A short story by Anna Harris
Written in the second person perspective
Super model of the insect world. Flying faster than a cyclist on the footpath. The scent of lavender stops you. Proboscis unfurls. Drawing nectar into thorax and abdomen. Rose Lady marvels as you drink nectar from her lavender. She always waters her roses early in the day, inspecting her plants for mites, aphids and other such annoying insects. You make her smile. She welcomes bees and butterflies to her garden. She tolerates spiders because they eat mosquitoes and flies.
Your credentials read like one of Rose Lady’s plant tags.
Genus: Vanessa
Species: Kershawi
Classification: Painted lady.
Painted lady, the Impressionists watched you in their gardens back when air was fresh. They studied you with brush and pen, dancing in the nectar and lush of Monet’s water lilies. The artist tried to capture your form, but never could. That dance was too fast. Those wings, a camouflage until you danced against the green leaves. They caught warm orange highlights and then lost you again while you circled the trunk of a tree.
It was Bee who first introduced you to this beautiful garden filled with succulents and scented roses growing in buckets. You have much to thank him for. Deep red geraniums grow on the ground beside the buckets. A winding path up to the veranda where a man sits, reading a book. A low boundary fence made of red terracotta bricks runs alongside the house, finishing just before the footpath. Bee dances among the flowers, rubbing scratchy legs against filament and stigma. Rose Lady is watering the veggie patch and watches you closely.
You laugh, calling out to Bee, “I can not believe it. Even the garlic has flowers in this garden. I’ll leave those stinky scapes for Old Fly!” Fake a cough.
Bee laughs, “Lucky fly.”
Old Fly is not bothered. To him, you are both young and silly. He nods and returns to the pile of dirt he is inspecting. There is definitely manure in there, Old Fly is sure of it. You bounce among the petals, both filled with the joy of dancing and drinking a field of nectar in the morning sun.
Moth crawls along a low stem of the Rosa Novalis. It is covered with shade and foliage.
“What is that grey catastrophe doing here?” You say it loud enough for Moth to hear.
“I dunno” Bee shrugs. Too busy polishing off nectar to take much notice.
“Back to bed, Moth. It’s my turn now.”
“Bugger off, Lady” Moth grunts and pulls his wings in close to his body. You “Tsk tsk,” down at him like a teenager. You turn away flying higher above him. If you had hair, you’d flick it as you went. He ignores you and tries to go back to sleep, snoring and making his little noises. He is closer to the trunk now and disappears under leaves and camouflage. No need to worry about him cramping your style today, Butterfly!
With hundreds of optical lens, your view is in every direction. There are too many black and grey rooves to count. The forest shrinks with every flight you make. Another builder finishes another house. Children in tiny yards jump on trampolines that hit the fence. The boy next door is pulling leaves off a Lilly Pilly Tree as fast as he can. Rose Lady rolls her eyes as he sprinkles them along the fence.
From this height you see that one of the roses, the lilac ‘Novalis’ has blown open revealing pollen-covered stamens. Breathe in its sweet scent, go hover above it. The petals are layer upon layer of ruffles. Your signal to Bee and others is a zig-zag dance driven by your hind wings. Rose lady moves closer. She hears the boy and flings her hose over the fence towards him. “Oh sorry dear,” she says and mutters to herself “I like it better when he goes to day care”.
Soon, you are drunk on nectar and flying lower, slower. Bee is too. He lays down on the grass. Your proboscis rich with the taste of nectar. Feeling light-headed. Feeling a sudden drop in temperature. A shadowed hand hovers above.
Frozen. Slide onto a rose.
You should have noticed this.
Not paying attention.
Lost in your senses.
Drunk on nectar.
The chubby-fingered boy, with immature pincer grip, takes your right hind-wing. He is stronger. Just let go of that petal. Your body dangles from the wing, stretching and flexing under Chubby Finger’s hand. Thorax tightens, microscopic hairs are standing alert with static electricity. The sun disappears behind a cloud.
The child drops you into a lunchbox and sings “Bu’fly, Bu’fly, Bu’fly.” He pushes the lid on. The smooth hardness of this box is even colder. Wings are going numb. He holds the box above his head. A trophy. Rose Lady points the hose at him. “Get out of my yard, you little,… rotten, argh!” She yells across the fence “When are you going to control your kid?” Water splashes on the footpath.
“Sorry, sorry.” The Mother rushes across, pulls a leaf off the rose bush, and lifts the chubby-fingered boy up and over her shoulder all in the one movement.
