Wings of Destiny

Gregor and the Gaggle of Geese

Note: This is part three of Gregor’s story - the previous story (The Bagel Shop Incident), should ideally (but not necessarily) be read before this one.

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When, after feeding them leftover crumbs, I, Gregor Pavianovich, left the pond to return to town, the geese trailed behind me, a full gaggle of them waddling in my wake. I stopped, turned, and squatting before them, said kindly: “Do not follow me, I have nothing to offer for I am more destitute than you. You, at least, may fly away to a better place, but I am earthbound by my circumstances.” The geese raised their necks and honked inquiringly. “Yes, yes, I admit my thoughts may fly, but my feet are shackled by the limits of this mundane world.”

I stood and continued at a leaden pace through the evening snow, of which a fresh layer was beginning to fall. I passed the Bagel Shop from which I had been forced to flee. Imagine, if you can, having to flee from a mob hostile to all knowledge, except the tiny sliver of which they approve. Such was my circumstance in this place. Now, it was as closed and dark as the hearts of those who had earlier turned upon me.

And then, nearby, there was a mournful yet hopeful whistle, followed by the familiar ring of iron slipping on steel rails. I followed the sound around a corner and there before me was the train station, with a locomotive slowly departing, while behind it another arrived, steam hissing from its stack and the warm glow of burning coal illuminating the engine compartment. What fancy, what aspiration is raised in hearts by the sight and sound of these great machines that enable travel for the masses.

I reached in my pocket and held the few coins that clinked there, warming them in my grasp while I crossed the platform and stood before the clerk’s booth to purchase a ticket. The clerk craned his neck to peer over my shoulder. “Is that your goose?” he asked. I turned, surprised to see the largest, most plump goose of the gaggle, at my heels - it had quietly followed me here. Further down the platform, the rest of the gaggle had settled on their haunches, waiting patiently for what was, apparently, this head goose who stretched his neck and honked at me.

An old woman with a bonnet, a shawl to keep off the chill air, and a cane, shook her head and turned away as though personally offended by the honk. A darkly mustachioed soldier leaning against a pillar, the ends of his whiskers drooping over his thin upper lip, raised an eyebrow and chuckled under his breath. A number of other waiting passengers, seated on the scattered benches looked on in curiosity.

Sensing an opportunity, I turned towards the disparate audience of curious and bemused faces, and raising my arms to gather their attention, exclaimed: “Listen good people, beyond this station there is a vast land, and many towns and cities each with their own depots, and beyond those the immensity of the great globe of this earth, and all of this it is possible to travel through, drawn by these great engines and carriages on wheels of steel. How remarkable is human ingenuity!”

As if to punctuate my words, the train whistle sounded, the geese honked and then a contrasting silence fell upon the platform. My words had caught their collective attention and they were curious to hear what philosophical truth I might declare. I continued:

“And yet this simple loyal creature…” and here I pointed at the head goose and then at those on the platform, “…can travel with ease through the skies, while we must slowly cross land in immense metal contrivances. How marvelous their capability.” As if they understood, the goose at my heels, and the entire gaggle resting on the train platform, raised their long necks and set up a cacophony of honks.

Then everything was very still. Even those whose interest had not been kindled, turned their attention towards me.

“This talk of geese is making me hungry!” someone shouted. Everyone snickered and laughed and the spell of eagerness to listen was shattered.

Then the train whistle blew, a conductor leaned out from a carriage to announce boarding and the people began to make their way to the coach car.

“Hey, hey… do you want a ticket or not?”, the clerk in the booth asked. I nodded and handed over my coins, he counted out three and handed me a punched ticket. I crossed the platform, now vacant but for the geese, and climbed into the compartment. Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. The car reeked of damp wool coats and unwashed bodies. Outside, the cold breeze had wafted away the odours, but here the crowded wooden benches and close quarters concentrated the pungency. I squeezed into a corner seat, but was immediately accosted by the conductor. “You’ll have to buy tickets for these if you’re taking them.” I turned and saw a line of geese walking the aisle. When I turned they honked loudly.

