of Thor, even.”
The Skraeling was now thoroughly puzzled. “Why, then, am I called this? An honor?”
Disbelief shone in his one eye, and sarcasm in his voice.
“No,” Nils answered. He was a bit embarrassed, though he was not certain why. “The god Odin has only one eye.”
Nils was uncertain how this would be received, but he was surprised by the reaction. The Skraeling appeared delighted.
“Ah, I am Odin, father of the gods! It is good.”
Nils started to tell the man that this was hardly an honor. The name had been given as a joke, a cruel joke that was designed to make fun of the man’s infirmity. He had not completely realized that before.
That
, he thought,
was why I was uncomfortable when he asked
. He found himself searching for a way to apologize, but could not. Even more startling, maybe, was a new realization. Odin
understood
the joke, and even enjoyed sharing in it. Nils remembered again his thought that this was far from an ignorant savage. Odin was a clever man.
“Yes,” Nils murmured in embarrassed agreement. “It is good.”
13
N ils chafed under the inactivity during the entire next day. If it had not been for his one-eyed companion, he might have acted unwisely. Repeatedly, Odin restrained him from exposing their position.
“No, Thorsson! Stay down!”
So they remained hidden behind the screening bushes along the river’s edge. Three times boats skirted past the rapids and along the shore, circling, searching. Each time Nils was tempted to step out and scream a challenge. It would at least bring the conflict to an end. Once, even, when a boat with two heavily armed savages drifted within a bowshot of their place of concealment, he tensed his muscles to rise. But a hand gripped his wrist firmly. He tried to pull away, but the Skraeling was surprisingly strong. Angrily, Nils turned to meet the gaze of the single good eye. Odin’s expression was stern, and his manner serious.
“No!” the man indicated by a shake of the head. He laid a finger to his lips to caution silence. Slowly, Nils’s anger cooled, as the boat drifted past downstream.
The activity across the river continued. Dozens of warriors moved up and down the portage trail carrying plunder, loading bundles into the skin boats. Occasionally a heavily loaded boat would shove off from the opposite shore and move upstream, propelled by a skilled oarsman.
It was apparent that other warriors were still beating the brush where any surviving Norsemen might be hiding. It was difficult to gauge the extent of their success. Once a flurry of excited shouts seemed to indicate the discovery of a fugitive, but it stopped abruptly. Nils was not sure.
About that time, however, their plight really began to sinkhome to him. The activity across the river, the boat that had come searching, even the massacre itself he had seen in a sort of detached dream. It was as if he had been watching a scene that had no real connection to him.
There is an illogical approach to life that makes the young among us consider themselves immortal. But there comes a day of reckoning when one realizes the truth of the fragile nature of our continued existence. It is a frightening transformation, too late for some—possibly only a heartbeat before the mortality is proven in the finality of death. Maybe there is not even the heartbeat’s time for the realization before it descends.
For Nils Thorsson this was the day of realization. It did not come with lofty thoughts of Valhalla, but in a wave of perception that jarred him back to reality:
Those warriors on the other shore want to kill me!
Until now his training in weapons, the games and skills and contests, had all been in play. But this was the real thing.
Me!
No longer was his only problem how to get home, but whether he would be alive to try.
Nils shook himself. No, he must not think of failure. There
would
be a way, if he could find it. While he was alive, he would be trying. And, if it so happened, and
The Skraeling was now thoroughly puzzled. “Why, then, am I called this? An honor?”
Disbelief shone in his one eye, and sarcasm in his voice.
“No,” Nils answered. He was a bit embarrassed, though he was not certain why. “The god Odin has only one eye.”
Nils was uncertain how this would be received, but he was surprised by the reaction. The Skraeling appeared delighted.
“Ah, I am Odin, father of the gods! It is good.”
Nils started to tell the man that this was hardly an honor. The name had been given as a joke, a cruel joke that was designed to make fun of the man’s infirmity. He had not completely realized that before.
That
, he thought,
was why I was uncomfortable when he asked
. He found himself searching for a way to apologize, but could not. Even more startling, maybe, was a new realization. Odin
understood
the joke, and even enjoyed sharing in it. Nils remembered again his thought that this was far from an ignorant savage. Odin was a clever man.
“Yes,” Nils murmured in embarrassed agreement. “It is good.”
13
N ils chafed under the inactivity during the entire next day. If it had not been for his one-eyed companion, he might have acted unwisely. Repeatedly, Odin restrained him from exposing their position.
“No, Thorsson! Stay down!”
So they remained hidden behind the screening bushes along the river’s edge. Three times boats skirted past the rapids and along the shore, circling, searching. Each time Nils was tempted to step out and scream a challenge. It would at least bring the conflict to an end. Once, even, when a boat with two heavily armed savages drifted within a bowshot of their place of concealment, he tensed his muscles to rise. But a hand gripped his wrist firmly. He tried to pull away, but the Skraeling was surprisingly strong. Angrily, Nils turned to meet the gaze of the single good eye. Odin’s expression was stern, and his manner serious.
“No!” the man indicated by a shake of the head. He laid a finger to his lips to caution silence. Slowly, Nils’s anger cooled, as the boat drifted past downstream.
The activity across the river continued. Dozens of warriors moved up and down the portage trail carrying plunder, loading bundles into the skin boats. Occasionally a heavily loaded boat would shove off from the opposite shore and move upstream, propelled by a skilled oarsman.
It was apparent that other warriors were still beating the brush where any surviving Norsemen might be hiding. It was difficult to gauge the extent of their success. Once a flurry of excited shouts seemed to indicate the discovery of a fugitive, but it stopped abruptly. Nils was not sure.
About that time, however, their plight really began to sinkhome to him. The activity across the river, the boat that had come searching, even the massacre itself he had seen in a sort of detached dream. It was as if he had been watching a scene that had no real connection to him.
There is an illogical approach to life that makes the young among us consider themselves immortal. But there comes a day of reckoning when one realizes the truth of the fragile nature of our continued existence. It is a frightening transformation, too late for some—possibly only a heartbeat before the mortality is proven in the finality of death. Maybe there is not even the heartbeat’s time for the realization before it descends.
For Nils Thorsson this was the day of realization. It did not come with lofty thoughts of Valhalla, but in a wave of perception that jarred him back to reality:
Those warriors on the other shore want to kill me!
Until now his training in weapons, the games and skills and contests, had all been in play. But this was the real thing.
Me!
No longer was his only problem how to get home, but whether he would be alive to try.
Nils shook himself. No, he must not think of failure. There
would
be a way, if he could find it. While he was alive, he would be trying. And, if it so happened, and
Similar Books
