The Eternal Partridge

Under any other circumstances, being inside Zalo’s Emporium of Magical Mischief would have been awe-inspiring. James Walton was the first Mundane employee granted entrance to the shop in some 83 years. What's more, in precisely 73 minutes he would also be the longest-tenured non-magical associate; assuming Donald Rawlings from Gessie, Indiana, never found his way back through the wormhole in the supply closet.

The whole place looked like something you could only find in a high-dollar amusement park. Everything from the sales desk to the floor itself was made of finely carved wood or bone, and the walls stretched so far upward that the highest shelves were shrouded in mist. The overstuffed chairs in the break room looked impossibly cozy, but they had come to life and barked James back onto the sales floor before he could actually try one out.

Zalo Hazeroot, his manager for the day, was not pleased.

Roughly half James’s size, Zalo boasted the intimidating combination of a spiteful face and bad social habits cultivated over the span of several centuries. He was the most terrifying supervisor to whom James could remember reporting, possibly because his bottom half was that of a goat and he sported thick, mousey hair that couldn’t quite cover the pointed tips of his horns. It didn’t help that the human portions of his body all lit up a violent red when he got worked up. Which, of course, happened the second James accidentally led a pack of howling furniture in a stampede over several loyal customers and a young Tiefling mulling the purchase of a Spawning Day gift set.

When James tried to explain himself, the talisman around his neck hummed enthusiastically and summoned his contractual ward: a magical bull that would defecate whenever anyone in its vicinity told a lie. It was at this point that Zalo dragged James into the shop’s cavernous Fulfillment Center and tasked him with an order no one had been able to complete since it arrived in the eighteenth century.

Not that the satyr had been surprised by the Bovinian Bowel Hex; it was standard practice at OfficeOgre.com, the temp agency with whom James accidentally registered as a wizard two days previously. James hadn’t even begun to explain himself to Zalo when the bull took on a pained expression that heralded the arrival of a foul-smelling but blessedly short attack of flatulence. Judging from the look it gave the sales-imp in the corner, they might still be cleaning up if not for the almost inhumane dose of Imodium James slipped the animal before clocking in.

Now, the bull leaned unsteadily against the wall beside him and breathed in the heavy, rasping rhythm of a dozing grandparent.

“Load of help you’ve been,” James grunted, pulling a worn toothbrush from the pocket of his hoodie so that he could brandish it. “Couldn’t even figure out what my magical powers are supposed to be. Ten hours locked in a room with you and all we know is that I’m definitely human and this stupid toothbrush is somehow the most valuable thing I own.”

The bull snorted approvingly, a line of drool hanging from its slack jaws. James did his best to push back memories of the last 36 hours, most of which had been spent locked in a room with the beast and improvising wild claims about himself to see if any were secretly true.

“Hey, new guy!” a blue-skinned woman in a painted leather vest shouted at him from behind. “You mind putting that tree out? I have a crate of Cerberus pups to move and I don’t want them riled up.”

James turned back to the pear tree he was meant to be packaging, awash in flames that licked up at the vaulted wooden ceiling, and wondered why she was the first person to make that request in the half-hour that it had been burning. Everyone else was nonplussed, with the exception of a troll that eyed the fire warily from his post at the corner of the loading dock.

“I’d love to,” he said. “I just don’t know how.”

“Never seen a Phoenix Bond before, eh?” she said. “I guess they don’t teach the classics anymore. May I?”

He nodded, not sure what he’d approved or whether he really had the authority to approve it. She pointed two confident fingers at the highest branch and closed her eyes. Clear liquid erupted from underneath her bright pink nails, showering the tree with a steady stream of what smelled like seawater. She swayed her arm casually from side to side and, after a few minutes, the tree relented to being a charred husk rather than an all-out bonfire.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied, turning to go.

“Can I ask you…?”

“Why would anyone jinx a tree to spontaneously combust?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It wasn't the tree. Did you read the manifest?”

James sucked his teeth, pretending to be deep in thought as he thumbed through the pile of ancient pages affixed to his clipboard. The bull glared at him through heavy eyelids. Finally, he saw the original order at the foot of a long list of notes from craftspeople and technicians.

𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢, 𝟷 𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔢 (𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢) 𝔦𝔫

𝔒𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡: 𝟸𝟺 𝔇𝔢𝔠𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝟷𝟽𝟿𝟺

𝔉𝔲𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡: --

𝔇𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬: 𝔖𝔦𝔯 𝔊𝔬𝔡𝔯𝔦𝔠 𝔅𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔶, 𝔇𝔲𝔨𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔑𝔢𝔴𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔩𝔢

“You’re kidding.”

“If only,” she said, with a shrug.

A bird cooed underneath the pile of ashes at the base of the tree, its harsh song causing them both to wince. James and his new friend looked down to see the ragged head of a partiridge pop out of the planter, chattering aggressively. James thought it was the most unpleasant sound he’d ever heard in person, although the bull’s churning bowels weren’t far behind.

