Marlowe

In the darkness, I wandered through the house: past Harper’s empty bedroom, past Wài Pó’s room and the sound of her snoring, to Dad’s study.

As I turned on the computer again and waited for it to boot up, I spotted a newspaper clipping on top of a pile of bills. The headline read: Man Charged With Killing Endangered Butterfly, England. I read on. The butterfly was the Maculinea arion. I looked at the photo of the man, caught mid-stride on a busy street outside the courthouse. He had a star tattooed on his neck and he did not look remorseful.

I put the clipping down, unable to read any more. In a way, the man and I were the same and Dad knew it.

I was eight, nearly nine, and had started wetting the bed again. Dad told me it was time I grew out of it but I couldn’t seem to help it. I kept having the same nightmare in which I couldn’t stop growing until I was larger than our house. I had become an eight-year-old monster.

I woke one morning and noticed that the sheets were damp. I stripped the bed, changed out of my flannel nightie and lugged the soiled linen to the laundry room. The nightmare still lingered in my body, making my shoulders tight. I told myself that dreams weren’t real. I was not a monster, I did not need to run to Mum for comfort. Dad had told me I should not disturb her while she was sick and, anyway, I’d had a silly dream, that was all.

I wandered into the kitchen to ask Wài Pó for breakfast but she wasn’t there. Opening the fridge, I saw a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice. This gave me an idea. I dabbed the juice onto my arms – an old trick Grandpa had taught me to lure butterflies – and made my way to the garden. I wanted to become the youngest lepidopterist to find a rare subspecies of the Actinote, one that Grandpa had shown me in his lepidopterists’ encyclopedia.

As I passed the koi pond and old banyan tree, I heard the sound of clipping. I found Dad pruning the jasmine bush that ran along the left border of our garden. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and his face was streaked with sweat.

‘Good morning, darling,’ Dad said, and I ran to him, instantly forgetting about my search for the Actinote. Dad told me it was too hot out and that I should go back inside, but I didn’t want to. The smell of Mum’s sickness lingered in the house like sour milk.

Dad continued to work, moving from the jasmine bush to nearby plants, and I followed. Banana leaf, bauhinia, hibiscus, coral plant – he named them all and I listened, concentrating as hard as I could. In that moment, he reminded me of Grandpa. They both loved their gardens but for different reasons.

Eventually, though, the heat got too much for me, and I went to rest under the shade of the old banyan tree.

‘Pretty tree, tree pretty.’

Harper.

I got up and followed the sound of her voice. On the other side of the trunk, she was spinning under drooping branches. She wore a pink floral skirt which puffed out as she twirled. She lost her balance and fell in a heap, laughing. Her hands ran over the roots beside her as she whispered to the tree. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but watching her, it was as if she had become a part of the tree. Banyan branches, vines and roots looked like they had curled around her protectively, and were whispering back to her. I frowned. I was the one who worked so hard to make sense of nature, I was the one who loved to study it, yet it was as if she was a part of it in a way I could never be.

In a huff, I stomped back to the other side of the banyan. As I rested my head against the rough trunk, something furry swiped against my ear. In a fright, I swatted it away with the back of my hand.

‘Careful,’ Dad warned. I hadn’t noticed his approach. His body was as still as a deer when it hears the crackling of leaves. I followed his gaze to a butterfly. It fluttered and swooped in pockets of warm air, showing off flecks of black and lemon yellow.

‘Looks like a golden birdwing,’ he said. ‘They’re rare in Hong Kong.’

I was surprised that Dad could identify butterflies; he rarely showed any interest when I related what Grandpa had taught me. Yet now he was smiling, something he seldom did since Mum had become sick.

I jumped up and raced into the kitchen. Rummaging in the cupboard under the sink where Wài Pó kept her jars to pickle chillies, I chose the biggest one I could find. Although I didn’t have a butterfly net like Grandpa used in Cornwall, I thought it might still work.

Moving as quietly as I could, I walked barefoot through the garden. I searched and searched and finally saw the birdwing hovering by an orange tree. I moved slowly towards the insect but the butterfly seemed to sense my presence and it spiralled upwards and away. My hand held high, I moved in circles after it, but the golden birdwing was too quick for me. In a second, it was gone.

The back of my shirt was soaked with sweat. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising lump of tears in my throat. I thought of Mum, Dad and Wài Pó, and how they had changed. It was as if they were all sick now, with a kind of tiredness that made them move about the house like they were carrying mountains on their backs. I hated the fact that there was nothing I could do to make them feel better.

I was marching back towards the house when I saw Harper sitting on one of the small stones that led to Mum’s pagoda, eating an orange. On her nose was the birdwing. Its wings breathed slowly in and out. It wasn’t fair – Harper wasn’t even trying to catch the butterfly!

She was laughing and babbling as I moved slowly towards her, jar in hand, ready.

‘Shh,’ I whispered and she obediently fell silent. Gently scooping the creature into the jar, I slammed the lid shut. The butterfly tumbled against the glass walls. I closed my eyes tightly and counted to ten. When I opened them, the birdwing was still. Harper began to sob.

‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘Poor fairy-fly. Poor fairy-fly.’

‘Stop crying,’ I scolded, then I ran back across the garden screaming, ‘Daddy, Daddy, look what I have for you.’

Dad was sitting on the porch, sipping a glass of iced water. He put down the glass and took the jar from me, his lips tight. He unscrewed the lid and gently rattled the jar, urging the butterfly out. Its wings began to flutter in short bursts but instead of flying away it moved in drunken circles and then went still.

Dad rose. He picked up his pruning shears and, without a word, walked away from me to the other side of the garden. I saw him lift Harper into his arms, his hand rubbing her back in soothing circles until she was calm.

I stared at the computer screen, at the photo of the prisoner about to be executed. Did he have a family? A wife? Children? Was his mother still alive? His father? I recoiled from the thought but I couldn’t stop staring at the picture. I needed to remind myself that he was real.

‘What are you doing?’

I looked up. Irene was standing in the open doorway. In her hand, she held a suitcase.

‘I’m leaving now,’ she said. ‘I know you think I don’t care, but please, Marlowe, for Harper’s sake, for your father’s… for all of your sakes, do not go down this path.’

She walked away. I heard the front door open and close.

The house felt lighter with her gone.