Doveland (10 page)

“You don't like the war do you, Clovis?”

“I want to see my country at peace again.”

“But, peace is what we're here fighting for, mate!” replied Mookie, finally settling the argy-bargy.

Clovis wanted to part on good terms.

“Good luck to you, my friends, and watch out for those flying missiles!”

“Oh, we'll speed like bities on a dingo!” said Mookie.

“Yep, we're the best winged diggers in the bush!” added Banjo.

“Like waltzing matildas across the sky,” exclaimed Clovis in an effort to show his support for their patriotic spirit. It was time to say goodbye. Banjo and Mookie broke the long silence.

“Well, hoo-roo mate!” said the doves bidding ado in unison.

Parting company, the Diamond Doves disappeared under the cover of darkness. Clovis remained on the belfry, feeling cold, and utterly alone.

Flickering lights lit up the sky over Ypres as muffled sounds of gunfire continued into the night as the allies vigorously defended the last ramparts of Belgium.

Early the next morning, military trucks rolled out of Veurne, over the snowy flatlands. Clovis approached the edge of the tower in time to watch the last truck ramble its way toward the western front. His friends, Banjo and Mookie were leaving the safety of the city. They would probably not survive the horrible war, he thought as he sadly uttered, “Goodbye, my friends.”

There was a deadlock on the western front; the battlefields would once again be challenged with a new kind of stalemate ~ winter. But, the frigid weather would not keep new recruits from moving over the snowy flatlands toward the blazing battlefield. The low lying shrubs began sinking under the snow like quicksand with branches springing upward for a rescue that would not come. Clovis left his nest occasionally to observe the battlefield from the icy surface of the tower. At times, freezing rain pelted the belfry, bouncing back and forth, up and down, chiming, pinging. Clovis rested safely inside his warm nest, located next to the pitch of the spire, and waited for one of the harshest winters of Belgium to come to an end.

It was spring, 1917, and Clovis was anxious to leave his winter home. A warm westerly breeze swept over the belfry. The sunlit snow on the ground below appeared to be melting. He leaped off, once again, into a future of uncertainty. Although Clovis did not know it, he was about to embark on a quest that would change his life forever.

Remaining in West Flanders, Clovis flew aimlessly around the outskirts of Veurne. Many villages and farmhouses had been abandoned with the onset of the war, but the overgrowth of hedgerows and untended gardens did not keep Clovis from noticing someone standing inside a courtyard feeding birds like himself. He cautiously perched high in a birch tree on the side of the road, overlooking the compound.

A colorful tapestry of evergreens, mixed with red berries, and bushes of yew and beech, formed the hedgerow around the compound. Cup-shaped tulips of different varieties shaped the walkway to the entry gate, leading to the road. Broken flower pots left untended rested against the cottage garden wall, and containers full of purple lavender lined the porch. Creeping tendrils of
clematis, interwoven with sweet orange Jessamine, climbed the side wall of the old stone farmhouse. A medley of tree debris was strewn about the weathered tiles that covered the pitched roof.

Clovis cautiously flew to the hedge for a closer look. He did not go unnoticed. The farmer threw some bread crumbs on the ground in his direction.

“Welkom.” he smiled.

Clovis happily joined the other pigeons and doves on the ground and began eating the tasty morsels.

An old couple lived at the farmhouse. The birds knew the couple as the farmer and the farmer's wife. The farmer's wife wore a thin sweater over her arms, and kept an old apron on the back porch she would wear in the garden. The farmer's baggy blue trousers were typical in Belgium, and his old wool waistcoat was rugged from years of wear. He removed his muddy clogs before entering the house.

Meanwhile, the sudden appearance of a mysterious stranger among the birds took the community by surprise as they watched Clovis quickly consume the bread crumbs.

“What's your name?” asked a friendly voice.

“Clovis,” he answered, as he looked up at the most beautiful turtle dove he had ever seen. Her plumage was a warm brown with a silky white ring around her neck that reminded him of his mother.

“Who are you?” he asked with a sudden lift in his spirit.

“The farmer calls me Dove Lillian, but you can call me Lille.”

