The falcon spiraled upward against
the sky in preparation for her stoop to the lure of meat and feathers
that the man whirled around his head. The boy watched closely, noting
how the man tempted her, just as he had watched closely while the
man had taken the bird from her perch and talked quietly to her
while they had walked to this spot out on the lava away from the
farmyard. Though old in the boy's eyes and grizzled with the scraggly
stubble of a beard and sunken cheeks, the man was lithe and clear-eyed
and walked with sure steps across the rough lava. The man, Grimur,
had been friendly to the boy since he had been brought to this farm
a few days before, something he could not say for the mistress and
her son.
The gyrfalcon dropped, talons spread, to grab the lure. At the last
moment the man jerked the lure from her grasp and the falcon, used
to the sport, turned aside to fly off along the low lava ridge.
"You try it this time,"
Grimur said, as he handed the boy the rope, "but let her take
the lure."
Gunnar hefted the horsehair rope,
twice a man's height in length, and began to twirl it, unevenly
at first and then smoothly. This time the gyrfalcon flew low, barely
above the ground, hiding behind the lava outcroppings as she approached,
hoping to catch the lure as she would an unsuspecting ptarmigan.
When she was almost on the boy, she rose again for the stoop and
dropped at great speed. The force with which she struck the lure
surprised the boy. He let go of the rope and the bird dropped to
the ground to remove most of the feathers from the lure before carrying
the trophy of meat in one talon to an outcropping of lava nearer
the farmhouse. There she gripped the meat with her talons and tore
into it with her beak.
"The gyrfalcon kills with the force of its strike," Grimur
explained. "That's why you felt it when she grabbed the lure.
She always takes the meat back to the rock where I've been feeding
her ever since I took her from the nest the middle of last July."
"Why didn't you let her take
the lure the first time?" the boy asked.
"To train her," Grimur replied. "I usually make her
go for the lure four or five times every day before I let her have
it."
They both stood admiring the beauty
of the bird with her gray-white feathers lightly streaked on crown
and breast and her dark-tipped wings. She seemed not to mind the
small bell attached to her foot that tinkled lightly as she moved,
or the jesses, the thin leather straps that hung from both feet,
making it easy to catch and hold her.
"A white gyr, a snow falcon,
she'll be whiter still next year when she reaches maturity."
Grimur was obviously well pleased. The gyrfalcon was so prized by
falconers that it was reserved for kings. Gyrfalcons from Iceland
were heavier than gyrs from Europe and the female larger than the
male. A snow falcon was most prized of all. "She'll bring a
good price as she'll make a fine gift for the king of Norway."
As the falcon tore the meat into
bite-size pieces, Grimur turned to examine the boy more closely.
He saw a square face with wide-spaced gray-blue eyes and blond hair
long to his wide shoulders. Tall for his age of fifteen winters,
the boy had strong hands obviously used to farm work. He seems to
have the patience to tame a falcon and hopefully to face whatever
fate life brings him, Grimur thought, a good trait given the difficulties
of surviving the harsh winters and the political turmoil that increasingly
affected all their lives. Gunnar might do well on the farm, Grimur
thought, if the mistress accepts him. But he wondered why the farmer,
Thorolf, had brought this boy to live with them on the farmstead
as Thorolf did not treat him as just another farmhand.
© Terry G. Lacy All rights reserved.
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