The butterfly at the edge of nothing

There are many butterfly species renowned for their large wings and spots and patterns and colors. From the rare purple emperor with the purple color of royalty, one of nature’s rarest spectacle due to the iridescent violet hue of its wings. To the well loved Monarch butterfly with its orange and black wings and the tiger swallowtail with its impressive wing span and tail like wing tips. But his own favorite wasn’t near as impressive.

The little peiris brassicae also known as cabbage white with its brown tinted tips and two to three spots of brown added to the forewings like an afterthought when the butterfly was proven to be far too simple. He didn’t like the males as much as he liked the females with their more prominent coloring of brown and the hind wings being an orchraceous yellow instead of the male’s brown. It wasn’t the love for their coloration that made them his favorite but rather the memory they were a part of.

The Takahashi household like their name sake loved butterflies. The name, Takahashi, belonged to an emperor who adored butterflies you see. Butterflies were ever present in the house. Hiding in the painted crafts of cutlery, the curtains, the pillows, the embroidery on the sofa. Outside in the garden with the flowers they had planted just for them and the bees. And an impressive library of insect taxidermy. Meticulously preserved and maintained by nonother than his parents, the butterflies being the highlight.

Hirohito Takahashi was no different, though currently he was not present in the house but was with his uncle far, far away to spend his holidays with him.

Hirohito knew that his uncle was a person who went about in the rain without an umbrella, danced to jazz music every other night and played the trombone while doing so but never once had he been to his home. On the secluded hill of nowhere, somewhere not in Japan, was where Hirohito’s uncle lived.

The 23 days he spent on the ship to reach here were some of the most exciting yet simultaneously nerve-wracking days he had spent in his life. He was travelling alone and he hadn’t even stepped on a ferry before. Not even with someone else. His first ever trip outside the country after becoming an adult and that too alone. The 23 days were a continuous loop of the vast sea, trying not to vomit and playing table tennis with strangers. All the while worrying he had enough money to pass by. Thank God he had brought his own rackets and ball. The ship had rackets and a table to play on but the shape of the rackets were in was an obvious sign that the table tennis area was something unpopular.

After the long ordeal he stood in the room his uncle had given him. It was a nice room and a beautiful place. Silent. He had three months for holidays and had already spent one travelling. He dreaded to go through it again, but in a month’s time he will be back on the swaying deck of the ferry. He couldn’t wait to start exploring. Maybe he will find something new and wriggly. So the first thing he did when he unpacked was to put his camera on charging and prepared for a day of exploration.

“What do you mean, Gaku Oji-chan!? Why can’t I go alone?”

His uncle glanced at him wearily. He had always been bad at saying no to him. He sighed. “Hirohito, it’s safer and better if we both go together do you not want to go with this old oji-chan of yours?”

Hirohito cringed. “No. It’s not that…”

“I get it, you know? I was like you once and yes, I know these mountains very well and they are safe but that’s why I’m saying this. It would be better to go with me because I know the ways.”

“But_”

“No, it’s either you go with me or not at all. End of discussion.”

The rest of the dinner was spent in silence. It wasn’t one of the jazz nights because his uncle wanted him to rest. He slept early that night, body exhausted from travelling.

(I pursue you ceaselessly in my dreams,

Yet we’ve never met, we are not even acquainted!)

[By Ono no Komachi, loosely translated by Micheal R. burch]

Darkness crowds him. Pitch black.

The butterfly gleams. The only source of light.

A pink and black glow.

It flutters and circles him.

He reaches out.

It lands on his finger.

One gentle flap of wings, open then close.

It falls to the ground.

So light it makes not one sound.

Dead.

He awakens. The melody of the birds a different tune to what he had unknowingly become accustomed to. His eyes ache, a similar echo of his body. The realization of the early hour is immediate followed with an untamed surge of excitement. While he knows many things about his uncle and his house may be unknown to him, he knows his uncle well enough to remember that his uncle is not an early riser. More of a person to let his body guide him when given the chance. He probably fell in bed late in the night, much later than himself.

This could be his chance…

Just like that Hirohito is out of bed, and on his feet as quietly as he can manage. He and his bag-pack are no longer in the house. The camera sits alone on the desk, its lens reflecting the morning sun. The clock strikes seven.