The conversation was interrupted by a pigeon named Brushcutter, who deliberately stepped in between them when he saw the sparkle in Dove Lillian's eyes. His silent motive was to inform the newcomer that he had already chosen Dove Lillian for his mate. Dove Lillian introduced her friend to Clovis. Brushcutter's favorite pastime was strutting around the courtyard flexing his florescent feathers with striking green and purple hues.

Clovis turned his attention toward the east side of the courtyard to a strange-looking hexagonal structure. The five-foot post led up to a weather-worn dovecote which had six upper and lower entry holes, staggered around each turn, each with its own perching ledge. Constructed of plain sawn wood, the dovecote was painted white and crowned with a black slate roof. Shrubs of lilac, with their captivating fragrance, provided ground cover for the roots of the climbing plants of morning glory, and clematis. The clinging vines had wrapped their way around the dwelling to the top of its pitched roof, forming a natural topiary.

Dove Lillian noticed Clovis' curiosity.

“The farmer built a bird house to protect us from bad weather.”

“I've never seen one before.”

She then introduced Clovis to other residents of the farmhouse yard. She and Honey Dove were the first permanent residents, followed by newcomers Lady Dove, and Brushcutter. Honey Dove
boasted gray and white feathers, and Lady Dove had a goose downlike white covert with soft gray feathers.

Soon, the social gathering was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Clovis, is that you?”

It was the Tumbler, whom Clovis was pleased to see again. It felt good to see someone he knew. The Tumbler explained that he and his journey friends became separated with the onset of the war, and he found refuge here at Misty Meadows. “Why are you here?”

“Our homeland was destroyed by an explosion, and I lost my family.”

In sympathy for his loss, the Tumbler offered Clovis a home. “The lower loft on the south side was abandoned weeks ago. Why don't you stay here with us, my friend?”

Clovis anxiously accepted the offer. Later, he stood on the perching ledge of his new home and looked inside. Soon, he began the rigorous task of cleaning out the old debris, before constructing a new nest. As always, he left an open notch in the side of his nest near to the entry to keep vigil. That evening, he let the distant
sounds of heavy gun artillery fade from his thoughts as he focused up at the stars in the sky, glittering ever so brightly. Only in his dreams would he have imagined finding such a wonderful home, and belong to a community once again.

In the days that followed, the farmer and his wife began working in their garden on the south wall. They planted small amounts of oats, wheat, sugar beets, and potatoes. They harvested the herbs of lavender for its many uses, including cleaning oil.

The farmer and his wife had refused to abandon their home, and believed that the Belgian army and its allies would win the war, and their farmland would be spared. . The couple were past middle age and chores were becoming a challenge. Reoccurring rains sometimes flooded their little garden, and left puddles around the courtyard. There was plenty of drinking water for the birds and small pools of standing water where they could bathe. There were rules. The birds were not allowed on the porch, and were prohibited from eating any seedlings from the gardens.

Clovis and the Tumbler became close friends. They often flew into the forest exploring along the French border, sometimes
perching along the coastline. Returning to the seashore where Clovis had once visited, all was quiet as the British fleet still commanded the high seas amidst a beautiful sunset.

As the tumbler looked out over the vast sea, he spoke of his dreams. “When the war is over, I want to take a long journey to see the world.”

“What about mating?”

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

“But I can tell Honey Dove wants you to be her mate.”

“We will always be friends. Have you thought about Dove Lillian for your mate?”

“I like her very much, but she has been chosen by someone else.”

“Are you talking about that loggerhead, Brushcutter?”

“I think he believes she is going to accept him.”

“A bird like Dove Lillian will wait for the right mate.”

“Do you think she likes me?”

“Only time will tell, Clovis. Only time will tell.”

“Doesn't matter anyway. I don't want to start a family until the war is over.”

Clovis and the Tumbler returned home that evening. The roller shades of the farmhouse were pulled by nightfall, as was the custom in wartime. Clovis paused alone on the hedgerow, where he watched the far distant lights flicker in the sky over Ypres, and listened to the endless rattle of machine guns on the battlefield. He returned to his home, and dreamed of a time when the war would be over, and he could begin a family of his own.

