Randy White - Everglades

Up until the turn of the previous century, white-crowned pigeons nested in colonies of thousands. But they were hunted almost to extinction until laws were passed to protect them. Even so, they are not a bird that is commonly seen.

Shiva told us, “I prefer the white-crowned dove to the common pigeon because it’s faster. A more difficult target. The challenge is part of the meditative exercise.”

Tomlinson was facing him now, and Shiva sniffed, shrugged, indifferent as Tomlinson yelled, “Meditation, my ass, you ridiculous phony. It’s murder. Why are you killing these birds?”

Shiva’s smugness seemed calculated, an intentional technique to exasperate. “There’s a basic spiritual concept,” he replied, “that you clearly don’t understand. Death is an illusion. Meaningless. The bird you’re holding-you, your friends, all living things-we don’t die. We simply change forms.

“The kindest thing you could do for that bird right now? If you really do care about suffering. The kindest thing you could do for it is snap its neck. Allow it to move on to its next incarnation.”

Shiva turned and looked at dimple-chin. “Or let Izzy do it. He wouldn’t mind at all.”

Dimple-chin smiled, enjoying himself. “My pleasure.”

Izzy.

So the Bhagwan’s assistant had a name. The man whose fingerprints, presumably, were on the shotgun shell I’d collected.

I’d never seen Tomlinson so furious. His skin was blotched red, his eyes fierce, as he said, “You’re doing this intentionally. You’re trying to make me angry. Why? ”

Shiva said, “I’m trying to instruct you, not anger you. I’m a teacher. Why can’t you let go of your ego? Open yourself up to wisdom, and allow yourself to be our student. There’s much we can teach you.”

“ You pretend to be able or worthy to teach me?”

“Why does that frighten you? You are a young soul. I’ve been sent here to help people such as yourself. People who are lost.”

To Tomlinson, I said, “You’re right. He’s doing it intentionally. And they’re recording every word, so don’t say another thing. Let’s get out of here.”

But he waved me away, holding the bird in one hand, staring into Shiva’s face. “You said there are ten stations on this course. Does that mean your going to try to kill eighteen more birds?”

“Actually, there are sixteen doubles-birds, naturally. And two rabbit traps. I was hoping you fellows would shoot with me. So staff has quadrupled the number of targets.” Smiling at Izzy, Shiva added, “It looks like I’m going to have a lot of shooting today.”

Tomlinson said, “Then why do you have that gizmo loaded with targets?”

He pointed at a manual, spring-operated trap catapult that sat on wheels fifteen yards or so from the shooting deck. In the machine were stacked several dozen clay plates.

“The clay birds are for members. Not everyone gets to shoot live pigeons-it’s a rare opportunity that I’m offering. A chance for real spiritual exploration. Are you sure you won’t give it a try?”

For a moment, Tomlinson focused his attention on the bird he was holding, stroking it as he made a low cooing sound. Then he lifted the dove in both palms, blew softly into its face, and said, “You’re not hurt. You’re okay, now,” and tossed it upward.

The bird flapped unevenly for a moment, came close to tumbling, but then seemed to feel air beneath its wings, and righted itself.

Surprised, I watched the bird fly toward the swamp maple horizon where, I noticed, a much larger bird was perched. It was a snail kite. The snail kite, I noted, was the same size and color of the rare bird we’d seen standing on the mahogany tree at Chekika’s Hammock. The kite looked like a blue hawk.

Tomlinson’s manner now became oddly buoyant as he said, “Looks like you’re only batting five hundred, Jerry. One of your savage animals got away. You say you enjoy sports? I’ve got a sporting offer for you.”

Shiva said, “Really? Sporting. A kind of wager?”

“In a way. How about this: Let me try to break a target. Load a gun with two bullets and let me try. If I hit at least one of the targets, you agree not to shoot any more pigeons.”

Shiva began to chuckle. “First of all, shotguns don’t fire bullets, they fire pellets from a cartridge. Which is why that hardly seems fair. Even if you’ve never shot a gun before, it’s possible that you might get lucky. One target in two shots?” He was shaking his head now, seeming to relish the circumstances. “No, I don’t like those odds.”

Tomlinson’s voice became steely as he said, “Then how about giving me one cartridge? One group of pellets, and I’ll break two targets. If I break any fewer than two targets with one cartridge, I’ll shoot the rest of the stations with you. I’ll kill live birds. I give you my word.”

DeAntoni said, “I’d like to get in on some of this action,” as I told my friend, “Listen to me just for once. Most experts couldn’t make a shot like that. Just stop. Let it go. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

But Tomlinson wouldn’t be swayed. He accepted a shotgun from a grinning Izzy, then a single 12-gauge shell. Tomlinson held the shell in his long fingers, inspecting it. I doubt if he’d ever seen one before.

The shell was the size of a miniature sausage and had a brass cap attached to a red plastic casing. He bounced the shell in his hand, feeling the weight of it.

Then, to me, he said, “Show me how to operate this thing, brother.”

The shotgun was a 12-gauge Beretta over-and-under, which means that the two barrels were mounted vertically as opposed to side by side. I demonstrated how to load his single cartridge in the top barrel, then showed him how the safety worked. When he seemed to understand, I opened the chamber and grabbed the shell as it popped out. I handed both the shell and shotgun to him.

As I said to Tomlinson, “You’re making a mistake,” Shiva, standing off to the side, told him, “Izzy’s all set when you are.”

Dimple-chin was standing by the catapult, clay targets in place, the spring arms cocked.

I watched Tomlinson pause to tuck his purple-and-pink Hawaiian shirt into his baggy shorts and pull his scraggly hair back. Then he stepped onto the shooting deck, shotgun ready-an incongruous combination and an absurd thing to witness.

I listened to Shiva say, “What an amusing little soul you are.”

I listened to DeAntoni say, “Concentrate, Mac. You can do it. Wait until just before the plates cross, then squeeze the trigger.”

I listened to Izzy say, “Tell me when you’re ready. I’m throwing two at once.”

Then I heard Tomlinson call, “Pull!”

There was the fluttering sound of spring compression as twin clay targets arched high toward the pond-but Tomlinson didn’t shoot. Instead, he snapped open the shotgun and plucked out the unfired shell with his big right hand. Then he whirled like the gangly pitcher he is, and rocketed the shell toward the mechanical catapult, narrowly missing Izzy.

But he hit his target. The 12-gauge cartridge had to have been traveling close to eighty miles an hour when it crashed into the stack of clay birds mounted vertically into the machine. Several of them shattered.

In the microsecond of silence that followed, I heard two soft plop-plop s as the airborne disks landed in the pond.

Tomlinson tossed the shotgun on the ground with theatrical contempt. Then he walked toward Shiva. “No more live pigeons for you, Jerry. You’re going to keep your word. Like the big-time religious guru you claim to be. Right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You cheated. You tricked me.”

“Nope. I told you if I broke any fewer than two targets with one shell, you win. But I broke five or six. Maybe more. Count ’em if you want. You know what the key is? Mushin. That’s a Japanese word.”