Peregrine Perch
Fiction by Madi Tracze
Pollution by Indra O. (2022)
Here is a story I learnt from a bird.
Not long ago, at a time when humans and birds lived in harmony, there was a town unlike you have ever seen before. One easily missed by those who did not seek its sanctuary.
The town was Peregrine Perch.
***
Named after the peregrine falcon that once lived there. They say if you can find the sanctuary you are a Child of the Peregrine. Great cunning and agility are needed to find the hidden gateway up in the trees. It is only fitting that the swiftest of birds be its keyholder.
As I mentioned before, it was a town unlike any other . . . on second thought, perhaps it was a town like every other. One that had been ‘discovered,’ domesticated, and conquered, by a band of greedy humans that sought out their sanctuary. For Peregrine Perch was once lived in by birds of all kinds: robins and cardinals, eagles bald, white-tailed, and golden—you name it. The birds lived within a domesticated forest space. In homes gifted to them by the illusive hands of the humans.
***
One fateful morning, a group of humans came to the forest with large, menacing hammers in one hand, and small, wooden birdhouses in the other. They did not appreciate the birds’ nagging and cawing, nor did they like sharing their beloved town with them. So, they built the birds a town of their own.
The humans hung the birdhouses on branches and hammered them into the sides of the trees. The wooded creatures cried out in pain, whilst the birds chirped fiercely for their anguished friends. Peregrine Perch was born from pain, and it died the same. But for a moment—just one, the Perch was full of life.
That is what the young Robin sang of first.
He told me how the birds quickly adapted to their new homes. The Perch became a haven, a promise of beauty, a kingdom of life.
Within the small clearing of a lively green forest, birdhouses of every pastel swung from sturdy, reassuring branches. The birds flew from tree to tree amidst a background of their own hum and song. The young robin, who could not yet fly, was an observer. From his home, he peered down at a brook of the clearest blue, whose waters mirrored the pastel town above. It provided the birds with a stream of sustenance. Ospreys caught fish with their powerful beaks, herons spearfished in the shallow stream, and pelicans scooped up their food in one mighty sweep. The forest bustled with life and the young robin wished and prayed for the day he could truly live. The day he would feel the breeze under his wings and the spritz of cool water on his small frame. But the young robin would never get his wish, nor would anyone answer his prayers.
For in the death of the environment, the birds only retreated further and further into their man-made homes.
The young robin watched as the air filled with smoke and as the brooks and streams became pools of water that soon dried up.
When the trees began to fall, the birds screeched at the deafening boom of their fallen wooded friends on the desolate forest grounds.
Soon after, the birds too,
fell
from
the
skies.
***
For the humans rose to the skies to claim the birdhouses. The ground was uninhabitable, the grass dry, and the water gone. So, the humans sought out the moisture above.
Mercilessly, they injured, maimed, and killed the birds, and took their sanctuary.
The young robin hid away from the scary humans. Forgotten by his family who flew to seek haven, only for them to meet a fateful end.
He cried out from his hiding place, painstakingly alone.
Eventually, the young robin’s cries reached his neighbour, a brave and kind female sparrow. She took him under her wing and flew far from the Perch.
As he spared one last glance back at his home, what he saw was enough to bring the young robin to tears. The birdhouses had been coloured a deep shade of red. Painted with the blood of their once owners. The branches hung lower. The melodic hum and song morphed into the sound of malicious threat and insult to thy neighbour. Surviving birds cried out at the sight of their fallen friends, some of which had been laid on the dining tables of their once homes. He saw through the peepholes, the birds smothered in gravy and being scarfed down by the small, vindictive humans.
The humans who built a life up in Peregrine Perch, far away from the chaos and destruction they had created below them. The young robin wept and wept, but the humans did not think of him once, nor of the other birds, as they continued their dismantling.
***
Their life at the Perch was not long-lived, for where humans go, death tends to follow. But for some time, they lived in these bird homes. When those who sought out sanctuary found the Perch, they built more homes from the wood of the fallen trees. The key to finding the Perch was simple. Those who created the Perch were small enough to fit, and those vile enough to follow suit were just as small. These individuals, who possess the cunning spirit of the falcon, call themselves the “Children of Peregrine.” The Children adapted to the life of the birds, and as they grew more comfortable, they built a community of their own in the trees. A community that preached the “way of the Peregrine” by means of prayer and ritual.
The Children’s behaviour became increasingly aligned with the falcons they revered. Their town began to function identically to the way of the birds. They would eat worms and feed their children from their mouths, they greeted each other with bird calls, and their movements became swifter (the young Rrobin swore to me that he even saw one of the Children fly).
All the while, the young robin, the sparrow, and the rest of the horrified survivors flew to neighbouring towns and sang the story of Peregrine Perch to those who would hear it:
“Atop the Perch, there is a genocide,
Where the fallen Peregrine did once reside.
We sing for help both far and wide,
We sing to end this terrible genocide.”
The Children of Peregrine expanded their empire throughout the forest. The sounds of their ritual drowned out the calls of the desperate birds. But even when no one listened, they continued to sing:
“Atop the Perch, there is a genocide,
Where the fallen Peregrine did once reside.
We sing for help both far and wide,
We sing to end this terrible genocide.”
That is when I heard the young robin humming with the pain of generations lost.
I was trudging through the vacant forest; I had heard whispers of a sanctuary up in the trees. My home had been decimated by a flood and the desperation of my situation nearly led me to the Perch. But then I heard a more compelling sound.
The cry of a young Robin.
