The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  She stopped for a moment, panting. It was not just the heat and the weight of the basket, but the beginnings of panic. She should go back, try to find the paths back to the farm. She closed her eyes, trying to remember which route she had taken. Right, left, left, middle. No, that wasn’t it. Right, left, middle, left. Oh, come on! Remember!

  She opened her eyes again. It was no use. Her best hope was to keep following the faint path ahead. She stumbled on and suddenly reached the treeline. Ahead, the path mounted over a narrow ridge, pressed up like pastry edging a pie. It looked as crumbly too, and she was careful not to get too close to the edge as she peered over.

  Her heart sank. Below was a valley dark with more trees. A thick patch of red and blue flowers twisted across the centre, and a thin river glinted like a silver blade through the forest, but there was no sign of a town, nor of a farm.

  She placed the basket on the ground and slumped down beside it, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her aching feet. She looked at the paper-wrapped oranges. No harm now. She’d be in trouble for missing her shift in the kitchen when she got back anyway. If she got back.

  She took a twist and unwrapped it, bringing the orange up to her nose and inhaling the scent. Her mouth watered as she stuck her thumb deep into the peel and pulled until the fruit sat round and perfect in her palm. She meant to eat it slowly, in segments, but her thirst took over and soon she had eaten it like an apple, the juice sticking her fingers together.

  It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, far sweeter than the local market oranges. She lay back and stretched her arms over her head.

  Soon the sun would set, leaving only a film of purple on the horizon. Above her, the half-moon hung pale as a ghost behind the last light of the day. A sense of calm came over her as she watched the moon growing brighter and the light smattering of stars scrape the edges of the still-light sky.

  Something began to swoop and dive across her vision, coming so low she giggled with nerves, remembering Cook’s story about the girl who had to cut off all her hair after a bat got tangled in it.

  But it was not a bat.

  Sol blinked. There were just one or two to begin with, but as she sat up she realized the air was full of them. She rubbed her eyes.

  Butterflies swirled like air currents up and over the ridge before her, as if magnetized. They were as plentiful as the fruit flies that rose at the hottest part of the day, and all seemed to be heading in the same direction. She crawled forward on her hands and knees, peering over the edge.

  Smoke was rising in a steady column from the centre of the patch of flowers in the forest below. It was no forest fire. It was a chimney. And the butterflies were swarming towards it.

  Sol was up and over the crumbling ridge before she could think twice. The butterflies flitted overhead as she let gravity pull her down, skidding on her heels and gripping roots wherever she could. Her bare feet stung as the blisters opened.

  Once she came level with the treeline, the smoke was obscured from her view, but it did not matter. The butterflies were still snaking through the trees around her. Catching her breath at the base of the slope, she stretched out her arms and they flooded around her fingers, so close she fancied she could feel the kiss of the air pushed by their wings brushing her hands. One alighted on her upturned thumb, an iridescent blue in the dusk, with veins of black shot through the shimmer. She watched it open and close its wings once, twice, then rejoin the swarm.

  Sol felt giddy. She stumbled, crouching to wait for the faintness to pass, and when she looked up again the stream of butterflies had petered out.

  In panic she ran forwards, catching sight of the last of them as they whipped around a corner like a tail. She followed them into a sudden clearing, the trees felled and the grass tramped down. At the centre of the clearing was a huge tumble of red flowers, on a bush as big as a house. Sol looked closer.

  It was a house. The walls were wreathed in flowers, and there was the smoke she had seen, rising from the centre of the roof. Except now she was nearby, it did not smell like ordinary smoke. It was scented like honey, mixing with the sweetness of the flowers. The butterflies danced around the column, and she noticed they were flying clumsily now, butting up against each other, dipping down, then lurching up again.

  Her heart began to beat even faster. This was not right. Something in the smoke – something was hurting them.

  Sol stepped forward. She wanted to swat them away from the smoke, but the roof was too high.

