Like the sunset

A tale of a brave nightingale

The nightingale had been flying tirelessly for many days. He traveled from Africa, where lions, elephants, zebras, and giraffes live. He flew non-stop, day and night.

Finally, between the clouds, he saw an old orchard near a river and a forest.

“Maybe this is where my home will be,” thought the nightingale.

He descended. He sat down on a branch, shifted from one foot to the other, cleared his throat, and asked:

“Hello, tree! What is your name?”

“I’m CHERRY. Look at my gates; they’re shiny and reddish-brown. And the bark, see? Brown, with transverse, lighter streaks, peeling here and there. If you hurt it, it releases cherry glue and resin, which is thick. Ants like it very much.”

“Ants?” asked the nightingale.

“Yes,” the cherry replied. “A girl also comes to the orchard. When she was little, she also liked to eat resin. But her grandmother wouldn’t let her; she said that resin comes from the tears of a tree. It’s painful when you hurt yourself and can’t cover the cut with a plaster.”

“Tell me something else about yourself,” asked the nightingale.

“I bloom every spring! I have hair made of delicate flowers. Then leaves grow on my branches: dark green at the top and lighter at the bottom, smooth, soft to the touch, with jagged edges. In the summer, I become a real beauty, wearing red earrings. Grandma and her little girl collect them and then come to thank me for the tasty jam.”

“Lovely. Didn’t birds ever live on you?”

“No, I don’t remember anything like that at all. Only the rascally starlings stole the fruit from the moths. Maybe ask my sister, Cherry. She’s older and remembers more.”

Another cherry tree grew at the orchard's edge, next to the strawberry beds. She looked like her sister. Her trunk was covered with brown bark with a silver-reddish tint. There were visible furrows on one of them, just above the other.

The little nightingale flew over.

“Hello, are you also called Cherry?”

“Yes,” the cherry tree replied. “I’ve been growing here for a very long time. See how tall I am? I know everyone in the orchard: the plants, the girl, and her grandmother. In July, when my fruit ripens and turns dark red, almost black, the girl climbs almost to the top of me to pick them. Then Grandma stands below and shouts: ‘Be careful, be careful.’ Sometimes she quietly adds that she once jumped on the branches like a squirrel: ‘hola-hop.’ But I don’t remember it. Then she makes jam from my fruits. Sweet and fragrant, it fills the whole orchard with its smell.”

“Tell me, Cherry tree, have no birds ever lived on you?” interrupted the nightingale.

“What? Birds? No, they only came for a moment.”

“And who?”

“A pair of pigeons that made a nest in that pear tree. Why do you ask?”

But the nightingale only had time to say “thank you” and he was gone.

“Good morning, is there a nest of pigeons on you?” asked the nightingale.

The PEAR tree was surprised but nodded her brown and grey gates in agreement.

“On me,” she said.

“And those were definitely pigeons?” asked the nightingale.

“Definitely. They had a messy nest, a pile of twigs arranged haphazardly. And my leaves were torn as they crested. And I have such beautiful leaves—dark green, oval, shiny, on a long petiole. Even the wasps were nicer.”

“Wasps?” This time the nightingale was surprised.

“Yes. They had a nest here too. The nectar from my flowers is very tasty. And I have beautiful, white flowers with silky petals. They bloom before the leaves develop, so it is easy to collect nectar from them. Wasps danced around the flowers, and then, at the end of summer, around the pears and fruit moths. You know, the big ones, yellow and green, with ridges where they were heated by the sun.”

“And where are your wasps?”

“Eh… Some neighbor came, took down the nest, and carried it to a willow that grows by the river. Grandma asked for it. She was probably afraid that they would sting the girl. Although wasps never sting without a reason! Sometimes I miss them.”

“And pigeons?”

“They don’t sting at all! Oh, you mean?”

“I’m asking where did those pigeons go?”

“Who knows… They flew away, and the nest was blown away by the wind.”

“We were afraid of them too!” two similar trees suddenly shouted in one voice.

“Whom? Pigeons?” The nightingale was surprised.

“We were afraid of wasps!” said the first tree. It was short, with grey-green bark and gnarled branches.

“We were very afraid, especially at the end of summer,” added a second tree, a little taller, with rare brown-gray branches.

“Our fruits are delicate, and when they fell to the ground, they broke. Then they exposed their yellow flesh and smelled sweet! That’s why the wasps were milling around here like helicopters: ‘zuuuuuuuu…’ without end. Bzzzzz! Flies and butterflies also came. But the wasps were the worst.”

“And you are…”

“PLUMS,” explained the first one. “I am a Hungarian plum. And this is a Japanese plum, although it comes from China. I don’t know why they call it that; it sounds exotic anyway. Our flowers appear before the leaves. We are so full of flowers. And when we have fruits, they are long, with blue-grey fuzz on purple skin and rusty spots. And hers are round, large, with thin skin and a red blush. So colorful you would like to paint them!”

“Chatterboxes…” the pear tree waved its branches again.

“No, no, you’re too used to silence!” replied the Japanese plum.

“This orchard used to be happier,” sighed the tree growing next to it.

“You seem to be an APPLE tree?” asked the nightingale.

