Authors: Don Coldsmith
The People, able to kill and skin more buffalo and to transport heavier lodge covers, now made their dwellings larger and finer. Some were constructed of thirty skins. Wealth was expressed in this way and in horses. Children learned to ride before they could walk. It was common to see a toddler, tied to the back of a trustworthy old mare while she was turned loose to graze. The sons of Heads Off and Tall One had been raised so and were fine riders. Especially Eagle, the older boy. Coyote, in a surprise move at the First Dance, had given the child the nickname he had borne all along. It had seemed to fit, as the boy matured and soft fur appeared on his upper lip only a few seasons ago. The young man remained Eagle, and as Coyote
said, the youth’s eye carried such a look, the look of eagles. This one would earn fame.
The other child was called Owl. Two years younger, he had never seemed quite as aggressive or as popular a child as his brother Eagle. But his name fit well. This child had arrived in the world wide-eyed, as some infants do, eager to see and to learn. His large dark eyes, much like his mother’s, seemed to glow with an inner curiosity as well as wisdom. Yes, Owl was well named.
There had been other changes as the People adapted to the new affluence that the elk-dog provided. Time formerly spent in the quest of food for survival could now be devoted to things of the spirit. More elaborate decoration of simple garments and household things, more songs and ceremonies. There was a surge of interest in the throaty melodies of the courting flute, which in turn led to seasons of romance.
And, all in all, it was good. White Buffalo could hardly believe that at one time he had resisted such change, had even considered destroying Heads Off to stop it. Heads Off had been a good leader. He had made mistakes, as all leaders do. But people forgive their leaders for honest mistakes. Only one thing people find unforgivable in a leader, White Buffalo observed—indecisiveness. A wrong decision is forgiven more easily than no decision. And Heads Off had never been guilty of that. True, he could never, as an outsider, be more than a band chief, a subchief in the structure of tribal politics. But, the Elk-dog band was still the strongest and most prestigious of the bands of the People. That had been the function of Heads Off.
White Buffalo filled his nose and mouth with the fragrant smoke from his pipe and blew it out gently, savoring the mixture of tastes. Tobacco, sumac, the roasted bark of the red willow, and other favorite substances lent their fragrance. Everything, he now believed, had its function, its place in the world. As Heads Off did. As every person does, maybe. His own position, that of interpreter of the change for the People. Only after the fact had he known. His entire career as holy man had been shaped by forces of the spirit-world, to help the People take this great leap forward as they changed to accept the medicine of the elk-dog.
He thought of Coyote, who had changed not one bit in
the past seasons. A little grayer, a little fatter, maybe, but the same likable buffoon. White Buffalo had been irritated, angry even, when Coyote had refused the gift of the spirit and had taken another path. Now he realized that that too had been part of the entire plan. Coyote had been used as a go-between, to help bring together the medicines of the buffalo and the elk-dog. As he looked back, White Buffalo could see many things that had not been apparent. All the events that had taken place in his lifetime had come to rest in proper perspective. From his earliest feelings of the spirit, his strange visions on his vision quest, the dreams of the elk-dog as a youth… Now it all was seen as a part of his mission, his life’s work.
It was satisfying, this feeling that he had been permitted to be a part of so great a change. But there seemed to be one thing that still did
not
fit. It had begun to bother him many years ago that no young person had come forth to become his apprentice, to learn the medicine of the buffalo. He had realized, in light of the sweeping changes brought about by the elk-dog, that there had been a reason. The lives of Coyote, Big-Footed Woman, the other possible holy ones, had all held other purposes. Parts of the pattern, which had been fitted together like the multicolored quills of decorative embroidery on a ceremonial shirt. But there was still a flaw. Somehow, the purpose of his own life seemed incomplete. So far, it was full, satisfying, overwhelming almost in its scope, but what now? There was an emptiness, a regret, in this, the autumn of his career. It was not difficult to identify, of course. It was a feeling of concern, of failure almost. Disappointment. There had still never been a young person to accept the gift of the spirit, one to whom he could teach his skills, his medicine.
He had tried to put it away, to crowd it back in his thoughts, but it was difficult. It was much like the disappointment that he and Crow had never had another child. That had been pushed aside, accepted, but was still a deep hurt sometimes. He did not understand it, any more than he understood the lack of someone to carry on the medicine of the buffalo. Was he to die with no successor? Was that too part of the plan?