  Then, they began falling, like ash. Most landed on the flowered roof and walls, but some came down before her, landing at her feet like jewelled leaves.

  ‘No!’ She knelt carefully and tried to lift one, but its wings turned to powder between her shaking fingers. She tried again with another as a bright light lit up one of the flowered walls. A door, opening.

  ‘Stop!’

  TWO

  S

  ol’s heart pounded. She dropped her hands to her sides and squinted at the figure in the doorway. ‘Don’t touch them!’ The voice spoke again, urgently. ‘Stay very still.’

  She did as she was told, sinking back on her heels. The figure was silhouetted against the light: a square shape that could have been a man or a woman, young or old. Sol’s fingertips were sticky with the juice of the oranges, covered in dust and the bright colours of butterfly wings. She began to cry.

  ‘It’s all right, child,’ said the voice, kinder and closer now. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm.’

  She looked up through a kaleidoscope of tears, and saw it was a woman, using a stretched piece of net to lift the prone butterflies on to the flowers. Except now she looked closely, they were not dead at all. Their wings were opening and closing, so the house rippled like water. She made to stand but the woman spoke again, softly.

  ‘Just stay there a minute longer, I’m nearly done. How many did you touch?’

  ‘T-two,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, I thought they were hurt.’

  ‘Only dazed,’ said the woman as she lifted the injured butterflies on to her palm. She clenched her jaw, then brought her other hand down hard on the bodies. Sol flinched at the sound.

  ‘It’s kinder that way. They can’t survive without their wings,’ said the woman as she scanned the ground carefully.

  ‘Why are they all asleep?’

  ‘It’s the smoke. I put herbs in it, and it brings them home to rest. It’s not safe at night, what with the bats and snakes.’

  Sol did not know what to say to this, and watched as the woman carefully manoeuvred a final black-and-red butterfly on to a flower, then leant the net against the wall.

  ‘And besides,’ the woman continued, walking towards her. ‘Never touch a butterfly on its wings, hurt or otherwise. You’ll only hurt it more. They’re too delicate for human touch.’

  Sol nodded, and stood up as the woman approached. She had an open, kind face with big dark eyes. Close up, she looked about Mistress’ age.

  ‘So,’ said the woman. ‘Now you know not to touch a butterfly, but you should know already not to wander in the forests so close to dark and alone.’

  It took Sol a couple of seconds to realize the woman wanted an explanation. Her brain was still filled with butterflies.

  ‘I got lost.’

  ‘I guessed that.’ The woman smiled. ‘Where were you heading?’

  ‘Manila.’

  ‘Ah. You are very lost indeed.’ She turned back to her house. ‘You had better stay here tonight.’

  ‘I can’t! My mistress—’

  ‘Wouldn’t want you unsafe, I am sure. I’m going to Manila tomorrow anyway, to give a talk at a school. I can give you a lift.’

  Sol looked behind her at the darkly swaying forest, and her resolve crumbled. She followed the woman towards the lit slice of door. The house was big inside, with paper partitions on runners pushed back against the walls to make one large room, the scented fire at the centre.

  ‘Are you hungry? I have some r
ice, or oranges.’

  Sol slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I left the oranges up there,’ said Sol, pointing out of the open door. ‘My shoes, too.’

  ‘What oranges?’

  ‘The ones I bought from the farm over the hill. They’re a gift, for my mistress. Nearly thirty of them.’

  The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘Do they not have oranges in Manila?’

  ‘Cook said they’re not as fine as these,’ said Sol, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

  ‘That’s true enough.’ Her voice was warm and calming, like sweet tea. ‘I own those orange groves, and I do agree that they are special. It’s a variety that only grows in a few places in the world.’

  She stood and walked to a shadowy corner, lifting a crate from beneath a table. ‘Here, you can take these.’

