Runestone (46 page)

“Yes.”

“Get it out, hold it up.”

“But there is no—”

“
Do
it!” said Odin firmly.

Nils fumbled in his pouch and drew out the stone. Solemnly,
he held it aloft, knowing full well that he could learn nothing in this way. But the gasps of wonder and the attentiveness of the crowd told that Odin was on the right course. To further add to the impressiveness of the ceremony, many of the observers were of the other bands, and had never seen the wondrous stone before.

Of course, nothing happened. But now, Odin began to speak, in his own tongue. His voice was deep and solemn and carried a tone of authority, seeming to explain the ceremony.

“White Wolf is asking,” he announced. “He uses the sun-stone.” He waited, using the pause to best advantage.

“Tell … them,” said Nils in Nordic, beginning to catch the idea, “that this … is the first part. … The second … requires … the sun. …”

Nils spoke in a singsong chant, as if the words were a ritual.

“It … is good,” crooned Odin, his response also a part of the same ceremony. Then he bowed to the stone, to the fire, and spoke to Nils again, still in the Nordic chant. “Now … I will explain … that … the ceremony takes … a whole day. That … will give us … time to think on … this.”

There was rapt attention on the part of everyone in the crowd as Odin relayed the message from the holy man.

“White Wolf will continue the prayers and ceremonies. Some will require the skills of Fire Man, too. Tomorrow night at the fire, he will tell of his vision.”

Nils lowered the stone very slowly and with much ceremony, and returned it to its pouch. The crowd began to stir and to break up. He saw Svenson who appeared to have just rejoined the crowd around the fire, making his way toward them.

“What are you doing?” Svenson demanded. “What in the name of Asgard is going on?”

“I do not know,” admitted Odin. “Maybe I can try to find out. Do not speak of it with anyone except each other.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

• • •

It was next morning when the three drew aside, apart from the camp. There would be no travel, it had been announced, until a decision was reached.

Odin had quietly talked with Snake and others of his friends, but no one seemed to have any information. The scouts had seen an area some two days away that looked promising. There were not many people there, and they seemed peaceable enough. But it would be a major decision, the commitment to a season’s crop in this place—in
any
place. Everyone, thought Odin, was feeling the insecurity of new surroundings. It is one thing to go out into the unknown with the secure knowledge that it is possible to return. It is quite another when the entire future depends on a decision like this. A mistake, a failure of the year’s crop, and the People would starve. Some of them, at least. True, there had always been good years and bad years for growing. Yet it had been within the framework of a known area. This was a different sort of risk, and they must not fail.

These were the thoughts that had kept Odin awake. The decision must be made, and it would be by the council, greatly influenced by Clay in his position as holy man, and by Big Tree as headman of the band. The other headmen would also have a voice, as well as holy men or women from the other bands. Still, the impetus to move had been initiated by Big Tree and Clay. They must take a leading role in this decision. It was a tremendous responsibility.

Odin wondered whether there was political pressure from the other bands. Maybe that was it. The other leaders might be, by implication, at least, letting Big Tree know that this decision must be the correct one. There might even be warnings.
Yes
, he thought,
that must be it!
Whether there were warnings or not, there was a great deal of pressure here, the pressure of responsibility. Odin tried to place himself in the position of Big Tree, or of Clay. They would want to spread the responsibility, in case things did not work out well.

And what better way than to shift part of the blame to the outsider, the strange and powerful holy man, White Wolf? He did not want to believe this, but he must be realistic.

Clay had shown a great tolerance toward the outsider, but was he now changing his attitude? Did the holy man fear the
power of White Wolf, and wish to destroy him? Possibly, but that did not seem right. It was more likely that Clay was seeking support.
Yes
… If Clay could enlist support for his decision, the support of White Wolf and his popular assistant, Fire Man, it would feel good to the People. If the season became a success, it would enhance the power and prestige of them all. Of Big Tree, too. He wondered why Clay had not simply approached White Wolf and discussed this. It did not take long to realize that Clay would seem to be talking from a position of weakness. The holy man could not risk his prestige in this way.

The rest of the story that now thrust itself on Odin’s thoughts was darker. Downright ugly, as he considered it at greater length: If the season became a total disaster, Clay and Big Tree would have someone to blame.

He wished that he could take the Norsemen to talk with Clay and Big Tree, but he quickly rejected the idea. He could not risk the prestige of White Wolf in such an approach. That would imply weakness in White Wolf.

No, he, Odin, must find a way to handle this. He must do it without letting the Norsemen know the darkest of his thoughts. And without jeopardizing the prestige of anyone involved. It would be a very interesting summer, an exciting challenge.

He looked at the waiting faces of the two Norsemen.

“I am made to think,” he began, “that Clay would like to have your support.”

“Then he should ask for it!” Svenson blurted.

“No, he cannot,” Odin explained. “That would look like weakness.”

“But how could we be of help?” Nils asked. “We have never even seen corn growing!”

“That is true. And you must say so.”
That will remove much of the responsibility
, he was thinking. “But you must make it appear that your prayers, your sun-stone, your powers all say that Clay has the gifts to tell
him
what to advise.”

“And what if the choice is a bad one, then?” Svenson demanded. “What if the crop fails?”

“Then,” said Odin, “we are all in trouble.”

S
venson, it was decided, would begin the ceremony with the lighting of the fire. Odin explained to the gathering crowd that it was prudent, in a case of this magnitude and importance, that all the powers available should be called upon.

