Hawk Quest (43 page)

No call and no footfalls. Some instinct honed during his years living
wild warned him not to make a sound. He waited. A sharp report made him jump. Only the glacier fracturing. The silence stretched. He lay listening with his mouth open and his eyes cocked upwards. The glacier groaned. The ice was always contracting and expanding, producing unsettling noises. The knocking sound he’d heard was probably just a stone released from the melting snow. But why had the falcon cried out in alarm? Lying in his cold pit, he remembered Orm’s campfire tales of polar giants with bodies of stone and ice patched with the flayed skins of humans.

Something snorted. Wayland’s scalp crawled. He listened unbreathing, his throat tight. The pigeon was terrified and lay splayed on the snow as if dead. He snatched it inside and felt inside his sleeping bag for his knife. His belt had twisted beneath him and he couldn’t locate the sheath. He heaved himself up and ran his hand around his waist until his fingers contacted the knife. Before he could draw it, he heard snow creak. He choked back a gasp as a shadow fell across the entrance.

He brought the knife up. His bow lay beside him, useless. Another snuffle from outside – the sound of a predator homing in on prey. He knew what it was, had known almost from the start without daring to acknowledge it.

Two giant white legs dropped across the entrance, almost blocking out the light. The bear was on top of the hide. Two more legs appeared as it climbed down. The bear turned to face the hide. He could see only its huge shaggy legs clothed with yellowish fur that looked translucent against the sun. Its paws were as wide as trenchers and armed with black claws as long and thick as his thumbs.

Its head appeared, weaving from side to side. Shock made Wayland jerk back and crack his skull against the roof. The bear rammed its head into the entrance and blew a gust of foul fishy breath into his face. It snarled, exposing yellow fangs and black gums. He’d crammed himself back in his shelter and the bear’s jaws were less than a foot from his face. It shoved forward, gaining another few inches. He gave a throat-lacerating scream and the bear grunted and pulled its head out.

He lay gasping. Moments later it was back, feeling with one paw. Claws scraped across rock and hooked into the top of his sleeping bag. It began to pull the bag out with him inside it. He braced against the
walls. The bear increased its pressure and the bag ripped open. Eider down floated out into the sunlight. The bear reached in again.

‘Here!’ Wayland shouted, throwing the pigeon forward.

A pathetic flutter, a strike too fast to see, and the pigeon had gone. Wayland heard its bones being crunched like eggshells. He knew he had very little time before the bear resumed its attack and he used it to struggle out of his sleeping bag. He drew his knees up almost to his chin and struggled back into a foetal position. The paw reached in again. Cramped against the back of the hide, Wayland watched the armoured mitt feel this way and that. It took all of his strength to maintain his contorted posture and he knew that eventually he’d have to relax his limbs and then the bear would have him.

He raised his knife, waited for the paw to complete a sweep, and drove the blade into the meat of the paw. The bear squealed and pulled its paw away before Wayland could withdraw the knife. It spun out of his grasp and bounced into the snow beyond the entrance.

A long silence. Had the bear gone? The knife lay just out of reach. To retrieve it he’d have to expose his head and shoulders. He remembered how fast the bear had struck at the pigeon. Wait a little longer. His joints burned. Soon he wouldn’t be able to move. He straightened out his legs with his hands and hissed with the pain of returning circulation. He flexed his knees. Still no sign of the bear. He’d given it a sore thrust. It must have gone. He eyed the blade lying on the snow. If the bear had turned tail, he didn’t need the weapon, but unarmed he felt so defenceless.

The bear had gone. He was sure of it. Slowly he slid forward. He was about to extend his hand when he heard a crunching sound directly above. He shrank back and rolled on his side and looked up. The bear was on the roof scraping away the snow. Its claws gouged across rock and he knew that it was trying to dig him out. Impossible, he told himself. The roof was a one-foot-thick slab more than seven feet long, welded to its foundations by ice.

He remembered what Orm had said about bears flipping seals over their shoulders as if they were herrings. Something else Orm had told him. Sometimes a white bear would overturn a boulder the size of a hut just to get at a nest of mice. Wayland moaned with dread.

