A Grimm Tale of Mourning

Contains animal cruelty and child endangerment -

Marsha loved to stomp on living things, like the day a mourning cloak butterfly landed in the grass. Marsha had been standing with her father, waiting for the kindergarten gates to open, and as usual, refusing to stand quiet and obedient like her classmates. She had run off a short distance, sticking her tongue out at her spineless father, and singing a bawdy song with words even a drunken sailor would blush to repeat.

I wasn’t paying much attention to Marsha. As a sprite, I knew what the aura of a heartless child looked like. It is a gray shadow, swirling with hatred and cruelty, and sprites cannot endure their presence for too long. No, it was Lady Butterfly I was watching, a most regal creature in our realm. I was her guardian. I had been assigned to her since she was just a small chrysalis hanging from a high poplar branch.

My royal butterfly lightly fanned her burgundy velvet wings as she collected dew from the early morning grass. But in the next moment, Marsha spotted my lovely lady. The child at first screamed with merriment. But my heart sank – Marsha’s shout was not one of childlike delight and wonder – it was the scream of pure wickedness. Before I could cry out a warning, Marsha stomped her heavy shoe down upon my dear lady, crushing her with glee. Laughing, she slowly lifted her foot to regard the mutilation. Her father pulled her away, taking her arm. All he said was that the gates were open and that Marsha would be late for school. Although he had glanced down at the damage she had done, there was no admonition.

Moments before My Lady’s murder, my butterfly princess had laid a cluster of seven amber eggs on the underside of a cottonwood leaf, not far from here, in a sunny glen. I had watched her browse the bright greenery for the perfect warmth and just the right amount of shade for her children to thrive. She had chosen well. The eggs were like tiny golden jewels. Alas, her children were orphans now.

Although it was not usually permitted, I appointed myself the guardian and protector of the royal eggs. I knew, given the dire circumstances of My Lady’s demise, the realm would not forbid it. And so it was. All that late spring and long into the sultry days of summer, I hovered nearby, shooing away curious birds and other would-be dangers.

And one summer afternoon, amid birdsong and tufted breezes, the eggs hatched. Spiny caterpillars emerged with bright ruby dots, and they grew, always eating, always hungry. They soon became accustomed to my constant presence despite our obvious differences. And they soon realized I was their guardian and came to rely on me to keep them safe. For even now, there were other dangers for little caterpillars in this natural world.

I encouraged the little ones, as brothers and sisters, to stay together. More times than I could count, I warded off lethal dangers. There was an insistent family of chickadees and a bachelor bluebird that would eat them quickly, but I tapped their tails with my wand, and they lost a needed feather, squawking in protest as they flew away. Or the time a Garden Orb-weaving Spider spun a most lovely web nearby. But in the evenings, the spider would whisper to my wards, telling them to come closer, knowing that caterpillars were just children and curious. But the spider also knew that even one would make a fine dinner of their plump, little body, despite their spines and their warning red dots. To keep the spider happy, therefore, I directed wasps and flies into her web, who in their own right, would have loved to feast on my little ones as well.

But as seasons are sure to change, summer at last gave way to autumn. My wards, following an urge that had existed for more than two-hundred million years, each carefully chose a branch where they would spend the cold months. Each spun their silver pupas, some sharing the same bough as their brother or sister among the russet leaves. I waited and watched until all were complete. Each chrysalis had two rows of prickly, red-tipped spikes. I told them, although they could not hear, that they reminded me so much of their dear departed mother.

Soon snow fell and crusted on branches and gathered in icy drifts against the boles of the barren trees. I kept close watch, for even in winter there were dangers. In this vulnerable stage, however, nature had provided my little ones with a small means of protection. If something touched their pupas, they would instinctively wiggle within, and this was usually all it took to deter a hungry predator.

Spring blew in on a tepid rain and branches sprouted emerald buds. My seven regal butterflies, my beauties, at last emerged from their long, winter sleep. So exquisite, I watched them fan their wings; mourning cloaks of rich, dark burgundy, and symmetrical violet dots all within a bright, yellow edging. They fluttered and dried them in the warming sun, eager to take flight.

It was the last day of school - the end of Marsha’s kindergarten year. She would soon be progressing into the first grade in the fall. That day, all kindergarteners dressed in little suits and frilly dresses for their graduation ceremony. Parents and children were gathering just inside the school gates.

Across the street, Marsha stood at the roadside curb, a year older, a year less wise, waiting for the crossing guard to wave the children across the busy intersection. She stood with her father again, but I could see her aura had not changed much. It remained in shadow and darkness, and even more so, as if she had committed other grim deeds over the year. She snatched her hand from her father’s grip, frowning at him with an expression that told him she was too old to be coddled and to his face told him he embarrassed her in front of her friends.

The other children were excited, laughing. There were balloons and banners waiting, along with cupcakes and awards. Traffic was chaotic, rushed, and parents and children waited for the cue to safely cross. It was time.

I flew around her head in tiny circles, and my butterflies, the darling royals I’d so carefully raised, followed my lead and flitted all about her. Marsha turned her attention to them. I could see her aura glow with evil fire, and she clomped her shoes on the cement curb as if to practice. A look of hateful impatience turned her childlike features repulsive.

At the most precise moment, the perfectly right moment, my lovelies lifted gracefully into the air and followed me across the dangerous street. Marsha had only one vile thought – that one of them might land in the grass beyond. She stepped off the curb to chase after them.