Doveland (4 page)

“It's not fair. I don't want to be ‘it' anymore!”

The sky darkened, followed by a misty rain. The fledglings agreed to let Puppyduck lead them back to the ground center. He flew up to a low lying branch, and they followed, perching in a straight line. Then, they followed him back down to the ground, then back up to the branch again. After about three times, the downpour increased and they quickly returned to camp. When the rain subsided, some of the fledglings began building their own nests.

One late afternoon while the fledglings were playing in the forest, Clovis became distracted by Wimpy. Being nocturnal creatures, weasels are usually active at night, but Wimpy was still awake at dawn motivated by hunger. While sniffing along the ground hunting for mice, he was being observed by Clovis.

“Want some berries?” asked Clovis, as he shook one of the bushes.

“They just don't fill me up. What I really want is a mouse,” he complained. Trying to help the poor hungry weasel, Clovis looked around the ground and spotted one.

“Over there, running toward that log,” whispered Clovis.

Wimpy quickly dashed over the leaves. “Uhmm-good,” said Wimpy as he began devouring the mouse.

When Puppyduck saw Clovis talking to Wimpy, he whispered a secret to Clovis.

Clovis turned to Wimpy. “This little fellow would like to take a ride around the island perched on your back. Will you let him?”

Wimpy didn't like the idea, but Clovis might help him to find more mice, so he reluctantly agreed.

“That's one spoiled little heckler, Clovis!” sneered Homer.

“I know, maybe this will teach him a lesson,” chuckled Clovis, thinking the little bird would have a hard time hanging on.

Wimpy was in a hurry to get this little trip over with so he took off almost before Puppyduck was situated on his back. But,
Puppyduck wasn't about to fall. He buried his beak firmly inside Wimpy's fur and held on. When they returned, he let go of his stronghold and jumped to the ground. The fledglings began to laugh at the bald spot left on Wimpy's back. Homer grimaced at Puppyduck as Wimpy ran off into the woods.

“Now, look what you've done!”

Puppyduck ignored Homer's remark, because he did not have time to thank the little weasel.

“Why did he leave in such a hurry?” he asked with loose pieces of fur hanging from his beak.

One morning, Clovis and Homer met at the ground center and decided to plan their own day. Nearby, Puppyduck and his little friends were playing follow-the-leader again. Up to the tree, back down again, up to the tree, back down again.

Clovis and Homer began to feel more mature than the other fledglings. “Let's get away from those boring squabs!” sneered Homer.

“Yeah, and we don't want to be followed either!” remarked Clovis childishly, as they sneaked away from the ground center.

The two friends wandered to the south shore and began pecking at pebbles, which would become their favorite pastime. Homer flew up into a large oak tree and perched on a long branch that stretched out over the water overlooking the valley. Clovis soon joined him.

Violet blue spikes with heart-shaped leaves sprouted sporadically along the velvety moss clinging to the sculptured rocks on the bank. At the foot of the tree, clusters of small yellow flowers
with branching stems had pushed their way out of creepers like the upward stroke of an artist's paint brush. Homer immediately bonded with this isolated part of the woodlands.

“Let's make this place our secret hideout, okay Clovis?”

“Okay, what should we call it?”

Homer glanced around the shoreline and noticed brown soaked pine needles floating back and forth against the bank, caught between the cross currents, forming a fortress-like wall along the shore.

“Little Sticks,” he shouted with a burst of excitement.

“But, we won't tell the others, okay?”

Homer agreed. “Just look, our very own secret hideout!”

The branch of that mighty oak tree provided them with an overwhelming sense of lasting security. Pyramidal-shaped evergreens clothed with glossy green needles hummed their tune in the soft winds that calmly ruffled their feathers. Mesmerized by the warm sunlit waters, they watched the stream trickle to the crest of the embankment where it continued downstream.

Later in the day, a burst of energy made them eager for other activities. They flew inside the woods where Clovis broke off a small stem from a silver poplar tree and dropped it from his perch. Homer swooped down from another branch and successfully retrieved it before it hit the ground. Soon they made it a frequent game. It wasn't long before they began to act like brothers, as they competed with each other while racing around the outskirts of the island.

