Swooping low over the tree tops with an aerial freedom one could only dream of if not blessed with wings, the landscape rolls beneath, presenting various objects of interest. An opening in the trees reveals a bright flat space regular in shape, artificial yet no less inviting for all that. To the casual observer it seems completely empty.
A mixture of laid bricks and cut flagstones pave the curved walkway and benches dot the periphery beneath the leafy shade. A few pine needles and greying dead leaves swirl in invisible breezes at the foot of flowery shrubs that border the winding paths. Orangey Park this early in the morning is rarely frequented by those for whom it had been created. Yet there were others who found interest there.
For reasons no one might ever understand, something about the dusty space was like a magnet to one specific individual. With a gurgle and whispering of feathered wings a Wobbly Pigeon alighted upon the patterned bricks, scattering fragments of rubbish accumulated during the mild night of early winter in Frangea. He strutted about alone a moment, proudly glancing this way and that with yellow-eyed intensity before a second pigeon landed. A third and fourth came in perfect unison almost on top of each other and then there must have been over twenty of the grey soft creatures spread out beneath the trees. Each one once landed had an independence of purpose, moving this way and that, pecking the stone perhaps to test its solidity, pausing curiously on sight of something, wobbling to and fro as if judging matters with fleeting interest. Both male and female were in the flock and they were soon easy to differentiate for the males would amid all this chaotic bustle suddenly spread their tail feathers, dip their heads and then turn in a tight circle clockwise once and if this did not impress, then anti-clockwise with equal celerity. Meanwhile the females who might be the object of this energetic dance pecked the ground, bobbed heads indifferently at the vaunted display of male prowess and then flutter coyly to another part of the plaza.
There would be a pause in the strutting, a few blinks of dismay, and then the undaunted male would reset. Another candidate to be his chosen lifetime soulmate, the beloved creature who had enthroned herself deep within his impassioned heart, would be selected. This was usually based on proximity as her most alluring charm, and the dance begun anew with as much impassioned commitment as if rejection left no scars upon his rapidly beating pigeony heart. Never would there be recriminations or complaints or protests. The frenzy of social interaction was a matter of routine, only broken by another equally potent behavioural trait. The feeding frenzy.
Amid the crowds of higher beings who flocked in countless numbers to the pleasant hills that embraced Blossom Bay in central Frangea, there were those who could only be categorised as bird feeders. They always operated alone. No bird feeder would be seen dead next to another, for then their feed would be subject to scrutiny.
"See how many birds flock to my tasty handouts," one might boast.
"They came to me first and having eaten their fill only now do they flutter to your measly offerings," would be thrown back in the first speaker's face. This did not encourage cameraderie.
A battle of breadcrumbs might ensue. Throwing techniques would then be compared, the crucial choice of locations which aided or hindered effectiveness.
"See that rank amateur there tossing seeds upon a busy path where the poor birds would frequently be under the feet of pedestrians and disturbed in their feeding," a veteran of decades might scornfully dismiss a feeble rival. They would never dream of suggesting the best places, between benches or on open stretches of grass that were not linked to spots of interest anyone would be likely to trespass upon. Of course they would never vindictively suggest a scattering of crumbs upon a busy road either, for after all they fed the birds out of an inherent love of the feathered creatures and would never wish them harm.
Putting this into consideration it explained why the feeders worked alone, surreptitiously laying their fruitful stores out to best advantage when others were not present, that is, other bird feeders. The generality of humankind might be milling about in crowds or gathered in some modest picnic upon a sunny slope. To the bird feeder it was as if these people did not exist, were apart from the world they inhabited. If some foolish family group had chosen to have lunch in a quiet corner of Orangey Park which had been already established as a perfect feeding spot, bits of bread and leftovers were scattered in their midst, a great flutter of wings would follow and the lunchers obliged to move elsewhere to avoid the frenzy.
This early in the morning a few dedicated feeders had already done their rounds, emptying paper bags of their stores and moving on in the morning mist. Sometimes this banquet might remain neglected for some time or disappear in seconds if a passing gull caught sight of it. On other occasions the cooing and gurgling and rustling began the moment the feeder appeared and the frenzy was witnessed with a contented satisfaction and a few muttered words of encouragement.
Pigeons not only learn to recognise individuals who were feeders and would gather before they even began to distribute their largesse, but they can detect the actions of strangers which might predicate an intended feeding session.
Everything about Vetta Mindal's actions told the aerial squadrons on patrol that here was a potential feeder entering the park along the picturesque Orangey Walk that morning and her likely destination was the open plaza popular with feeders. It only took one pigeon to make the connection, the proud male described earlier who took the plunge from the skies and brought all the others with him. The indecisive nature of a flock on the wing required but the gentlest nudge to bring them to earth. Why they fluttered down from the relative safety of the wide open skies, to gather on an empty stone pavement to be victims or perpetrators of crazy mating dances for some minutes was unknown to all but one. He waited with slavering beak, anticipating a bonus feed to set himself and his fellow pigeons up for the day, and tide them over till the next feeder would appear. The one with the red scarf and peculiar detergent smell was most likely, stale crumbs and cabbage bits usually on the menu with that one. Beggar pigeons could not be chosers of course. If only the bag lady with the seedcake might make one of her too infrequent appearances the day would just be perfect. For now though it was all about the plump yellow haired creature toddling along the winding paths and how long it would take to get to where the flock waited patiently.
Vetta had got up early that morning. She usually did so when attending Miss Plazenby's Extremely Exclusive Seminary for Girls, for she was too excited to stay in bed for long. Things were new to her, having never attended a girl's school before, let alone a school several thousand miles from her quiet little flatland of a home in Poldorama. The fact she was residing on the slopes of a giant mountain was in itself a source of revelation. It felt like she was flying, so distant and spread out the landscape below appeared to her wondering eyes.
The rest of Dorm Wonder were late sleepers so Vetta found herself quietly preparing her morning in solitude. Once her shoes were laced, she eschewing poppers as the task of tying fiddly knots was a tribute to endeavour, she wrapped herself in a thin coat and sought the kitchens where she knew scraps of food would be found.
"Feeding the birds my dear?" the head cook asked with a smile when she saw the girl with her empty bag seeking to fill it.
"Generosity is one of the five well-springs of joy," Vetta replied happily as the cook poured some bits into her proffered bag.
Thus she pottered on her way through the school gates and down the hill towards Cherryball Flats, marvelling at the sea mists that resembled an additional layer of floating water upon the undulating landscape. She turned off the road, walked the length of the Orangey Walk and entered the park.
With nervous step she sought out a quiet corner where she could deposit her treasure of yummy goodies as she considered the bag but in the dim morning light her gentle soul was not prepared for what happened next.
The feeding frenzy.