“Why would anyone want this?” he asked.

“No idea,” she said. “Humans do and buy so many different things, I honestly can’t tell the difference between what’s weird and what’s normal for you. You’ve never wanted a partridge in a pear tree?”

“Not in the least. Most of the stuff in that song strikes me as terrible gifts, to be honest.”

“There’s a song?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You know, some guy buys his lover a pack of wild birds and a troupe of medieval performers. Drummers and pipers and geese laying eggs, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds expensive,” she said. “And possibly cruel?”

“Supremely,” he said, glancing at the order again. “We’re 400 years late on this. Shouldn’t we just issue a refund and call it a day?”

“There are no deadlines here. You just drop everything through the Dimension Door and it arrives right on time. I guess ol’ Zalo figures someone will crack it, sooner or later.”

James let the pages of the manifest drop, creating a gentle breeze as they flapped down in sequence. They fanned his wrist like a child’s flipbook, telling the story of a thousand failed magicians before him. Most of the notes were gibberish to him; some had literally been written in Greek and he was fairly certain one page contained nothing but Celtic runes. He sighed and tucked the clipboard beneath his arm.

“Ok, so we’re just supposed to send one partridge in one pear tree. I see a bird. I see a tree. Why isn’t the order complete?”

As if on cue, the bird screeched and caught fire. The nymph doused him with a nonchalant flick of her middle finger. Still smoking, he cocked his head to the side and chirped appreciatively. Then he waddled his sizzling body to the edge of the planter, flapped his wings, and leaped toward freedom only to explode again. James stared in shock, which melted away a few seconds later when the same bird emerged from the same pile of ashes at the base of the tree and gave the very same anguished call.

“This tree has been here since I started eight years ago,” the nymph said. “Although it definitely catches fire more often now. My best guess is that the last sorcerer used a Phoenix Bond to keep the partridge in the tree, but the client sent it back the second it caught fire.”

“So not only do I have to figure out how to keep the dumb thing from exploding," James said. "I also have to convince it to stay in the tree indefinitely?”

“That’s what the order says. One partridge, alive, in a pear tree. Fire not included.”

“I have no idea how to accomplish that.”

“Have you considered offering it a free cleaning?” she said, eyeing the old toothbrush James had forgotten to tuck back into his pocket after drawing it on the bull.

“Right. Funny story, actually. The temp agency seems to have got it in their heads that this is my magic wand, and the bull can’t be convinced otherwise. I tried to tell them that I haven’t got a magical bone in my body and he dropped the biggest load you’ve ever seen. But the truth is I’m not even particularly good with a toothbrush in the common use. My dentist is always saying that I miss a spot, right here.”

“Well maybe that’s your problem then,” she said, staring at the plaque buildup on his lower incisors.

“I can’t do magic because my teeth are yellow?”

“Sure. I have to keep my nails in good condition. Why shouldn’t your teeth be the same way?”

“Because my teeth can’t channel the power of nature!”

“Have you ever tried?” she asked, her tone far too casual. When the very idea left James dumbfounded, she shrugged and muttered something about having orders to fill. He watched her sashay across the warehouse to don an overly large pair of thick leather gloves, then disappear into a back room. Then he looked back at the partridge, which had begun to eye the open door behind him and consequently started smoldering again.

“Well,” he said, stooping down to speak directly to the bird, “I guess brushing my teeth would be about as helpful as anything else I might try. Think we should go for it?”

The bird turned its stupid, cock-eyed face toward James and chirped. He pulled a squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his backpack, crumpled it up, and scattered the crumbs around the base of the tree. Then, ordering the partridge not to move, he set out in search of a bathroom.

He found multiple, some of which had been configured to strange specifications to better serve employees with more than two legs or bodies much larger than the average person. One door, marked with a cartoonish illustration of tentacles, gurgled ominously as though it opened directly into the ocean. But, eventually, he found what could be considered a fairly traditional bathroom, dampened the head of his toothbrush, and gave the most yellow of the teeth in question a gentle scrape.

Nothing happened.

He brushed a few more times, dragging the soggy bristles across each individual tooth, one by one. Still, nothing happened. Feeling equally embarrassed and upset, he ran the brush in aggressive semi-circles over the patch his dentist was always warning him about and, seeing nothing spectacular, bit down on the brush head in a fit of petulant rage.

The whole toothbrush lit up, translucent and brilliantly turquoise.

“No way,” he mumbled, the brush almost slipping from his slackened jaws. The bull pushed its way through the door, staggering deliriously as it battled the side effects of the Iodium.

“I do have a magical bone in my body,” James told it, pointing to a lateral incisor. The bull snorted happily, then lay down for a nap.