“You get out of here too,…wrecking my garden. Get out of here, both of you!” She waves the hose at them.
“Look! Bu’fly. Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Looooooooooooooook!” He shakes you. He yells. “Bu’fly. Look. Mama.” Shakes again. Wince. “Bu’fly. Look. Mama.” More shaking. Wince again. Old Fly buzzes past The Mother’s head as she straps Chubby Fingers into his car seat. Old Fly could live for a month on what he drops in that seat. She takes the box and holds out a cheese stick.
The corner of the box opens. You see the sky, a flash of light is quickly blocked by a leaf being pushed into the box. Smell it, a leaf from the Rosa Novalis. Leap towards it. Fluttering your left hindwing, pushing until close enough to land on the leaf. Small safety. The muscles in your thorax soften. Breathe.
“Show and Tell,” The Mother says.
Thrust into darkness. Vibrating. Slipping around. You are OK, glad even. Close your eyes. Cling to the leaf. Say it again. OK, except for a crumpled wing. OK, but in shock. OK, but still feeling uncomfortably full of nectar. Your world is fading. A slippery cold box is no place for the Princess of Insects, the Painted Lady. An adorable dancer, with wings as lovely as the petals you remember. You are trapped.
Defenceless.
Small.
Caught.
Children crowd around Chubby Fingers. He sings “Bu’fly. Bu’fly.” He shakes you in front of his friends. He shakes the box in front of Miss. She “Ooohs” and “Aaaaahhhs” too. You keep holding onto the leaf as it slides around the box. Try not to hit the sides each time he shakes you. Sometimes you feel your wing crumple. You wonder if this is what an earthquake feels like. Your world is out of control, tipping on its axis, flipping on its roof again and again. Painted Lady is a memory. Tattered and shaken. Miss reaches over the heads of two children to grasp the box firmly and asks Chubby Fingers, “How would you feel if someone put you in a box and shook you up?” Chubby Fingers laughs. He loves playing with boxes. “You are not being kind to the butterfly. It’s going to sit on the shelf until ‘Show and Tell’ time OK?”. Chubby Fingers starts crying. He stops when Miss hands him a toy truck. He shakes it too.
Trapped in a box, at least it is not moving. Still and breathing. There is a fly crawling up the outside of the box. You are not. The climate changes, the air-conditioning set at 22c to help the children sleep. Painted orange wings tighten close to your body. Eyes close. Slipping into a trance, you quiesce.
Miss reads a book to the children about a caterpillar that eats and eats and eats and eventually turns into a butterfly. It is time for ‘Show and Tell’. Some sit on the mat. Others run away, hide under a table or in the oven of the wooden toy stove. Today Chubby Fingers has a reason to sit on the mat.
Miss passes you to the children. “Butterfly” she says, enunciating clearly for their benefit. One by one they stare, pass, shake. One even drops you on the floor. Quiescence replaced by terror. Flipping over and over. Wings bumping against the side of the box. The leaf tossing around the box too. Not sure whether to hold your wings close to your body, or try and hold on to the leaf.
Another child grabs at the box, the leaf falls alongside you. Pushing against the box with your left hind wing, then roll onto the leaf. The box turns again but this time you don’t lose the leaf. Hold fast.
Bam!
You fall hard against the side of the box. Chubby Fingers fights with another child. Miss takes Chubby Fingers by the hand and crouches down to look him in the eye. “That butterfly is feeling hurt. Let’s take it outside now.” She grasps the box and holds it still. Breathe.
The Butterfly Class are kitted out in hats and sunscreen, shoes and snot. They follow Miss to the vegetable patch. Bury your head under the leaf. Hope this ordeal will stop soon. Miss looks closely through the box, through her thick glasses and says “Don’t worry darling, I’ll set you free in a sec”.
She sits down on the ground and rests the lunchbox on her lap. Surrounded by 15 children, Miss uses her teacher voice. “1, 2, 3, Listen to me, Butterfly Class. We are going to help this butterfly go back to its home. When I open the lunch box, stand back! Let it fly away.” She opens the box, sits it on the ground. You try to fly away but those injured wings are not ready. Miss slowly turns the box from its base onto its side and tips it over just a little. You slide. Find yourself underneath the society garlic plant. Looking skyward, there are pretty mauve scapes. You lay down on the soil underneath the garlic in bloom, grateful to be out of that box.
Old Fly lands beside you. Your turn to nod. “Rest up, Butterfly. It will be a while until you have the strength to fly back to Rose Lady’s garden”.
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