His legs do not mind his impromptu walk. Habitual to travelling long miles back at home. He is a born explorer. His parents never the ones to stop him. He likes to stretch his legs, prefers his morning to start with it. It was luck he awoke early, if not then this chance might have slipped away. It was the perfect opportunity. Sneak out when the doubt his uncle had in him was the least. Thus his heart was still uncertain. He didn’t know how horrific it would be to be caught by his uncle and to break his faith but the temptation of the green, glorious unknowns won. His heart beat both from the freedom and the possible consequences that came with it. Delirious with it.

He kept a careful watch of where he headed, though he was unfamiliar with it he still revised his way back. It would be a great misfortune to die in a ditch or get lost and then humiliated by his uncle for then he would be right. Hirohito didn’t like to be wrong, especially when he had claimed he could handle himself. It was not like his uncle’s house was at an impossible place. It was the only house on this hill. Which meant two things; he could easily find his way back if he did get lost, he’d just have to climb back up but if he did get hurt it would be a great hassle for there would be no help to shout for other than his uncle who would be asleep and then he would wake up at God knows what time and then he would panic that Hirohito wasn’t at home and oh, it was best for it to not happen at all. He was going to be out only for an hour or two then go back. Before his uncle awoke.

He didn’t know how long he had been walking for he didn’t bring his phone when he had his camera. There was barely any service here anyways, it would have just been extra baggage so he didn’t pack it. He didn’t take any pictures wishing more to be present while he took in the experience of the vast greenery from his own eyes, which sparkled in amazement.

Then suddenly a butterfly sprung up and with its delicate black wings spotted with red. Its body segmented black and red like its wings. He stretched out a finger and the gentle giant landed on it then quickly flew away. The child in him leapt and laughter followed disturbing the silence. He chased the butterfly as his hand reached for his camera. It was a struggle to get his bag to unzip from his shoulder as the butterfly fluttered further away from him with each beat of it’s wings.

He couldn’t find his camera as he dug around, almost desperate. The butterfly disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. He turned. Where had the butterfly brought him? His breath caught in his chest with a quite gasp.

There, beyond the bushes, lay a boy fast asleep. The white cloth that was under his turned belly was rumpled up in a heap bellow his crossed hands. On top of which his head lay. The gentle beams of the sun cascading over his bared shoulder, the trinkets and jewelry shimmering, kissing the checkered pattern of his knitted sweater and his face was soft with an innocence only sleep can bring. Reminiscent to a deer caught unaware, blessed by the gentle morning sun itself.

And here it was.

The butterfly with its black wings perched on his sleeping head. So gentle. Its wings the same color as his wavy mess of hair. So unlike his own in both texture and color. Where his was wavy and dark. His own was straight and dyed pink.

In the delicate beauty that he had intruded his muse clutched his heart and breath in a desperate attempt for attention. Begging him to capture it, to keep it with him, to remember it better. The colors, the ambience. The scene. His camera stayed back at the house. His muse yowled, an untamed creature of regret. Flowers in bloom and butterflies flying. He leaves the boy to sleep among them.

When he returns his uncle is still asleep. Silence even here. He spots his camera on the desk. His muse calmer but its presence still felt in the cavern of his ribs where his heart beats, the only noise.

He finds out what that butterfly was. A parides photinus, or a pink spotted cattle-heart.

There are perhaps only a few things that Hirohito loves as much as he loves butterflies. There is exploration and long walks but that’s can be included in his love for butterflies, searching for the glimpse of a rare species or something never seen before. Poetry can be included in one these very few things. The prose which speaks to his heart and that he includes in his own writing, his own thoughts. Resonating with his emotions.

The next few days go by without a glimpse of the boy. The day he had first seen him he had went with uncle again. This time with a full belly and camera in hand. Afraid to miss another rare scene if he does comes across one. He couldn’t find him nor the spot where he had seen him. He couldn’t remember where he had seen him. Everything looked the same to him. The same plants, the same sunshine, the same flowers, the same butterflies but no boy. That strange boy, asleep so careless in the middle of nowhere. Never found again, the central piece to complete the symphony.

