Doveland

by Martha Moore

  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?”

  CHAPTER 13

  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.

  It was 1918. The snow had finally begun to melt, and soon, spring was in the air. The perennials were blooming around the farmhouse and along the road, where the Tumbler was browsing. The farmer once again began tilling the ground for their spring garden. Dove Lillian was busy pruning the invading vines around her door. Clovis became restless, and set out to explore the countryside. Named after German Field Marshall, Von Hindenburg, the Hindenburg trench line was constructed in 1916-1917 and stretched from the west coast of Belgium through northern France all the way to Switzerland.

  Clovis flew away from the battlefield toward an isolated forest in France. It began to lightly rain when he perched on an oak branch stretching out over the road. The United States had entered the war the year before on the side of the allies. Clovis could hear soldiers singing in the distance, but didn’t recognize the upcoming flag. He was, however, familiar with the response from yet another call-to-arms arriving in high spirits. The soldiers marched in unison in spite of the muddy road. Left-right-left-right, they continued to march down the road beneath him, singing the lyrics of the same song, again and again. . .

  “Over there, Over There, Send the Word

  Send the Word to Beware,

  It will be all over, we’re coming over and we

  won’t come back until it’s over, over there!”

  As the infantry division continued their march toward Argonne Forest, Clovis hoped the war would soon be over, and returned to his loft and rested for the night.

  Early the next morning, Dove Lillian summoned Clovis.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “The farmer didn’t come out of the house yesterday and I think something has happened to him.”

  “Don’t worry. Maybe he is sick or something.”

  “But, Clovis, we haven’t seen the farmer’s wife either. Her apron is still hanging on the back porch.”

  The roller shades were still lowered in the front, so Clovis and Dove Lillian flew around to the back of the house to look inside. The shade in the bedroom was partially opened and they quietly perched outside on the window ledge. The farmer’s wife was lying still on the bed in her nightgown and the farmer was sitting beside the bed weeping.

  “I got worried yesterday, but I couldn’t find you.”

  “I was far away from here.”

  The farmer rose from his chair and knelt down beside the bed kissing his wife’s hand, then her forehead before pulling the sheet over her head. It was clear to Clovis and Dove Lillian that she had passed away.

  The farmer came out and went into the wood shed and brought out some lumber to build a coffin. By mid-day, he pulled a long box outside the courtyard area, and proceeded to dig a grave. He remained speechless as the pigeons and doves quietly gathered around the gravesite. As usual, Brushcutter stepped in between Clovis and Dove Lillian.

  The grief-stricken farmer went back inside the house and returned with his wife in his arms. Covered by a blanket, she was placed inside the box where the blanket was gently tucked around her body. After securing the top with nails, he pushed the coffin into the ground and buried her. The farmer wiped the tears and sweat from his face, as he leaned on the shovel. “Vaarwel mijn liefde” (Goodbye my love). He whispered.

  The farmer was oblivious of his feathered spectators, though Clovis understood why their presence did little to comfort him. Being left alone by a sudden loss was all too familiar. The birds formed a line and each placed a flower stem on the grave of someone who had always taken good care of them.

  Clovis watched the farmer leave the gravesite, and lock the gate behind him. Life at Misty Meadows would never be the same, he thought. He would have to look after Dove Lillian from now on. His plan to mate with Dove Lillian began by cleaning out his loft. He arranged a comfortable loose cup of rootlets, moss, and fresh twigs. After creating an open notch in the nest, as always, he stepped out on the perching ledge to inspect his work. There was something missing, he thought. He flew to the roadside and plucked a good luck flower and placed it on the side of the nest
.

  By late afternoon, the flock had gathered in front of the farmhouse. Clovis was about to face his greatest challenge. Would Dove Lillian accept him as her mate? He announced his arrival by beginning the courtship ritual. Flapping his wings in an upward motion over his back as he moved forward and began strutting around Dove Lillian, proclaiming his wish for her to be his lifelong mate. Dove Lillian was pleasantly surprised. She remained gracefully poised as he continued performing the mating ritual. Then Clovis stood facing her, and waited for her acceptance. At this point, Brushcutter proceeded to stop the ritual by challenging Clovis, but was held back by the Tumbler.

  “You must let Dove Lillian make her choice.”

  Dove Lillian moved toward Clovis and gently rubbed her head into his feathered chest. When Clovis opened his beak, she accepted him.

  The Tumbler congratulated them, and announced that it was a perfect ritual performed by a perfect match. The community embraced them and welcomed them as mates. Clovis and Dove Lillian flew to a home they would now share.

  Lady Dove moved in on Brushcutter. “Hello, pretty boy, I am willing to be your mate.”

  “But I always thought she would come around after the war was over,” he said regretfully.

  “Clovis gave me the same excuse.”

  Brushcutter flew off to be alone, but Lady Dove followed him. She did not give up, and soon they would become lifelong mates. Honey Dove wanted to approach the Tumbler, but she was afraid of rejection. She watched him return to his loft, and she returned to her loft alone, again.