A paw groped down and hooked under the lip of the roof. It heaved up and with that single move the ice cracked along the foundations.
The bear strained again and the roof lifted and slid a few inches sideways before crashing back. Wayland could see part of the bear’s flank through the gap. One more effort and he’d be exposed like some helpless larva. He grasped his bow and howled with cries such as men must have given before they’d discovered speech. The roof swung further askew and he felt a draught on his lower legs and knew they were exposed. The bear didn’t have to pull him out. It would start eating him alive from his feet up. He didn’t stop to think. Still screaming, he scurried out on his elbows.

He stumbled to his feet, lost his balance and skittered over the snow on knuckles and toes. He jumped up and spun, jabbing with his bow. The bear was only feet away, staring in the opposite direction, swinging its head in slow puzzlement. It was the dog. It came tearing over the broken ground giving tongue with a frantic two-tone baying. Wayland backed away and the bear turned and peered at him. He froze. For a long moment it studied him, then it swung its head back to face the dog. Wayland retreated and fumbled an arrow from his quiver. He dropped it.

The dog skidded to a stop in front of the bear. Still barking, it made furious rushes and retreats. The bear roared and galloped towards it. The dog danced off, playing the decoy. Wayland had drawn another arrow and was trying to string it when he saw Syth running towards him.

‘Get back!’

She paid no attention.

The dog darted behind the bear and nipped one of its hams. The bear whirled and lashed out and the dog sprang to one side with a hair’s-breadth to spare. The bear reared up on its hind legs and only when Wayland saw it towering over his giant dog did he appreciate its awesome size. The dog dodged and feinted and the bear dropped back on to all fours and loped towards Syth.

‘Run!’ Wayland shouted. He drew his bow and aimed, aware that the chances of killing the bear with a single arrow were remote.

The dog sprinted to cut off the bear and crouched with its head between its elbows. Syth stood only a few yards behind it. She reached down and scooped up a handful of snow and threw it. The pathetic missile didn’t even carry as far as the dog.

Wayland sighted behind the bear’s shoulder and released. In the
same moment the bear veered off and the arrow skimmed its rump. The bear made for the fjord at a hump-backed lope, harassed all the way by the dog. It reached the shoreline and plunged in, cutting a V in the water. Wayland propped himself on his grounded bow and slid to his haunches. After a while he raised his eyes. Syth was still standing where he’d last seen her. He had to use his bow as a staff to climb to his feet. Very slowly he and Syth moved towards each other, as if each doubted the existence of the other.

‘Thank God you came,’ Wayland said. ‘Another moment … ’ He filled his lungs and stared blindly at the sky.

‘It wasn’t me. I was looking for firewood and the dog was with me, then its fur stood up and it rushed off.’

Wayland bent over, wheezing.

Syth put her arms around him. ‘Don’t cry. The bear’s gone now.’

Wayland waved one arm and went on making strange mewing sounds. ‘I’m not crying.’

Syth crouched so that she could see his face. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You,’ he sobbed. ‘Throwing snowballs at the bear.’

XXV

Wayland lay outside the cave watching the waterfall descending in slow veils.

‘I’m going to give it one more try.’

Syth jumped up. ‘You mustn’t. The bear will come again.’

Wayland spread his hands. ‘The falcon was this close.’

She grasped his wrists. ‘So was the bear. What if it kills you?’

‘It won’t. I’ll take an axe and spear.’

She released him and walked away, hands clutched across her shoulders. ‘If you loved me, you wouldn’t risk your life for a falcon.’ She stamped her foot and whirled. ‘You don’t need to catch it. You’ve already found more falcons than you need.’

‘This one is special.’

‘More special than me?’

Wayland knew that logic wouldn’t win this argument. He stood and
took hold of Syth. ‘The falcons aren’t the most important thing. They’re not even mine. When they’re gone, I’ll still have you. You’ll still have me.’

Syth looked at him. ‘For how long?’

Wayland experienced the hollow sensation he’d felt before climbing down to the first eyrie.

‘For ever.’

She looked towards the hide and shivered. ‘Wayland, if you don’t catch the falcon today, will you promise to give it up?’

‘I promise.’

They used levers to reconstruct the hide. Wayland hadn’t seen the falcon since the bear put it to flight. He took a last look at the lookout rock and wriggled into the shelter.

