The Tiger Swallowtail

The Tiger Swallowtail

I was at the Horniman Museum yesterday with my wife and son, taking the Saturday to do something as a family. A strange little place on the outskirts of London, the surrounding area was dull, dreary, typical of the decaying capital, but the museum itself was colourful – if a little ‘unfocused’ with its exhibits. ‘A hotch-potch’ my wife called it, and I couldn’t disagree as we wandered round, avoiding tourists, staring at artefacts, maps, all sorts, smiling at our son’s enthusiasm, fondly remembering what it was like to be a child.
Then I came to the animal section.
Cue uneasy nostalgia, bordering on déjà vu. Gladly did I peruse the stuffed alligators, and even smiled as we traversed a parade of dissected rats, their organs on show like jars of sweets in an old-fashioned candy shop. No, that didn’t bother me. What got me squirming in my skin – drawing concerned looks from my wife – was what an unobtrusive display case in the corner, labelled ‘butterflies’ displayed.
At first glance everything seemed all right, normal, and I happily drank in the insects, making the right noises as my son excitedly jabbed at them, his finger smudging the protective glass. Yellow, red, brown, emerald wing-tips glinting in the museum’s fluorescent lights, the colours assailed me, but suddenly, without warning...I felt uneasy.
Why? Two innocuous words written near the bottom, that’s why.
‘Tiger Swallowtail’.
Above that innocuous sign was a beautiful yellow-and-black butterfly, with red tips at the base of each wing. It was dead of course, but the thing dominated my vision, eclipsing its fellows, almost daring me to look away – if I did, there would be a sigh, a flutter, and then it would be gone, vanishing into the past.
What a strange thing to think about a dead insect, but I wasn’t going mad...there was a story behind the Swallowtail, something heard as a child that I had buried under years of normalcy.
The tale came from my grandfather, and the Swallowtail itself was only a detail of the story, not the central wonder of the narrative he wove as we sat in front of his fireplace, playing Uno whilst drinking a mug of Grandma’s weak orange squash. He was sixty-five I think, recently retired, and like a raised curtain his persona had lightened dramatically with his cessation of work. He was more open, relaxed, loving to his wife, and he started doting on me more – delighting in telling me stories from his youth and his travels abroad.
Staring at that beautiful butterfly in the Horniman, memories long muffled yet diamond clear rose like a storm inside me, and I visualised the whole story in my mind, wondering – as I had when he first told me, thirty-five years ago – whether any of it was true...or if he had just weaved a tall tale for a favourite grandson, being inspired in imagination by his newfound freedom from toil.
***
The Boreal Forest was North America’s scarf, I was told, but when I first saw it, I thought it was more like a green sea, stretching off into infinity. Father had hired an automobile, slowly driving us across Canada’s chilly – but as yet untouched by snow – autumnal landscape, determined for us to experience the country’s ‘majesty’ before we had to head home. What he really wanted was for us to go hunting, father and thirty-one year old son, bonding over dead moose in the heart of the wilderness. Half a year of his wages had gone on this trip, but then that was nothing unusual – Father loved his breaks, just me and him, whilst Mother visited her sisters in Norfolk half a world away.
“We’ll have to go on foot...looks thick,” I said, leaning out of the passenger’s side as we rapidly approached the Boreal. “Is it all right to just simply leave the vehicle here?”
“Will be a point of reference for us, boy,” grumbled Father, his gaze not leaving the road. “Use our instincts and compass to guide us back – will do us good! Instinct is heightened in the wild.”
I rolled my eyes and said nothing. Father often spouted ‘wisdom pearls’ when we went away, and in recent years his extensive travelling had introduced in him an affinity for nature, long diluted by years in the city – and therefore more eager to burst free.
The noisy automobile came to a juddering stop, and we disembarked, unpacking rifles, flasks and all our other camping equipment, strapped to heavy rucksacks on our backs. Standing there, checking ammunition, I felt a tingle of excitement looking at the trees – so dark and vaguely foreboding, like a wall of Spartans ready for battle. Looking across at Father, I sense he was ready for the fight.
He radiated determination.
“Ready, lad?” he asked, catching my eye. “There’s moose to be hunting.”
My answer was to re-adjust my backpack, and Father nodded, taking it as assent. Putting rifle over shoulder he strode off into the Boreal, melting into the trees, swallowed so suddenly that I momentarily blinked in alarm.
For a second I stood there, barely breathing, listening to the high calls of birds. Deep down part of me whispered a warning; that we shouldn’t be tempting Nature by trekking – unguided – into the unknown. Then I heard a rustle, and Father re-appeared.
“What’s the trouble?” he called, and when I didn’t reply he frowned – not unkindly. “There’s no trouble in here, boy, only adventure. Now come on! We want to make good ground before dusk.” His gruff voice cut into my unease, dispersing it, and I moved forward, meeting him at the tree line. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to that.”
“What?”
Father’s eyes glistened as he stared north through the wood. “The Boreal calls us in,” he whispered. “And who are we to disobey. There be moose afoot in here...and peace.”
I listened with him, but all I heard were twigs cracking, faint thrush calls indignantly rolling back and forth, and fainter still, the sound of distant water, burbling from some stream. I couldn’t hear any moose. “Sounds nice and peaceful,” I agreed.
“Aye, peaceful.” Father’s faraway look vanished as he smiled. “Let’s find a path to roam.”