The days passed by and questions multiplied, the desire for answers only growing. Every unsuccessful try only feeding it more until it was close to driving him insane.

He found a moment of peace in poetry. Willing to wear the mask of another’s emotions. His fingers turned to a new page and it was a poem written by Ono no Komachi. Komachi had been a Heian poetess whose beauty was said to be comparable to butterflies and flowers and attracted suitors like bees. All wanting to be her lover.

He had never truly believed the tales sung about her beauty. How could one be so beautiful? But… perhaps, perhaps, he was willing to be persuaded. If he met him again. The recent torment of failure had led to sleepless nights reading poetry in the dim moonlight and vagrant breeze.

The poem was titled; Night sweats and desire.

The moonless night

With no way to meet him

I grow restless with longing

My breasts an inferno

My heart chars within me

Sleepless with loneliness

I find myself longing for the handsome moon.

He thinks back to the gentle morning sunrays. Unsure to wake the boy, as it was not yet time, they gave him gentle warm kisses instead, hiding behind lost clouds, sometimes shy.

No. He wasn’t the handsome moon, but rather the lover of the sun itself.

He threw the book beside him. Groaning loudly. Hand thrown over his face, exasperated. His desire ever burning.

“Hirohito are you still not a sleep?”

He should be thankful to his uncle’s sharp ears. Quickly scrambling under his sheets, he had dozed off and now once again was up at the early hour of dawn. Even the sun had not yet made an appearance. He had tried to wake earlier, his alarms always failed to help. He hadn’t prepared his bag to explore. Perhaps now that he had woken up at the time he had seen the boy last he might have a greater odd of chancing upon him again.

He left behind his phone but made sure a watch was fastened around his wrist and his camera hung around his neck. Then he was off. Down he went. The same direction, that he was sure of. The exact location was something that was hopeless to look for but who was to say he was to only find him there. The boy has legs, no? There are many places he could be. He could be anywhere. He wasn’t sure if that thought was comforting. His watch claimed it was seven o’clock.

He wandered here and he wandered there. He didn’t venture too far down unsure he could return back in time, before his uncle awoke. The greenery as mesmerizing as always. No matter how many times he treaded the same path it always managed to leave him breathless.

His hope of ever seeing the boy again was slowly slipping away. One delicate sliver at a time. He didn’t mind. Not really. He had tried and he had failed. It had been a meeting of chance. Only to occur once and then never again. That had to be enough. Letting the boy of his memory only remain a memory was bittersweet but it couldn’t be helped. He was fortunate to have stumbled upon such a view. He will keep it to himself. To be inspired by for other works.

Just then his eyes landed upon a native creature, the jeweled gecko. Its green coat a perfect camouflage from unsuspecting and unwanted eyes. The rarity of the sight startled Hirohito from his melancholy. His fingers trembled in their haste as he brought the camera to his eyes. Setting the angle so as to not frighten the thing, and made sure its beauty was done justice. Oh, how envious his uncle would be of him! The camera snapped the image to forever be cherished and flaunted.

The gecko in the picture sitting still on its branch was the only focus the rest of the surrounding a blur, that included the

checkered pattern at the far-right corner, almost obscured from view by the bushes.

That pattern…

That pattern!

Had he really found him?

He left the jeweled gecko untouched as he jumped over the bushes in his haste. He was extremely particular that there was plenty of space between it and him when he did but he really had to hurry before he lost him again.

The boy sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. The sweater he wore was the same, one shoulder bare, the same head of dark hair and when he turned his eyes still held the same innocence even awake. They were lively and curious. Blinking at him.

Hirohito gulped, tongue tied. He really was the odd one here. Jumping in and disturbing his peace.

“Oh, um… Sorry, I-” He looked away, clutching his camera closer. Unconsciously fiddling with it as if to hide behind it. The boy continued to stare. The butterflies that had surrounded him now came to surround Hirohito instead. It seemed where ever this boy was butterflies followed, loyal devotees. These ones were much smaller and white all over. Or they seemed so at first glance. The brown dots allowed Hirohito to identify them as cabbage whites.

Unbeknownst to him, while many fluttered about him (and his heart was full because this had never happened to him before, to be surrounded by so many and that too so close) some thought of him as a suitable enough perch to settle in his hair and land on top of his shoulders. So light he couldn’t feel them.

