第14章 The Last Butterfly

By Micheal Welzenbach

I was 11, and my family was preparing to leave the beautiful Japanese island of Okinawa, where we had lived for four years.

Shortly we'd head back to North America, thence to England: My father was being transferred yet again.

But I had constructed a mental wall against this unsettledness.

My fascination with nature, in whatever country I moved to,provided me with an endless source of distraction and amazement.I'd been collecting seashells and fossils, hiking and bird-watching since I could remember. And when I had arrived on this little island in the Pacific Ocean, I discovered a startling variety of butterflies,and I began to collect them.

By now I had several glass-topped trays of glorious specimens,carefully labeled and mounted. They came in all sizes and hues,from deepest blues to brilliant yellows, scarlets and shimmering emerald greens. Catching butterflies wasn't easy, so I was proud of my collection.

But there was one that I had yet to capture-the magnificent great orange tip. The previous Christmas I had received from my godfather a marvelous book on subtropical butterflies. It included a fully illustrated page with scientific information on this orangetipped white that, with its seven to ten-centimetre wingspan, was Okinawa's largest white. I was entranced-and determined to have one.

The problem was its lofty habitat: I could only watch these lovely insects floating gracefully on the sea breeze, high above the canopy of trees that shrouded the centre of the island. No matter how high I climbed, encumbered by my net and collection jars,these creatures were always just beyond my reach-like white and orange confetti settled on the treetops.

As the bags and boxes were packed that summer for our departure, the household was steadily converted into luggage, and our bungalow rang hollow. Yet I kept my butterfly net clear of the packers' hands and spent most of my time outdoors, ranging through the bamboo.

With school out for the summer and only a couple of days before we were to leave, I began to give up hope of finding my great orange tip. My mother told me one morning that my collection panels and books had to be packed up by afternoon.

Meanwhile I was at leave to wander the bush and the hedgerows,keeping a wary eye out for my elusive beauty.

In the dense heat, the cicadas buzzed and green lizards danced on the sidewalks in the burning sun. The seas of sugarcane rippled gently in the air, and butterflies of all sorts floated or dodged briskly above the wildflowers on the hillsides. But as usual, the great orange tips remained high above the treetops that day. I traipsed home disconsolately after my fruitless, final search.

But then, as I rounded the corner of our culdesac, alongside the vibrant hibiscus hedge, I caught a flash of brilliant white out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and there it was, about a metre away, settled on one of the big scarlet flowers. As it fed on the nectar, its wings moved tremulously and I froze in my tracks,transfixed. After a long moment, I began to raise my net, little by little, my heart pounding, the sweat trickling down my brow.

Suddenly the big beauty was aloft, moving to another flower.

I swung. And there at last was the coveted prize, beating furiously in the fine mesh of my trap. I could scarcely believe my eyes or my luck.

Gently I reached in and grabbed the butterfly by the thorax,with every intention of nudging it into the killing jar, where the deadly formaldehyde would quickly do its work. But my hand froze as I reached for the jar, and I simply gazed, astonished, at the grail in my other hand. There was the brilliant, iridescent bloom of orange on the tips of its glowing white wings, and I could feel the creature's fear between my fingers. Its little legs scrambled frantically in my palm.

And then, on an impulse, I tossed my long-sought prize into the clear, bright air and watched it float away like a perfect, living origami. High above the nearby trees it sailed, then disappeared from sight.

Two days later I, too, was soaring over the little green island,headed for a home I didn't know. My butterfly was down there somewhere, hovering above the trees, distant and only fleetingly attainable.

Love is like that.