***
Two hours flew past without us realising, and all we had done was wander the wood, enjoying the adventure of just ‘being’ in an enclosed, mysterious place, bereft of humans. The fact that the paths were barely trodden, barely visible, just added to the atmosphere of daring and I felt my heart race – even though we travelled languidly. Father felt it too, I knew, as he barely spoke, just paced around with a serene smile on his face, looking twenty years younger in the green light of the leaves. A hush fell the deeper we travelled, though we barely skirted the southern tip of the Boreal, and I felt a growing desire to go deeper, to even leave the paths altogether and plunge through the trees, to...what? An abandoned campfire? A forgotten lake?
“Awfully silent, boy.” Father’s voice broke into my thoughts, bringing me back to the present. “Awfully quiet.”
He made the word ‘awfully’ sound juxtaposed with its meaning, and I agreed with him. The silence wasn’t awful in the slightest – merely contemplative on our parts, and magically brooding on the forest’s. It all added up to peace. Nature crowded in on us, unburdened by civilisation’s noise. “I can barely see the sun now.” I squinted up through the canopies, catching splintered rays of light but never the whole. “Do you think it’ll get dark quick in here?”
“Assuredly,” growled Father. “But not yet.”
“We’ve heard nothing of moose yet.”
Father nodded north, looking every inch the hunter with his long rifle, floppy hat and thick jacket. He walked in a semi-crouch, his breath lightly misting the air. “Defago told us they come to the western lake to take drink. We head north for a bit, then veer west...we’ll meet the blighters all right...and from cover too!”
I smiled, becoming infected by some of Father’s enthusiasm. “We’ll have to make the kill clean.”
“Assuredly.” He glanced solemnly around him. “The forest won’t have it any other way.”
As if to voice its agreement, there was a gust of wind, blowing the leaves around us, throwing them into fits of frantic whispering. I felt their caress and laughed – I couldn’t help it. It felt like a thousand fingers were tickling me. Father arched an eyebrow, then plucked a brown leaf and stroked it across his chin, lost in thought. That one image was like a painting, immediately imbedded on my mind, and a peculiar phrase bubbled up onto my lips. “A lost gardener...has returned home.”
Father smiled but made no reply, just dropped the leaf, hitched his rucksack and strode off, not looking back to see if I was following. Bemused – and with little choice in the matter – I followed, lightly jumping over some fox droppings marking the path.
When I caught up, he had stopped, holding out a hand behind him as if to ask for quiet. I tried my best, but snagged a root with my foot.
‘Crack!’
The sound was like a firecracker and Father jumped, rounding on me, brow creased in annoyance. “Boy...hush. You blunder about like that and you’ll scare off the quarry.”
I sighed. “Sorry. Did you hear something? Moose?”
“No...not moose.” His expression softened. “Something else. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?” I took a step forward, but was shushed. “What?”
‘Thud.’
This time I hadn’t moved; neither had Father. Somewhere off to our left it sounded again, a stealthy breaking of twigs, as if something was purposefully approaching, walking on tip-toe through the undergrowth. There was an almighty crunch, followed by silence, and then the footsteps came again, this time to our right.
I found myself staring at Father, cold inside, short of breath, with a growing sense of unease sprouting in my gut. I wanted to pull him on, slap the vacant, excited expression off his face, implore him to move, rant that I couldn’t hear anything. Instead I listened, heart thumping like a hammer, to this innocuous – but o-so-threatening – sound.
For a minute, maybe more, the footsteps continued, and then without warning they ceased. Or rather, they melted back into the Boreal’s ‘background hum’, becoming just another half-sound teasing our ears.
I waited for my heartbeat to quieten before I spoke. “What was that?” I asked, before realising Father wasn’t beside me anymore, but halfway into the trees, scanning the ground and brushing leaves around with his gun. “You...you found anything?”
I knew he hadn’t. It was far too close – the footsteps had been further away. I scratched my head. Yet they had still been loud, resonating in my head like a drum...how could this be? Father looked up at me, and a moment of mutual understanding passed between us.
We had heard something unnatural – caught the edge of a mystery.
“I was sure it was over here,” he said. “Could almost smell the beggar.”
“You saw something?”
Father’s brow creased. “No...no...I mean yes, well maybe.” I had never seen him so addled before, and it scared me. “Felt something more like, and caught a glimpse of a shape in the trees, boy. Not sure what.”
“Not a moose though.”
“Aye, not one of those.”
I sighed, not sure how to reply, and looked into the distance. The Boreal’s trees were mainly broadleaf’s, made up primarily of cone-shaped Balsam Poplars. Although thin-trunked, there were plenty of them crammed together, and each held a generous supply of foliage, spreading downwards like giant umbrellas. Dotted between these was the occasional White Birch. Looking like several clumps of greenery held together by a thin shaft, they nonetheless were impressive when the sun hit them – their sparseness split the light into myriad green hues, refracting onto muddy, root-ridden ground.
Searching this thick canopy for movement proved fruitless, and after a moment I shrugged. “Whatever it was is gone. Maybe a bear came down from the mountains? We should continue to the lake. Won’t be long before the sun goes in.”
It seemed strange to be taking the lead, urging us on, and the reversal wasn’t lost on Father. He gave me a withering look, grabbed up his gun, and nodded west. “Another two miles and we should reach it.”
With that one gruffly-delivered line, everything returned to normal. Tension seeped from the forest, and I sighed with relief as an invisible shawl was lifted from our surroundings, leaving us free to think, enjoy...and move again.
The strange episode was over.
