The next morning the track veered more to the north-west and began to climb, gradually at first, then more and more steeply, winding its way up the ragged flank of a mountain range. Our ponies scrambled up the slopes with the agility of goats, their unshod hooves finding footing on the loose surface of stones and gravel. We left behind the bright sunshine of the coast and before long the grey of an overcast sky matched the sombre colours of the landscape. We were climbing into a wide, bleak landscape of rock and scree where stunted plants clung to tiny patches of thin soil. Ahead of us always loomed the mountains, the very highest peaks streaked with the last traces of the winter snow. Occasionally we crossed rivulets where ribbons of clear water trickled between the rounded stones, and we stopped and allowed our ponies to drink. I saw little wildlife apart from flocks of small, darting birds and several ravens, hovering like black rags in the breeze. Once, less than fifty paces away, I glimpsed a fox slinking away behind a boulder. Rolf spoke hardly at all, either from shyness or because he found my Saxon difficult to understand, even though it was close enough to his own tongue for us to agree on practical details. He never hesitated in our direction and appeared to know his way even when the last vestiges of a track petered out and we were riding across a rock-strewn wilderness.
We passed the second night of our ride in a lonely hut built entirely of stones ingeniously laid one upon the other in a single spiral course so that it made a cone shape and did not need a roof. The hut, if I understood Rolf correctly, belonged to the bird trapper we were seeking. It was empty except for some mouldering deerskins in one corner, a wooden stool with a broken leg, and the charred remains of a fire beneath the blackened smoke hole. Rolf had brought two small bags of oats for our horses and, once they had fed, staked them out on a rope long enough to let them pick and nibble at the mosses and tiny plants that grew among the rocks. Our own supper was the last of the cheese and bread.
The following morning was distinctly chilly and I was glad to get a fire going, using dried wood that I found stacked behind the hut. I was painfully saddle sore, the inside of my knees bruised and my buttocks tender. So I was glad when Rolf announced, ‘Today, Ingvar.’
We rode on, the landscape growing ever more barren until, shortly after midday, we were entering a high valley sheltered on both sides by mountain ridges. Another stone hut similar to the first one stood close beside a small stream, and this time it was in use. Two small horses, penned into a small enclosure, whinnied a greeting as we approached and I saw clothes draped to dry over a low rock wall. But there was no sign of Ingvar himself.
A hanging length of sacking closed the entry to the hut, and after we had tethered our ponies I followed Rolf inside, bending double under the single large flat lintel stone. There were no windows, and barely enough light to see by. The place smelled of wood smoke and soot. It was clean and sparsely furnished – a single stool, a couple of sheepskins pushed against one wall to serve as a bed, some bags hung on pegs, and a large black iron pot on a tripod. The pot contained three inches of cold, congealed stew. A length of fishing net lay on the bare earth floor just inside the doorway. The mesh was small, only suitable for catching sprats. I was puzzled why anyone would need fishing net in the mountains. The little streams we had passed were too shallow and stony to net for fish and we were very far from the sea.
‘Where do you think Ingvar’s got to?’ I asked the boy.
He rolled his eyes expressively and shrugged.
‘Maybe we should go looking for him,’ I suggested.
He shook his head. ‘We wait.’
I left the hut to look around for clues as to what might have happened to the mysterious bird catcher. Not far away was another shelter scarcely larger than a pigsty, with side walls of rock and a flimsy roof made by scraps of worn canvas thrown over some branches.
I crouched down and peered into the small entrance. There was a rustling of feathers. I thrust my head further inside and when my eyes had got used to the near-darkness I saw a pole rigged across the width of the shack. Attached to the pole by a leather strap around its foot was a huge bird: dark, hunched and motionless. It was a mountain eagle, far larger than a gyrfalcon. I was both impressed and disappointed. An eagle was not what I had come to find, but to have captured such a magnificent bird of prey was an achievement. I heard rustling again. It came from the ground on my right, from what looked like a chicken coop made of wooden slats. Unable to restrain my curiosity I reached in and dragged the coop out into the light where I could see it better. Inside were a score of very ordinary pigeons. I sat back on my heels, baffled. It made no sense that someone should take the trouble to go deep into the mountains to trap pigeons that could be caught much more easily near any farm.
Rolf was calling to me, and I returned to find that he had taken down one of the hanging bags and found stale bread and tear-shaped chunks of smoked meat, dark with a reddish purple tinge. We were very hungry so while the ponies drank at the little stream, we sat down on nearby rocks and began to eat. The meat, though a little tough, was delicious. It was with the third or fourth bite that I realized that the chunks, the size of a plum, were the smoked breasts of a small bird. Rolf did not know the bird’s name, only that it lived beside the sea. Like the fishing net, it was another Ingvar mystery.
The man himself appeared some hours later as the sun was dropping behind the mountains. Rolf spotted him first, a distant figure making his way down the slope of the mountain ridge, a small sack in his hand. As Ingvar reached the level ground and came walking towards us, I was overwhelmed by the eerie sensation that I was about to encounter someone I had met before. It was akin to the moment when I understood my dream of Walo and two wolves. But this time I was seeing a double: Vulfard, Walo’s father, had returned from the bottom of the aurochs’ pitfall, alive and unharmed. He and the bird trapper were uncannily similar in height and build and manner. Both were tough and wiry and had the same quick, light step, holding them very straight. Ingvar’s complexion was perhaps a little darker, but he had the same alert, foxy expression that I had seen on Vulfard’s face. I found myself looking for a cap with a feather, just like Vulfard’s, but Ingvar was bareheaded. Only when Ingvar was right in front of me did I see that where Vulfard’s eyes had been light brown flecked with yellow, Ingvar’s were a dark brown and they slanted above much higher cheekbones in the same narrow face. Something that Redwald had said to me earlier as we walked through the crowds in Kaupang’s market place told me that these facial features were signs that one of Ingvar’s parents was a native Finna.
‘You are welcome,’ he said in a clear, sharp voice. I was relieved to hear that his speech was easy to understand.
‘Gorm suggested that we come to find you. He missed you at Kaupang’s market,’ I said.
‘I’ll come to Kaupang as soon as I’m ready,’ the trapper answered.
‘Do you know when that will be?’
‘Maybe this week,’ he answered. The sack he was still holding moved slightly. Something alive was inside. ‘After I have washed, we will eat, then talk.’ Without another word he turned and walked away towards the shed where I had seen the captive eagle.
A little while later as the light was fading, Ingvar brought out the iron pot and the tripod from his hut, lit a fire, and reheated the stew. He added onions from a bag, some herbs, and a dozen more of dried breasts of the unidentified little bird.
‘Rolf tells me that this is from a sea bird,’ I commented. The hot meat was even more succulent than it had been when cold.