The boy smiled and oh he truly was so beautiful. Did he know? Would he allow him to photograph him?

“They like you.”

“They?” This seemed to amuse the boy. He gestured vaguely around him. “You know,” he said, “The butterflies.”

“Oh yes. They are being more comfortable then I’ve ever seem them be. And never this many at a time either.”

He stood stock still, so still a statue of marble would be jealous. The reason being the butterflies and the boy that was slowly approaching him. Unhurried. Head tilted gently, curious.

“I could never touch them.” He said. He stretched out a hand and all of the butterflies scattered. They are shy, Hirohito thought and felt a sense of kinship. Like them he too, felt bashful under the attention set on him. “They never let me.”

“Perhaps…” Hirohito began and extended his own arm, finger stretched, almost touching his. Too close. Like he had been desperately hoping for, a butterfly landed on the very tip of his index finger.

The boy touched only the side of his finger first, a caress. Cautious. Their eyes met. His gentle gaze bore into his and Hirohito was set to ease by the smile ever present on his lips. A nostalgic sense of longing was held in the gaze as it fell away to the butterfly and it flew away. The boy sighed. “They always do that. What are they so shy for? I’ve known them for so long.”

“Do you find them beautiful?” As beautiful as I find them? As beautiful as I find you?

“Do you not?”

“No, no, I find them very beautiful.” They could never compare to you. Your beauty makes flowers and butterflies turn away in shame. Yet they frolic around you and admire you. Unable to meet your eyes. I am no better. How can I be? When you seem to embody Komachi’s beauty in the flesh. A befitting reincarnate. Her beauty has no other match.

His camera hangs limply on his neck. He raises the question despite how bizarre it may sound. He is unwilling to take the risk. He gathers up his courage as an artist and asks;

“Would you let me photograph you? I mean. I’m Takahashi Hirohito, and I like to take photos and I saw you before and I thought it would be amazing to photograph you.” He tries to come of as professional but he is only rambling. “Only if you want to, of course.”

The boy tilts his head. Eye brows furrowed in confusion.

“Photograph?”

“Yes,” He shows him his camera “I want to take a picture.”

Realization is obvious in the ‘O’ of his mouth.

“You wish to draw me. I’ve had someone ask that of me before. Sure, why not?” He shrugs, unbothered.

“Not exactly. A photo-” He is cut off with a wave of his hand.

“You can explain it to me later, after I remember the way to stop time. You should hurry back. Haven’t you strayed too far from home?”

He glances back at his watch. Fear shoots through him. But he just found him. He doubts his luck would side with him twice. What if he changes his mind? What if he can’t find him again? Then he will be out of time and shipped back to Japan.

“But I don’t think we will meet again. I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

The boy giggles as though he holds a secret only he knows.

“You’ll find me when I want you too. The butterflies won’t let you get lost, follow them and you’ll find me again.” He walks past Hirohito. “I want to meet with you again. So look for me.” and begins to saunter down the hill, opposite the direction of the house. Down bellow where Hirohito has not yet been. He doesn’t know his name.

“Hirohito. Stop day dreaming. Are you not awake yet? Just finish your food please.”

Hirohito jerks back to reality. His mind filled with thoughts of wavy black hair and eyes that held many secrets. Yesterday night was no different than the ones he had spent lost in thoughts of the boy and his butterflies. He couldn’t pick up on the poem he had left unfinished. He left it in its spot untouched on the bed and instead paced around the room. Picturing the way to capture the beauty of the boy. Not wanting to disappoint both himself and his muse, the boy. He had been willing. So nonchalant. He wasn’t the first to ever ask such a request from him. He selfishly didn’t want to be the worst either. How many artisans must have asked him? Had they managed to capture his beauty in their art? His innocence? His curiosity? His cheekiness? The nostalgia that was in his smile? The longing?

He had paced in his room and wondered; how? How should he set up the scene? What angle would capture his essence the most? Should he add in greenery? Make him hold a leaf over his eyes and then his smile, giving each one their own time to shine and not be overdone by the other. Each deserved their own picture. With the deep emotion they expressed it was only justified.

