Chapter 15: The Heart of the Serpent

The Peregrine falcon who made his nest within a craggy cutbank high in the mountains circled the narrow of the valley between two rocky cliffs on a search for prey. His blue-grey, spotted plumage shone slick in the hot sun, the warm, dry air gracing his beak and broad moustache as he tried to put the twilight of his years in perspective. He was, after all, the oldest of the falcons. He was also the wisest and the worthiest of predators to have ever hunted the mountains. He led his cast judiciously in all matters of their survival, and he had become so august a falcon that during his lifespan he had come to rule the mountain lands while forging good relations with the ospreys and the bald eagles that dominated the lakes and wider rivers.

Because he was getting old now, he could no longer swoop and dive so swiftly as before. His eyesight had dimmed considerably, and at any moment he felt as though the falcon God would take him from the mountains and set him off flying into the after-life. He relied chiefly on his sons to do most of the hunting these days, and now that they were also maturing quite rapidly, the falcon would soon have to bequeath his territories to them and hope that they would live, rule, and survive in the mountains as confidently and admirably as he had done.

While circling the sky in the dry, intense heat, however, he couldn’t deny that he harbored some guilt for being such a formidable predator and so ruthless during his reign. He accepted his nature, though, and now wondered how his own cast would fare without him, considering that the black, band-tailed pigeons that they loved to feast on were rapidly disappearing from the valleys and the streams where they hunted.

When his wings grew sore and tired, and when his eyesight started to blur, he returned to the nest within the cutbank and fed on some of the sweet pigeon meat that his sons had stored there for him. He awaited their arrival eagerly, because he wanted to make a few changes in the bird kingdom to ensure the continued survival of his sons and the betterment of the mountain food chain that had provided him with so much. His sons had arrived in due course, and they brought with them the delicacies of swallows, jays, flickers, and even a few rare songbirds in their talons as tribute to their father. They would feast only after he had spoken with them at a general meeting. The sons hoped their father would finally discuss the divisions of the territories and the allocation of air space after his life had expired.

A short while after the cast of falcons had assembled at the nest, and after their father had looked upon each of his sons and determined that they were now fit to rule in his place, he addressed one of his main concerns: that their cast had always favored preying on black, band-tailed pigeons instead of the white rock doves that seemed to grow in numbers year after year.

“This is an interesting time in our history,” squawked the falcon to his sons. “We were lucky enough to have survived the great poisonous plague that lasted twenty years here in the mountains, and we are luckier still to have such a kingdom that has been regenerated over the years by the falcon God in the hopes that we could survive yet another generation. And soon all of these skies will be yours to rule!”

“Not without you, father!” squawked the sons in return. “May you have many more years!”

“Thank you,” he continued, “but the Falcon God now circles the mountains above me, and I can feel his presence within my hollow bones with every day that passes. But my sons, it would be irresponsible of me to pass on to the after-life without ensuring your survival as well. So let me explain what I must do in order to protect you after I am taken. Let me explain how I will restore order in the valley over which we rule.

“The falcon God has blessed us with much prey over the years, but somehow we have been much too short-sighted, and perhaps a bit unwise, in feasting on mostly band-tailed pigeons. They are darker, more feral birds, and as is natural to their flocks, their meat is much tastier than their lighter-feathered cousins, the rock dove. But as a result of their delectable taste to our appetites, we will soon pay the price if we do not do something about the band-tailed population. But you see, my sons, many of us don’t treasure rock dove meat enough. We admire their lighter feathers, but compared to their band-tailed cousins, their bodies are too boney and their meat less satisfying. So in order to restore balance, we must make some necessary changes to create a new breed of bird so that their meat comes more naturally to us than band-tailed meat alone.