Woods were peculiar things, I knew, throwing noises around, causing echoes. All we may have heard was another hunter passing us by. Yes, that was it...a hunter, looking for moose like us. “I’m looking forward to camping out under the stars,” I said, giving my rifle a twirl.
“The moose might still be nearby at nightfall, but we’ll wait for the morrow. No rush in a place like this.”
Father strode north, following a half-path, and I followed, yawning loudly.
***
It was an hour before we heard running water, and Father assured me it was the lake breaking upon its mud banks, no more than half-an-hour’s walk west. I was eager to stop, but he seemed almost reluctant – despite his promise. It was as if he wanted the whole episode over. In the end, tiredness won out, and we found a cosy glade to set up camp, shielded by a circle of trees to stave off the worst of the autumnal wind.
Everything was very still as we set up our tents, but it wasn’t until I’d finished, and was sitting next to the fire, cigarette in hand, that I realised how dark it was. The sun had crept away, leaving plutonian gloom outside our little haven of bustle and flame. The trees seemed much closer together as well, like they were doing their utmost to squeeze out the darkness, but only succeeding in making us feel trapped.
Glancing across at Father, I noticed he was frowning. “What’s the matter?”
He took a moment to reply, and I sensed that he was ‘listening’ again to the forest. When he did speak, it was a whisper. “The damnedest sound, boy. Don’t you hear it?” I shook my head. “It’s like something is sighing and laughing...all at once.”
I felt a sliver of fear run up my spine. “The breeze is getting up...”
“It’s not the wind! I know that when I hear it. It’s more consistent than...bah, it doesn’t matter. It’s...nothing.”
His reticence to confide in me deepened my dread. I wasn’t a fool. I had read about men turning strange in the wilderness, that they could be touched by madness, overwhelmed by Nature. To think Father could become similarly unhinged was unthinkable, but I couldn’t altogether dismiss it. He was hearing things and I wasn’t – that already set us apart.
I began to wish we had continued to the lake after all.
“Imagine early man wandering through here,” said Father, breaking my thoughts. “Aye, they would’ve been awed. Terrified too, no doubt.”
“Terrified?”
“Of the size of it. A whole world of concealing greenery. To them it would’ve been a severe test of courage, just to walk it, not knowing what came next.”
“I guess...”
‘Thud!’
The footfall emerged from silence so suddenly that I physically jumped, dropping my cigarette into our fire in the process. Then, I listened, moving my eyes but nothing else, waiting for the next sound.
...Which didn’t come. But I hadn’t imagined it – Father’s furrowed brow was testament to that. The seconds crept to minutes, and we both sat there, tense, ready, but whereas I felt only unease, Father’s gaze held a glint of quiet awe – like he was processing what it could be in his mind, and that grand answers were coming back to him.
Again, I was the first to crack. “What...?”
Father gave an imperceptible shake of his head, but it was enough to silence me. No sound. Ominous silence. Two minutes of excruciating waiting and he relaxed, seemingly satisfied we were alone. “Some things are better off not knowing,” he growled.
He turned over, shuffled towards his tent, and clambered inside. Alone, the darkness crowded in even further. Suddenly, I felt afraid to be outdoors.
Grabbing my rifle I almost ran, determined not to look back in case some ghoul was waiting, grinning like a jack-o-lantern in the light of the fire. Or worse still, another incongruous ‘thud’ in the Boreal’s depths, heralding something’s approach.
At the lip of my tent I stopped. Father was muttering something, over and over, but it was low and muffled. Nevertheless, it’s peculiar cadence sent a shiver up my spine.
***
I awoke to a butterfly.
Rubbing my eyes, I took a moment to stretch in my sleeping bag, and then immediately noticed two things. The first was that the Boreal was no longer silent – a distant, yet persistent din of birdsong surrounded me, as did other comforting, ‘familiar’ sounds associated with woods. Forgotten was the ominous ‘thud’ from last night, and as a cool breeze rippled through my tent, I smiled.
The second thing then introduced itself, flapping past my face like a gossamer leaf.
Yes...a butterfly.
What surprised me wasn’t its close proximity, so out-of-season, but the size of the thing. It was massive, struggling with its own weight as it headed unerringly towards the tent’s ceiling. A few hefty flaps and it alighted, hanging silently, quivering as if cold. “What do you expect,” I said sleepily. “It’s autumn...you shouldn’t be around.”
“Who are you talking to, lad?” Father’s voice startled me, and looking up I saw his head poking through the flap, framed by a ring of sunshine from outside. He looked almost angelic, but then he stepped inside, grinned, and all his age-lines returned. “A beautiful morning out there. A terrific autumnal morning.”
He was already dressed for hunting, rifle by his side, and checking my watch I saw that I had only slept seven hours – he was just up early, unusual for him. “I have a visitor,” I said, nodding at the ceiling. “A butterfly.”
“I can see that.” Father reached up, squinting, and the creature grew agitated, fluttering away a few feet to a different part of ceiling. “I haven’t seen one this big for a long time.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“Nay...looks like a shard of gold though, don’t he?”
“Striking.” The butterfly was a mix of dazzling yellow and ominous onyx, with a brace of blue and red spots on wing’s extremities. It also had large eyes. “It’s not very skittish, considering...”
“...Considering we’re looming over it like a pair of mountainous fools?”
Father was in strangely poetic form, but I thought the butterfly would disappear when he raised a finger towards it. Instead it jumped, fluttering into his hand. We looked at each other, amused, and then Father backed carefully away, hoarding the creature like he had just caught an amulet of sunlight, crystallised from the sky.