His reverie was interrupted by the approach of Coyote, who had with him his grandson Owl.
“Ah-koh
, Uncle,” Coyote greeted him, “we would speak with you.”
Coyote’s tone was serious. This then was no idle visit. What was it? The holy man motioned for them to sit.
The youngster, of maybe twelve summers it seemed, appeared uneasy and a little frightened. Coyote was quick to assist, explaining that Owl had questions about his background and why his father, the band chief, was considered an outsider. The boy had been teased and bullied, it seemed, by a couple of ne’er-do-wells.
White Buffalo thought it over. He could see the young man’s dilemma. At twelve summers, one does not wish to be different. He had seen the older boy, Eagle, successfully adjust to the fact, but this child seemed to have more misgivings.
Well, why not start at the beginning? A trifle bored by the entire thing, the holy man nevertheless wished to help the grandson of his friend Coyote. He brought out the story-skins, and spent some time showing the pictographs of Heads Off on First Elk-dog, the buffalo hunts on horseback, the Great Battle with Heads Off defeating the Head Splitter Gray Wolf. The boy had heard the story before, but now seemed to be searching for new meaning.
“Your father is now one of us,” the holy man concluded. “Heads Off is well honored by the People.”
“But what of his own tribe, Uncle?” the boy asked. “Their medicine?”
An odd question, White Buffalo thought.
“His medicine is very powerful,” the holy man said. “As strong as my own, in a different way.”
He warmed to this, a favorite topic.
“Mine is the medicine of the buffalo. My visions tell the People where to hunt, how to find the herds. Your father’s medicine is that of the elk-dog. With this medicine, he controls the elk-dogs, so that men ride upon them to hunt or fight.”
He pointed to some of the pictures with the metal bit worn as an ornament on the chest of Heads Off. The boy nodded. He knew that talisman well. All his life it had hung in the place of honor over his parents’ bed.
“Tell me, Uncle,” said the boy suddenly. “How do you know where to find the buffalo?”
White Buffalo almost gasped. This was a much more
complicated question than it appeared. It involved the very heart of the holy man’s expertise and was not a question to be taken lightly. It implied deep soul-searching questions by the young man. White Buffalo shrugged.
“The visions, of course.”
He could tell that the youngster was deep in thought, but he was completely unprepared for the next question.
“Uncle, how does one become a holy man?”
Like a wave of water moving down a dry wash in the time of flash flooding, the answers came flowing over White Buffalo. Of course! Why had he not seen this before? A sensitive young man who carried the blood of two gifted ones, Coyote and Big-Footed Woman, besides that of Heads Off himself. Of course this one might receive the gift of the spirits.
The holy man looked across, over the boy’s head, and his glance met that of Coyote. The little man’s face was squinted in his good-natured half-smile, but his eyes reflected more. Coyote understood what was happening. How long had he known?
The pieces were falling together too rapidly, though they seemed to fit so well… he must have time… to pray and think, and seek visions.
White Buffalo tried to assume an expression of serious dignity, though he wanted to leap and sing for joy.
At last he was finding the answer he had sought so long. He turned back to the boy, trying not to speak too gruffly.
“Come back tomorrow. We will talk.”
There was satisfaction in the boy’s face, and in Coyote’s. And White Buffalo’s heart was very good.
Don Coldsmith was born in lola, Kansas, in 1926. He served as a World War II combat medic in the South Pacific and returned to his native state, where he graduated from Baker University in 1949 and received his M.D. from the University of Kansas in 1958. He worked at several jobs before entering medical school: He was YMCA Youth Director, a gunsmith, a taxidermist, and for a short time a Congregational preacher. In addition to his private medical practice, Dr. Coldsmith has been a staff physician at the Health Center of Emporia State University, where he also teaches in the English Department. He discontinued medical pursuits in 1990 to devote more time to his writing. He and his wife of thirty-two years, Edna, operate a small cattle ranch. They have raised five daughters.
Dr. Coldsmith produced the first ten novels in the Spanish Bit Saga in a five-year period; he writes and revises the stories first in his head, then in longhand. From this manuscript the final version is skillfully created by his longtime assistant, Ann Bowman.
Of his decision to create, or re-create, the world of the Plains Indians in the early centuries of European contact, the author says: “There has been very little written about this time period. I wanted also to portray these Native Americans as human beings, rather than as stereotyped ‘Indians’ As I have researched the time and place, the indigenous cultures, it’s been a truly inspiring experience for me. I am not attempting to tell anyone else’s story. My only goal is to tell a story and tell it fairly.”
