Runestone (8 page)

R
opes stretched and pulleys creaked as the
Norsemaiden
seemed to haul herself out of the water like some gigantic sea dragon, to crawl upon the land. The seamen hauled and strained, chanting in unison to coordinate each effort. Rivulets of sweat trickled from brawny arms and shoulders.

Helge Landsverk was everywhere, pacing from the bow to the stern and back, helping to call the cadence, assisting with a shoulder to the hull. Some men worked with short poles used as levers, while others hauled on the ropes. The-improvised tree-trunk rollers turned slowly, and the dragon ship crept forward, up the slope and through the trees.

In some places, it was necessary to cut overhanging branches to allow the tip of the mast to clear. The ship’s progress was so slow, however, that it was possible to continue motion forward, even while the axmen cleared the way ahead.

The pulley blocks were fastened to trees along the trail ahead. When all the slack was utilized and the ship neared such an anchor point, the pulley could be quickly removed
and placed farther up the trail, even while the ship continued to creep forward.

It was nearly noon when the
Norsemaiden
reached a level spot, and Landsverk called a halt. Spirits were high. There may have been some doubt initially about the possibility of actually hauling the ship around the rapids, though doubters had remained silent. Now, there was confident exuberance. It could be seen that it
was
possible, this scheme of Landsverk’s. Had they not already come nearly a third the distance?

In the afternoon, the terrain was more difficult. The trail was rocky and uneven. Some rocks could be removed, but others were too large. It was constantly necessary to reposition the rollers, while men strained at the ropes and pry poles to hold the ship steady. There were also the stumps of the trees that had been cut, jutting out of the ground like jagged teeth, ready to tear the underside of the
Norsemaiden
.

Crossing one small ravine, it was necessary to bridge across with two tree trunks, and use the rollers to support the ship’s belly. At the deepest point, the hull was a man’s height above the floor of the gully. It was a bit frightening to stand below and see the ship towering above, where a ship should not be. Nils wondered how they could possibly handle the ship if she started to roll.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than there was a creaking sound of protest from deep within the
Norse-maiden’s
belly.

“She’s slipping sideways!” someone yelled.

Men rushed to support the hull as a rope snapped and the severed end came whistling through the party like a cracking whip. A couple of men were slashed cruelly by the whipping rope’s end, but scrambled back to their positions, oblivious of their bleeding welts. Svenson thrust his pry pole between a roller and the shifting hull. This seemed to slow the movement, and someone else followed suit. It seemed an eternity before the motion was completely controlled. Someone retrieved the broken rope to use for a temporary lashing while the pulleys were readjusted and
the ship steadied. Men began to relax as the crisis appeared past.

There was a cry of pain now from underneath the ship’s hull. Kyrre Rafn was trapped in a half-standing position, his hand crushed between the hull and one of the rollers. Unfeeling at first because of the rapidity of the accident, now the pain flowed back into the injured member. Rafn screamed, and then again as he looked and realized that his hand was crushed and held. He could not stand up under the hull, but neither could he sit or lie down. He remained, half hanging by the trapped hand while he screamed in pain and terror.

Nils squatted to evaluate the situation. To move the ship at all would be risky. She still balanced precariously, creaking unsteadily against her fetters. She could still slip or roll with disastrous results. It might take some time to be sure that they were ready to proceed. Even then, they could not roll the vessel forward. That would draw Rafn’s arm farther into the roller, crushing the forearm and elbow. No, they would have to reverse direction, give up the last hour of progress, to roll the ship backward. It was the only way to free the crippled hand.

“We’ll get you out, Kyrre,” Nils encouraged the young man.

He turned to report the situation to Landsverk, who was elbowing his way forward. Landsverk stepped down and squatted, evaluating the scene quickly.

“We’ll have to roll it backward,” Nils spoke.

Helge Landsverk did not answer. He stood and looked quickly around the circle of onlookers. Then he stepped over and grasped an ax from the hand of one of the woodcutters.