An old man with a tobacco stained coat leaned over. “These geese,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Where did you get them? Will you sell one for my dinner pot?” And he pointed at the plump one. Someone else, with apparently sharp hearing, stood and shouted, “I’ll take one too, long as you’re selling!”

The conductor leaned forward and said, “Give me one for free and I’ll let the others stay on board.” He winked, his whole face scrunching up on the side of his closed eye.

These demands sent a chill down my spine. I glanced around and saw the passengers watching me, their expressions ranging from amusement to outright salivating expectation.

A young woman with a crying baby spoke up. “Why are you so nervous? Do you have something to hide - maybe they’re not your geese, maybe you’re a thief - maybe we should help ourselves to them! They look fat and delicious.”

My hands began to tremble. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words caught in my throat. I felt trapped, suffocated by the collective judgment of the car. But then I reminded myself that I was Gregor Pavianovich. When I wake in the morning I am Gregor, when I lay down at night I am Gregor, no matter where I go or what I face, I am Gregor Pavianovich! And gathering my philosophical powers, I suddenly sprang to my feet, faced the hostile gathering and shouted, “What insolence, what impertinence. I am Gregor Pavianovich, a philosopher of the highest learning, travelling this vast land with these innocent charges of mine.”

Taken aback, the entire car fell silent and waited. “Have you not heard it said,” I modulated my tone but kept it robust and firm and pointed a finger around the carriage, “Have you not heard it said that, ‘There is not an animal (that lives) on the earth, nor a being that flies upon its wings, but forms communities like you.’* So how do you speak thus of these my flying friends.” I picked up the nearest goose and held him for all to see.

The whistle announcing departure sounded, and startled, the goose squirmed and slipped from my grasp, landing with a soft thud on the floor. A ripple of laughter spread through the car. The train lurched and began unevenly to advance forward until its great iron wheels slowly gained traction.

“Look at him! Can’t even hold onto his ‘friend’. What language does your friend speak. We’re going to eat your friends, Gregor Pavianovich!” someone jeered.

I stooped protectively to pick up the goose. But a huge burly man with a scarred face stepped in my way.

“Let’s see if it’s really yours,” the man said, grabbing the bird and mockingly asking it, “Who do you belong to mister community goose?” He laughed uproariously lifting his head to the ceiling and then his laughter abruptly ceased as with a mighty purging honk, the goose ferociously grabbed the loose skin at the man’s throat and bit with its tiny but formidable teeth. The burly man bellowed and then let out a frightened screak.

The entire passenger compartment immediately exploded in a wild cacophony of fierce honking as, their wings flapping wildly in the confined space, the entire gaggle together set irately upon the rude travellers, biting and squawking at everyone in sight. Their patience at an end, their indomitable assault was unstoppable. The beating of their powerful wings generated a tumultuous tempest of feather laden air within the confined space. The bedlam and clamor went on and on until all the travellers fled to the back end of the compartment seeking relief from the wild assault, leaving the foremost bench empty for myself and the geese. The geese arrayed themselves across the bench and upon the backrest. The plump one stood protectively in front of me and, looking across at the huddled voyagers, emitted a long shrieking honk of triumph before settling into a contented silence.

The train was now moving at speed, rattling on across the frozen land as darkness fell outside and the divided carriage rocked rhythmically onwards.

The car was quiet now and the chastened and subdued passengers slowly and sullenly settled onto the free benches. The conductor stayed quietly to the side. The train chugged on with the occasional blast of the locomotive whistle piercing the cold night. The rocking cadence of movement over the tracks seemed to soothe all within the coach. Behind the train the tracks, like the ill-tempers within, receded and faded with distance.

I sat with the geese and restrained myself from further lecturing the riders. There was a fitting time for philosophy, and a time when the most appropriate philosophy was that of…silence.

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I leave it to you, dear reader, to ponder and decide on the meaning of this incident and on the mingled coterie of people and animals travelling together on rails through the frozen night towards a common destination.

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* (Q. 6:38)

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