“From now on, let me decree that for every flock of rock doves living in the valley that they should take in the youngest born from the flocks of band-tailed pigeons and nurture these birds as their own. That means that for every flock of white pigeons there should be one black pigeon within their flock. These youngest born of the band-tailed flocks will grow with the rest of their newly-appointed light-feathered flock with the aim of breeding a new kind of bird. And in this way we will create a new species of bird whose meat is as sweet as its ancestors and whose feathers are still as colorful so that we may hunt them more easily from our positions in the mountains. So, my sons, before I bequeath the mountains, the valleys, and the skies to you, you will implement my orders throughout the bird kingdom. And not until I am fully satisfied that the youngest of the dark pigeons have been successfully relocated and assimilated into white pigeon flocks will I bequeath all of my lands and my territories to you. Once I am satisfied that this has happened, you will then take your places as fitful rulers, but not a moment before.

“It is this that I decree, and my decree will be implemented without delay. If there is any delay or any problems that I see in your implementation, then all of you will be sentenced to the harrowing task of fighting for these territories amongst yourselves – which is something that I would hate to see happen, but something that I am willing to allow if my plan is not thrown into action immediately.”

After the sons had heard their father’s decree, they understood that they must carry out his plan without delay. They did not wait to carry it out. As soon as the meeting adjourned, the cast of falcons darted from their ancestral nest and swooped down to their respective territories in the valley below them. They swooped into the agricultural lands and canopy-covered hillsides squawking their loud decree as they swooped by, their squawking so fierce and frightening that both band-tailed and rock dove flocks darted this way and that in fear of their very lives. The falcon’s sons even brought a few band-tailed pigeons back to their nests in the process, thinking that a good hunt in combination with the implementation of the decree would reinforce their father’s will over the pigeon population. A climate of intense fear enveloped these flocks of low-flying birds from that point onward, and with it came immense sorrow, as the band-tailed families would be losing their youngest born to rock dove families. Similarly, the rock dove families would now have to accept the youngest born of their feral cousins into the sanctity of their stable homes. The falcons never gave them an explanation as to why they had ordered this, only that they should start the relocation immediately or else face dire repercussions. All pigeons feared for their lives should they try to avoid the order. There was no telling what it would lead to.

Nestled in the narrow of the valley, a small mountain village with a factory and a few small farms had been built adjacent to a sinewy river whose waters froze to ice during the winter but was now thriving with birds of every feather during the summer. While there were many birds that stayed close to the river, the pigeons mostly stayed close to the village itself. They took up their nests in empty barns, building rooftops, and abandoned warehouses. Plenty of pigeons, both rock dove and band-tailed, used the same village to forage for food, but the two types of bird traveled in different flocks entirely. They never really mingled that often, as the rock doves were considered snobs of the highest order, while the band-tailed pigeons were seen as fierce and unruly. Both pigeons kept to their own territories. So when they heard the falcon’s call from on high, they were petrified, especially those pigeons who lived on the small farms, because the falcons and the hawks often liked to hunt there. Quite naturally they were scared, but they had no choice but to accept the order.

At one such farm just a few miles from the center of the village, an adult band-tailed pigeon readied her only son – just a young squab at this point – for a flying lesson. They would practice in the loft of the empty barn in which they both lived. She had had her son as a young single hen not very long ago, and she swore that she would nurture him and protect him fiercely. She had to forage for food all day by herself, considering how her husband, a good-natured cock, had fallen victim to a hawk that hunted the fields. They were very much in love. She never saw her husband again.

After his disappearance, she decided that the best she could do was to forage limitedly so that she could look after her squab, but in return she would teach him how to fly through the lessons she gave at their nest. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t get the chance to teach her squab very much, considering the orders that came shrieking in from above. Her immediate reaction to the order was to escape with her son, to simply fly away and take their chances. And yet she knew if the hawks or the falcons caught up with them, they would both be killed. Her squab, a very cute and sensitive pigeon, couldn’t understand the falcon’s orders just yet, so he asked his mother, “what does it mean, Mama?”

At first the mother didn’t know what to say. She simply surrounded her squab with her wings and brought him into her pillowy breast. Tears spilled from her eyes. She must have held him there for several minutes not wanting to let go of him, but she knew they had to comply with the order no matter how destructive it was. The falcons promised that this would be better for the band-tailed community anyway, and yet she did not want to let go of her only squab. Someday, she imagined, her squab would return to her as a grown cock.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” he mumbled, his head nuzzled against her soft breast.

