In the area where the net would fall, Ingvar now placed two stones, one fist-sized, the other somewhat larger and heavier. He untied the neck to his sack, reached in and pulled out a live pigeon. It flapped and struggled as he tied it by the leg to the larger stone. Weighed down, the protesting bird made short fluttering hops but could not escape. I realized that the pigeon was to be our bait, in the same way that Vulfard had placed fresh leaves in the centre of the pitfall for the aurochs. But Ingvar had a surprise for me. He reached again into the sack, groped around and pulled out a second bird, not a pigeon but a smaller bird, the size of a thrush, pearly grey with a black stripe on its head. This he also placed in the centre of the trap, attached to the smaller stone.
‘Why do you need two birds in the trap?’ I whispered.
‘The gyrfalcon strikes so fast that he can snatch away his prey before the trap is sprung. The smaller bird will provide a warning that a falcon is in the area.’
‘A lookout?’
He nodded. ‘The smaller bird is very watchful, not like the foolish pigeon. We call it the “shrieker”. When it sees a hunting falcon in the sky, it screams and flutters, jumps up and down, trying to escape. Then I know to be ready.’
‘Won’t the falcon strike at the little “shrieker”, as you call it?’
He gave me a patient look. ‘If there was a nice plump pigeon nearby, what would you do?’
He scattered a handful of oats on the ground in front of the two birds and beckoned me to follow him to the hidden cleft. As he retreated into the shelter he laid out two cords: a strong one fastened to the hoop to pull it shut, and the other, no more than a thin line, to the free leg of the pigeon.
The cleft was just wide enough for us to sit side by side, hidden from view but looking out over the captive birds. I remembered Vulfard and my vigil in the forest, waiting for the aurochs. Instead of a forest glade rimmed by oak trees, I was watching over a flat, dusty ledge on which two staked birds pecked at grain.
Ingvar did not take his eyes off the tethered birds. He wound a couple of turns of the stronger cord around his right fist, and held the lighter line with the fingers of his left hand. He reminded me of a fisherman getting ready to strike the hook into the jaws of a pike.
‘For these last two months I have ben watching a gyrfalcon nest nearby,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The birds use the same nest year after year. It’s a family that often produces white birds. This year the chicks hatched much later than usual. That is why I delayed going to Kaupang market. I had to wait until they were old enough to look after themselves.’
‘So that there’s another generation for the future?’
‘Exactly. If I caught a parent too soon, the young would die and I would destroy my livelihood.’
‘What if an eagle swoops down on the bait, not a gyrfalcon?’ I asked.
‘Then the spirits are against me. A gyrfalcon, if it is white, gets a much better price than an eagle, nearly three times more.’
‘Why would anyone pay more for a falcon when an eagle is so much larger and more impressive?’
‘Have you seen how a gyrfalcon hunts?’
I shook my head.
‘There is no finer sight in the entire world. It patrols the land, flying low, until it frightens up its prey. Then it takes up the chase. The gyrfalcon is faster than any other bird. It can twist and turn, strike from above or below, and knock its victim from the sky. By contrast the eagle is a farmyard fowl.’
The floor of our hiding place was bare rock, hard and uneven. My backside, already sore from riding, had gone numb. I feared that I would soon get cramp. I longed to get up and stretch.
All of a sudden the little grey bird in front of us crouched down, pressing itself against the ground. Then it began to hop and flutter, screeching in panic. The pigeon continued to peck greedily at the grain.
I held my breath in anticipation. Between the agitated cries of the small bird, there came a shrill bird call, kree, kree, kree, distinct in the still mountain air. Ingvar tensed. ‘A gyrfalcon is circling above. Keep very still!’ he hissed.
With his left hand Ingvar tweaked the thinner of the two lines.
In response the pigeon jumped a few inches off the ground and flapped indignantly. Ingvar waited a couple of heartbeats and tweaked again. Once more the pigeon fluttered, drawing attention to itself.
There was a brief pause, no more than the time it took me to release a slow breath, and then with a sudden rush of wind a white shape hurtled from the sky like a thunderbolt. A burst of pigeon feathers flew up. I heard a distinct thump as the falcon struck its victim, the talons driving into the pigeon’s back. Then the predator – it was a white gyrfalcon – was crouching over its victim, shoulders hunched, the hooked beak stabbing down into the pigeon’s neck with an assassin’s thrust. The pigeon’s head flew off. It was all over in the blink of an eye, and in that instant Ingvar tugged firmly on the stouter cord, the hoop of the spring trap swung over, and the gyrfalcon was in the net.