Following him out of the tent, I glanced around our camp. The Boreal welcomed us today. It was bright, open, with a ‘freshness’ only apparent on sunny, clear days in Autumn – or Spring. The sun was a sentinel high in the sky, and the birch and White Poplars were still, effervescent with bronze colours crowning their branches. There were birds too, high in the sky, mere dots, but there, comforting in their presence.
But.
But I still felt something...amiss. Not amiss exactly, but ‘outside the norm’. And yesterday’s strange episodes weren’t wholly gone from my thoughts. They dwelt at the back, ready to resurface at the slightest prompt.
“Don’t make too much noise,” muttered Father, as he stood nearby, eyes fixed on his fluttering prize.
“Sorry.” Slowly, I crept towards him, but I hadn’t gone far before the butterfly fluttered from his hand, wheeling up into the sky – yet staying in the clearing. “Sorry.”
Father grumbled something under his breath, but remained fixated on the insect, his eyes full of wonder. “He doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave, eh?”
“No, but maybe we should.” I nodded north, but Father still wouldn’t look at me. “I think I hear the moose by the lake.”
“Hmm...”
Both he and the butterfly seemed reluctant to leave – like they had some formed some bond in their brief moments together, unconscious and unique. I, on the other hand, was getting impatient, and as a result, irritated – though I knew I had no reason to be.
Suddenly, unbidden, my muttered exclamation from yesterday returned, and I whispered the words aloud; “A lost gardener...has returned home.”
Father ripped his gaze from the butterfly and smiled – a warm gesture, full of deep understanding. For a moment he was back with me, the shadow passing from his eyes, Nature’s glamour removed. “Gardeners always return home in the end. Hmm...indeed, boy. Moose you said?” He nodded, as if convincing himself of something. “Yes, yes the moose. We should go. Our rifles need to be used.”
There was an overgrown path leading northwest out of our camp, so we made for that, pausing only to gather the rest of our things. Father frowned, focused, but I looked back up into the sky, expecting to see our black and gold friend still whirring about.
He was gone.
“What are you gawping at?”
“Just looking for the butterfly.” Father followed my gaze, an inscrutable expression on his face. “It’s gone now though.”
“Yes gone.” He rubbed his chin. “A pretty thing while he lasted, but gone now to God knows where.”
Father sounded regretful, but – to my great relief – he chuckled, pulled on his rucksack, and descended into the forest without a backwards look. I followed, figuring I spotted something small in the sky, dancing below the clouds like a flake of snow.
***
There were three separate streams that led down to the lake, each overgrown with weeds, damp logs housing brown starlings, and marooned lilies floating west, racing us to our quarry. The sound of rippling, mumbling water cheered me, and I was soon gripping my rifle, eager to bag some prey. Father too was smiling, though once or twice I caught him glancing at the sky, a longing look in his eyes.
Once two of the streams joined I knew we were near, and we slowed our pace, not wanting to spook any nearby animals. Faint sounds came from the north – footfalls and snorts – and for a moment my heart leapt into my throat, thinking the strange ‘thudding’ footsteps had returned. But then common sense prevailed.
It was the moose.
We snuck forward, gingerly breaking through a thick row of trees bordering the lake. Father grimaced as he got on all fours, rifle by his side, and I followed him through, taking in the scene.
The southern shore was just visible beyond the trees, but the lake edge was slightly raised above us, so the rest was obscured by a steep, muddy bank. Around the rim were shrubs and white-washed logs bent into unnatural shapes. The latter looked somewhat like severed limbs, but even that macabre vision seemed natural here – like it ‘belonged’, adding to the setting, creating a mysterious mood.
Edging up the bank, I noticed several brown bees hovering near the shrubs, and also a couple of angry-looking wasps, which I tried to bat away. So persistent were they that I thought I might reveal our position, but there were no snorts or thundering hooves from the lake – merely the growl of rippling waters.
Father moved alongside me, flicking a wasp and touching my shoulder simultaneously, his eyes asking for quiet. I complied, lying in mud, silent, wary...but content. The wet earth had a rich smell, and breathing it in was like a drug, threatening to disrobe my reason and send me cavorting with Nature.
I blinked – where had that thought come from?
“You all right, boy?”
I looked across, trying not to squirm at the strange light in Father’s eyes. “Yes, fine.”
He nodded at the slope. “Fancy a look?”
It was a simple question, one I knew the answer to – yes, we should look, our quarry was up there – but a small part of me screamed against it. I didn’t know why, but the rational man inside counselled retreat, to head out of the Boreal, find Defago and give him back his guns and car. I fought the overwhelming urge to flee, but instead said; “Sure.”
***
Here I remember Grandfather growing uncomfortable, licking his lips, sweating as he relayed the events to come, saying he wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t...only that events took a fateful, dramatic turn towards the weird. His eyes grew dark, and even as a young child I recalled feeling a chill inside – like when you see a coat on a hook and momentarily think it’s a person.
***
Father rose first, slowly moving into a crouch, rifle primed for firing. But then he stopped, tensing as he did so, looking slightly to his left.
“What is it?” I hissed.
“I’ll be damned, the bugger’s back.”
I followed his gaze, and there it was – the butterfly, fluttering in a tight circle near the ground. Father stared at it, at me, and then again at the insect, reaching out a hand, like in the tent.
“What are you doing?” I said, struggling to clamber up the slope. “You’ll scare off the moose.”