  Sol peered in. It was full of oranges the same size as the ones she had left. ‘But I can’t pay for them—’

  ‘No need.’ The woman waved her hand. ‘They’re a gift.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sol, relief flooding through her. ‘But I have to get my shoes from the hill anyway—’

  ‘You can’t go now. It’s too dark. You can fetch them tomorrow, before we leave for Manila.’

  Sol did not want to argue. The house was comfortably cool and bright, and the woman was holding out a cup of tea to her. ‘Drink up.’

  It was as warm and sweet as her voice. Sol finished it in four deep gulps, setting the tea leaves swirling. The woman stood to refill the cup from a kettle over the fire. Sol looked around. The floor consisted of a thick mat of plaited dried grass, and the few pieces of furniture were square and sturdy, like the woman.

  ‘It’s not much,’ said the woman. ‘But it’s home.’

  ‘It’s lovely!’

  It was. It felt as though the house had been there as long as the forest, sprouting chairs and windows like roots and branches.

  The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘I think so. But there are far grander houses in the city.’

  ‘Where I live the floors have carpets so it’s always hot. And the people aren’t so grand as their houses would have you believe.’

  The woman frowned, the lines splitting her face making her look far older than she had the moment before. ‘I hope your mistress is not cruel to you?’

  ‘Oh, she’s very kind, and I’m not her servant. She runs the orphanage. I’m –’ Sol hesitated. She hated the pity that always followed the next words. ‘An orphan.’

  ‘Me too,’ said the woman, a sad smile on her face. They sat quietly a moment, the teacup cooling between Sol’s palms.

  ‘Anyway,’ the woman said, clucking her tongue. ‘It’s a strange world where someone may run an orphanage with carpets, and yet not even think to give the orphans shoes.’

  Sol remembered her bare feet. ‘Oh, I have shoes! I left them with the oranges.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you did tell me.’ The woman rapped her forehead suddenly, as if she were knocking on a door. ‘Silly me! And I haven’t even asked your name. I do things all out of order, you’ll soon see. What is your name?’

  ‘Sol.’

  ‘Lovely. And I am Amihan.’ She paused and cleared her throat before asking, ‘Do you like it at the orphanage, Sol?’

  Sol shrugged. ‘It’s all right. It used to be horrible, but since Mistress took over it’s been quite nice.’ Almost like a home, she thought, but she had had enough of talking about herself, her small and boring life with its small and boring details. The words that had been burning her tongue forced their way out before she could stop them, coming out high and garbled: ‘The butterflies!’

  Amihan looked at her over the rim of her cup.

  ‘The butterflies,’ Sol tried again. ‘What – why are they here?’

  Amihan swallowed. ‘They are here because I am here.’

  ‘Are they yours?’

  ‘Not truly,’ the woman said. ‘But I care for them. I am more theirs than they are mine.’

  Sol frowned. ‘Do you feed them?’

  ‘I planted the flowers they feed on. I look after them at night, put out nets to stop the bats. In return, they let me study them.’

  Sol had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Like a butterfly collector?’

  The woman’s open face seemed to snap shut and darken, her eyes suddenly fierce. ‘No, nothing like a butterfly collector.’ She spat out the words. ‘I do not need to kill beautiful things to understand them. I do not need to trap a wild thing to hang on my wall like a painting.’

  Sol’s mouth went dry. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted the woman, the clouds rolling back. ‘I’m sorry. I – it’s a common mistake. In truth there is no word for what I am. Some call others in my line of work lepidopterists, or aurelians.’

  ‘What’s an aurelian?’ The word felt graceful on Sol’s clumsy tongue. It was fine and shining, like golden lace.

  The woman smiled at the confusion on Sol’s face. ‘Just fancy words for “butterfly collector”, only with more science. But other aurelians kill the butterflies to study them. I do not. I create living museums for gardens.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I plant the flowers they like, and sometimes I make netting or glass enclosures to keep them safe and warm.’

  ‘Like a butterfly zookeeper?’

