“Preservation” by Amelia 7A (Selected: FOBISIA International Competition)

Famine swept through the woodlands, and the winter snow blanketed the already bare trees. This winter was like no other The bitter cold stung, and the river had been glazed over with a layer of ice From a dead oak tree, a tawny-brown nightjar was perched on the branch, its limbs too numb to move This particular nightjar had not constructed its nest for winter, as the forest ground was frozen solid, the twigs snapping as soon as the slightest pressure was placed upon them The nightjar’s stomach gnawed with hunger, and its wings were stiff with cold

Other nightjars had instructed it to construct a nest in the dense forest floor, and enter hibernation, but there simply wasn’t a suitable space that wasn’t prowling with the rust-coloured foxes or persistent birdwatchers with their clicking cameras No matter what, the other nightjars muttered, do not seek help from whoever dwells in the cottage Those who go in don’t come out

Howling, the winds swept through the woodlands, the nightjar knew that this night would be frigid and that his luck had run dry Eventually, the nightjar found the strength to fly off the tree, swooping through the woodlands, crying out. After several hours, the nightjar collapsed onto the damp snow, shivering. Wisps of cold air emerged from his beak as the nightjar exhaled defeatedly Then, it glanced up There was a brick house in the distance, with plumes of smoke emerging from a chimney. Using its last burst of strength, the nightjar shot toward the home, banging its head on the door.

Hearing the impact of the nightjar against the door, an elderly woman opened the door and spotted the exhausted nightjar on the ground

“Oh, you poor bird,” cooed the woman, scooping it up. “I’ll take you in, where you’ll be warm.”

Without protesting, the nightjar was carried into the home Everything was furnished: the couch was lined with woollen pillows and the ground with rugs. The blazing fire in the hearth cast a warm glow across the room.

“Thank you, kind stranger,” gasped the nightjar, raising its head.

The woman chuckled, nudging a bowl of assorted dried fruits toward it “Oh, there’s no need to thank me, nightjar. Even through this famine, I’ve gotten some food for you, as I’m more than glad to help poor creatures such as you Why don’t you spend the night here?”

“No thank you,” replied the nightjar politely. “I must return to the woodlands to build my nest.” “You could stay here till the end of winter,” offered the woman

The nightjar paused. “Alright, then. How could I repay your generosity?”

“There’s no need to, my dear bird,” The woman answered. “I’ll make you a bed.”

The woman left the nightjar on the dining table to finish his meal and departed towards the bedrooms Moments later, the woman emerged with a cigarette tin and a woollen piece of cloth. At that moment, the nightjar realised that it was in the cottage – it was the only bungalow in the woodlands – that was occupied By all appearances, this elderly woman was harmless: her creaking limbs, skeletal face with warm eyes, and a flowery apron that served as a winter jacket What was it that made the other nightjars so concerned? Had they not seen how pleasant and cordial she could be?

“This will keep you warm during the night ” She picked up the nightjar and tucked him into the makeshift bed

“Good night, nightjar. Whatever you are to do, never open the door with the red string on the doorknob.”

Curiosity gripped the nightjar. As soon as the woman left, lightly shutting the door behind her, the nightjar rose, and hopped out All the candles had been snuffed out The nightjar shuffled across the coarse but intricated Arabian carpet, to the door with the limp red string on the doorknob Surprisingly, the door wasn’t locked Gingerly, the nightjar pressed itself through.

The room was bare, the walls whitewashed A damp rug was placed in the centre of the room, and from a visual point of view, for no reason at all. The nightjar nudged a corner of the rug up, with its flat head. There was a worn wooden trapdoor Prodding the rest of the rug away, the nightjar wedged its beak under the sunken handle After much effort, the trapdoor was open wide enough for the nightjar to enter Rasping stairs descended into the darkness. Instantly, musty air filled the nightjar’s lungs, as it descended underground Instead of a treasure horde of unimaginable riches, the nightjar was greeted with the sight of countless glass jars, each the exact copy of the others, stacked in neat rows in the shelves, labelled and preserved The nightjar was a nocturnal creature, with its orb-like eyes able to pierce through the dark It flew up to one of the shelves and peered into the glass jar To the nightjar’s horror, the bloated body of a woodpecker, with its head tucked towards its chest, hovered in the mustard-coloured liquid, bubbles at its neck. The dark, beady eyes of the woodpecker glared back at the nightjar, peeled open In the next jar, was a goldfinch, with its minuscule beak and tufted head feather bobbed in the liquid Preserved and frozen in the winter cold, the bodies of every species of bird fathomable was stored in these glass jars, labelled with translucent paper

There were still several shelves here that had unoccupied jars in their place. The nightjar swooped towards them, scanning the elaborate cursive handwriting, and to its dismay, there was a tag with ‘Nightjar’ scribbled on it in thick ink. Instantaneously, the nightjar shot out of the cellar, its heart in its throat. Franticness gripped the nightjar – to bolt out immediately, before it was joined the ranks of the other birds

The nightjar dove out from the trapdoor and headed towards the door through which it had entered through, but now the exit was bolted from the outside Frenetically, the nightjar flapped around the room in a fit of sheer terror, but there were no windows; no gaps in the wall; no exits in the cellar; and now the only escape was restricted.

After what seemed like several hours, the night’s periwinkle curtain was drawn back by the golden fingers of dawn Cold had eaten away at the nightjar, frosting its feathers with a tiara of crystals around its head The fatigued nightjar, depleted of all will and energy, lay on the ground, its body temperature perfect for preservation.

I, the nightjar, in my desperation, lay on the tiled ground Before me, the door creaked open The elderly woman entered, and plucked me up from the ground, and headed downwards to the cellar of preserved birds. Bottles of formalin and silver trays were set on the ground Unbeknownst to her, I was still conscious, merely unable to move In my last moments, before being dipped into the bitter formalin, I glanced at the rows of dead birds, bobbing in the clear fluid, one no different from the other.

Who would notice that we were gone?