“No!” cried Kyrre Rafn.

The ax swung, its powerful arc flashing in the mottled sunlight of the clearing, Rafn screamed at the top of his lungs, muffling the sodden thud of the ax into the log roller. He dropped free, grasping at the stump of his wrist, frantically trying to stop the pulsing blood.

“Get him out of there,” snapped Helge. “You two., Knutsen and Ingstadt, take him back to the other ship. Sear the stump, bind it up. Then come back. We need you.”

He turned away, handing the ax back to the stunned woodcutter. There was a low mutter around the circle as the two sailors jumped down to assist the injured man. Helge glanced back, appearing irritated, then turned again to walk on up the trail ahead. Nils followed.

“My God in heaven, Helge! Why did you do that?”

Helge turned on him.

“Do what?” he challenged.

“The hand,” Nils sputtered. “We could have rolled the ship back.”

“And lose half a day!”

“But Helge, the man…”

“Look, Thorsson, the hand was crushed. No use to him. I helped him get it over with. The incident is finished, and we can move on. Now, I want to get this far tonight.”

Nils did not even see, as Helge pointed around a level clearing where he hoped to rest the
Norsemaiden
for the night. He was thinking of the scene back at the other ship. They would bind the wrist to control bleeding, while an ax head was heated in the fire. The flat side of the heated steel would sear the stump to close the severed ends of the blood vessels.

He looked at Helge as if he had never seen him before. Could this be the man with whom he had grown up, his childhood friend? Here was a side of Helge Landsverk that he had never seen. Cruel, practical, almost sadistic. Had his friend gone mad? Maybe it was the influence of this strange wild country. But no, he thought not. It seemed more like…Was Helge reverting back to the violence of the old Viking days? A generation or two ago, the Norse raiders had had a well-deserved reputation for cruelty. Nils recalled now that Helge had once related a humorous incident about his grandfather’s experiences. It involved the torture of captured enemies, flaying alive, and dismemberment, while wagering over how long the victim would live. It had seemed far away, impersonal.

Now it had become real. Nils could easily believe that his friend had related the torture story with a spirit of admiration.
My God
, he thought,
how did I get into this?
He found himself
a little bit afraid of his friend.
What if it had been
my
hand?
Nils thought.
Would my friend have been so quick with the ax?

“What are you staring at?” Landsverk demanded.

Nils was jerked back to reality.

“What? Oh, nothing, Helge. I was only thinking.”

“Yes,” Helge said absently. “Well, we can rest the ship here tonight. Level ground, plenty of room for sleeping. Then, tomorrow …”

Helge’s voice droned on, as he pointed to places on the trail that held potential hazard. Nils’s attention strayed away again. It was like listening to a stranger talk about events that had no meaning. He devoutly wished that he was back in Norway among known places and events. Yet here he was, beyond the sea, on an expedition commanded by a man whose sanity must surely be questioned. Weil, there was nothing but to play it out to the end.

“Are you all right, Thorsson?”

“Of course,” Nils answered steadily. “Shall we move on with the ship?”

They turned back down the trail.

With pulleys, ropes, and levers ready, they continued the task of dragging the
Norsemaiden
. Nils tried not to look as Rafn’s misshapen hand dropped free of the roller. He saw one of the men cross himself and pick up the crushed object, probably to bury it later. He hoped so. He had considered doing that himself.

It was about that time that a distant scream came from the direction of the
Snowbird
. Long, and filled with unmistakable evidence of pain and terror, it echoed along the ridge. Nils, like the others, pretended not to hear. Everyone knew that the stump of Rafn’s right wrist was being treated.

The
Norsemaiden
crept on silently, the expression in the dragon’s eye on her prow unchanging.

Odin, the Skraeling, seemed as silent and unchanging as the dragon’s head, but Nils noted one difference. Odin’s single eye constantly roved over the scene, taking it all in, missing nothing.

