Silly Peter refused to eat the bowl of soup that Luba placed out for
him, but he went aloft in the barn and cried in his dull, monotonous
tone: "I don't want a grave--I don't want a grave," until he fell
asleep.
Then over his simple, slumbering brain came a vision.
He saw himself standing on an elevated place and over him rested the
great ultramarine dome of sky. About him he could see the horizon as
though it were a white circle of foam.
Gradually this circle grew smaller and smaller and rose up like a
sparkling and living halo. As it came nearer, he discovered that the
circle was composed of hundreds of white doves.
Soon they were close over him encircling the elevation on which he
stood, and he could hear the wild beating of the wings as though they
were rolling a tattoo on muffled drums. Then suddenly the circle broke,
and rose like a puff of smoke against a sky of blue.
With startling rapidity it rose until it rent and perforated the sky,
and was lost from sight. Only a large oval opening of light-grey
nothingness remained overhead--a hole in the sky--an opening to heaven.
Then from all quarters came a loud uproar; a thousand piercing,
whistling yells; a rackety, rumbling, rattling commotion mixed with the
beat and swish of wings. This was followed by an upward rush which
darkened the sky.
Peter saw himself standing like a monarch reviewing his nation from an
elevated platform. Around him flew the feathered tribes of the air. From
the fluttering starling to the giant albatross, all were liberated and
each paid homage to him--the master of the sky, before they shot upward
and through the oval opening in the rent heaven. It was a grand and
colourful sight to behold.
Finally they were all gone and he saw himself take a last look about him
as he stood alone on his elevation. He then craned his neck and turned
his face to the oval nothingness--flapped his arms, and with a thrilling
sensation flew heavenward. His body went through the air a little
sideways--but it flew, and the rest did not matter.
Poor Peter awoke to find himself in the loft of the barn among his cages
of pigeons, confronted with the sordidness of material reality. He
opened a small window and then flung open the cages.
Through the night he limped from barn to barn, darting under wagons, and
between the legs of slumbering horses, opening doors, boxes, and even
barrels. He was liberating the imprisoned, full-breasted creatures.
The little village of M---- slept soundly as it was being flooded with
fluttering birds. Only the hypersensitive Vera was disturbed by the
monotonous beating of restless wings.
No longer was there any mystery regarding the pigeons.
V
In the morning the streets were covered with pink-breasted birds as well
as grey. Besides this, there were breeds and species of pigeons that the
villagers of M---- had never seen before. Wherever one turned, one saw
pigeons. They were on the ground and in the sky, as well as upon the
roofs. Their colours were mixed, and their leaders were lost.
Silly Peter ran joyfully about the streets waving a little white flag at
the disorganized flying tribes, waving a white flag as though it were a
truce to the sky.
For some reason or other, an extra large number of birds took refuge on
the gable and chimney of the Captain's stone house on the hill.
Late in the afternoon, as the charming Vera was playing at the piano, a
dark shadow crept over her page of music, and this was accompanied by a
scrambling noise from outside. As she turned about, she could see
through the corner of her eye a struggling figure across the window,
clambering on the vines. The body was silhouetted against the sky.
One glance was sufficient--her throat let loose a piercing scream as she
ran from the room into the kitchen. "A man! A man is climbing up the
house--quick, send for the police!" she shouted breathlessly to the
servants.
Holding her throbbing temples with both hands, she waited with the
servants in the kitchen. Soon two policemen arrived, having been told
that a robber had entered the house, but they found nothing excepting
Silly Peter on top of the roof, propped against the chimney, waving his
flag and signalling to his birds.
"He's harmless," said the officer. "I can't make him come down, madam.
I'm a policeman, not a fireman." And with this they went away, leaving
Vera with her servants and Peter with his pigeons.
Presently the Captain came home, raved and shouted as he swung his
arms--but Peter sat with his back against the chimney, making bubbles
with his mouth and holding two new-born birds close to his face in order
that they might prick the bubbles with their little soft beaks and
drink.
"Come down from my house, you beggar!" But this did not even frighten
the birds that flocked about Silly Peter in ever increasing numbers.
