“Edison discovered that if you place a bumed-out firestarter in a grail, most of the housing gets cooked off, leaving a small amount of iron and copper. Not much, but considering that everyone in the valley started out with one firestarter and usually got another every six months or so, that accounted for a good amount of material in a few years.
“The Vikings used the metal to make rivets and bolts, along with a few axes. Those went to the best fighters and a few shipwrights. Scafhogg, their most famous craftsman, got one. He uses it still.
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“Norsemen dislike saws, preferring axes for cutting wood. Wait till you see Thorberg use his blade. The man’s a genius with it.”
“Ain’t his only talent,” said Bowie. The Texan pulled a long knife out of a dragonfish scabbard. The burnished steel blade blazed in the morning sunshine.
“He made it for me usin’ a picture I drew,” Bowie continued. “Same way Rezin designed the original. Not perfectly balanced, but it’s sure better than a hornfish sword. Only Bowie knife on the whole river, I suspect.”
“I’ll say,” replied Crockett. “You think maybe this Thorberg could make me a rifle?”
“Probably,” said Bowie. “We even cooked up some gunpowder for explosives a while back. But what you planning to use for ammunition? Wooden bullets?”
“Damn,” said Crockett. “Ain’t proper for a man to be without a gun. I miss my Betsy.”
“There’s Scafhogg now,” interrupted Mason, pointing to a figure in the distance. “That’s a title given him by King Olaf in the tenth century,” he added as an afterthought. “It means, ‘Smoothing Stroke,’ referring to his shipbuilding skills.”
A hundred feet away, a squat, heavyset man stood beside a long wood workbench, busily chopping into a slab of oak with a glittering steel ax. Powerful muscles rippled in his arms and shoulders as he worked. A long blond braid tossed to and fro across his back with each motion.
“Ho, Thorberg,” cried Bowie as they drew closer.
The Norseman paused and looked up. The harsh, angular lines of his face softened when he spotted the Texan. “Ho, Bowie,” he called in return. “Welcome to you and your friends.”
They spent the next ten minutes on introductions and idle
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gossip. Thorberg spoke Esperanto with a thick accent, and oftentimes it was difficult to make out what he said. However, the master builder possessed a keen mind and quick wit. He expressed pleasure in meeting Crockett, and even submitted to listening to a verse of the sharpshooter’s theme song. Bowie agonized through the rendition. He wondered idly if this miracle picture device called television ever featured a show on his life. Mentally, he promised to put that question to Bill Mason once they were alone.
The serenade over, Thorberg showed them his latest project, a massive oak chair he was constructing for one of the villagers. As he spoke, he slashed at the wood backboard with his ax, trimming it away with the precision of a fine surgeon.
“And what brings you to my humble home?” he asked, brushing a tiny sliver of wood from his hair. “Not merely the desire to show Crockett examples of my work, I suspect.”
“We want you to build a boat,” said Bowie, seeing no reason to equivocate. “A longboat, like the ones you constructed for King Olaf and his men. We’re planning a trip downstream.”
The Norseman didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “Follow me,” he said.
Turning, he headed away from the River and into the forest. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. Five minutes of brisk walking brought them to the base of a huge oak tree, towering well over a hundred feet into the air.
“Here is the keel for your ship,” he declared proudly. “I knew from the day we met that someday you would ask this task from me. It was in your eyes. Sooner or later, all true men must challenge the great River.”
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“Mighty big tree,” said Davy Crockett. “Gonna be an awfully long boat.”
“On Earth, for King Olaf, I built one twice the size,” said Thorberg. “A mighty dragon ship he named Long Serpent.”