He had also taken Nils aside and solemnly consulted with him about how to approach the ceremony.

“But there is no ceremony, Odin!” Nils protested.

“Then you must make one. It is important that they know it is very serious before you say what your gifts tell you.”

“My gifts can tell me nothing about corn!”

“That is true. So let us talk of what is good to say about it. Corn has much to do with the gifts of Clay and Big Tree, no?”

“Yes,” agreed Nils, “I suppose so.”

“Then you can tell them that. … That you have consulted your gifts, which tell you to follow
theirs
. Yes, that is good! If anything goes wrong, it is
their
advice that caused it.”

Odin was growing excited.
He is actually enjoying this
, thought Nils.
This is his way in emergencies!

“Now,” Odin continued, “let us talk of your ceremony.”

“But I have told you,” Nils protested again, “there is none.”

“I know, Thorsson, but there must appear to be. Is there a song, a chant, something you could sing?”

Nils began to understand. It would be in Nordic, not understood by anyone except Svenson and Odin.
Much like the Latin liturgy at Mass in church
, he thought. There was a brief pang of guilt at such an analogy, but it passed quickly. The purpose, though, was surely the same. This must be a solemn, prayerful chant. It need not make sense to the listener. It
would be better
not
to. Any rhythmic chant, a collection of nonsense syllables, even, that would establish a mystical aura, lending credibility to what he would say. That itself seemed simpler now, with the general theme in mind. Yes, maybe he could do it.

But what chant? A poem or song? It need not make sense, because the listeners did not know the Nordic tongue anyway … some childish nonsense rhyme?

Strym-strahm pamadiddle lolly-body rhigdhym
… fragments of a childhood nonsense rhyme flitted through his head. It was meant to be sung, but he could remember no more of it. The tune, but no more of the words.

He thought of the twinkle in the blue eyes of his grandfather as the two of them had sung this rhyme together. Nils could have been no more than four years old. …

“You have thought of a chant?” asked Odin.

“What? Oh. No, but I will find one.”

He was thinking now of long winter evenings around the great fireplace. One of the favorite pastimes in winter in the Northland was that of riddles. Often these were phrased in runic rhymes. They made no sense until they were solved. The cryptic message was then plain, but not until the trick was exposed. His grandfather had loved these games. Nils had realized in later years that it was because it had forced young minds to learn to
think
.

“How much dirt,” one riddle had asked, “in a hole a hand’s span wide, a span long, and a span deep?”

That one did not rhyme, but was always amusing. There was always someone present who failed to realize that if it is a
hole
, it is empty, and contains no dirt at all. But this was not quite what he sought. True, it did deal with digging in the dirt. Presumably, planting corn does, too. Yet Nils was not certain that he could make this sort of riddle sound serious enough to pass as a ceremonial liturgy.

Something more mystical … It need have nothing to do with the planting of corn. Well, it
could
not, since he knew nothing. But it need have no connection with the sun-stone or with anything else. It must only suggest a mystic, spiritual
something
. He thought of how impressed the People had been
with his stories of the Norse gods and goddesses. Surely there must be some way that he could utilize that interest.

Then it came to him. There were riddles and cryptic puzzles that dealt with the Creation story and with the gods. These were always presented in a confidential mystic tone, a singsong rhythm that was much like a chant.
Yes, that would be the way
. It struck him as amusing that for him the question had become the answer.

“What is it, Thorsson?”

“Nothing. I have thought of the ceremony I will use.”

“It is good. Be sure to use the stone!”

“But it will show nothing in the dark.”

“I know. But pretend it does. They cannot see it anyway, and do not know your words. It makes it better if they think you see things that they do not.”

Nils had to admit that this made good sense. He spent the rest of the day rehearsing in his mind, remembering the words of the little childhood riddle. Not that that mattered. The listeners would not know them anyway, but he felt that he could carry it off better if it made at least some sense to
him
.

   Svenson played his part well. After the first time or two that he had kindled a fire with flint and steel, he really began to enjoy his status. Nils had been amused at the sailor’s ceremony. For Sven did have his own ceremony now. He had ceased to use his steel at all except to create the impression of a mystic skill, the gift of fire that gave Fire Man his name.

This special council fire was duly kindled, and soon the flames were licking hungrily upward through the carefully stacked fuel.

Big Tree requested the answer he sought from White Wolf. With a great deal of ceremony, Nils stood and positioned himself to best advantage. Light, dark, the fire with its sparks ascending to the black dome above.

He raised his arms high, and began to chant the old riddle in the singsong cadence that his grandfather had always used. It dealt with the tales of the Wild Huntsman of the Northland who rides through the sky on the wings of the winter storm. The howl of the winds mingles with the baying of his hounds. The Huntsman is no less than the god Odin himself, astride
his great eight-legged steed, Sleipnir. He carries the magic spear Gungnir, and a white shield held on high.

As a child, Nils had always felt a chill at the mention of the Wild Huntsman, and would creep close to his grandfather. Even now the hair stood on the back of his neck as he chanted. The chant, however, was not of the story, but was the riddle itself:

It was easy for Nils to become caught up in the dread that he had felt as a child, and for the emotion to show. His listeners were spellbound. Though they did not understand the words, the emotion in the voice of White Wolf was apparent. Even Svenson stared, openmouthed, and he must have heard the story before.