ORIGINS: The word PARTRIDGE made us think of mountains, and two characters separated by an insurmountable distance. One that not even birds would be able to close. And, dejected, having forgotten how to fly, they would fall to their deaths, like heavy stones.
Forest Hair: I know that I told you that I didn’t want any birds flying above me. That I didn’t want anything between the crowns of my trees and the clouds. Because that wonderful imagination had to be able to find its way to my dreams, unimpeded. But I didn’t wish for this to happen. I never meant for all these birds to turn into stone, and fall to the ground. I have tried biting them. Hard. But the stone won’t break. And I can’t set them free.
Mountain Hair: Don’t worry your pretty little head. Go back to your dreams, and let them fall. One on top of the other. Soon they will become a mountain, just like me. They will be back in the sky in no time. Birds are happier when they fly in flocks, after all.
Forest Hair: I envy you. You are like a hedgehog, even birds respect your sharp, sharp spikes. They never fly above you. But the crowns of my trees look like soft, soft clouds. I’ve been told that they look welcoming, that they look encouraging. That even birds that don’t know how to fly all that well decide to give it another try. Because my trees promise to break their fall, gently, without any pain at all.
Mountain Hair: What can I say? Not everybody likes to hear the truth, not even birds. They don’t like to be reminded that freedom takes effort, that it hurts, and so do most things that are worth anything in this life.
Forest Hair: Have you ever seen a shark? A blood-thirsty creature that is all teeth? I saw a shark once. It was autumn, and sunlight was dripping through the spaces between the leaves of my trees. I don’t know who took the first bite, but it wasn’t long before everything was bathed in red, red light. And no one dared to move. Not even the birds lest their feathers were next. That was the day they chose to stay on the ground. Under the leaves. And use their feathers to dream beautiful dreams. In the dark. Where their blood would never be spilt.
Mountain Hair: I wish I didn’t know what a shark is. But I am a mountain range. Sharp teeth are all I have. Every year I grow a little bit taller, I grow closer to the sky. And I fear that one day I won’t be able to help myself. I will bite, I will tear the sky apart. And no amount of crying will be able to mend that wound.
Forest Hair: Do you think that I am to blame? That I was the one that inspired them to give up? I am a forest. My trees have their roots in the ground and their leaves in the sky. My trees are so tall that they can steal the clouds and keep them for themselves, tethered to their branches. Still in the sky, but without the freedom, without the hope and the joy that a flying creature would find there. Do you think that I am the reason why the birds in my forest chose to forget how to fly?
Mountain Hair: I don’t know if this will bring you any comfort, but I am a mountain, I am taller than you will ever be. I touch the sky, in a place where trees don’t grow. If I look at your trees, I see thin trunks and an ever-expanding tangle of branches. At first sight there is more sky than ground in you. But if you look at me, you will see that I am all feet, that I barely touch the sky with the tip of my peak. If anyone inspired those birds to stay on the ground, if anyone turned them into stone, that would be me.