“I can beat you in this game, because I am the oldest,” bragged Homer.

“Uh, uh, I'm smaller so I can fly faster!”

Homer was slower to take off, but would easily pass Clovis to the finish line, time after time.

“I'm from the grouse family,” remarked Homer.

One day as Clovis and Homer were flying leapfrog around the island, dark clouds began to form and soon it began to rain. They retreated to the south shore where they waited inside a thick mass
of underbrush next to the riverbank, and watched the rain drops pelt the river.

When the rain subsided, the sun came out and they returned to the bank to bathe in the fresh watering holes. Suddenly they spotted a hawk flying around the outskirts of the island.

“Smokejack!” shrieked Homer. “Run!” There was not enough time to leap away.

Using his striking visual acuity, the hawk continued gliding slowly along the bank of the river, as Clovis and Homer hid on the ground behind a long drooping branch of an old spruce tree.

“That was close,” whispered Clovis. “But, don't tell Papa because he won't let us play here anymore.”

“Okay,” Homer whispered back.

Later on, everyone gathered to plan for a social event at the ground center of the threshold in honor of all the new members of the community. They all happily gathered morsels and placed them at the ground center. Clovis and Homer plucked twigs of wild blueberries and huckleberries.

Puppyduck felt that Clovis and Homer had been avoiding him because he giggled too much.

“Why don't you play with me anymore?” asked Puppyduck of Clovis.

Clovis and Homer felt guilty because they knew they had ignored him.

“We're still your friends, aren't we Homer?” nodding their heads at Puppyduck.

“I thought you didn't like me because I was different.”

“Who told you that you were different?” asked Clovis.

“Well, some of my friends make fun of me.”

“But, they still play with you, right?” asked Homer.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

After the feast was consumed, some of the group began to sing and dance around the ground center. It was another joyous busy day for all. As darkness grew, the birds returned to their nests to rest from their carefree activities.

The next morning, Doveland had its first visitors. On their way to the Netherlands, the French Pouter, an old acquaintance of Skybird, stopped by to visit with two of his friends, the Tumbler, and Old Dutch Highflyer. The Tumbler was probably a couple of years older than Clovis and Homer. They liked him right away and offered to show him around their homeland. They led him to the south shore, with the Tumbler occasionally performing a backward somersault. With a white head and muffs, the Tumbler's bluish-black feathers covered his short body structure that boasted a wide chest and long legs. His tail was shaped like a pyramid, with black and white pointy-shaped wing tips that gathered over his tail.

They landed on the embankment of the south shore and randomly began to peck pebbles.

“How did you learn to fly like that?” asked Homer.

“I come from a family of rollers.”

Clovis and Homer directed him up to their special tree and perched on each side of the Tumbler. Homer was about to ask the
Tumbler what he thought about their great hideout, but Clovis was anxious to question their traveling friend.

“Have you seen many places in Belgium?”

The Tumbler was articulate and well traveled. He looked out over the valley.

“Beyond those hills are endless fields and meadows. The open landscape of Kempen is full of seedy grasslands, and the forested highlands of Wallonia, with its many acres of pastureland, is where wheat, sugar beets, and oats are harvested.”

He told them of the rolling hills of fruit orchards in the Hesbaye area, and the wide open meadowlands of West Flanders. From the border city of Liege in the east, to the fishing ports of the coastal waters of the North Sea, he had seen all of Belgium.

The Tumbler flew down to the ground and proceeded to drink from a watering hole. Clovis and Homer joined him, waiting to hear more, like little children listening to a fairy tale.

“Well, there's the King's House in Grand Square in the Capital of Brussels, where people gather around and throw bread crumbs to the birds.”

Homer's eyes lit up. “I bet those bread crumbs are good!”

Meanwhile, Clovis envisioned a life full of adventure.

“Maybe we can go with you?”

The Tumbler looked down at the two fledglings.

“Maybe someday when you've sprouted your wings,” he chuckled.