Yes, he could set the scene but could the boy be able to show those emotions under the scrutiny of the lens? If he was uncertain and uncomfortable what then? How could he coax his subject?

There was only one strategy to remedy this possible drawback. He can take pictures and let his subject be himself. No set demands, just the boy being his own person. It will definitely be a challenge but it was one he was more than willing to take on. He didn’t want to disappoint. He goes back to eating the tomagoyaki his oji-chan had made for breakfast. Egg roll soft in his mouth and the ideas whirling about like tornados in his head.

He appears behind him, hiding between blooming branches and bushes. His voice speaks in a hush close to his ear, “You found me.” It is said with a sparkling childish glee, a sort of disbelief. As though he had trusted he wouldn’t. He wants to tell him, of course. He doesn’t.

“You’re in luck. I found the spell. Now you need not worry of the time when you are with me.”

Hirohito laughs and plays along, “Oh really? Let me check. To be sure.”

He glances at his wrist watch. The hands show that its 15 past 7o’clock. The third and smallest shows no movement whatsoever.

“What?” He asks, baffled. It had been working before, he had checked the time right as he had left the house just today!

“See? I told you.” The boy claims, proud and self-assured.

“Its just a coincidence.” Hirohito retorts, as if that could ever happen. He will have to be careful not to spend a lot of time out, now that his watch had stopped working. It had never bothered him before. It was just his luck that it would stop now.

“Believe what you want.” The boy shrugs. “But I stopped time. Now,” he spins around, “tell me what do you mean by ‘photograph’? We have all the time to ourselves.”

“Do you really not know?” Hirohito asks confused and with disbelief. He could be pulling his leg, a harmless joke, he wouldn’t put it past the boy.

The boy straightens, brows furrowed. “No? Should I?”

This really surprises him. Are there still people in this day and era who do not about the technology of cameras? Really? Again he wouldn’t put it past the boy if he really was telling him the truth.

“It captures pictures of things.”

“Like a painting then? See, I was right.”

“Yes, it’s like a painting but it not one by humans, it’s all done in seconds and it looks exactly like the real thing. The crazy part is that cameras capture light to make the image.”

“Wow! That’s like magic. Is it magic? I didn’t really understand what you mean. But it captures light it must be magic.”

“No, it’s not magic.” He himself doesn’t truly understand mechanics it also seems like magic to him sometimes. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He brings the camera to his eye and snaps a picture of the baffled boy in front of him, eyes brimming with curiosity.

“That’s me.” He says mesmerized when Hirohito hands the camera to him, “That’s so…” He seems at a loss of words as he takes it in. “You didn’t even paint it. It’s so real.”

“Yes, even I don’t really understand it.” He admits honestly standing beside him to admire the picture together.

“You didn’t make this?”

“Not the camera.”

“Are you finished now? Now that you have my picture? My ‘photograph’.” He says the word photograph like he is still uncertain of its use. Unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Oh, that was just to show you how it works. I wanted to take more in a different sort of way. It’s not really what I had in mind. I would like to take more.”

“That’s okay, you can.” The boy agrees, a bit eager with how quickly he agrees. It makes Hirohito smile, relieved.

“Thank you.” The boy nods, eyes still stuck to the camera in his hands. He would like to take a picture of this bewilderment.

“Is this how you want me to do it?” He asked, Hirohito nodded with enthusiasm buzzing with the chance to take a proper picture. Realizing that the boy can’t see it past the fern fronds that cover his eyes, he speaks out, “Yes.” He catches the boy’s smile at the foolishness of it all. He failed to catch his bewilderment that day but at least he caught his smile.

Another day and he catches his laugh and his twinkling eyes when he shows off the hard earned fish he caught by the stream. Dangling from its tail caught between his fingers, its own small body and silver scales reflecting the light. Ha! Look at this, Hirohito!

Another and he catches his fear when a grasshopper jumped on him. He complained when he had laughed, claiming that grasshoppers are ruthless. Especially locusts. I hate locusts.

And like that days pass by. He lies once again in his bed awake and scrolling through the gallery of his camera, contemplating each one closely, taking his time and discovering the details he hadn’t realized he had caught.

