11 days to christmas – partridge in a pear tree

Written by: Elina Ong (23-E3)

Designed by: Lim Sher Min (23-E1)

The first snow of the year fell heavily in the quaint village of Birne, on a year that should have been like any other. Beyond the village was an endless expanse of white, pierced through by the occasional pine. Sheets of snow and ice blanketed the homes within, where townsfolk huddled around their fireplaces swathed in blankets, along with copious amounts of hot chocolate. 

Like the years before, Patricia settled comfortably in the mightiest tree of Central Park. She watched the milling crowds below from the comfort of her nest. In this familiarity, Patricia found something new. 

“Krismas? Ecksmas? Seems the humans have found a new thing to rave about.” 

Not that Patricia cared much for the trifles of humanity. As long as they left her be, she was perfectly content leaving the humans to their flashy festivities. After all, she too had a penchant for extravagance.

As she hears the calls of her family on the wind, it is time, once again, for her return to her childhood nest. With nothing but the feathers on her back, Patricia started her long trek back to her family’s abode, leaving tracks in the otherwise spotless snowy landscape.

After a long while of retreading old, familiar routes, Patricia was finally back. Back in her simple nest behind curtains of grass. 

Patricia had hoped to enjoy this family reunion; she did, until her brother approached her with a certain request. Her subsequent trip home thus saw her saddled with the duties of parenthood. After laying down a strict set of rules, Patricia set off for Birne, leading 12 chicks to their new home.

The fluttering specks of crystals that melted on their tongue. The towering trees, topped with white. The minty and refreshing scent on the winter wind. Patricia felt her new burdens lighten as she took in this landscape again. Then she turned to find the chicks frozen in place. With an exasperated sigh, Patricia returned to their sides. Under her wing, the chicks stopped shivering, giving them the chance to properly admire the unfamiliar scenery before them. When they felt warm enough, they scurried out from Patricia’s warmth, tumbling in the snow and pecking at berries that were still vibrant amidst the frost. Once the cold bit at them once more, they hurried back to their walking heat pack.

“How does Patrick do it?” As Patricia yanked the chicks from poisonous plants and the dens of slumbering predators, she gained a newfound respect for her brother. Was that a bald spot on her wing? With all her fretting, she felt as though she had lost half her remaining lifespan.

Finally, at the base of her tree in Central Park, Patricia’s fears were no more.

Or so she thought. 

What she found instead was her tree strung up with lights of a thousand colours, blinding all who came near. Shrouded in the leaves were metal boxes that blared with obnoxiously cheerful melodies. 

“Come on, your new home awaits,” Patricia grumbled, only to find the chicks frozen in place, shivering as they had before. About to nag them, she stopped in her tracks. The chicks’ eyes were wide, but not with fascination this time. Fear.

Patricia’s eyes softened and tugged at the chicks gently, easing them closer to the tree. Almost reaching the first branch, a cloud of feathers exploded as the chicks were sent into a panicked frenzy. In their hysterical warbles and cries, Patricia vaguely made out a few words. 

“Fire”. 

“Home”. 

“Again”.

They ran in frantic circles around Patricia, some clinging to her feathers and alerting her to flee. Patricia plucked a few leaves off her tree and wrapped them around the chicks’ eyes as she cooed to them. The most the leaves could do was muffle the sights and sounds, but perhaps they would be more bearable. One at a time, Patricia carried her nieces and nephews up the tree. She had hoped they would marvel at the sights of the village. After all, it was a view one could only see from above, a place few partridges ever got to nest. However, the chicks could only cower in Patricia’s feathers, shutting their eyes tighter whenever they neared a light bulb and burying their head deeper into her back for every radio. With every ascent, Patricia glared at the lights and radios with a growing disdain.

Night after night, Patricia gritted her teeth through the incessant noise and shut her eyes against the blinding lights. However, they still managed to slip through her defences, leaving her with many sleepless nights. Through this cacophony, Patricia did all she could to comfort the chicks. Yet they still trembled as nightmares consumed their dreams, flooded by radios that sounded like the raging inferno that swallowed their home.

