Title: Partridge in a Pear Tree
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Date in Calendar: 14 December 2007
Fandom: Poltergeist: the Legacy via the LWM universe
Word Count: 658
Summary: On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree.
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Disclaimer: This story is an original work of amateur fiction, and is written purely for the private entertainment of P:TL fans. This story is no way affiliated with Trilogy, MGM Worldwide Television or the Sci-Fi Channel. The characters are their property, and this story is not meant to infringe upon the copyrights of MGM, Trilogy, or anybody else who owns an interest in "Poltergeist: the Legacy".
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree.
++ Alex ++
"Mama, mama," is the hushed, urgent whisper from my daughter and I peel open a sleepy eye to regard her. "You hafta see!"
Practically quivering with excitement, Rose scrambles onto the bed and I curl my arm around my head protectively as I become a human jungle-gym.
"Maman," she giggles at Rachel, who groans incoherently at the weight of the child on her ribcage. "Please wake up; you hafta see the huge bird. He's been talking to me since the sky was dark."
Rolling to my back, I watch Rachel's fair head peek out of the covers to regard Rose blearily. "A bird?" She croaks in confusion.
As though in response, there is the most astonishing noise from the open bedroom door. It sounds startlingly close and I shoot up, uncaring that I'm stark naked, to see something truly amazing. There, in the main room of our spectacular, sprawling house that Dace built for us... is a raven. Croaking in that distinctive tone, it stretches its body parallel to the floor, ruffling up the inky feathers at its throat. Rough and almost intelligible, the call of this wild bird echoes around the house, startling Rachel into sitting up as well.
Rather than flee, the enormous bird merely draws itself up to its full, impressive height and eyes us with gleaming, obsidian eyes.
"He wants to know if we've settled in okay," Rose explains and the bird's gaze flickers to her before returning to me.
Ravens mean transformation of the supernatural, sometimes even harbingers of death. Though I must admit Rose is far too excited for so bleak an omen. They have long been sacred to every culture on earth. And here is an ambassador, visiting us in our new home in this seemingly endless desert. Squawking again, he turns and hops towards the front door, which I can only just tell by the unusually bright light, must be standing open.
"Come on," I whisper urgently to Rachel and Rose, snatching up my robe and following this unmistakable sign. In the great room, I notice a sleepy-eyed and completely confused Kat standing in her bedroom doorway.
"Yep. Come on!"
Tucking the teen under my arm, I pause only long enough for the rest of the family to join us before we walk to the open front door. This feels more serious than merely stepping from the inside to the outside, more like crossing from one state to the next. Old magic has long respected the doorway as a sacred place of transformation, and I feel that connection keenly.
None of us have witnessed this face of the Mohave Desert yet. Rosy dawn chases away the darkness, turning the skies to a rainbow palette of colors. All is still and silent in the surprising chill that makes me shiver. Rachel's arm around my shoulders, her warmth all along my side, is very welcome. With the Corrigan girls flanking me and Rose's small body against my knees, I am warm enough to relish this unique experience.
Once again, the low croak of the raven draws our eyes. In the winter-bare tree that stands in our yard, he watches us in stillness, black eyes glittering in the rainbow sky. I can sense the curiosity in this ambassador, the concern for us in this new place. To my astonishment, Rachel speaks first, her voice low and respectful.
With a quick bob of his head, the magnificent inky wings spread, his whole body glittering blackly iridescent, and he gracefully returns to his place in the sky. All of us watch the progress, smiling at the rough call of his voice in the stillness. Only when we are once again alone, does anyone speak. It is Kat, her voice soft and awed.
I couldn't agree more.