“Darling,” she said, “you’re going away.”

“Where are we going, Mama? Are we going on holiday?”

“No, darling. We are not going on holiday, but you are leaving today. Somebody else will teach you how to fly from now on.”

“Where am I going, Mama?”

“You’re going to live with some rock doves for the time being.”

“Rock doves? What are rock doves?”

She found it difficult to elaborate further. She only hoped that her squab would return to her eventually, perhaps as a beautiful and brave cock, but this time more worldly and knowledgeable, and dare she think, more capable of evading the hawks and the falcons than his father. When the sun began its decent behind the brown ridges of the mountains, when shadows encroached upon the village and its surrounding farms, the mother hen took her squab by the beak and flew with him to an abandoned building near the center of the village to where a rock dove family lived. Despite her tears and her anguish, she bravely flew against the valley winds and arrived at the abandoned building. There she found the nest of the rock dove flock she had heard about. Their nest was empty, and she simply dropped her squab there by releasing him from her beak. She then flew back to the barn where she lived.

Seeing that night was quickly falling and that he hadn’t learned how to fly yet, the young squab couldn’t pursue his mother. He simply fell asleep soundly in the empty nest after tearfully witnessing his mother’s wings grow smaller and more distant in the sunset. He slept so soundly that he didn’t stir at all when the rock doves returned from their foraging expedition just before sundown.

The young squab awoke the next morning to the chirps and cries of the rock doves with whom he now shared the nest. And when he got up to move, the flock fell dead silent and eyed him suspiciously. They didn’t say a word to him. They only looked upon him with the kind of condescension and disdain that rock doves usually reserved for their band-tailed cousins. The abandoned squab could only look up at them slyly, not knowing what to say or what to do. He could only remain quiet and silent so as not to disturb their normal routines. Yet he hungered for a berry or a nut or even a worm to usher in the morning. As of yet the rock dove hen hadn’t returned.

He fought their stares by pretending to fall asleep again – this until the hen of the nest finally flew in from a broken window above them. Her large white wings flapped as she balanced herself on the rim of the nest. With the greatest speed, the other rock doves gathered below her, and she regurgitated whatever food she had ingested into their mouths. It’s what the squab’s mother normally did for him, so in imitation of this routine, he took a place in the column of rock doves as well. But with a solid whack, the rock dove hen batted him away from the other rock doves when his turn came and said, “no food until you are finished with your flying lessons, you rat-winged squab.”

The other rock doves simply laughed at the trouble he got into, but generally they were more interested in the food they received. Once breakfast had been served, the rock doves assembled in a row below their mother to receive the next flying lesson.

“You better come listen to this if you expect to eat tonight,” squawked the hen.

The band-tailed squab followed her orders and lined up once again with the other rock doves.

“Gather around me nice and close,” said the hen, “because today we will review the elements of flying.”

The squab was a bit apprehensive about this, because he had never received the hen’s first lesson. Also, he found it terribly hard to concentrate, since being taught with rock doves proved to be too unique an experience to pay attention to the lesson too closely. Instead, he could only stare at his surroundings and also stare at the brightness of their feathers, as he was instantly fascinated with them. This fascination came quite naturally to him. They were, after all, beautiful creatures. Their snow-white rumps and blue-grey necks enticed him into staring at one of the female rock doves more and more, until she too diverted her attentions from her mother hen and returned his stare.

The hen noticed their connection just a few moments later, and when she did, she flapped her mighty wings in his direction and batted the young squab to the other side of the nest. He barreled over in pain, and suddenly the entire lesson has been disrupted with the laughter of all of the young rock doves. The formidable body of the mother hen now towered over his small, black body.

“You better pay attention and stop looking at my children – especially her. She is not for you. If you’re not ready to fly this afternoon, you don’t eat. It’s that simple. So you’d better decide whether or not you’re really fit to be here, because I, for one, don’t want you here to begin with, and you are certainly not going to touch my daughter. You can rejoin the lesson after you’ve thought it over.”