Look for Don Goldsmith’s novel, RUNESTONE, available in paperback from Bantam Books.
Set in the first years of the eleventh century, RUNESTONE tells the story of two sturdy, swift-moving longships that have set sail from Norway with their handpicked crews, and are venturing across the great sea to Vinland and the colony of Straumfjord. But the real journey will only begin when a group of sailors pushes on into the waterways of the vast, uncharted continent itself—and into a historic rendezvous with a native culture unlike anything they have ever seen.
Combining the grandeur of Norse adventure with the lush, lyrical atmosphere of Coldsmith’s tales of the People that form his towering Spanish Bit Saga (“Devastatingly assured writing, commented
The New York Times Book Review)
, RUNESTONE is Don Coldsmith’s
magnum opus:
a novel with unsurpassed reach and range, one of the most satisfying reading experiences of the year.
Turn the page for a preview of RUNESTONE by Spur Award-winner Don Goldsmith.
Runestone
N
lils Thorsson stood in the foredecks, watching the other ship cleave her way through gray-green water. A white curl of foam spewed out of each side of the prow as she ran before the wind. Running with a bone in her teeth, the old men called it. It was a glorious feeling, the free-flying run of a well-built ship, looking alive as a bird in flight.
It was easy, as he watched the
Norsemaiden’s
trim lines and the nodding of the tall dragon’s head on her prow, to see her as a living thing. The red-and-white sail bulged full-curving, filled with the wind’s push.
The two sister ships raced forward, running parallel courses. The
Snowbird, on
whose deck he now stood, was slightly ahead.
It had been a good voyage so far. Only once since they left Greenland’s south coast had the men been forced to turn to the oars. Even then, Nils thought, it might have been unnecessary. He suspected that the commander, Helge Landsverk, had ordered the stint at rowing only to test the mettle of his crews. Thirty-two oarsmen the ships each boasted, all hand-picked for the voyage. They had done well, and soon a freshening breeze had made it possible to unfurl the sails again to run with the wind.
He could sense the shudder of resilient timbers under his feet when they struck a slightly larger wave. The ship seemed to raise her head for a moment, and then plunged back to her task. Again he felt the life within her sleek hull. She was a living, breathing creature with a spirit of her own that seemed to communicate with his. Nils wondered if everyone felt this affinity for a good ship. Probably not. Some did, though. He could tell by the glow in the eyes of the old men when they told their sea tales of long ago.
Why, too, did one ship have a different spirit, somehow, than another? These two, for instance. The
Snowbird
and the
Norsemaiden
were as nearly alike as the shipbuilder’s skills could make them, yet everyone knew they were different. Neither was better nor worse than the other, only different.
As two women may be different, perhaps, he thought. Both beautiful and desirable, yet different.
The
Snowbird
always breasted the swells as if she challenged the sea, asking for the contest, daring the legions of the sea-god Aegir to do their worst. She savagely reveled in the struggle. Perhaps it was only something in the painted eye of the dragon’s head above the prow. There was definitely a proud, aloof expression. But no, it was more than that. She
did
have such a spirit.
Norsemaiden
, on the other hand, was more sedate. Perhaps her responsibility as the flagship of the commander gave her a more mature dignity.
Nils could see the arrow-straight figure of Helge standing in the bows. He had known Landsverk since they were boys. It was because of this friendship, in fact, that Nus now commanded the
Snowbird
.
It was a great adventure that his friend had sketched out for him. Helge Landsverk, skilled as he was at navigation, had been eclipsed by the dazzling exploits of an older relative, Leif Ericsson. Leif had already led an expedition on the course they were now following, and had founded a colony on the new land. Vinland, Leif had called it, for the myriad of grapevines he found growing there.
There were some who thought it a new continent, as large as Europe, perhaps. It was on this precept that Helge based his ambition. Let Leif explore the seas, establish colonies in the islands and extend the new religion that so obsessed him. He, Helge Landsverk, would push into the western continent itself, this Vinland that seemed so exciting. If grapes could grow, so could other crops. He spoke with admiration of Thorwald Ericsson, Leif’s younger brother, who espoused similar ideas.
