tell us more of the stories of your people,” a woman asked.

It was several days since the last story fire, and even more of the villagers had gathered. Some of those who had not been present when White Wolf told his story, the Creation story of his people, were quite eager to hear. The rest wanted to hear more. For generations, the People had heard their own stories recounted by the storytellers, with only slight variations. They had exchanged stories with neighboring clans. Once in a long time a traveling trader from a faraway tribe would stop for a day or two, with stories that were new. That was always an exciting time.

White Wolf had initially been regarded with a certain amount of fear because of his powers. Gradually the fear had been replaced by respect, as the People realized that he was not particularly dangerous. A turning point in his relationship with the People, however, occurred when he spoke at the story fire. Even with his halting use of the tongue of the People, even with the frequent necessity for him to consult with Odin about words, the stories were powerful. White Wolf had told of the very beginnings, as seen by his people. It was gigantic and exciting. And it was apparent that there was more, much more.

“His story has not even told of Sun yet,” someone had noted.

“Nor humans!” another offered.

“Yes. Maybe we can ask him.”

Singing Moose did not seem to mind that an outsider had such compelling stories. The People had wondered about that at first. Old Moose had abruptly called a halt to the stories, and there were some who thought that he might be angry. Apparently he was not, however. When the woman requested more stories from the outsider, many people looked toward Moose to see his reaction. If they expected resistance they
were disappointed. There was only a bland expression on the face of the old storyteller.

“Yes,” he said, “let us hear more. How did your people discover Sun?”

Nils hesitated for a moment. He had not foreseen the interest that might be generated by his recounting of the Norse legendry. He wondered whether he could remember enough to keep the story afloat.

“Ah…yes!” he said thoughtfully, “I had told how the gods decided to make a world from the parts of the dead giant, Ymir?”

There were nods of agreement, and he continued.

“It was good, but it was still dark, so they gathered sparks from the south-giant’s flaming weapon, and flung them into the sky. The two biggest were the sun and the moon. But they just floated around, with no direction. Someone must guide the lights across the sky. Two young giant-people were chosen, Mani for the moon, and his sister, Sol, for the sun. Each day they—”

He paused in consternation. He had talked himself into an impossible corner. He had been about to search for words to say “they drove chariots.” Golden chariots, the story said, drawn by powerful steeds. Until now, when he needed a word he did not know, he had merely asked Odin to supply one. But now, how could he tell a story of golden chariots to people who had never seen a chariot, or even a wheel? For that matter, even a
horse!

Odin was looking puzzled, and Nils turned to Svenson. No help there! Svenson was almost overcome by amusement, trying hard not to burst forth in his boisterous laugh.

“Sven,” Nils said curtly in their own tongue, “help me, here!”

Svenson spread his hands in a helpless gesture, his big shoulders shaking with restrained amusement.

“It is your story, my friend!”

“Well…I…well, the young giants carried the sparks. …”
(Torches! yes, torches
, he thought.) “They made torches, and each day they run across the sky and around the other side.”

Svenson could not restrain a guffaw of laughter. “Good!” he called. “That will do!”

The People were puzzled. Some laughed nervously, following the lead of Svenson, but not quite understanding the joke. Was it something about Fire Man’s connection with the heavenly fires?

Nils plunged doggedly ahead, past his predicament now, and able to return to the original version.

“They had to … to run very fast, because they are always chased. The Wolves of Darkness follow them, to try to swallow the lights. Sometimes the wolves catch up, and…Well, you have seen. The wolves take a bite or two. Then the people had to make a great noise. The wolves spit out the sun or moon, and it is whole again.”

There was a murmur of quiet conversation, excitement in the tone, and some puzzlement. Svenson spoke aside and in Nordic.

“Nils, you don’t have any people yet. Who makes the noise?”

Nils was annoyed. Sven was having far too much fun over this.

“Do you want to tell this?”

“No, no,” the sailor insisted. “My job is to make a fire, remember?”

Nils regained his composure and continued.

“Fire Man says that I have left out some of the story,” he admitted. “That is true. At first, there were no people to make noise. It was a very dangerous time. But as soon as they had daylight, the gods saw that something was going on in the rotting flesh of Ymir. There were maggots. These grew and became small creatures that looked like men and women, but were not. Some were ugly and loved the darkness, some were beautiful and loved birds and flowers and sunlight. So the gods gathered them all and sorted them. The dark ones are the…” (What could he call gnomes and trolls?) “
Kobolds”
he decided, using the Norse word. “The others are…faeries.”

The People were wide-eyed.

“The Little People!” someone said softly.

“You know of this?” asked Nils, surprised.

“Of course, Thorsson,” Odin said aside. “The Little People. I did not know you have them too. Ours can cause mischief and harm, but can help you if they want to.”

“It is much the same, then.”

Odin nodded. “Go on about humans.”

“After a while,” Nils continued, “the gods saw that the earth was a good place. They would come down sometimes, using a bridge. …” At this point he paused, not knowing the words, or even sure that the People knew the concept of a bridge. He consulted with Odin.

“Yes,” Odin assured him. “To cross a stream … a log…”

The next idea was harder. How to describe the rainbow that formed a bridge from heaven? With hand motions and words like “colors in the sky,” he managed to convey the meaning.

“The gods would come down to walk along the shore,” he went on, “and one day Odin and two others—more of Odin later—but on that day they came upon two trees, called Ask and Embla. They seemed to have human form, so Odin gave them spirits, and the wood came alive and became First Man and First Woman. These, then, bore all the humans of the earth.”