It began to rain heavily before Clovis reached the Belgian border, and his impaired vision forced him to seek shelter in the forest below. Still struggling with injuries to his covert, his leg slipped on a wet branch, but he managed to clutch the limb below. Aware of his physical limitations, he realized the war had taken its toll on his health.
The rains passed by afternoon, and he would soon be reunited with his family at Misty Meadows. As he approached his destination, he was met with unexpected tragedy. The farmhouse and its surrounding hedge had been destroyed by heavy gun artillery, and the bird house lay broken and entrenched in the mud on the ground. He assumed the farmer had been killed in the bombardment.
Perhaps they were hiding in fear, he thought. He stepped around the yard, calling out to his family, but no one answered. He flew up to the birch tree, now burned and barren, and looked over the devastation. How scared Dove Lillian must have been, he thought, and he wasn’t there to save her. He recalled the last time he saw her alive, running after him, begging him not to go. “I will wait for you,” were her last words. Unknown to Clovis, Dove Lillian had spent time each day perching in the same tree waiting for him to come home.
Into the night he waited, and into the misty morning. But no one came. His heart ached with the realization that he had lost his family. Now the war had taken everything. Neither sounds of heavy artillery, nor trumpets of victory could have been heard above the lonely silence of grief and resentment that consumed him. Leaving the farmland he once called home, Clovis leaped off into a future of uncertainty, and once again, wondering why he, alone, was left to survive.
Flying aimlessly across the fields of Flanders, there seemed to be no path to his future. Expectations of reuniting with his family had been shattered. Unable to resume his flight, he landed among a newly planted row of popular trees, and wept.
While in mourning, he became distracted by a flicker of light across the meadows. As he moved closer to the outer part of the branch, the ground fog began to lift. What is this? He wondered as he looked upon rows and rows of white headstones, each etched with a cross, and adorned with stems of red poppies. He realized it must be a grand military cemetery in memory of the fallen soldiers. His spirit began to lift, and he rejoiced as songs of praises filled his heart. He visited several graves throughout the day.
Once a raging battlefield, Clovis became mesmerized by its tranquil peace and serenity, far from the battle cries of the wounded in no man’s land, and the unwavering voices in the trenches asking, “When will it all end?” Clovis had witnessed a war that exceeded human endurance, but their honor would live on.
Clovis had survived the war, and those he had left behind. No longer focused on a future of uncertainty, his outlook became transformed with a renewed sense of purpose that would mark a turning point in his life. For the first time, he was not afraid to recall that fateful day when he and Homer were suddenly swept away from their homeland, and the echo of his terrifying cry for his father. And somehow, it was no longer painful for him to utter the name, “Papa.” Clovis realized it was his destiny to return to Doveland.
Along the way, he flew over no man’s land, where dark war clouds once huddled. The terrain had taken the form of a desolate lunar landscape, with fragments of burned out trees and mounds of toppled soil. As he approached the Sambre-Meuse valley, he flew across the Meuse River and circled back to continue his flight in tradition with his father’s teachings. Proudly gliding above the river with outstretched wings, he prepared to carry the spirit of his father to his beloved homeland.
His journey home had taken years and his flight pace was steady, for he had no expectations of finding what he had lost. Reaching the confluence of the Semois River, he followed its winding path through the rugged Valley of the Ardennes.
Approaching his destination, he circled above the island, and did not see any signs of life below. He landed in the ground center of the threshold, now an open crater facing the sky. The explosion with the onset of the war had rocked the center of the island leaving burned out trees, forest litter for ground cover, with the scent of wet deadwood. This was not the Doveland he remembered. He sighed.
But everything was about to change when he felt movement around him. Startled, he called out.
“Is anyone here?” His voice seemed to echo throughout the hollow forest.
A turtle dove remained cautious as he responded from the safety of the underbrush.
“Who are you?”
“I am Clovis of Doveland.”
“Papa?” cried BoCoo as he ran toward his father, with his sister, Lilac behind him.
His heart filled with great joy, just like he had dreamed it would so many times.
“Oh, Lille, my Lille.”
“I knew you would find us, Clovis.”
“I dreamed of this day for so long. I’ve missed you Lille.”
BoCoo could not wait any longer to interrupt.
“Where did you get that red cloak, Papa?”
“From a kind soldier to keep me warm,” he replied, still gazing at his mate who saw through his humility, as he minimized the importance of his war injuries with a sense of valor that did not aspire recognition.
Many unfamiliar pigeons and doves began gathering around the ground center of the threshold. Lilac quickly explained.
“By the way, Papa, we brought lots of new friends with us!”
Before he could respond, two doves came forward, singing the tune of Waltzing Matilda while marching into the ground center.
“Remember us?” they asked in unison.
“Banjo, Mookie, I’m so glad to see you!” exclaimed Clovis.
“We lost our Jolly in the war and decided to join you here,” said Mookie.
“When your family said you didn’t return home, we went searching for you many times,” said Banjo.
“Where have you been all this time?” asked Mookie.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” replied Clovis as he became distracted by a small flock of birds circling overhead. Soon he discovered it was the Tumbler. Honey Dove landed first, then the Tumbler and their two fledglings. The Tumbler was pleasantly surprised to see Clovis. He couldn’t wait to introduce his family.