  The woman clapped her hands together happily. One of them was lumpy with scar tissue, and Sol tried not to stare. ‘Yes! Exactly that. I shall have to get my sign redone.’

  She jerked her head to the door and Sol noticed a rectangular piece of wood hanging there. It was painted a rich blue, with gold careful letters.

  AMIHAN TALA

  AURELIAN

  Butterfly Gardens a Speciality

  Enquiries Welcome

  ‘I hang it by the main road when the festival trade passes. Mostly people just come to ask me what it means, but I get enough work. And what do you do?’

  Sol frowned. ‘I’m a child. I go to school and do chores—’

  Amihan brushed this response aside. ‘No, no. What do you do?’

  ‘I help Cook—’

  ‘No!’ said the woman, firmly but not unkindly. ‘What are you good at? What do you like doing? What are you going to do for the rest of your life?’

  Sol thought hard, wanting to come up with an answer that would please her. A teacher? A secretary? These were perhaps a little ambitious. But yet here was this woman in the middle of the forest, living in a house covered in butterflies. It made impossible things feel a little more possible. ‘A butterfly zookeeper.’

  ‘That,’ said Amihan, leaning forward with a solemn expression, ‘is a very good idea indeed.’

  Sol felt warmth blossom inside her. ‘How did you become one?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the woman, ‘to understand that, I’d have to begin at the beginning. It is a very long story. And therefore, possibly very boring.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be,’ said Sol.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  Sol shook her head firmly. ‘Not at all.’

  She wasn’t. The air had taken on an almost electrical charge. The thrill of it ran across the hairs of her arms.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the woman, leaning back in her chair. ‘Have you heard of Culion?’

  ‘The leper colony?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Sol could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she spoke. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘That it is full of lepers.’ Sol tried not to shudder. Her eyes flicked to the woman’s scarred hand.

  The woman laughed drily. ‘That is true enough. And what do you think about that?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Sol.

  ‘Not much?’

  ‘It is not a nice thing to think about.’

  ‘Why? Because it scares you?’

  ‘Because it’s disgusting!’

  It was the woman’s turn to flinch.

  ‘In my experience,’ Ami
han said, ‘disgust is the consequence of fear. Why are you afraid of lepers, Sol?’

  Sol shuddered and thought of the old man who sometimes came begging for alms at the door. Mistress always made them invite him in and give him food, and once Sol had answered the door and his fingerless hand had brushed hers. But it seemed a silly answer to give. All the children were afraid of him, and said far worse things than Sol had. It was just how it was.

  But she could tell she had angered Amihan. The atmosphere between them had changed again. It was like being in the room with a cloud: one moment the woman was soft and pillowy, the next grey and threatening storms.

  ‘I meant—’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ Amihan was far away now, eyes fixed on the wall above Sol’s head. ‘And I have to tell you that kindness is an important part of being a butterfly zookeeper. Do you think what you said was kind?’

  ‘No,’ said Sol, her own voice hushed to match the woman’s.

  There was a long silence. Amihan’s expression was inscrutable, a mist on a windless day. Sol squirmed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘I was unkind.’

  ‘I am only sorry you feel disgusted by people who are different. People who are suffering, and who do you no harm other than existing.’

  It was as bad as if Amihan had shouted, and Sol hurried to move the conversation on. ‘Is that how you became an aura— an aralan?’

  ‘Aurelian.’

  ‘Aurelian.’ Again Sol let the word drift out, like a shimmering breeze. ‘By being kind?’

  ‘No,’ said the woman, her eyes like coals burning with the last of the fire’s light. ‘I got here by luck. And love, of course. That is behind most stories, long or short. Behind most journeys too. And it was a big journey that brought me here.’

  ‘You weren’t born here?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘Where were you born, then?’

  The woman looked at her, mock serious. ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘Culion?’ Sol gaped at her. ‘But . . . but how did you leave?’

  ‘Again – by luck, and love. By having them, and losing them again.’