Father made an irritated sound, a deep, bestial growl, and it stopped me in my tracks. This wasn’t the man who had raised me. This was a different creature, annoyed by my reticence to embrace this forest...and its wonders. Confused, I moved towards him, but time switched gears, lurching into slow motion. There he was, hunched over, brow wrinkled, eyes feverish, and I knew he would reach the butterfly first. And why shouldn’t he? It was a harmless creature.
As he grabbed it I realised the naivety of my thoughts. The butterfly wasn’t harmless at all.
“You know what, lad,” said Father, slurring. “I remember the name of this butterfly now. It’s a Tiger Swallowtail – a rare thing in these parts.”
“How do you...?” I started, and then gasped as he opened his hand.
Light emanated from his palms, pulsing white, then gold, rippling out into the sky like heat waves in a desert. I couldn’t see the butterfly, just its gorgeous wings somehow reflected in Father’s eyes, lending him a beautiful, almost deific countenance that terrified me more than words can describe. Words stuck in my throat; I was paralysed, only able to watch...and blink.
That was enough. One blink and the butterfly had vanished. Father was back to normal, staring wistfully after its departing form as if nothing strange had happened. A serene smiled played on his lips, but when he spoke, it was to me; “Ah! A skittish fellow. Never mind.”
My paralysis dissolved and I forced myself to the top of the slope. “Father...the light!”
“He’s guiding us, Peter.” That was the first time he had called me by my name since school. “Let’s follow.”
“Wait! What?” I struggled to understand. My holiday was unravelling, and what made matters worse was the dreamy veil that had fallen the Boreal, making cohesive thought impossible. I felt a spectral hand pushing me forward to the edge of the lake, whilst a silky voice whispered in my ear to ‘follow’. “Father?”
He was already twenty feet away, around a curve in the lake, staggering forward, head high, rifle low, the butterfly back in view, leading him on. Several moose eyed us warily from the opposite shore, but none departed. Their amber eyes were full of curiosity. One waded a few feet into the lake, stopped, and then snorted; the sound was uncommonly loud, jolting me into action.
I followed the procession.
Father disappeared into a large peninsula of trees jutting out into the lake. They spread north, where Defago had told us the Boreal was thickest, and I hurried to catch up, afraid we’d get lost if we ventured too far in.
“Peter, onward!”
His voice sounded far away, plaintive yet excited, but I knew he couldn’t be far, having only entered a few moments before me. It was the forest, distorting sound, creating confusion in the senses. “Wait!” I called, scanning the trees for movement. “For Heaven’s sake, Father, stop this nonsense! We’ll get lost.”
There was no reply, nor movement, just a semi-path through the bushes, going deeper into the Boreal’s bowels. I followed it for a few paces and then stopped, straining my ears. Had I heard something off to the left? Footfalls? Someone speaking? If it was Father then I could fire off a rifle round to alert him – and hopefully rattle him from his stupor. “Yes, that’s it,” I mumbled. “One shot will do. The moose can scarper for all I care.”
I checked both barrels, raised it to the sky, and prepared to fire. My fingers tingled; icicles ran down my back. A sudden instinct told me to lower the weapon, that firing would be very wrong.
‘Thud.’
A dark curtain instantly draped down over my courage. I hadn’t imagined it – it was the footsteps from the previous night, the same deliberate tread. I waited for more, but the silence mocked me. I tried to see between the boughs but shadows covered all, yet even they hinted at unseen, secret places where anyone – or anything – could be waiting, ready to take that next step towards me.
‘Thud.’
“Father!” I whispered, automatically moving away from the threatening steps, along the northern path. Brambles cut my legs, wiry branches shrank back and then reached out to slice my clothes. All was terror, uncertainty. And the sun had gone in.
Coming suddenly on a deep ditch was a natural stop, and I took the moment, breathing heavily as I tried to regain some rationality. My conscience screamed for me to turn back and seek help. Defago knew the forest like no-other. He would get a team, scour the forest, and find Father.
If it wasn’t too late.
I scrambled across the ditch, listening to my foolish heart, determined to rescue before the butterfly led him into a ravine. Madness had touched him, I knew – what Defago called ‘the call of the wild’ – but if I found him I could drag him back to normality. I just needed him back.
‘Thud.’
This time it was behind me, so close I felt if I turned I would see some spectre, ready to pounce. Terrified, I increased my pace, but the Boreal was crafty, throwing roots, stumps, and bushes in my path, making it difficult to advance. My foot caught a root and before I knew it I was on the ground, a sharp pain lancing through my ankle.
Was it broken? Grimacing, I turned over, gingerly touching it, rolling down my sock to assess the damage. “Damn it, twisted.”
I tried to stand, but the effort sent a fresh wave of agony through my body. Nausea rose in my throat, so I lay back, momentarily defeated.
I had fallen down in a clearing, where the Balsam Poplars were driven back by a large expanse of coarse grass. There were marks on the ground, like tracks, and I wondered if this place had been used by humans in the past. A peculiar stone stood at an angle at its centre, casting a three o’clock shadow in the sun.
I blinked – the sun was back out. When had that happened?
Not only that, but it looked huge, like a copper plate, spreading its rays all along the horizon.
‘Thud.’
The steps sounded further away than before, but somehow more purposeful, and that made it ten times more dreadful. I shifted position, looking along the tree-line for signs of life.
Father stood at the edge of the clearing, staring directly at me.
I froze, all the hairs standing on the back of my neck. He was quite far away, but it was him. He still grabbed his rifle, though he was using it as a cane. Something gold glittered on his shoulder, and it took a moment for me to realise it was the Swallowtail.
