The Fourth Instar

"'I want to hear it' Peiyi said. Rendi was eager as well, for there had been few tales told in the dull Inn of Clear Sky, but he flushed when he saw Madame Chang looking directly at him. 'Would you like to hear it?' she asked. Wendi tried to shrug indifferently. 'I guess,' he said." – Lin, Starry River







5.

There was nothing that Rosario would not do for her family's small portion of the ejido here along the very western edge of Veracruz. To the east, from their perch along the foothills of the highlands, you could see the far off horizon of the great blue water.  Deeper to the west the scattering of the sacred firs, the oyamel, and beyond, deeper inland, the great Monarch preserves that she hoped to visit some day, by foot if necessary.  Rosario knew all about the Monarch butterflies.  There was a certain pride she took in the fact that such lovely creatures had chosen this very portion of earth to winter.  She had seen pictures of the flocks of millions of Monarchs that suspended so close as to resemble a golden tapestry along the shell of the warm firs.  Someday she would visit those trees, live in them if they would allow, but for now it was her duty to care for the ones that had either drifted this far by accident this far east or for those who did not migrate at all.  It had been in the morning that year she had found the thing that endeared her to the butterfly.  She had been to the back of the homestead feeding the chickens and checking on their condition when she first saw the most unusual sight dangling off of their token oyamel stand along edge of the ever thinning woods.  So many birds had flown through this part of the land arriving from or returning to the sea that it was not unusual for her to dash into her father's workshed to frantically plea that he please "come see, come see."
"What do you see, what do you see?" the father would tease. The father was not annoyed by the plaints, but could always see in his daughter himself at that age, far more interested in flora and fauna of this magical place then the tasks at hand.
"This bird has such thin wings. We have never seen such an orange!" The father had put his furniture making tools onto the counter. The room smelled of sawdust, the home made shelves boiling over in various parts that would eventually assemble to make chairs, his own prideful product.
"Orange, you say?" As he walked out into the grass and sand he thought to himself if he had ever seen an orange winged bird before. Orange stripes, yes. Orange head? At some point, it is possible.
"Stop here," Rosario said.  "It had been fluttering before, when I got closer."
The great winged thing was still in its position.  The wings were the size of small hand fans and clasped together and then opened, revealing patterns of art that only the wildest of imaginations could ever come up.
"I will tell you this," the father said, re-focusing. "If that is a bird I am a penguin." The girls laughed at this. The mastery of it called up something that both exciting and quite fearful. Objects larger than expected always leave the mind of the human wanting. Both of them stood in their places for several minutes watching the majesty of this thin-winged thing flap. They walked closer, as anybody would, and, just as one more step approached, the thin-winged thing dove upwards, then slashed to the side, lunging seemingly five feet at a beat, then straight away from them, rising up into the perfectly hazy blue of the low sky.
"My dear, that was no bird, but a butterfly!"