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  And so, fear of their formidable predator was passed down to the next generation ~ something Clovis would never forget.

  To pass the time, Homer began to play hide and seek with his siblings, Greyhen, Wabbler, Needles and Wormwood. Homer ran around the trees on the ground until he found Greyhen. She giggled and helped him find the others.

  Several weeks had already passed and many fledglings began to leave their nests. Clovis grew eager to begin a new life on his own. His soft brown plumage was dominated with dark brown outer wing coverts like that of his grandfather, Skybird. Antwerp watched anxiously as Clovis balanced on the side of the nest. Clovis soon caught the attention of a baby grouse on the ground.

  “Don’t be afraid, just flap your wings!”

  “Okay, watch me!” he yelled daringly as he jumped out of the tree, paddling his little wings all the way to the ground. As soon as he landed, Clovis was anxious to make friends.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Homer, from the family of Grouse Norder.”

  “I’m Clovis, from the family tree of Skybird.”

  Grouse are larger than the doves, and in contrast, their feathers cover their legs. Homer had glossy black plumage with a small lyre-shaped tail.

  “Father says you tree nesters take longer to leave the nest,” remarked Homer sheepishly.

  “Where’s your home?”

  “Over there,” replied Homer, directing his attention toward a medley of loose twigs, and scattered dried leaves on the ground. Parents sometimes shepherd their fledglings after they leave home.

  “Homer!” yelled his father, Duney. “I told you to build a stronger nest, like your sister, Greyhen.”

  “But I hate building nests!” grimaced Homer.

  Greyhen smirked at her brother, as she stood proudly next to her deep nest, layered geometrically with leaves and moss between twigs and sticks.

  “Okay, okay,” retorted Homer, then turning to Clovis. “It took her a long time to build that stupid looking thing!”

  Clovis and Homer snickered and laughed, and from that day forward they became best friends. Clovis watched out for his sister, Posie, as she floated down from the nest. Posie had brown feathers and light markings around her neck like her mother, Ringdove. All the fledglings became acquainted with each other. Also joining them were Squeaker and Hazy. In the distance, Rock Dove was swinging Puppyduck back and forth on a loop of woody vine. The little combs over Homer’s eyes elevated with jealousy, wondering why such an ugly bird was getting so much attention. Soon Puppyduck joined them.

  “I know, let’s play a game!” he giggled.

  “Let’s play a game,” mocked Homer.

  “Follow me and we’ll explore the woods,” said Clovis as he barely leaped above the ground to lead them into the forest. With the birds following him in a single line, Clovis flew in and around trees and over shrubs, up and down and all around, and on the outskirts of the island, finally landing on the north side. This part of the island was open and grassy. A perfect place to play a game, thought Puppyduck. “I know, let’s play hide and seek.” After going over the rules, which included no flying, Homer asked who wanted to be ‘it’ first.

  “Me! me!” insisted Puppyduck.

  The birds quickly scattered to hide in the woods while Puppyduck looked toward the river before beginning his search. As he crept into the woods looking for them, Squeaker flew from a nearby bush and returned to base without being caught.

  “No fair flying,” declared Puppyduck.

  “I was only this high off the ground,” replied Squeaker as she fluttered her wings to demonstrate.

  Puppyduck ignored his sister and started toward the woods again to find someone else.

  “I see you!” he yelled at Posie, as she raced him to the shoreline.

  “You saw who? You are supposed to call my name, so I’m safe!”

  With Posie frowning, and Sqeaker pouting, Puppyduck walked toward the woods once again. The other fledglings had conspired to gather in one place, and rush toward the base together without being seen. Jumping up and down while cheering over their victory, made Puppyduck a very unhappy camper.

  “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.

  CHAPTER 4

  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 sh
outed 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 i
sland. 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!”