Fear overcame me. “Fath...” I started to say, but something about his posture stopped me from continuing.
It was like his body was being held up, a marionette, puppet, animated only to move him from point to point. In contrast, his face shone with energy, and even as far away as I was, I saw the sun reflected in his eyes. He smiled, but it was an inward, serene grin, full of contentment.
I tried to rise, found an invisible pressure crushing my chest, and slumped back down, groaning and whimpering, not able to comprehend. Why was he like a statue? What enchantment had befallen him?
‘Thud...thud...thud.’
The noises were perilously close now and had changed their pedantic melody. They no longer sounded like footsteps, but wheels periodically hitting the ground – or perhaps a cart rumbling through the trees.
I waited...and waited, tense, helpless, unable to take my eyes of the husk masquerading as Father.
Something caught my eye, rustling the poplars to the south. The sound was definitively wheels, clanking, squeaking, but I heard something else – high, girlish laughter, rolling like a wave towards me, full of such gusto that I couldn’t help smiling. My body drank it in, letting it fill me with warmth, and revelation came – an instinct of borrowed knowledge. It was rich, deep, terrifying, but I didn’t resist as it filled me with soothing peace.
When the chariot emerged into the clearing, I didn’t even balk.
The first thing that struck me was the colour. An abundance of gold throbbed from the vehicle, feeding off the sunlight in a way I had never seen – or dared imagine – before. It actually hurt to look at it, yet at the same time I couldn’t stop drinking in the garish, opulent splendour before me. The chariot was large, housing a small menagerie of figures, and its sides were rimmed with rubies, arranged in a flowery pattern that wound all along the side, ending in a brace of silver oak trees that served as handles for the driver. “By heavens.”
The driver was a magnificent specimen, akin to mosaics of Pharoahs I had seen in the British Museum. Standing well over seven-feet tall, the woman was bronzed from head to foot, and gripped the reins with powerful-looking hands. Rings adorned every finger, all gold, all glimmering, tinkling when they touched each other. The sound was like a thousand contented sighs, and reminded me of long summer evenings, staring at the clouds in a favourite garden. The woman sang a song as she slowly made her way across my sight, passing in front of the angled stone – and blocking my view of Father.
“O thou who passest thro’ our valleys in thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat that flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld with joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.”
She sang subtly, but her tone was like honeyed wine. And all the while she looked to her left, piercing golden eyes on the trees. I shivered – her gaze was fixed on Father. Why? Once more I tried to move, but the paralysis held. My mind raced with images of summer, blue sky, fresh smells and rich colours, dominating all in full bloom. I felt the Boreal smiling and flourishing around me, proud of its heritage, huge in its scope, and content in the relentless sunshine of the copper orb above.
The woman finished her song and begun another, turning slightly my way, showing off the fabulously gilded armour clinging to her body. Burnished, golden, with garnet and jasper shoulder pads and an imperious iron aegis attached to her arm, she was a warrior queen, ready for battle. Her steeds were great red stallions, snorting white flame, hooves making barely a noise as they moved – like great, monstrous ghosts. Her chariot companions were a majestic lion on the left, and a young woman with a large plait that dripped corn on the ground where they passed, on the right. The girl met my eye and smiled, but it was a sad, omnipotent smile, filling me with foolishness, afraid of things I didn’t know.
On the procession went, followed by a cluster of deer, rabbits, and a magnificent white stag, and time crawled along with them, affording me a prolonged glimpse at something hallowed – otherworldly even. But it didn’t last. I felt the sun’s rays faltering, and the chariot seemed to diminish, barely moving yet condensing into a small, infinitesimal point. There was a final, powerful laugh from the woman – which seemed to dismiss science and organised religion as modern folly – a roar from the lion, and then they were gone, leaving behind a sparkling rainbow in the sky.
Gasping, I looked for Father, but he was gone. I touched my ankle, but had no real desire to move. All fight had drained from me, leaving only the ability to muse on the scene...and appreciate my senses.
No sooner had I semi-recovered then a chill wind blew through the clearing, causing the poplars to hiss like vipers. The stone’s shadow had shifted to six o’ clock, and the sun was a shade of itself – a red ball, struggling do anything but bleed over the forest. I blinked as a dim filter descended on my surroundings, before realising with astonishment that the trees were changing colour, deepening from green, through yellow....to brown.
It was like time had sped through the months, leading me hastily into autumn.
The gusts increased in intensity and I huddled on the floor, rubbing water from my eyes with the back of my hand. A shriek sounded from the west, formless, bestial, full of anguish, and above all, non-human. It sounded again – a piercing yet free sound, blending with the rustling leaves. Several of the borderline poplars were suddenly uprooted, spiralling into the sky as if a tornado terrorised them. Only I couldn’t see anything amiss, only hear the agonised howls swirling around me.
‘Hiss.’
A form appeared where the trees had vanished. It was vague, evasive, but its dimensions were unmistakeably humanoid. It took a step forward, and was then ten feet closer, gusting towards me like the wind incarnate. Another howl tore through the clearing, this time from the figure’s gaping mouth, open, giant, where brown winds issued forth, taking the form of nymph-like beings that danced in the sky...before frittering away to nothing.
It was a dread figure, radiating chaos like nothing I had ever known. But my mind was numb to its horror. Even the four faces – top, bottom, front and back – distilled only a sense of awe, as I watched them blink in unison, their gaping, blank, androgynous faces wordlessly howling an autumnal tune. A long brown coat of leaves was its raiment, and with each step some fell off, joining the winds in vast clouds of rustic colour. It was an awesome sight, seeming to go on forever, but in my heart I knew I had witnessed it only for a second – that time was irrelevant for this great elemental creature.
