Butterfly Hunting
They went out Butterfly hunting in late June, to catch the early summers crop. They walked for what seemed like miles. A line of four children, almost androgenous and identically dressed, but in them the confusing first ideas of adolescence. Through open fields and nettle choked meadows to the place they where Tony’s brother claimed the breeding ground was.
They could tell when they were near the Butterflies, their songs trilled out into the heat haze and from under the branches of spreading trees. Unlike other insects they sang in long undulating tones like violins, interrupted by short bursts of clicking that they used to communicate. When they came into sight the children were impressed as only children are by their great long wings a foot across and bright fake eye colour that shimmered in oil shades. Although only young they had hunted butterflies before, though most often on long picnic trips with parents and the fathers butterfly rifle. They knew the dangers now more acutely than then, tears and accidents make strong learning. They could easily see the barbed horns on the animals heads. Every child has been stung by them at some point, no worse pain than a jelly fish but the paralysis that lasted for an hour or more could leave them to be devoured if they were not careful.They had brought their nets and small throwing spears, knocking them gently against grubby denim legs. The tallest one, the oldest one was naturally in charge, they deferred to him automatically, though one was a girl which would one day lead to complications and passions.He always had the imagination to find them good things to do, plus he radiated the invisible aura of authority, unquestioned ever. They had all at some point dared themselves to dislike him, had thought to challenge and dreamed of gaining that gang leader status but yet none could ever say so.They isolated a couple of Butterflies from the general flock, surrounding them on four sides. Trying not to startle them, barely daring to breath or rustle in the long dry grass and fearing their attack. The smallest child, only there by virtue of being someone’s younger brother who just tagged along but could be relied upon to be forced to do the more dangerous things on the whim of the rest, threw his spear to early and miserably missed.The girl was the first to catch one, the pressure on her to perform better than the rest ever present. Her spear caught the furry body of one, piercing it and bringing it to the ground. Its red gold wings barely fluttering as it fell. She deftly retrieved it before the other Butterflies realised. They caught five in the end, once the children had caught one it was easy to convince the stupid animals they were no threat.
As they walked home in the final heat of the early evening they separated the bodies of the butterflies from their wings, the heads they removed and hastily discarded. The temptation to sting each other with the barbs was overcome with difficulty, but not without some taunting of the smallest child. The wings they kept to hang as trophies in their rooms, in time to become brightly coloured dust and a skeletal outlines. They roasted and ate the bodies in the waste ground behind the garages, where there were always the remains of previous fires. They pronounced loudly and exaggeratedly how delicious the flesh was, though they all knew how badly cooked it was, and not quite ripe yet. Later in the summer was the traditional time for barbecues and the adults hunting parties, fine forest trips and days out.
The butterfly meat was not nearly as nice as that their parents could cook up, nor could be bought from the Londis by the Primary School, but what made it sweet was the knowledge they had caught it themselves. It made them almost adults, in control and no longer afraid as children are of the fluttering bright colours that could turn a hazy summer afternoon into a nightmare of paralysis and death.
They returned home as it got dark, pleased and exhausted at a fine days work. Dirty handed and butterfly dusted.
August 2002
They could tell when they were near the Butterflies, their songs trilled out into the heat haze and from under the branches of spreading trees. Unlike other insects they sang in long undulating tones like violins, interrupted by short bursts of clicking that they used to communicate. When they came into sight the children were impressed as only children are by their great long wings a foot across and bright fake eye colour that shimmered in oil shades. Although only young they had hunted butterflies before, though most often on long picnic trips with parents and the fathers butterfly rifle. They knew the dangers now more acutely than then, tears and accidents make strong learning. They could easily see the barbed horns on the animals heads. Every child has been stung by them at some point, no worse pain than a jelly fish but the paralysis that lasted for an hour or more could leave them to be devoured if they were not careful.They had brought their nets and small throwing spears, knocking them gently against grubby denim legs. The tallest one, the oldest one was naturally in charge, they deferred to him automatically, though one was a girl which would one day lead to complications and passions.He always had the imagination to find them good things to do, plus he radiated the invisible aura of authority, unquestioned ever. They had all at some point dared themselves to dislike him, had thought to challenge and dreamed of gaining that gang leader status but yet none could ever say so.They isolated a couple of Butterflies from the general flock, surrounding them on four sides. Trying not to startle them, barely daring to breath or rustle in the long dry grass and fearing their attack. The smallest child, only there by virtue of being someone’s younger brother who just tagged along but could be relied upon to be forced to do the more dangerous things on the whim of the rest, threw his spear to early and miserably missed.The girl was the first to catch one, the pressure on her to perform better than the rest ever present. Her spear caught the furry body of one, piercing it and bringing it to the ground. Its red gold wings barely fluttering as it fell. She deftly retrieved it before the other Butterflies realised. They caught five in the end, once the children had caught one it was easy to convince the stupid animals they were no threat.
As they walked home in the final heat of the early evening they separated the bodies of the butterflies from their wings, the heads they removed and hastily discarded. The temptation to sting each other with the barbs was overcome with difficulty, but not without some taunting of the smallest child. The wings they kept to hang as trophies in their rooms, in time to become brightly coloured dust and a skeletal outlines. They roasted and ate the bodies in the waste ground behind the garages, where there were always the remains of previous fires. They pronounced loudly and exaggeratedly how delicious the flesh was, though they all knew how badly cooked it was, and not quite ripe yet. Later in the summer was the traditional time for barbecues and the adults hunting parties, fine forest trips and days out.
The butterfly meat was not nearly as nice as that their parents could cook up, nor could be bought from the Londis by the Primary School, but what made it sweet was the knowledge they had caught it themselves. It made them almost adults, in control and no longer afraid as children are of the fluttering bright colours that could turn a hazy summer afternoon into a nightmare of paralysis and death.
They returned home as it got dark, pleased and exhausted at a fine days work. Dirty handed and butterfly dusted.
August 2002
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