If I had a flower

For every time I thought

Of you, I could walk

In my garden forever.

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)

He is fond of all his pictures but he especially fond of the ones he took at the waterfalls. That was the first time they had ventured to such a place and it was beautiful.

Water cascading down the green walls of the mountains, the sound of it falling lulling him into its own serene lullaby of peace. The stream of it flowing onwards just as beautiful. The falling showers acting as curtains hiding smaller caves and crevices where they had played hide and sneak and giggled and snickered like children. (I’m here! Where? Can’t you find me?).

There were slippery rocks that they used to cross the stream, and when Hirohito slipped in he was glad he didn’t have his camera on him. He has many pictures of their time here, acting silly and immature. He even has one of the boy of the boy with his mouth wide open so that it appeared that he was drinking one of the waterfalls. It wasn’t a video otherwise you could have heard Hirohito’s frantic giggling behind the camera, trying to keep his arms steady.

“I feel like when I’m with you time truly stops.” Hirohito had said as they sat by the stream, breathless from their recent game. “I feel like I spent a lifetime talking to you even though not even an hour has passed.”

“It could be a lifetime if I wanted, but that’s not what you need. No one needs a lifetime. That’s why when life calls to them, their time comes and they leave.”

But Hirohito did not want to leave. Even when his phone told him it was time to go before he truly risked the wrath of his uncle, no matter how slowly time had passed, he had to go.

That day was the birth of many firsts. The first he had been to the stream, the first they had played, the first he had truly felt peace after so long, the first he had went home wet from head to toe, water dripping from his eyes, his cheeks and his chin, mixing with what was already there.

Hirohito will be asked many years into the future by someone; while they will lean over the steel railing and they will watch the moon together.

I find myself longing for the handsome moon

It would have been a long while since Hirohito had thought of Komachi and her prose.

Hirohito would be looked at with imploring eyes and he’ll look away. He would be asked:

Whether one can truly have a genuine relationship with someone you have only met for a short while?

He’ll look away for no matter how unbelievable: What he had had been a genuine connection, despite how brief the time spent together was. It had been a connection, a true affection. Whether it was something an artist felt towards their inspiration or if it was friendship or even love was something he himself never understood. There would be fondness in his heart whenever he would meet the boy in his memories now and then, but they truly never met again.

Perhaps he would have found the answer then if they did manage to cross paths once more. It was tiring to think of the boy. The memories to deeply lodged with emotion and moments to strange to comprehend.

There will be one thing he will be certain of. The boy was not something he could ever understand. His Komachi is an entity undecipherable. Somewhere between reality and fantasy.

There was a day where his face had shown melancholy. He didn’t capture for that was not within his right. Those moments are to be kept with you like a secret you are responsible to uphold. A secret, a moment of vulnerability, a moment of trust just between the two of you. It is your duty to keep it hidden unless given permission otherwise. For these are true emotions and not toys to be played with. This is a person with their own beliefs and conscience. He didn’t have his permission to hold the proofs of his sadness.

That day they had talked and talked like always. The boy teaching him the secrets of the mountains that was his home and Hirohito explaining the concepts that were the norm for him but not the boy who thought of them so alien. That day he was showing Hirohito the best places with blooming meadows and smaller nooks were hid even stranger creatures. (He doesn’t remember the way to even one of those places now.)

Then they had sat down at the cliff at the edge of nothing, butterflies ever present and the boy’s hands busy weaving intricate flower crowns with the daisies he had made Hirohito carry in a makeshift pouch of his shirt as his was already filled. A wide array of pinks, yellows, whites and purples.

The crowns they made glorious. They complimented him well when he took his picture.

“Thank you, it’s wonderful.”

“You’re welcome.” Careful hands placed the crown on his bent head. He felt the delicate petals.

“Who taught you? Did you learn it yourself?”

“Someone like you came and time stopped.” Melancholy. He laughed as though to get something out of his throat. The pain, the awkwardness. It still carried with it the airy hint of nostalgia. His hands began to weave something else. Necklaces. He felt guilty when he threw away the gifts in a bush on his way back. He wished to take them home but how would he explain them to his uncle and they would too, wither away and die and all he would have left would be dead things hidden in his travel bag. So he threw them away.