The Runestone Incident (The Incident Series, #2) by Neve Maslakovic Page B
Authors: Neve Maslakovic
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runs with the aid of handheld scanners and currently stuffed into the glass cabinet in the basement. The tug of war between the campus museum and the Coffey Library on the matter—the museum had the space, but the library offered hands-on accessibility to visitors—had been resolved by Chancellor Jane Evans, who made the simple suggestion that the manuscripts should be made available in both places. Scott explained that the fundraiser was progressing as they usually did—slowly—and pointed me to the library computers.
I ran into Dr. Payne by the computers. He nodded at me and asked what I was doing there, as if the library was reserved for academics only.
I explained.
“You’re wasting your time, Julia. I hope Dr. Holm hasn’t been encouraging this.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Even if we went back in time to watch the farmer stumble upon the stone, what would it prove? That he probably planted it there himself.”
“I’m just killing a free Saturday morning,” I said mildly.
“You should have better things to do.”
That was probably true.
“Since I’m here already,” I said with a shrug, “I might as well grab a book or two on the subject. If you’ll excuse me—”
He went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “The runes on the stone are completely…ah, shall we say, unexpected . And the inscription is long, ridiculously so. The bottom line is that no artifacts or historical accounts lend credence to the story of medieval Norse reaching what is now the state of Minnesota.”
“Then my visit here will be short.”
“Feel free to consult me if you need an opinion on any of the materials. Some of the so-called authors on the runestone issue are hacks.” He swiped a hand over his comb-over and let out a sharp laugh, as though what he had said was hilarious. “Some? Most!”
With that, he turned on his heel and burrowed deeper into the library. I sat down at a computer terminal to do a quick search and soon was headed into the stacks armed with several call numbers.
The books concerning the runestone seemed to be spread evenly between two shelves, one devoted to general-interest history books, and one whose subject matter, according to the shelf label, was Impostors, Forgeries & Fraud . A cursory glance at the covers revealed a wide range of opinions. One called the stone “the most important artifact in US history,” while another dubbed it a “transparent hoax.” I picked up a couple of the most objective-seeming books from each shelf, carried them to a free table by the window, and settled in for a morning of reading. As everyone connected to the STEWie program knew very well, much of History was made up of threads set in motion by a single person, and Olof Ohman had been one such person, whether the stone was real or not.
There were only a few pictures of the major players because the stone had been found at the turn of the century. The first showed the young Ohman family not long after they had settled on the farm. After emigrating from Sweden, Olof had purchased a forty-acre parcel in 1890 for $300, later expanding his farm with additional parcels. The farm was described as being three miles to the northeast of Kensington’s rail station on the Soo Line, which was the Minneapolis, St. Paul & Sault Ste. Marie railway. Olof had a heavy beard, and all of the Ohmans were looking unsmilingly at the camera. Then there was a jump of a few decades to a photo that was eerily similar to the one of Quinn’s grandfather next to the stone. A middle-aged Olof Ohman was standing stiffly in a suit by the stone at some sort of ceremony, flanked by a pair of soldiers in full garb, his hand resting lightly on the stone as it stood up propped on wooden boxes. Again, he looked dead serious, as Magnus had in his photo, not at all like a man with a bent for practical jokes. There was one last photo, of Olof and Karin Ohman in their old age standing side by side on their land, a year before the good
I ran into Dr. Payne by the computers. He nodded at me and asked what I was doing there, as if the library was reserved for academics only.
I explained.
“You’re wasting your time, Julia. I hope Dr. Holm hasn’t been encouraging this.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Even if we went back in time to watch the farmer stumble upon the stone, what would it prove? That he probably planted it there himself.”
“I’m just killing a free Saturday morning,” I said mildly.
“You should have better things to do.”
That was probably true.
“Since I’m here already,” I said with a shrug, “I might as well grab a book or two on the subject. If you’ll excuse me—”
He went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “The runes on the stone are completely…ah, shall we say, unexpected . And the inscription is long, ridiculously so. The bottom line is that no artifacts or historical accounts lend credence to the story of medieval Norse reaching what is now the state of Minnesota.”
“Then my visit here will be short.”
“Feel free to consult me if you need an opinion on any of the materials. Some of the so-called authors on the runestone issue are hacks.” He swiped a hand over his comb-over and let out a sharp laugh, as though what he had said was hilarious. “Some? Most!”
With that, he turned on his heel and burrowed deeper into the library. I sat down at a computer terminal to do a quick search and soon was headed into the stacks armed with several call numbers.
The books concerning the runestone seemed to be spread evenly between two shelves, one devoted to general-interest history books, and one whose subject matter, according to the shelf label, was Impostors, Forgeries & Fraud . A cursory glance at the covers revealed a wide range of opinions. One called the stone “the most important artifact in US history,” while another dubbed it a “transparent hoax.” I picked up a couple of the most objective-seeming books from each shelf, carried them to a free table by the window, and settled in for a morning of reading. As everyone connected to the STEWie program knew very well, much of History was made up of threads set in motion by a single person, and Olof Ohman had been one such person, whether the stone was real or not.
There were only a few pictures of the major players because the stone had been found at the turn of the century. The first showed the young Ohman family not long after they had settled on the farm. After emigrating from Sweden, Olof had purchased a forty-acre parcel in 1890 for $300, later expanding his farm with additional parcels. The farm was described as being three miles to the northeast of Kensington’s rail station on the Soo Line, which was the Minneapolis, St. Paul & Sault Ste. Marie railway. Olof had a heavy beard, and all of the Ohmans were looking unsmilingly at the camera. Then there was a jump of a few decades to a photo that was eerily similar to the one of Quinn’s grandfather next to the stone. A middle-aged Olof Ohman was standing stiffly in a suit by the stone at some sort of ceremony, flanked by a pair of soldiers in full garb, his hand resting lightly on the stone as it stood up propped on wooden boxes. Again, he looked dead serious, as Magnus had in his photo, not at all like a man with a bent for practical jokes. There was one last photo, of Olof and Karin Ohman in their old age standing side by side on their land, a year before the good
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