He was perched on an overhead branch. He was small and helpless, and he was alone. He cried out again and that time I understood. The young robin was without a home, like me. He sang to me:
“Atop the Perch, there is a genocide,
Where the fallen Peregrine did once reside.
We sing for help both far and wide,
We sing to end this terrible genocide.”
Once he finished his song, the young robin slowly lifted his shaky wings. He stood like that on the branch for a long moment. Then, with a huff, the young Robin took flight and toppled onto my shoulder. I felt his fear through the powerful tremors that had overtaken his small body. But the young Robin did not move. We stayed like that for a while—in a comfortable silence.
Until the bird hummed once again; that time he asked me to help him share his story. He told me of all the life that had been lost at the Perch, including his family and the female sparrow that did not live much longer after their escape. I remember giving it quite a bit of thought. The bird and I both needed a home, and there was no use standing in that disaster of a forest any longer. So, I told the bird I would help him.
***
We traveled for days to neighbouring towns. I sought out shelter and the bird sought aid for the Perch. The young robin mostly stood on my shoulder, but sometimes he would try out flight. Sometimes he was successful and other times I had to reach out to save him and his frail wings from a fatal fall. But the young robin persisted as did I. I was intent on finding myself a home. Somewhere new to start my life.
Days and days passed and neither of us had very much luck. Most people we spoke to were fleeing their towns and others refused to help because they were “on the side of the Peregrine.” Alas, the young robin and I continued on our aimless journey. We did not have much other choice. We continued even as the forests turned to hills, which became long, winding highways, which led to a small town.
It was a town of refuge.
I felt a fleeting sense of relief at that moment. But when I turned to celebrate with the bird on my shoulder—his body went stiff, and he fell backwards onto the cold hard ground.
I do not remember much after that moment.
We had finally made it, and the young robin died.
I suppose it was the nature of our tumultuous journey that was too much for him. The constant changes in temperature, the long days, the sleepless nights, the lack of food and water. The bird had taken on something much bigger than himself, and he paid for it with his life.
I picked his limp body up from the ground and ran into the town square. I viewed the town through my welled-up eyes. I could see that it was full of life—people young and old, animals big and small. There were markets full of supplies, food, and water. There were countless medical sites, inhabited by empathetic nurses and doctors tending to the hopeful wounded. I ran there first, I begged anyone and everyone to help me revive the young robin. But nothing could have brought the fallen bird back. He was gone.
In that moment I decided I would devote my everything to finishing the journey that the poor young Robin initially set out on. So, I left the medical site and ran into the town square, where I sang:
“Atop the Perch, there is a genocide,
Where the fallen Peregrine did once reside.
We sing for help both far and wide,
We sing to end this terrible genocide.”
People had gathered around to gawk at me. Still, I sang . . . until the town square filled up with people who were willing to listen to the story of Peregrine Perch. I told them the young robin’s story. I told them of the life he had lost even before he died.
I buried him later that day.
By night I had gathered a small but eager group of supportive townspeople. Comprised of other individuals who had lost their homes, like me, the young robin, and the birds of the Perch. They wanted to aid others in the way they had been aided by the town’s refuge. They wanted to take on the Children and restore life to the Perch.
We gathered supplies for weeks of travel. Food and water, blankets, knives, anything we could muster up for the treacherous task at hand. And then we departed.
Those weeks were the toughest of my life. Every step reminded me of the journey the young robin and I had just taken. Each hill and road brought up a new memory. Most nights I would lie awake to avoid replaying the robin’s death in my nightmares. But then I would hear the chirp of a morning bird and regret my insomnia. The bird followed me in my wake and in my slumber, it was all too much. However, not enough to knock me off my path.
***
We journeyed to the small clearing in the forest where the Perch resided. But we could not find the Perch. We camped out in the clearing for days, hoping to follow someone to the Perch, hoping to find its key. But the clearing was becoming less and less inhabitable. The air above us was getting thicker and thicker. We had to leave . . .
That is when I heard the screams of the Children.
I still sometimes hear the guttural sound when I close my eyes.
The sounds that were made when the Children too,
fell
from
the
skies.
***
One landed on my foot, and I will never forget the way he looked . . . He was small and unnatural looking. His bones were long and displaced, his hands were webbed, and his nose was long and pointy—almost beaklike.
He looked like the peregrine falcon.
The townspeople and I ran as far as possible from the Children. Leaving them with a similar fate to the birds they had once displaced. To the same fate my poor young robin fell victim to.
So now I sing, years past, for the fallen birds. For their discomfort and their demise at the hands of us humans. For the young robin that cried to me in desperation, the young robin I saw so much of myself in. And now, as we rehabilitate the environment and its wildlife to preserve the Earth, we must not forget the story of Peregrine Perch. May we learn from the young robin’s story. May we sing for generations to come:
“Atop the Perch, there was a genocide,
Where the fallen Peregrine did once reside.
We sing for help both far and wide,
We sing to end terrible genocide.”
For as the birds continued to sing their song, the polluted air surrounding Peregrine Perch choked out the greedy Children of Peregrine. As we continue to sing for the fallen feathered angels, we take life from the legacy of our predecessors and breathe it into a reformed present and a hopeful future.
Lest we forget Peregrine Perch.
Madi Tracze is a second-year creative writing student at the University of Guelph. She transferred there this year to pursue writing as her major, because she quickly realized there is nothing else she’d rather be doing with her life. She is incredibly passionate about storytelling and is so, so grateful to have been given this opportunity to share “Peregrine Perch” with you. Hopefully this is only the beginning.