They soon observed a group of swan firmly lodged in the water near the shore in a full circle, seemingly unaffected by the moving waters. They decided to have some fun and break up the peaceful waders. Flying across the stream, they swooped down in unison toward the flock, in spite of their impressive hissing, and scattered the birds in all directions. “Oop-oop!” The swan desperately scrambled to avoid the inevitable ~ floating downstream, one by one.

Clovis, Homer and the Tumbler stopped short of the ground center. Clovis liked the Tumbler, and invited him to stay at Doveland. Although the Tumbler felt welcomed, he declined.

“I will always be a traveler, not much for staying in any one place for very long.”

When it came time to bid farewell to his old friends, Skybird wished them a good journey. While the visitors waited for the Tumbler to rejoin them, the Pouter became impatient to leave.

“Will you stop that whining?” asked Old Dutch Highflyer.

“Your friends don't seem to get along, Tumbler,” said Clovis.

“Do they argue all the time?” asked Homer.

“No, because we are on the move most of the time.”

Clovis and Homer stood on the shore and bid farewell to the Tumbler as he flew away with his friends. Clovis watched the visitors until they were out of sight. And, for the moment, wished he could go with them.

Unknown to Clovis, Antwerp had been watching from a distance, and became concerned that their traveling friends may have been a negative influence on his son. He wasted no time summoning him to the east shore, where Clovis perched quietly by his father and waited for him to speak. Antwerp spoke in a firm tone while maintaining a fixed gaze across the river.

“Don't ever leave the flock, son.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“As a future leader, you must know our old world customs.” His father told him about their long awaited journey from the southwest region of France, and how the flock returns each spring in formal tradition. He told him of his greatest dream, that one day they would be able to declare the trees of Doveland their permanent homeland. Clovis listened with respect, but all that responsibility seemed too far off in the future for him to worry about right now.

“Yes, Papa.” He rolled his eyes.

The following day, Skybird called a meeting with the heads of families to discuss the growing danger of hawks observed roaming
around the island. On occasion, more than one hawk had been reported inside the forest. For the safety of the community, Skybird convinced the leaders to return to France as early as the next day.

It was the morning of August 4, 1914, and the community was preoccupied by their imminent departure, and ignored the distant sounds of thunder in the north. Random puffs of dark smoke floated through the forest, pushed by the winds like harmless fog.

As they prepared for their return, they gathered for the last time at the ground center of the threshold. Leaving their beloved homeland, once again, was not a happy time for the birds which is reflected in the words of their song.

“
Doveland, oh Doveland, we love our happy home,

We sing and dance and laugh and play beneath

your evergreen dome;

Doveland, oh Doveland, our merry hearts will stay,

as we gather our young and fly away…”

Meanwhile, Clovis and Homer made their last visit to their secret hideout, Little Sticks, and perched on their favorite branch.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” lamented Homer.

“Me, too, but I promised Papa I would never leave the flock.”

Like speechless spectators, they were soon captivated by sounds of thunder followed by smoke rising above the hills in the east. Pine needles floated over the embankment beneath them, like the aftermath of a hard rain.

Suddenly, there was an unfamiliar hissing sound followed by a strong ground tremor in the center of the island, the impact of which violently catapulted Clovis and Homer into the water. The two fledglings rescued themselves by perching on a drifting evergreen branch.

Missiles flew over them, some exploding on the island, lighting up the smoke-filled forest, toppling trees, and sending forest debris through the air. Clovis became traumatized by the sight of the bird feathers floating in the air as thick as rain, and shouted a long suffering shrill that seemed to echo throughout the valley, “Pa-Pa!”

“Help, help” added Homer while hiding his head beneath a clump of foliage.

As they drifted further away from home, Clovis took one last glimpse of Doveland before they reached the crest in the river. Flying missiles hissed and erupted in explosions that rocked the ground on both sides of the Semois River, uprooting trees and sending clumps of underbrush into the air. Clovis alerted Homer, and they leaped away from the river gauntlet, flying northeast toward the Botrange Mountains. Higher and higher they flew.