Nils had once met the young Ericsson, a bombastic, hard-driving youth of about his own age. It was easy to see, in the enthusiastic demeanor of Thorwald Ericsson, the influence of the old Viking blood that coursed in his veins. It was said, Nils recalled, that Thorwald was much like his father, the irrepressible Eric the Red. Perhaps even
old
Thorwald, Eric’s father, who had fled to Iceland to escape prosecution for murder.
Yes, there was little doubt that a generation or two ago, young Thorwald Ericsson would have been in the forefront of those who went a-viking, raiding and pillaging mercilessly along the coast and into the Isles.
It was exciting to hear Helge’s stories of the sea, to see his eyes glitter in the light of the smoky oil lamp on the table.
“Thorwald is somewhere over there now,” Helge had told him.
“Where? Vinland?”
“Yes!”
Landsverk’s face was ruddy with excitement and wine as he described the deep fjords and clean cold water of the coasts. Nils was confused.
“You have been there?” he asked.
“No, no. Only as far as Greenland. But, Nils, Vinland is better. I have talked to Thorwald. There are bold headlands, sheltered harbors, all just waiting for settlement.”
“There are no people there?”
“No. None civilized. A few Skraelings.”
“Skraelings?”
“Yes. Primitives. Barbarians. They are no problem against civilized weapons.”
Nils ignored the faint warning deep in his consciousness, the hint that his friend was actually anticipating such an opportunity for combat. He was excited at the possibilities, too.
He became more so as Helge unfolded the plan, an exploring expedition paid for by Helge’s father. It was hoped to establish trade. In his semi-inebriated condition, it did not occur to Nils that the goal of trade was moderately incompatible with that of invasion and combat, leading to colonization.
After much further drinking of wine and recalling of childhood memories, Nils had accepted Landsverk’s offer to command the
Snowbird
. He did protest, though not too strenuously, that he was not skilled in navigation, It was no matter, Helge had insisted; “I will be navigating anyway, and you will have a skilled crew.”
They had embarked from Stadt in late May. Now, here he was, far from Norway, gaining experience as sailor and navigator, setting forth on another leg of their journey. And he had found it good.
Thus far, they had made brief stops at Iceland and again on the southern tip of Greenland, where a vigorous colony nourished. Each time, the sailors spent a few days recovering from the pitching roll of the Atlantic and loading supplies for the next leg of the journey. To be light and fast, yet sturdy, a ship had little room for supplies and cargo. The crew was cramped for space. Even the larger ships, such as
these two, carried little beyond necessities and a few items for trading.
Water, of course, was one of the biggest problems on a long sea voyage. Casks were stowed amidships and refilled at every opportunity.
Across the waves, Landsverk waved and pointed ahead. A waterspout spewed into the air as a whale breached the surface and rolled. The creature was close enough for the men to see the great eye, fixed for a moment on the intruders before the monster slipped beneath the sea again.
They had seen whales before, east of Greenland. It was a frightening thing, a feeling of vulnerability, to watch the creatures calmly approach. There had been a moment of terror while the mind tried to comprehend the enormity of the creatures. Longer than the ship, they could have destroyed the entire expedition with a flick of the tail. It was only slight consolation to recall that there had never been an instance of one of these giants attacking a ship.
The shiny gray bulk slipped out of sight and they were alone on the sea again. Svenson, the steersman, had relinquished his task to a relief man and was making his way forward.
“You see him?” Nils asked.
“Aye, a big one!” Svenson grinned.
“It always surprises me. I’m never expecting it.”
“Right. Ye never get used to it.”
The men stood at the prow, studying the sea, but the whale did not reappear. Svenson was pulling his cloak around him more snugly.
“By the hammer of Thor, there’s a bite to the wind. It will be a cold one tonight.”
Nils nodded, amused. Svenson wore a crucifix around his neck, symbol of his conversion. Still, in matters like the sea and the weather, he swore on the names of the old gods. Such habits die hard.
“Sven,” he asked, “you have been to Vinland before?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How many days yet?”
The old sailor chuckled.
“You grow impatient, lad.”
He looked at the sky, the horizon, and the gently nodding sea, as if for a sign.
“Maybe two, three days.”
Nils nodded again.
“There is a harbor?”
“Yes. It is much like the coast at home. Fjords, deep inlets. They were building a dock when I was there.”
“That is good.”
“Yes. It will be much easier.”
Abruptly, Svenson turned and made his way back to the stem to take the steering oar again. Only for a short while was he ever willing to relinquish the responsibility. That, Nils supposed, was one of the qualities that made Sven a good steersman.