“Of course you know Honey Dove. These are our little rollers, Tumbleweed, and Honeyseed.”
Clovis greeted them warmly, but surprised that the Tumbler had settled down. Clovis wanted to know what happened at Misty Meadows.
The Tumbler explained that the farmer had to be rescued from the house by the Belgian Army before the enemy advanced further into West Flanders. They realized they would have to find a new home.
“I knew if you were still alive, Clovis, you would return to Doveland.”
“Thank you for taking care of my family, Tumbler.”
“Welcome home, my friend!”
Clovis quietly gazed around the ground center of the threshold. It was no longer endowed by a beautiful green canopy, but it had survived the war. Realizing that the future of Doveland rested in the shared community of family and friends, he proudly exclaimed, “This is the happiest day of my life!”
As family, friends, and newcomers began to gather closer around Clovis, it became evident that they had chosen him to be their leader. He accepted the honor and was eager to announce there would be a special celebration to officially declare the trees of Doveland their permanent homeland. Feeling secure in their newly developed community, the pigeons and doves boldly ventured away from the safety of the underbrush into the forest where they gathered seed and dried berries for the celebration.
The forest floor was abundant with colonized pioneer grasses, as well as pine cone seeds heroically dispersed during the firestorm. Spore-shedding fronds of ferns with blue and silver hues were collected among the rocks along the shore. Wilted vines yanked from the roots of an aspen awakened the dormant buds beneath the protective carpet of pine needles. Green sprouts of new growth were plucked from the dark cinders by nature’s pruners, and ground critters rustled once again beneath the musty leaves. A new forest garden had begun.
Wondering what all the excitement was about, Wimpy the weasel emerged from his burrow, along with two of his own weasels. Recognizing his friend, Clovis, he cautioned his family.
“Now remember, we don’t bother the birds!”
Serenades of nature swept across the river to the trees of Doveland, bringing winds of change to the ground center of the threshold, as the ceremony was about to begin.
Clovis proudly faced the community to make an important announcement. “It was my father’s greatest dream . . .”
The ceremony was suddenly interrupted by the presence of hawks arriving in the bare branches above them. The forests had been ravaged by the war and the hawks had become desperate for food. Clacking sounds echoed throughout the forest, “Kek-kekkek.” Their powerful strength as hunters invoked such paralyzing fear among the pigeons and doves that they fled to safety in the underbrush, and hovered in the dark shadows of trees and shrubs.
The past had come back to haunt Clovis. The sight of the hawks in the trees above sent chills through him. Standing alone against the enemy in the ground center of the threshold, Clovis wondered if the struggle to survive would ever end.
If his leadership inspired fear among the pigeons and doves like that of his grandfather, Skybird, hope for a peaceful haven would be lost. They must learn to unite, he thought, and make a stand against their enemy. He would have to rely on the service background of the newcomers, because he had only one plan of action. He called out to the pigeons and doves with the fearless tone of a commanding officer.
“Are there any Yanks, Tommies, or Doughboys here?”
Remaining at attention, Clovis waited for a response he feared may never come. Finally, two doves came forward.
“Wicklow here with Lord Aston, sir, British, second division.”
Then, three more came forward. “Hans, Pierre, and Coo De Gra, monsieur, France, third infantry.”
“Jaybird, and the General, sir, American Expeditionary Forces, third division.”
Stepping out of the brush behind him, “Moedig, and Huy, Belgian Army, sir.”
Soon, his patriotic friends appeared.
“The Diamond Doves from Australia at your service, sir.”
As more volunteers came forward to join their new leader, Clovis called out once again, but this time with the words of the old whistleblower from no man’s land.
“Get them before they come and get you!”
Following their leader’s call-to-arms, the troops united their strength, and bravely flew up in all directions, nipping at the tails of the hawks, and fearlessly chasing them back across the river.
The flock returned peacefully to the ground center of the threshold to rejoice in their victory, that they had risen above their fears in their quest for survival.
After proudly witnessing the triumph, Clovis privately slipped away to the south shore to a hideout once known as Little Sticks. Perching on a branch of the same old oak tree of the past, he could hear Homer’s voice. “I wish we could stay here forever.”
BoCoo followed his father to the south shore to thank him for coming home, but remained speechless as he perched beside a father figure who seemed larger than life to him. Clovis continued gazing across the river, then spoke to BoCoo with the words of his own father.
“Don’t ever leave the flock, son.”
“Yes, Papa.”
BoCoo promised his father that he would carry on the historic legacy he had bestowed upon their homeland.
“I am proud of you, my son.”
“I would be honored, Papa, to have your permission to name my first son after you.”
“I would like for you to name him after a very dear friend of mine. His name was Homer.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Clovis told his son he would join him shortly at the ground center.
And so, Clovis had returned to his past to find his future, but not with the scars of a wounded soldier. He cherished the memories of two friends simply strolling along the shore pecking pebbles, but that kind of happiness could not compare to the gratitude that transcends painful memories and provides courage to appreciate life, itself, no matter how fragile.