The villagers of Birne would soon start to hear screeching that pierced the night’s silence, that pierced the buzzing of labourers and commuters in the day. The strings of lights draped on the trees of Central Park had been torn off, with some bulbs having been shattered to dust. The radios were found half buried in the ground where they landed, crumpled and choking out indecipherable static.

Patricia had enough of this “Krismas” hubbub. One way or another, this holiday was coming to a halt. 

And thus began a battle between Patricia and the village of Birne. 

When new radios were secured to the tree with thicker ropes, Patricia jammed twigs and branches into their speakers and screeched louder than before. When villagers tried to stone her nest, Patricia shielded her nest and dropped things from the branches above, hoping to hit an offender. With each passing day, the chicks watched on with fear in their eyes as they watched Patricia’s body grow more battered and bruised.

One night, a rustling in the leaves woke Patricia. The wind? An attack? Was someone climbing the tree again? Barely able to move, Patricia still assumed a defensive position, determined to protect her nest to the end. 

Rather than a rough, muscled arm, Patricia found herself staring at a chubby palm grasping for a sturdy branch that would hold its owner’s weight. A head of dark curls popped up from below, with a round beaming face following closely behind. 

“A child?” While Patricia did not strike at him, she remained wary. 

The child reached out to Patricia with his other hand in a fist slowly, hoping not to startle Patricia and the chicks. He opened his fist. 

In his hand were offerings of fruits and berries, food that Patricia had not been able to forage for in the days prior. Having given her last shares of food to the chicks, Patricia was starved. As she laid her eyes on the fruit, she was mesmerised, almost eating them right out of the child’s hand. Realising something, she jolted back and snapped out of her famished daze. The child was human, the same as those who tried to get rid of them.

This sudden change in demeanour left the child more than a little puzzled, pushing his hand of offerings a little closer to the nest. Patricia flicked the food away with her beak, sceptical of the child’s intentions. His eyes widened with realisation before he pulled himself up to sit comfortably in the crook of the tree. 

“See the pear?” The child took a pear slice and held it to his mouth. He slowly lowered the pear into his mouth and chewed as he eyed the birds, hoping to convey that the fruits wouldn’t hurt them. 

“It’s safe to eat!” The child declared, his speech muffled by the pear in his mouth. 

Patricia approached him reluctantly and pecked at the fruits, taking small bites at first, quickly evolving into a devouring. The chicks cowering behind her eventually followed suit, emerging from the safety of the nest. 

Every night since, the child returned with a new handful of snacks. He sometimes brought trinkets with him. At first they were crudely carved bird figurines. Then eventually a set of short and stout cylinders that sounded when hit. The chicks had feared the noise it made until they learnt that it was entirely harmless. Though they could not make heads or tails of it, they found it entertaining to play with. 

As the chicks spent their days playing and eating, Patricia realised that the attacks had stopped. The lights and radios were turned off at night and rocks were no longer hurled at the birds residing in the tree. Instead, they were greeted each morning with presents, some more sophisticated than others. Unbeknownst to them, the child had been protecting them from the wrath of the villagers. 

Seeing the child delight in befriending the birds, the villagers could not bear to strip him of his newly forged friendships. Weak in the face of the child’s pestering, the villagers began to join the child in giving the birds presents, hanging them on the branches in hopes of making peace. 

Suspicious at first, Patricia eventually came around to their genuine actions. She could finally rest well for the first time in a long while. Maybe the humans were not as bad as she thought.

A few days pass and villagers would start to find berries and pine cones on their windowsills. The radios were sometimes stuffed and muffled, but their songs would be replaced with melodious chirping. They could even hear the joyous whistles as the birds played with their gifts to their heart's content. 

In the quaint village of Birne, in a year that would be the first of many, an unspoken promise of peace and celebration had been made. On Christmas night, all would slumber peacefully, eager to awaken to new acquaintances and old friends.