Nils shivered a little against the wind, and pulled his wolf-skin cloak up around his ears. Even the setting sun looked cold and watery. Svenson was right. This would be a chill night.
T
he colony nestled in a meadow that sloped down to the sea on the north shore. Nils wondered at the exposed location, but soon realized its advantages. The little harbor opened on a deep channel, with plenty of room for maneuvering. In the distance to the north lay a massive headland, tall enough, it appeared, to provide some degree of shelter from the winter’s blasts.
The land mass where the colony stood stretched southward as far as eye could see, green with vegetation during this summer season. There were trees and meadows and rolling hills, much more hospitable in appearance than the barren slopes of Iceland, or even Greenland.
Of course, they were now farther south. For the past several days, it had been apparent that the Polestar was lower in the sky at night than in the more northern regions. Svenson had demonstrated an old sailor’s method of reckoning position. He lay on his back on the deck with his head pointing south, knees raised and feet near his rump. Then he placed a fist on his right knee with the thumb sticking straight up.
“See?” he invited. “When ye’re this far south, the Polestar is not far from the thumb. Farther north, she’s farther away, higher in the sky.”
It was reasonable, and so simple that Nils was surprised
that he had never heard of this trick. Of course, he had never had to reckon his position north and south to any extent. Most of his sailing experience had been along the coast, seldom out of sight of land.
More important in the open sea was identification of direction, rather than position. In clear weather it was no problem, by the position of the sun. At noon a shadow, cast by a stick, pointed due north. At night, the Polestar provided orientation. It was more difficult in overcast weather, especially in the absence of prevailing wind. Then the whole world became a faceless, unfeeling gray. Nils could well remember the first time he had felt the terror of the
hafvilla
, the panicky feel of being lost at sea. It was all he could do to maintain his composure until the sky cleared enough for him to see the red stripe of the sunset far to the west along the horizon.
On this expedition, however, they had been relatively free of such difficulty. The weather had been cooperative, and except for a chilly night or two, it had been a comfortable crossing. Nils was gaining confidence, aided by the sage advice of Svenson, who had taken a liking to the young shipmaster.
They steered into the channel from the northeast under full sail, tacked toward the distant harbor, and then furled the sails to approach the dock with the oars.
Three cargo ships wallowed at anchor near the docks, potbellied
knarrs
, heavy and slow compared to the trim dragon ships. They reminded Nils of three fat sows nosing around a trough. He looked again with a seaman’s eye. They were well built, their massive holds designed to carry livestock and cargo amidships. Fore and aft there would be living quarters. Thorfinn Karlsefni had brought his settlers in these ships, some hundred and sixty men and women, to sink their roots into the soil that Leif Ericsson had called Vinland.
At the dock rode a sleek ship with slender lines. It was a thrill to look at her, bright paint glistening in the sunlight. Men moved along her decks, performing the constant tasks required for the maintenance of an ocean-going ship. Nils turned to ask Svenson about her, but the old sailor anticipated his question.
“Ericsson’s here,” he grunted.
“Leif Ericsson?”
It would be an honor to meet the famous explorer.
“No, Thorwald. You know him?”
“Not really. I met him once.”
“A little crazy,” Svenson commented as he turned his attention to the steering oar.
Crazy or not, Nils told himself, the man is exciting. The very thought of charting unknown coasts made his heart race, and sent a tingle up his spine to prickle the hairs at the back of his neck.
Ahead of them,
Norsemaiden
completed her turn and headed for an area near the landing. Svenson heaved on his oar and
Snowbird
followed. People were coming down to the docks, to stand waving as the ships approached. The arrival of ships from home would be a major event for people in such isolation.
Beyond the landing area, he could see the several buildings of the village of Straumfjord. Three of them appeared to be of the common Norse longhouse style, dwellings for a number of families each. These would be temporary, until the colony became better established, he knew. Then each couple would be drawing apart to build their own houses. He wondered in passing if living with fifty or more people in one house inhibited romance. He could hardly imagine making love with the knowledge that dozens of other couples were listening in the darkness. Of course, they would have the same problem.
A familiar sound struck his ears, the ring of a smith’s hammer on an anvil. He spotted the smith’s forge, to one side of the settlement, by the occasional puff of smoke and sparks that rose when someone pumped the bellows. He wondered if they were mining iron here, or bringing it from home. Well, he would find out later.