Runestone (43 page)

Odin waited, and it was as he expected. White Wolf approached him, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Odin, tell me of this,” the Norseman began. “We did not understand all of the talk in the council. A move is planned. Is this a custom of the People?”

“Sometimes,” Odin replied casually. “Not every season. But some of the lodges must be rebuilt, and the enemy—”

“We move because of the attack?” Nils interrupted.

“No…well, partly, maybe. The Enemy has become stronger. It seems good to avoid trouble, no?”

“But where will we go?”

“That way,” said Odin, waving a hand in a generally southwestern direction. “There is more space there.” He watched carefully and waited for the expected reaction. It was not long in coming.

“But that is farther from
our
people, from Straumfjord!”

Odin pretended surprise. “Oh! Why, yes, so it is, Thorsson. But what other direction is there? The water, the Enemy…that is the only open trail. But look, my brother, the People cannot go very far. We have to plant the corn, no?”

Nils Thorsson thought about that for a moment, and Odin was pleased to see the understanding in his eyes. It was a recognition that here is one inflexible event in the world. The corn, a necessity to the People, must be planted every season. It must be done by human hands, for there is no wild corn, as there are other wild plants from which to gather food. So it was with great satisfaction that Odin watched the understanding in the blue eyes of the Norseman. From understanding to acceptance is not a long step.

“When must the corn be planted?” asked Nils.

Odin tried hard to appear nonchalant, to hide the pleasure that he felt. This question indicated acceptance. He shrugged.

“When the time is ready.”

He was prepared for the look of annoyance. These light-haired outsiders did not take well to the fact that many times it is not possible to plan very far ahead. He had noticed that about them when the three had been fugitives after the battle. Well, they were learning much, though they were still impatient. This one, more impatient than Fire Man.

“How do you know when it is time?” Nils asked irritably.

Odin shrugged again.

“Many ways. How warm, how wet, how warm the earth…They will decide.”

“They? Who are they?”

“The women. The grandmothers.”

Odin saw the resignation in the Norseman’s face, and relaxed. He knew that look, from association with these outsiders. It was a look that indicated
I do not understand, but it is something I must accept
. Odin was pleased when he saw that,
because it indicated a move toward accepting the
attitude
of the People.

Nils nodded, and Odin felt that it was time for a little more information.

“There is a trail,” he explained, “used by travelers and traders. We will follow that. We will have scouts out in front, a day or two. They will be looking for a place to plant.”

The Norseman nodded again, but there remained doubt in his face.

“Then after the harvest, what? We build there, winter there?”

Odin tried to conceal his delight at the use of the expression
we
. It indicated a great deal of acceptance.

“Maybe … We decide.”

“Whether to stay there or come back?”

“Mmm…Yes, maybe.” He would not at this time mention that the real decision was whether to winter there, or to go farther west before making winter preparations. The adopted warriors were beginning to fit well into the routine of the People, and Odin wished that to continue. There was no harm in mild deception, he thought. At least, until family ties were more firmly established.

Later, he could decide how to introduce gently the idea that the People did not really intend to return to this area at all.

   “Where is this trail, Odin?” asked Nils.

It was a week later now, and the People were ready to leave. It had been said that they would meet the travelers from the other towns “on the trail.”

“It is right there,” answered Odin, puzzled. He was pointing to the path that led out of the village to the west. There was another that led southeast, and still another that meandered northward.

“But those are just the paths that we use for hunting, paths along the river.”

“Of course. What did you think?”

Nils had been thinking in terms of a highway. The People spoke of the route as if it were a well known and important thoroughfare, the Southwest Trail.

“In our homeland,” Nils began, “there are trails that are traveled by many people.”

“Yes, it is as this.”

“No, Odin. By horses and carts and wagons.”
Chariots
, he had started to say. But he had no words for these things. It had not, until just now, fully occurred to him that these people had never seen a horse or a cart. Well, Odin himself had seen carts at Straumfjord, maybe. There were cows and oxen there. Had there been horses? Nils could not remember. The short stay at the colony now seemed a lifetime ago.

“Odin,” he said, “do you remember, at Straumfjord, the animals that pulled the carts?” He now reverted to the Norse tongue, realizing that Odin would know those words, though they might not exist in the language of the People.

“Yes, the same kind they squeezed milk from!”

“Well, yes.” There was no need to go into the distinction between a milk cow and an ox. “Did you see another kind that was used to sit on and travel?”

Odin was silent for a moment. “Maybe so. I think there was one. It died, soon after I went there.”

“I see.” It was possible that the colony had possessed a horse or two, but found them impractical. Need for transportation was limited when compared to the need for food and shelter.

He began to understand. With no large domestic animals and no wheeled vehicles, all travel must be on foot or by boat. A broad highway was not only unnecessary but virtually useless. But another thought occurred to him.

“The trail follows the river?”

“Yes. That is how we find it, no? Do not all trails follow rivers?”

Nils thought for a moment. Yes, the roads of his homeland were dependent on the terrain. Now that he considered it, the rivers were usually the prominent feature of the landscape.

“Yes,” he admitted, “that is true.”

He was still confused, however, about the other towns and how the different parties would link up to travel. He voiced his question to Odin, who squatted, brushed a smooth place with his hand, and began to scratch lines in the dirt with a stick. Nils realized that it was a crude map.