T
he accident had been quite disturbing to many of the crew. Despite this, there was a sense of optimism the next day as the
Norsemaiden
rolled the last few paces and dipped her breast into the lake. There was a cheer from the group on shore. It was a great accomplishment.

“See if she leaks!” Helge called to the two men on board.

Those still on shore held ropes to prevent the ship from drifting while the sailors scuttled from bow to stern in her belly, probing and checking.

“She looks good, Captain,” one called.

There was another, smaller cheer. It would have been possible to repair the ship, to rebuild her, even, if necessary. This was good, however. She was still seaworthy, ready to explore the upper river.

Landsverk announced his plans for the upcoming journey that night. They would divide the force, the stronger portion to go with the
Norsemaiden
on her exploratory voyage up the lakelike river. The smaller force would remain behind with the
Snowbird
.

“Thorsson will come with me on the
Norsemaiden
,” he stated.

Nils was astonished. This would leave the
Snowbird
with no one who knew navigation. Except, perhaps, for Svenson, whose long years on the sea furnished a great depth of practical experience. An uneasy thought crossed Nils’s mind. Was Helge taking him because he distrusted him? Was Helge afraid he would take the
Snowbird
and leave?

“Svenson, you too,” Helge continued. “The
Snowbird
will not be going anywhere.”

It was uncomfortable. Landsverk appeared to be taking
anyone who would be able to navigate the ship, to prevent its leaving. This seemed risky at best. There was always the possibility of danger upstream. What if the larger party never returned? The
Snowbird
would be stranded, with an under-strength crew and no one really qualified to get them back even as far as Straumfjord.

Nils also wondered at the advisability of dividing the force at all. He had not foreseen that problem in the excitement of transporting the ship and the ensuing accident.

Rafn did seem to be recovering nicely. He would stay behind, of course. Landsverk had been quite generous in providing wine to help alleviate the pain, and Rafn had remained drunk or asleep or both most of the time. He seemed morose during his lucid periods, depressed but accepting that which seemed unavoidable. Anyway, it could not be helped now.

They spent a day reloading the
Norsemaiden
, packing her cargo up the trail on their backs and stowing it again in the ship. There was an air of excitement, a sense of new beginnings.

Nils had regained some of his enthusiasm for exploration by the time they cast loose and moved into the channel next morning. He had talked more with Odin. There was, the Skraeling repeated, a chain of lakes, all a part of this river. Odin seemed confident that they could sail for “many sleeps” before their way would become difficult. The rapids they had passed, he assured Nils, was the only major barrier for a long way. In a newfound enthusiasm, Nils set aside the thought that they would have to bypass the rapids again on the way home.

He was beginning to trust Odin. Thus far, the Skraeling had predicted what was ahead quite accurately and truthfully. There were those who did not feel so kindly toward the stowaway, even now, when his information had proved correct. Some still growled that he should have been killed when he was discovered.

“The only good Skraeling is a dead Skraeling,” was a quietly repeated saying.

Odin was quite aware of this undercurrent of distrust, but appeared not to notice. It seemed, however, that he had selected Nils as his protector, with Svenson a close second
choice. In an unobtrusive way, he seemed to contrive to be near one or the other at all times. Nils wondered if Sven was aware of it, too. He must ask him, when occasion offered.

Nils had made a point of suggesting that Odin be utilized as a guide for the
Norsemaiden
. This would legitimatize his presence and furnish protection for the Skraeling. Still, he was not completely certain of the man’s motives. Odin had said that he wished to go home. Was there more? The possibility existed that when they reached Odin’s people…well, the Norsemen would be of no further use to him. They would be easy prey for the savages. That possibility now seemed less likely with each passing day. Odin was quietly cooperative, apparently trying to make himself inconspicuous. Gradually, Nils became less concerned about any deception on the part of the Skraeling. The man must be what he appeared, Nils concluded. An intelligent savage whose life had been hard, and who wished to return to his homeland.