At length he came into the house, and took a rifle from his case. "Just
wait till it grows dark," he mumbled. But the lovely Vera jumped from
her chair and, with tears in her eyes, cried: "No! No! God will see you.
He will never forgive us. After all, what harm does the boy do? He did
not intend to frighten me, I am sure, put it away, my dear--God will
never forgive us if you don't."
Who could resist a pleading tear from lovely Vera? Surely not the
Captain.
"You are right, my dear. He can do us no harm," he finally allowed.
At night there was a noise and commotion on the roof. Vera awoke, but
then all was silent again. A fearful silence hung over the house,
interrupted only by the heavy breathing of her devoted soldier husband.
She remained awake until morning and was glad when she heard the
servants stir. Then thinking that a little music might be restful, she
dressed herself lightly and went down to the drawing room, opened the
piano and finally opened the shutter. There beneath her on the ground
lay Peter, with his face up--dead. His round child-like eyes stared
heavenward as his birds sat about in mournful groups of twos and fours.
The unfortunate Vera again rushed into the kitchen and sent for the
police before she ran, terrified by the sight she had just beheld, to
awaken her husband. In about an hour, although it seemed longer, the
poor folk of the village arrived and carried the body from the yard. Fat
Luba insisted upon halting the procession long enough so that she could
kiss the white forehead of the little dead master of the sky. A ring of
pigeons swirled around the procession as it marched down the hill.
Vera nursed up a little fever for herself and was put to bed, while
Luba, the cook, stood in the market-place and with tears in her eyes
told everybody that the Captain killed her little Major of the
Birds--"and now nobody will look after them, and they will make dirt
everywhere. And people will have to move away. And he is such a bad man
to take the crumbs away from little doves. And if he has any children, I
wish them the best of everything for they surely will be unfortunate."
Marking the spot where Peter fell were two new-born birds crushed beside
the stone house on the hill. Through the air swung a grand flight
describing an oval in the sky. At each end of the oval the pigeons beat
their wings as they rounded the curve. With mournful thuds they beat, as
they circled over the old farmer's house and again over the solid stone
house on the hill.
All day they flapped a tattoo with their wings and beat their sorrowful
dead sounds into lovely Vera's ears. In the evening the Captain sent for
the doctor.
All night long the uncontrollable feathery tribes encircled the town
with their monotonous beating and swishing of wings.
The next day Vera grew worse, as Luba in the market place kept insisting
that the Captain killed her Little Master of the Birds; until a
committee of three working-men took it upon themselves to investigate.
They started for the hill, but stopped off in order to induce the
schoolmaster to join them.
The schoolmaster, however, did not allow himself to be disturbed. He was
playing chess with a friend, and kept tapping the dull-sounding table
with his fingers, and repeating in a monotone: "If he disturbs that
pawn, he may lose his queen."
As the committee went on to the hill, they were overtaken by the doctor
in his carriage. At last they arrived at the stone house and found the
doctor walking briskly up and down the drawing room smoking a
cigarette--he had not yet told the Captain.
Upstairs they could hear the Captain in Vera's darkened room, kneel down
beside the bed.
"Do you know, my darling," he spoke. "I have never kept anything from
you--but the other day when I told you about the beggar, I should have
told you that he was--Are you listening, my dear? I should have told you
that he was the same boy--the poor boy that lived with the pigeons.
"See; we have already been--are you listening, my dear? God has already
punished us--now you can get better and we will go away from here. We
will go to some quiet place.--Are you listening, my dear? We will go to
some--do you hear me, Vera? My darling girl, don't sleep now. Tell me,
what did the doctor say? Wake up Vera."--But the hand of death had
already passed over Vera.
The Little Master of the Sky didn't need a grave and didn't want one.
But they dug one for him just the same, at the end of the town. While
his pigeons encircled the sky and swished the air, the villagers
straightened his twisted, little body and slipped it into a narrow box,
and lowered him down. The poor folk gave him a little grave, but he
doesn't need it for he never uses it.