‘What if the bear comes back?’ Syth said.

‘It won’t.’

Syth bobbed up and down. ‘But what if it does?’

Wayland patted the axe.

‘What about me? What if it creeps into the cave while I’m inside?’

‘The dog will give you plenty of warning.’ Wayland was more nervous than he sounded. ‘Stay outside and keep watch. If I trap the falcon, I’ll need your help.’

She looked down at him, her hands bunched at her throat, and then left him to settle into another cold watch. Axe and spear lay to hand and he kept touching them for reassurance. A pair of ravens alighted on the glacier, walked about with no apparent purpose and flew off again. A black-and-white bunting sang from a crevice a few feet from the trap. He looked at the empty sentinel post. The falcon probably had several vantage points and it might be days or weeks before she returned to this one. He poked fingertips into his eyes to keep from falling asleep.

He blinked. Between one moment and the next the falcon had taken stand on her lookout. She shifted position and Wayland’s excitement died. He could see from her bulging crop that she’d already killed.

Now what? If he left the shelter she would see him and be suspicious of the place. He’d have to wait for the falcon to fly off or Syth to relieve him. The day stretched long and dreary before him until he realised that it didn’t matter if he abandoned the hide now. He’d given
Syth his word that this would be his last attempt. That rankled. If she was frightened of the bear, she could go back to Red Cape with Glum. He was going to stay and catch the falcon no matter how long it took.

A fox placed its front legs on a boulder in front of the hide and stared at the pigeon. It began a wary stalk. Wayland hissed. The fox cocked its ears and resumed its approach. Wayland drew the pigeon into the hide. The fox was puzzled. It came on. Wayland reached for his spear. The fox broke into a stiff-legged trot. Wayland thrust out the spear and the fox flung itself into a reverse somersault and streaked away, looking back over its shoulder with such an aggrieved expression that Wayland laughed.

He stopped laughing and thrust the pigeon outside. The gyrfalcon was gliding towards him. Once again she alighted in the snow some yards from the bait and looked around before running towards it with the comical gait that reminded Wayland of Raul. A yard short she stopped again and made another survey. Her eyes fixed on the pigeon and she made another sally and stepped onto it with one foot. The situation was strange and her helpless victim didn’t trigger her killer instinct. Wayland rolled his fist. Absent-mindedly the falcon bent and broke the pigeon’s neck. She was still uneasy. Wayland saw her focus lift and lengthen and he tightened his grip on the pigeon just in time to prevent the falcon from carrying it off. She looked down in puzzlement, looked up, lowered her head again, looked up. Wayland had stopped breathing.

The falcon gave a flaccid rouse, tightened her grip on the pigeon and began plucking it. In her attempt to carry her prey, she’d dragged Wayland’s left hand outside the shelter. If he tried to grab her with his free hand, she’d see it coming. He waited until she’d plumed the pigeon’s breast and broken into the flesh, then he began to draw her towards him. She didn’t seem to realise what strange forces were operating and went on eating. Wayland was worried about foxes. Even at this stage one of them could show up and frighten the falcon off. His right hand was poised at the entrance less than a foot from the falcon. He rolled his left hand, forcing her to adjust her stance so that she stood squarely on the pigeon.

Now!

He shot out his right hand and grasped her around both legs. She screamed and thrashed. Wayland held on and wormed out of his
hideout. His main concern was to secure her before she injured herself. He hoisted the falcon over so that she lay spread-eagled and flapping on her back. A faint shout reached him from the direction of the cave.

The falcon stopped screaming and lay still and looked at him with wild black eyes. Her breast heaved at an alarming rate. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the dog with Syth following, jumping from boulder to boulder. The falcon convulsed and arched forward far enough to bite a wedge out of his knuckle.

The dog skidded into a prone position behind him. Before Syth reached him, the falcon took another bite of his hand.

‘The stocking. In my belt.’

Syth threw herself down beside him and pulled out a woollen tube open at both ends. ‘What should I do?’

‘Pull it over her head.’

Syth eased the mouth of the stocking over the falcon’s neck.

With his left hand, Wayland folded the falcon’s right wing against her side. ‘Do the same with the other wing. Gently.’