PIGEON PIECE

"Prolific breeders", warned the Birdman of Claredon as he handed over the crate of five fantail pigeons on Oban Pier one chilly Spring pre-dawn.

"Peregrine falcons at Feall will get them", warned the Birdman of Coll when they arrived on the island.

"Or the wind…rned the weather man of Ceann a Bhaigh.

"If they get ANYWHERE near my garden..." warned the Gardener of Kilbride.

"Fine sport!" laughed the gunmen of the West.

Meanwhile the Woman of the Hotel was thinking of a new recipe for the Winter Diners' Club. For the Winter would come...

But it was Spring on the island. High blue skies and crisp waves. What can possibly be whiter than white sheets on the line at that time of year? A newborn lamb? A whitewashed wall? Whiter than white are fantail pigeons let out of their doocot, their fortnight of acclimatising incarceration over.

The fledglings were let out first. "You'll know the young ones", said the Birdman of Claredon, "they've got bald heads. They'll hang about 'til their elders arc freed - one day at a time remember".

What celebration, that first day of freedom for all the pigeons together. They circled the arc of blue above the house. Would they fly off and over the bay, never to be seen again'?

They landed on the old slate roof, its grey density emphasising the purity of their whiteness, ruffling the new wind of their surroundings out of their feathers. They had decided to stay. Baldicoot, the baldest of the fledglings, was the first to take grain from the hand. The rest of the family eyeing his bravery from the safety of the gutter. Finally, with wings that clacked and creaked as though in need of oil, they all converged on the bird table.

Those were days of parabolas of grace and symbolism. The Peace Pigeons. For this can be a violent island sometimes, what with Nature all around and that...

Spring stretched into Summer which meant winds and rains, of course, but the Peace Pigeons adapted. They danced pink footed petronellas on the perspex roof of the garden room on dry days and woke the visitors with creamy velvet cooings on windless mornings.

Others on the island, some part of the Peace Movement, others more interested in pies, contacted the Birdman of Claredon. Soon pockets of pigeons flocked the walls of neuks of the island.

Summer moved into early Winter - there is no Autumn on the island - and that was when the violence started. I suppose it takes its toll, being a performer of peace parabolas...

Baldicoot's was the first carcase. A flurry of dead feathers by the gate, neck broken. His plump breast warm.

In pursuance and understanding of Nature it was important to conduct a post-mortem. Falcons do attack in mid - air breaking the neck of smaller birds but often the victim falls to the ground, a surprise bonus for other predators.

Baldicoot was very easy to pluck, being still warm. What a very plump little breasts he had. But not a mark on the firm flesh.

Everyone enjoyed the soup. "Sort of gamey", someone said. A fine memorial, Baldicoot, only a few knew it was you...

When the next neck-broken carcase was found a few weeks later it was old and cold. Lying just below the doocot. "Rats!", said the Seer of the village. "The Winter's coming on. They're moving in..."

Meanwhile all the other doocot inmates on the island were proliferating despite the shortening days. Clutches of eggs and successful hatchings.

And then another broken-necked carcase at the original doocot.

Truth to tell, with only two pigeons left it is now obvious what had been happening. The Peace Corps had within its ranks a Killer Pigeon.

It is Winter now. No summer-blue skies and spectators a backdrop for display and performance. Days are short. Nights long in the doocot. All cooped up with your final enemy. Imagine it.

The bird table is the battleground. Like intertwined Celtic images the two pigeons lock into each other at the beak and, for as long as the hold lasts, the dominant one forces the weaker one's neck back and back with savage unpredictable twists.

This has gone on a couple of months now. Nobody winning, nobody losing. Stalemate.

The island in winter.

The Winter Diners' Club menu concentrated on fantastic gourmet creations such as...Maqueraux à la Maître D’ Hôtel en Brochette aver Riz à la Safran Epicé et Aubergine Frites. The Paquets Feallo de Coquilles et Cresson cuire à la vapeur à la Julie sur Sauce Hollandaise au Moutarde et Crevettes Roses avec Pommes de Terre en Robe de Chambre was a culinary and etymological chef d'oeuvre.

The Woman of the Hotel knew we needed bringing out of ourselves. Pigeon is spelt the same in French, anyway.

Mairi Hedderwick