Strange Shores

37

Ezra had told him about a farmer whom Bóas had neglected to mention when listing the locals who knew the foxholes in the area. The reason for this oversight, according to Ezra, was that Bóas hated the man so much he could hardly utter his name. The animosity dated back to a boundary dispute over a piece of land that Bóas had inherited. The dispute had ended up in court where, having lost ignominiously, Bóas had sworn he would never speak to his adversary again, a promise he had kept for at least a quarter of a century.

The farmer, Lúdvík, a man of around Erlendur’s own age, gave him a surly welcome, though whether because of the long-standing feud with Bóas or because he had interrupted him at work was unclear. Lúdvík was in one of his sheds, toiling over a dismantled hay baler. He explained that it had broken back in the summer but the replacement part had only arrived in the post a few days ago. What kind of service was that? His wife had directed Erlendur to the shed, asking him to remind her husband about choir practice later that day. Erlendur passed on the message.

‘Choir practice!’ snorted the man. ‘I’m not going to any bloody choir practice!’

Erlendur had no answer to this and couldn’t tell if the man expected him to report his intentions to his wife. Lúdvík embarked on a tirade against choirs in general, but especially male-voice choirs, with their ridiculous demands on one’s time for rehearsals and tours. It was all very well for the rest of their members who were old sods with nothing better to do than organise endless meetings, but he had a farm to run.

‘Sing in a choir yourself?’ he asked Erlendur. ‘You look the right age.’

‘No, never have,’ said Erlendur.

‘Here for the fishing?’ Lúdvík asked next, changing the subject seamlessly.

‘God, no,’ said Erlendur. ‘I. . As a matter of fact, I wanted to pick your brains about foxes. I gather you’re an experienced hunter.’

‘Foxes? You’d do better to talk to a man called Bóas. Have you come across him?’

‘I’ve already spoken to him actually.’

‘Barking, isn’t he?’

‘You could put it like that,’ Erlendur said diplomatically, ‘though he’s been very helpful to me.’ He didn’t want the man to bad-mouth Bóas any further in his hearing.

‘Bóas is a prat,’ said Lúdvík contemptuously.

‘Well, that’s not how he struck me.’

‘So what do you want to know about foxes?’ asked Lúdvík, putting down the part that he had detached from the baler and wiping his hands on an oily rag. ‘You’re not from round here, are you? Reykjavík?’

Erlendur nodded. He had been wondering in vain how to phrase his request without either sounding completely ignorant or revealing too much.

‘Not many foxes there,’ commented Lúdvík.

‘No, and I know next to nothing about them myself, so Ezra suggested I have a word with you.’

‘Ezra?’ Lúdvík seized on the name. ‘Know him, do you?’

‘Pretty well,’ said Erlendur, feeling this was no exaggeration. He probably knew more about Ezra than anyone else in the world.

‘Oh, right, so he directed you to me?’ said Lúdvík, in a mollified tone. ‘How is the old boy?’

‘All right, I believe.’

‘Salt of the earth, Ezra. Always willing to help out, however big or small the problem. So, what do you want to know?’

‘I wanted to ask if you’d ever found any interesting objects in a fox’s earth or heard stories about other people finding things. . things the animals might have dragged home with them. You know, the kind of stuff they might pick up around farms and villages or up on the moors.’

Lúdvík gave him a quizzical look.

‘Of course, you can find all sorts in earths,’ he said. ‘You know the old saying: “The fox lurks in its hole, gnawing the whitened bone.”’

Erlendur nodded.

‘Are you after anything in particular?’

‘I’m interested in objects with a connection to humans — remnants of clothing, shoes or boots, maybe; the kind of rubbish we leave lying around.’

‘It happens,’ said Lúdvík, ‘though the fox isn’t as big a thief as the raven.’

‘Have you ever found a boot or anything like that in a fox’s earth?’

‘A boot? What kind of boot?’

‘Well, not necessarily a boot,’ said Erlendur. ‘But that sort of thing.’

‘A specific type of object?’

‘No, nothing specific. Anything a person might drop and a fox pick up. I just wanted to ask on the off chance, in case you’d heard of any unusual bits and pieces from other hunters. I’ve recently developed an interest in foxes, you see. If you remember any examples, it might be useful. Even unusual bones.’

‘Can’t think of any in recent years,’ said Lúdvík.

‘What about in the past?’

‘Nothing springs to mind. But you could try talking to Daníel Kristmundsson. He lives in Seydisfjördur — an old rascal who used to do a lot of guiding for hunters in the area.’

‘Daníel?’

‘Yes, he might be able to help. Assuming the old bastard hasn’t croaked yet.’

‘Well, that was all,’ said Erlendur. He thanked Lúdvík for his help and said he wouldn’t bother him any longer. Feeling relieved to have got the conversation out of the way, he edged towards the door. He felt uncomfortable discussing the subject with a stranger.

‘There’s one fact not everybody knows about foxes,’ said Lúdvík, becoming suddenly preoccupied. ‘I don’t know if you’re thinking along the same lines.’

‘What?’ asked Erlendur, pausing.

‘The fox is a scavenger.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s not fussy when it comes to carrion and can drag bits back to its earth, if that’s what you’re getting at. It can carry pretty heavy loads — I’ve seen a fox running along with the forequarters of a lamb in its mouth.’

‘You mean lambs or ewes or. .?’

‘Whatever. Birds too. But the fox isn’t a true scavenger. It doesn’t leave all the hunting and killing to other animals — it’s an incredibly skilled predator in its own right. But it’ll eat carrion. We often find the bones of lambs, even of fully grown sheep, that it’s brought back to its hole. Though I’m not quite sure what you’re driving at when you say unusual bones,’ said Lúdvík. ‘Do you mean the bones of animals — or humans?’

Erlendur shook his head. ‘That was all,’ he repeated, making for the door. He had heard enough and the visit had lasted too long already. He didn’t want to hear another word: the thought of scavengers was too gruesome.

‘I haven’t found any arms or legs, if that’s what you’re asking,’ continued Lúdvík, ‘though it’s not out of the question that a fox would go for that sort of food — if a person had died of exposure in the mountains, which used to happen a lot around here in the old days. I’ve even heard tales — ’

Erlendur fled, leaving Lúdvík with a puzzled expression. He hurried back to his car. With those few, brief words the farmer had summoned up a picture so horrible that Erlendur would have given anything to be able to expunge it from his mind.