“We are here,” Odin indicated, pointing to the tip of one of the lines. “This is our part of the trail. It meets those from the other towns here, and here. They are like streams that start in different places and come together as they flow. The Southwest Trail has others coming in along the way, like a river.”

Nils nodded. He had always thought of a road as reaching from one point to another. Most journeys are for such a purpose. Here was an entirely new way of thinking. A road need not start at any one point, but at several places. As the separate paths joined together, the trail would be plainer because of the wear of use.

It now occurred to him that it was probably the same at the other end, too, with many branches. It was like a tree, maybe, with roots joining to form the trunk, and then separating into individual branches again above. No, there was a difference. Traffic on a road flows both ways. There is no up or down, except for variations in the terrain. He turned his attention back to Odin.

“The scouts are already out,” the Skraeling was saying. “Some, two days ahead. They will find places to camp, tell us where the others are…the other towns.”

It began to make a little sense, as he thought about it. Within the loose, easygoing framework of the People’s lifestyle,’ this was a considerable amount of planning.

Another thought came to him. If they were to follow the river, why not use boats? He asked the question of Odin.

“We are too many,” Odin explained simply. “There are not enough boats to carry all. The Downstream Enemy uses boats more than we do, Thorsson. They live near the sea.”

Yes, he could understand that. He had seen the efficiency of the Skraeling boatmen as they attacked the longships. The People were not quite the sailors that their enemy had proved to be. This thought sent a pang of nostalgia through him. His background had fitted him better for an alliance with boatmen. But he had no regrets.

“Odin, what about other people that we meet?”

“What about them?”

“Are there enemies?”

“We do not know yet. Maybe. Maybe friends.”

“But—”

“Look, Thorsson, we have many men. These, and those of the other towns. Who would attack such a big party?”

There was something to be said for such logic, but still …

“Do you speak the tongues of these people?”

“Some,” Odin said. “Those nearby. We will use some signs.”

“Signs?” Nils was puzzled.

Odin shrugged.

“One cannot know all tongues. So, everyone uses signs. Is it not so where you come from? With the hands?”

Realization began to dawn. Nils had noticed that the People, especially some individuals, accompanied conversation with many hand gestures. And yes, now that he thought of it, when they had been among the Downstream Enemy, it was so there, too. “Tell me of this, Odin.”

“There is nothing to tell. To eat, drink, talk …” He made hand gestures as he said the words. “That is all!”

“But there are many things not so simple, Odin. That bird, there! How do you say ‘bird’?”

Without speaking, Odin raised both hands, thumbs together and fingers spread like … like
wings. Bird!

The conversation was interrupted by a distant shout, and the People began to shoulder their packs and prepare to move out.

Well
, thought Nils,
we must finish this later
. Such a useful thing! How had he failed to learn of it? He consoled himself with the fact that there had been no reason to use it. Through the winter months there had been no outside contact.

But I will learn of this
, Nils promised himself.

A
major concern as the People began their trek to the southwest was the danger of attack. Hopefully the scouts, well in advance of the column, would be aware of questionable areas and could pass word of warning. Even in an apparently safe region, it was important to keep the column closed up.

Such a procession necessarily moves at the pace of the slowest individual. The warriors moved up and down the column, assisting the elderly, encouraging children.

“Stay together, now.”

Older children ran playfully up and down the trail, accompanied by the dogs. It was part of the great adventure.

“That will soon slow,” remarked Svenson to Nils. “They will sleep well tonight!”

“We will, also,” Odin noted.

They chuckled and moved on.

Smaller children were carried part of the way when they became tired. There were frequent rest stops, usually at a spring or other source of drinking water. Nils wondered how many generations had used this trail through the wilderness. There were indications of old fires and campsites at favorable watering places.

It was a pleasant day, warming as the sun rose higher. Overhead, geese honked their way north. The willows were showing the fresh yellow-green of new buds, and the scent of fresh loam underfoot promised warmer weather ahead. To the right of the trail, the broad expanse of the river was frequently visible through the trees. Nils watched a fish hawk as it hovered, then descended in a long smooth glide that terminated at the glassy surface of a smooth stretch of water. A
taloned claw struck down and backward, barely breaking the surface, and the hawk rose, carrying a fish.

Nils smiled. He had seen fish hawks before, in his homeland, but had never seen the actual strike and the catch. He had grown up largely in the city, among the wharves and docks of Stadt. There was excitement in the bustle of the city, the trade and commerce and the coming and going of the ships. But this had been an excitement of a different kind, and it was good. He hoped to see more.

It was shortly after midday that they arrived at a fork in the trail, and the leaders called a halt.

“What is it?” asked Nils.

“We wait for the others,” Odin explained. “The other towns.”

It was not long before they heard the soft murmur of a large group of people moving along the trail that joined here from the south. Dogs barked, and were answered by other dogs. Soon the two groups were mixing, greeting friends and relatives, and sharing tales of experiences on the first morning of travel.

High overhead, an eagle soared on fixed wings, uttering a long-drawn cry. The direction of flight was southwestward.

“It is a good sign,” observed old Clay, the holy man.

After a short rest for the newcomers, the procession moved on, following the trail that was now broader and plainer.

“The scouts say the others are ahead of us,” Odin remarked to Nils. “We will join them by tonight and camp together.”