Three more gusting steps and the spectacle was over; the figure left in a torrent of leaves, the last fingers of wind caressing my face before silence fell. Pain returned to my ankle, but it was a freezing pain, numbing my legs and working worryingly up to my stomach. “Cold...why so...so cold?”
My teeth chattered as I spoke, my breath misting like chimney smoke. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to curl up, close my eyes and let sleep take me away from this dream, back with Father in his comfortable house in the suburbs.
I re-opened my eyes. Father! Where was he?
Looking around the clearing, I saw no sign, but instead a carpet of frost, coating the grass in diamond shards. A grey wall of cloud had replaced the sun and the trees were bare husks, no more than spidery fingers reaching up to the heavens. Everything was still, dead, a waiting scene bereft of movement, muffled by winter’s soundless slumber.
That wasn’t quite true. I heard something – a soft padding, approaching stealthily from the west. I couldn’t move, so listening was my one, measly defence.
‘Pad...pad.’
It stopped, I held my breath, and then two white wolves padded into view, one sniffing the ground, the other bounding ahead, teeth bared. They ran in a circle – completely ignoring me – stopped next to each other, threw back their heads and howled.
The call reverberated, tailing off into a plaintive whine, and I stared, expecting a response. What I got was a scraping sound from the north, followed by an aggressive snarl. The wolves’ whining intensified and they put paws over their noses, lowering their heads to the ground, looking frightened.
Snow began to fall, lightly at first and then in great droves, covering the ground in a thick blanket. The wolves became presences as visibility deteriorated, and tiny snowflakes fell on my eyelids, masking my sight. I ‘sensed’ someone entering the clearing, and for a moment I thought it might be Father, but this persona was too great, a giant white shape amidst a carpet of silver.
‘Vinter...Vinter...Vinter.’
The chant was deep, soulless, with the cracking voice of someone not used to speaking. I rubbed snow from my eyes, focused, and saw something emerge from the blizzard – a huge white tiger, ridden by a man.
‘Vinter.’
The accent sounded Scandinavian, but it was so rough I couldn’t be sure. The figure itself was hunched over like an old man, wrapped in an old woollen sheet. Features melted one-by-one into view as he got closer. First was his face, which was lined, ancient, with a long beard covered in hoarfrost. He wore snowflake-shaped earrings, and had piercing, cold blue eyes that glared out from the cavern of his face like lighthouse beams. Veined scars covered his bare lower arms, and icicles dangled from his – and the tiger’s – flanks. As he shifted position, I shivered, spotting a breastplate made entirely from animal skulls.
Peculiarly, in his hand he clutched a single rose, gripping it so tenderly that he looked almost childish. But the rose was dying, shedding a petal every time he breathed on it, becoming more frozen with each passing second. Something about that poignant, pending death sent shivers up my spine, and I closed my eyes, willing the apparition away.
‘Vinter...’
The single word drew up images of graves covered by snow, and my eyes snapped back open – to an empty clearing. Gone was the snow, figure and tiger, but what replaced them was an island surrounded by darkness. It was the end of all things, the edge of the world, and the bloody moon high in the sky illuminated nothing beyond my own personal prison.
It reeked of death.
“Father...where are you?” I whispered, tears flowing down my cheeks. “I’m frightened.” There was no response, only deafening silence, so I lurched up onto my elbow, desperation lending me courage. “I’m frightened!” I shouted. “Come back to me, Father!”
There was a sudden patter of footsteps, uneven, slow then quick – like something being dragged against its will. The darkness to the north wavered and something emerged, shambling like a ghoul into the clearing. It took two faltering steps forward, and then stopped.
“Boy...wanted me.”
I shrank back from Father’s voice, as it resembled his only in the slightest, most terrible way. It was a leaden inflection, empty of emotion, yet I tried to ignore it, picturing his wrinkled face. “Father. We’ve got to leave. Something’s very wrong with this forest.” He cocked his head – a hideous gesture. “Please...help me up. Ankle’s twisted.”
“Why would I want to leave this forest? It’s a marvellous thing.”
I shook my head. “No, no...it’s not. It’s affected you. That damn butterfly...!”
He chuckled and my heart lifted as a sliver of his old humour returned. “You said a gardener has returned home.” He sighed, closing his eyes in something approaching ecstasy. “You were right.”
“No...”
But Father wasn’t listening. He turned to the west, where a pinprick of light hovered out in the blackness, dancing like a will-o-wisp, crackling with energy. It flew in a wide circle, leaving a trail, and then burst through the barrier, changing from white to green as it came out of the dark. I watched in fascination as it spun, a kaleidoscope of colour swirling like a Catherine wheel at its centre. The nucleus throbbed with each resolution, growing progressively larger until it was twenty feet across.
Then it shot into the sky.
I watched with Father as it soared upwards, until it rested high up in the heavens, turning a paler shade of yellow. I smiled despite myself – the morning sun was born.
In a flash the darkness was gone, ejected by the solar rays cascading from above, slinking away into forgotten grottos. Grass returned, pushing through the soil like baby claws, but something wondrous eclipsed even the speeding of Nature. A group of small, spectral beings wandered the clearing, skipping from place to place, some flying, other burrowing, but all alive with labour – and beautiful beyond words.