“Yes, I am the apple tree,” replied the tree. “Grandpa planted all the trees in the orchard. He watered, trimmed, fertilized, treated, and wrapped us in winter so that we wouldn’t freeze and the hares wouldn’t gnaw our bark. And how beautifully he sang for us. From his singing alone, I was able to bloom pale pink star-like flowers. You see, I am already old, even though apple trees can live up to a hundred years. My bark is rough and covered with lichen, which has spread over me.”

“Hold on, ‘Grandpa,’ you said… where is he?”

“Some people say that he has gone to heaven.”

“I was flying that way, but I didn’t meet him,” the little bird fluttered its wings.

“And what brings you here anyway?” a tree resembling a plum tree, neither a tree nor a shrub, with thin grey branches asked. “You are flying here, chirping…”

“I don’t tweet!” the nightingale rose. “Dad taught me how to sing beautifully. He was an excellent singer! I’m a nightingale, and as soon as I find a good place to build my nest, I…”

“Aha… But you’re looking in the wrong place,” noted the tree. “You should look lower; the beetles make their nests close to the ground, not high in the treetops. So that the bushes protect the nest and it is easy to catch mosquitoes hiding under the leaves. And yet…”

“Oh, who are you to lecture me?! You think I don’t know where I should live?” said the nightingale.

“My name is ALYCZA. In Azerbaijani, it means ‘plum.’ I have tiny leaves and small, sour fruits. When they are ripe, they fall, and all the grass beneath me dries up and forms a yellow carpet. Spring is full of white flowers, with wasps and bees buzzing in them. My plum trees don’t have thorns, but I do. Not many, but sharp! So approach me carefully,” Alycza warned and added more gently: “What exactly are you looking for here?”

“Eh,” sighed the nightingale. “When I was little and about to leave my nest, my father said that I should build a nice big house, similar to the one I was born in, perched on such a dear bush. Thanks to this, I will always remember my parents… And I will sing the most beautiful of all. I think I have found the right spot…”

“Fly over to those bushes and ask them,” Alycha advised softly.

Nearby, there were gooseberries and currants: black and red. The nightingale told them his story and asked if he could build a nest in their branches.

The gooseberry revealed that its fruits are sour and that there are so many thorns on the branches that no bird could build a nest in them.

“I am not prickly,” said the blackcurrant.

“Then maybe I should settle down close to you?” asked the nightingale.

“I’m not sure… Stay if you want. But know that I have a strong odor and not everyone likes it.”

“And you?” The nightingale took a look at the redcurrants.

But the bush only rustled softly.

“These are my close relatives,” explained the blackcurrant. “They have slightly thicker leaves and more fruit, but of a different color—red. They like the sun more than I do. This is why…”

“That’s why it’s not for me either. Do I really find no home anywhere?” said the nightingale sadly.

“Trees—too high. And the bushes turned out to be inhospitable

for some reason.”

“Nightingale!” the apple tree suddenly shouted. “Maybe you should fly to the lilac that grew closer to the forest.”

The nightingale, uneasy, sat on a flexible branch.

“Tell me about yourself,” he asked quietly.

Lilac, a short shrub with olive bark, smiled slightly.

“What can I say… My leaves look like hearts, marked with light veins. But the most beautiful are my flowers, delicate, gathered in clusters, fleet-shaped. This is where the name of the color comes from: lilac. Each flower looks like a tiny trumpet. Were there any flowers on the plant you are looking for?”

“There were!” The nightingale became animated. “Dad even sang a song about them. They were large and bright red. How is it possible that I forgot about it?”

“Ooo! There is only one shrub here with bright red flowers.”

The nightingale flew quickly in the direction shown by the lilac.

“Who are you?” the nightingale asked quietly.

The bush seemed to bend over.

“They call me different names. Most often the Japanese quince, because I come from Japan, sometimes also the ‘lemon of the north,’ because my fruit is sour, and sometimes the firebush or chaenomeles, which in Greek means ‘cut an apple.’ My fruits resemble small yellow apples; they have a fluffy skin and are very hard. Grandpa loved them.”

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, he was the one who brought my ancestors from Japan. He brought a seedling in his backpack. Imagine that when he asked Granny for her hand, he gave her my flowering branch.”

“Blooming... Flowers! Tell me, what flowers do you have?!”

“Red-orange with yellow inside. Like the sunsets setting behind the numerous hills in my homeland. That’s what Grandpa said.”

“Oh!” The nightingale sat on a twig. “I think you’re the one I was looking for. My father once sang: ‘Oh flowers, flowers, red and amber, filled with golden flowers…’ That’s what he sang.”

And the little bird began to chirp like no one in the orchard had ever heard before.

“Tit, wit, toch, tau-tiu-fit!”

Grandma opened the window. She sat down next to her granddaughter, who had just arrived for a visit, and she said to her:

“Are you excited? Thousand claps! That’s a nightingale. It looks like it will build a nest in our quince tree. Don’t run there, let him sing. In the autumn, we will have fruit as wonderful as this song. We will cut them into slices and dry them in the oven. And our house will smell so good. And each time it will remind us of Grandpa.”