In the small town of Le Grand, California lived a boy and his falcon. Timmy was just 16 years old and could finally drive on his own and drive he did . . . all those country roads he loved so much, hunting and flying his falcon. Being in the countryside, air as clean as the fresh wet grass and teeming with wild things that lived in every square inch of it, all he had to do was look

WING OVER WENDOVER

By ERIC STEPHEN BOCKS

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Eric Stephen Bocks
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-6179-1

Chapter One

"Because I am a noble bird, the quarry that I desire to catch must be fast on the wing ... like me!"

"I APOLOGIZE FOR BEING SO rude, let me introduce myself. My name is Wing over Wendover and I am a Peregrine falcon. My story starts here in sunny California where I was hatched and lived with my parents, that is until I met my master Timmy." Wendover was indeed a Peregrine falcon and peered out from a window of his little ten-by-ten room made of slats and stain. This room was called a mews. Wendover was talking to a little Pack rat who had not moved a muscle. In fact the little rat was paralyzed with fear to have found himself in the company of the strangest bird of prey he had ever met.

Wendover continued, "Timmy is a master falconer. He feeds me and lets me fly as high as I want and we hunt and...." It was then Wendover noticed something strange about the poor little Pack rat; the furry little creature was holding what looked to be a small shiny object, he was shivering and shaking, and his eyes were fixed on Wendover and bulged unnaturally out of his small rectangular head.

"Hey little feller, are you okay?" said Wendover.

The poor little rat cocked his head to one side and then the other and spoke slowly with more stutter and less squeak. "Say l-l- listen here. Are ... you going to eat me?"

Wendover started to laugh and flapped his wings very hard and with a jump and a glide flew from his perch down within inches of the fearful rat's tiny face. "Say, silly," said Wendover, "I thought I told you, I'm a Peregrine falcon and Peregrine falcons don't eat rats."

For a moment the little rat thought that this might be a cruel game and at any moment he would be lunch. He tried again to muster the courage to talk to the falcon. He closed his eyes, concentrated very hard, then with a burst of energy blurted out, "Why not?"

"Because I am a noble bird," said the Falcon." The quarry I desire to catch must be fast on the wing like me." With that, Wendover put a primary wing feather over his heart and recited, "My code of conduct is to only fly at those birds whom I can catch in a fair ariel contest." He added, "There have been a lot books written about me too, the speed of the chase, and all the excitement. It's all very fun being me."

"Wow!" said the rat, fidgeting with his silver prize. "So let me get this straight ... you ... are ... NOT going to eat me?"

Wendover locked his wings as if at attention and said, "No!" Seeing that this was his chance at an escape, the rat quickly scurried along the wall of the mews to the hole in which he had entered. Then, looking over his shoulder hollered back to the falcon, "In that case, adios Wendover ... adios!"

"But wait!" Wendover said, "What's your name?"

The rat stopped and slowly stretched his little head through the tiny knothole of freedom and posed. "My name is Diego Maximilian Jones. I am from a long line of infamous thieves and I am the keeper of the treasure of my ancestors. But right now I am very hungry so I must go. Goodbye." Timmy opened the door just in time to see the Pack rat disappear into the hole in the wall with what looked to be one of his newly purchased swivels.

Wendover heard Diego's words echo as he made his mock escape, "See you soon my friend." Timmy moved towards Wendover and held up his gloved fist and whistled. Wendover flew to the boy's fist with one hop. "How are ya' boy, wanna fly?"

Wendover looked at his master as if to say, "Noble falcon at your service," and the two moved outside to Timmy's truck. Timmy called it the "Hawking limo." The old white `65 Chevy was his Dad's before his and purred like a kitten. It sported an old camper shell that was sturdy but had seen better days. The bed of the truck was set up for hunting with falcons. Timmy hooded Wendover.

Timmy carefully put the Falcon on his perch in the back of the truck and Wendover roused, getting comfortable for the upcoming ride out to the hunting fields.

The next sound Wendover heard was the engine starting up and the radio playing its faint guitar riffs of classic rock, ["welcome to the Hotel California"]. He felt the gravel driveway next and the bump of that familiar old pot hole Timmy hit fifty percent of the time heading out the drive. It was a quick right and another left and a long smooth ride until they stopped at the hunting grounds. Timmy got out to open the gate at the landowner's property. It wasn't going to be long now, Wendover thought, soon he would be soaring into the heavens with Timmy down on the ground the size of an ant and Roxy, Timmy's Labrador Retriever flushing larks and sparrows and ducks and oh, just about anything that had wings to fly. His life was good, he thought. It was exciting, dangerous, and full of possibilities. He was getting hungry now, passionate to fly, to catch, and to kill. For this was his way, thousands of years of evolution ... and God's creation, had seen to him.

The truck stopped and the side window of the camper shell creaked open and Wendover felt Timmy's soft worn leather glove folding underneath his sharp talons and the soft pads of his feet. The telemetry's receiver was turned on and that familiar "beep beep beep" assured both falconandfalconerthataveryspeciallifelinewasindeedinfulloperating order. Radio telemetry was Timmy's only hope of getting Wendover back should something happen to separate the falcon from his master. The telemetry worked with a radio signal that helped Timmy find his lost bird. The closer he got to Wendover the louder the receiver would beep. He could track him for miles should an eagle decide to try to turn the little hunter into the hunted and make him an early lunch.

Wendover felt his heart beating faster as Timmy walked into the field. The breeze was slight and moved through his nostrils like freedom itself. Timmy stopped to unhood the bird. Wendover looked keenly at all that lay before him, marshes, hills, the sky—oh, that beautiful sky. Wendover puffed up, roused, and with all his might, jumped off Timmy's fist and started to power up into the blue. "Now this is what I'm talking about," Wendover exclaimed and he flew up higher and higher. When he finally looked down, he saw Timmy as small as a bug. He watched Roxy as she coursed through the marsh toward the pond and sure enough there were three ducks paddling to the center of the small spit. This was the moment he was made for, but he needed to pay attention, ducks were smart and they preferred not to be dinner for anyone. In having conversations with frogs, Wendover learned ducks liked to eat worms and frogs; they were even known to swallow them whole.

Wendover kept a close eye on Timmy and Roxy. They were the ground forces and they would scare the ducks off the pond. They were now closing in on the ducks. Timmy yelled to Roxy, "Go, girl!" Then he yelled to Wendover "Ho, Ho, Ho*!!! Wingover Wendover!" The ducks exploded off the water. It was his time for action and Wendover knew just what to do. He folded his wings into a tight V and dropped with a speed that would make a fighter jet shutter, stooped towards the mallard's shoulder blades, then folded his feet into knuckles of steel and hit the duck with a "smack"! The bird fell out of the sky.

Now could be the tricky part, Wendover thought while looking through his eyes which were forty times better than a human's. He scoured the horizon checking for danger ... lions of the sky. Wendover was small and fast but Golden eagles and...