One summer day, Clovis took Dove Lillian on a short excursion flight and they landed in a treed area a couple of miles away from the western front. Heavy gun artillery had devastated the countryside of Ypres and left the land barren as the Belgian army and its allies successfully held their position. Meanwhile Clovis became distracted by a suspicious greenish-yellow cloud hovering over Ypres. The enemy had begun to utilize chemical
warfare to weaken the allied forces. Clovis sensed danger and suggested they return home.

That same week, Clovis and the Tumbler explored the woodlands. From a distance, they witnessed wounded soldiers boarding trucks to be transported to the field hospital. Injured by the use of chemical weapons, the blindfolded soldiers marched slowly in single file, placing one hand on the shoulder of the soldier ahead of him. The Tumbler witnessed his first glimpse of the tragic consequences of war. This tragedy saddened Clovis. Already embittered by the war, he uttered the only words that would be spoken between them.

“Where's the victory?”

One late summer day, the farmer began chopping wood for the upcoming winter. The farmer's wife was busy harvesting the last of the sugar beets and potatoes from the small garden. Most of the birds went outside the compound to browse in the meadow. The colorful landscape was clothed with crimson clover, dandelions, and flowery trees of holly and rowan. Clovis browsed alone. While Dove Lillian wished to join Clovis, she chose to ignore him to avoid any confrontation with his nearby rival, Brushcutter.

The onset of cold weather was soon followed by snow, and the doves remained inside their little houses, except at mealtime. One particular afternoon, Clovis was alerted by a shrill from Dove Lillian. Her loft was located on the lower north side of the dovecote. Others heard her plea for help, but were too fearful to come to her rescue. Clovis investigated and saw a large raptor dangling from her perching ledge. After gaining momentum in the air, Clovis attacked the raptor by knocking him off the perch, and down to the snow-covered ground. Clovis returned to her perch and watched the startled raptor quickly recover and leap away.

Still hysterical, Dove Lillian explained that she went outside for just a moment and the raptor suddenly appeared, and that she was barely able to escape. Clovis was relieved that she was safe, and tried to comfort her. “The raptor was too big to get inside your loft, anyway.”

“That's right,” interrupted Brushcutter from his perching ledge on the upper level. “I wasn't worried because I knew he couldn't get inside.”

“But Clovis is the only one who came to my rescue!” she retorted.

One day following the incident, while the birds were browsing in the courtyard, Lady Dove approached Clovis.

“Hello, brave boy.” she said rather coo-ish. “You are the kind of mate a dove like me needs to have around.”

“You are quite a glamorous bird, Lady Dove, but I'm not ready to start a family in the middle of a war.”

“That's okay, I can wait,” she said wistfully, as she waddled away.

Unknown to Clovis, Dove Lillian had given Brushcutter the same excuse.

Dove Lillian was concerned about Lady Dove's pursuit of Clovis. Meanwhile, Clovis was concerned about Brushcutter.

Clovis had heard Christmas time was very special at Misty Meadows. The farmer had an audience as he cut a small evergreen branch from a courtyard tree. Every Christmas, the farmer's wife decorated the branches with spices and bits of homemade bread, berries, sprouting buds, along with their favorite seed balls with molasses. Excited, she carried the little tree out the front door into the front yard and propped it firmly in the snow for her feathered friends.

As a tradition, the farmer's wife rang the Christmas bell and everyone gathered for the celebration. The farmer and his wife shared their tradition. “Vrolijke beste kerstmis,” (Merry Christmas, Dear) said the farmer as they each took a sip of warm tea from the same cup. Smiling at each other with arms entwined, they began to sing “Stille nacht, heilige nacht.” (Silent Night, Holy Night)

The tune was all too familiar to Clovis. No man's land. He sighed.

“What's the matter, Clovis?” asked Dove Lillian.

“It's nothing, Lille.”

“I love this holiday!” exclaimed the Tumbler as he gulped down a berry.

There was little food left on the tree as the snow continued to fall around them. Suddenly, a gust of cold arctic wind whirled through the yard, blowing the little tree to the ground. The farmer and his wife hurried inside the farmhouse, and the birds scurried to their homes.