Their skin was translucent, their faces smooth and featureless, but miniature fingers were exquisitely crafted, shining like pearl. I kept thinking they might break with every step, or be swept out of the forest by a gust of wind, but their poise was such that every movement was effortless...natural.
“A gardener has returned home.” Father’s voice was excited, but my eyes were fixed on the gossamer beings. “You see them...I know.”
I couldn’t answer. My tongue was a stick of butter – useless. Intently I watched the dance, intently I listened, and faint, high-pitched voices answered, whispering secrets in unknown tongues, blending harmoniously with the wind. And something came among them almost unseen, fading into view, growing as the grass grew – a single, unified whole. “What are they?”
A green woman flowed towards Father, emerald eyes radiating warmth. The tiny beings arranged themselves in rows behind her, like miniscule guards, holding hands in one long, daisy-like chain. I blinked as a great gown passed by me, spreading halfway across the clearing, and flowers of all kinds were pinned to it – no, not pinned...growing, flourishing, resplendent in hue. On her shoulders were two cages. One held two chattering finches, whilst the other housed a majestic red ibex, its wings spread in display. It fixed blue eyes on me and squawked.
‘The birds around me hopped and played...’ The woman’s voice was dusky, as rich as wet soil. ‘Their thoughts I cannot measure – but the least motion that they made, it seemed a thrill of pleasure.’
With that she reached out a pale hand and touched Father on his brow, sending him into an immediate feint. “No!”
My voice was a croak, and the woman and tiny faeries ignored me – as I somehow knew they would.
Father fell onto the cloak, landing as softly as on a bed of feathers, and a look of utmost peace spread across his face. He snuggled deeper into the flowers, joined by several bolder faeries as it was pulled along in silence. Only the woman’s soft humming could be heard – which made me feel drowsy.
“A gardener...returning to the bosom.”
I wasn’t sure if it was Father speaking, or me, but it jolted me out of my stupor. The woman was almost gone, striding off into the Boreal’s recesses – a glowing gemstone in a sea of green, fading from existence until time came full circle again, ready to renew. I stared after her, slack-jawed, until something rather prosaic broke all spells.
I heard a snort; a moose trotted into the clearing from the south, shaking its shaggy coat. It nibbled at the grass, gave me a contemptuous look, and then wandered back into the trees.
Something in my mind broke. “Oh God...Father!”
The dream curtain lifted, pain returned to my ankle, and I relished it. My mind was my own again. Fresh panic spurred me into action and I heaved myself up, grabbing my rifle to use as a crutch. The woman was gone, the trees looked the same. I was turned around, blind with fear, but thankfully rationality stayed afloat of fancy. And I thought.
In the end, I took the coward’s way, hobbling back the way I’d come, luck lending me tracker’s skills as I successfully retraced our steps. Every few feet I stopped, listened, and waited in vain for Father’s voice, but the forest was silent.
When I reached the lake the moose were gone, but I didn’t stop, blundering into the trees, managing to stave off madness by cramming my visions into the recesses of my mind. Only one thing caught my eye on the rippling waters, made me momentarily shudder with grim reminiscence. It was such a small, normal thing – given profane meaning by events just witnessed.
A frozen rose lay in the lake’s shallows, petals scattered like confetti around it.
***
That was the end of the main part of Grandfather’s story, and I remember him sitting back, wiping his forehead with a dirty handkerchief as Grandma brought us out some more orange squash. But it wasn’t the end...far from it. The most chilling part was to come, though he was brief in its explanation – and strangely unemotional.
He escaped the Boreal, drove back into town, and found Defago. The old Canadian was aghast, terror painting his weathered features as Grandfather relayed events in a garbled, half-crazed tone.
Together they set out, with five of Defago’ s closest aides. They scoured the forest, shouting for the lost man, firing rifles into the air, and generally making themselves known as much as the Boreal would allow.
But my Great-grandfather never appeared.
Miserable, wary of failing light, they retreated, determined to try again on the morrow. As they left the forest, my Grandfather noticed a form huddled by the car.
They had found him, shivering, blue-lipped, but alive, and although reticent at first, he soon spoke normally enough, begging their forgiveness, that he had fallen into the lake and knocked himself out.
Grandfather was overjoyed, but Defago less so, staring warily at the lost man, muttering to himself under his breath about ‘unnatural things of the wild’. Nevertheless, he drove them back into town, gave them rest, and bid them goodbye the next morning as they left rural Canada.
I’ll never forget the tears in Grandfather’s eyes as he explained how things didn’t get back to normal, that his father became reserved, cold, unresponsive to his wife. Thankfully, he said, she didn’t suffer long, dying from a sudden stroke eight months later, but his father endured for another three years, before one day disappearing from their home without note or explanation.
They found his body in the local pond, face down, all dignity removed. Grandfather didn’t cry. Why? It wasn’t his father, he said, but a ‘replacement’. He was positive my Great-grandfather had never returned from the Boreal at all, that he was away with Nature...and peculiarly the thought gave him heart. He never saw a Swallowtail again either, but every summer would drag friends to butterfly hotspots in the vain hope – just in case it was his turn to hold one, to become enamoured with the incorporeal.
I shiver, recalling his closing words to that long, weaving story.
“Aye, those fairytales had it right. He was replaced – a doppelganger from God only knows where. I often wonder why I was allowed to see what I did. What did it all mean, all those apparitions and such forth? Know what I tell myself, boy? ‘I don’t want to know, not properly...not wholly. I caught a glimpse of something outside our world, and that’ll do me to the end of me days.’”

THE END