When the Butterflies Came

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  “Um, just call me Tara, okay?”

  Eloni gives a formal bow again. “I’m very sorry for the loss of Miss Professor Claire. This news makes me so very sad.”

  I brush away the water in my eyes. “Are you really my grandmother’s errand boy?”

  Eloni pulls himself up even taller. “I am no errand boy. I am Professor Claire’s laboratory research assistant.”

  “I believe you,” I assure him, but now I know the reason why my grandmother had to add his name to her list of suspects if he had access to her research. “Is there really a laboratory out here?”

  “I will show you, Miss Tara! I mean — just Tara.” Eloni shrugs, pink creeping into his face.

  “I’m only twelve. Not some lady of the house.”

  “Me, I’m thirteen.”

  We grin at each other and I glance away, a flush creeping up my neck. Then I chant Jett Dupuis’s name inside my mind so I won’t forget it.

  “I saw my grandmother’s laboratory back home. It was filled with” — I pause, wondering if a thirteen-year-old boy could be a spy — “lots of dust.” Grammy Claire’s words flit through my mind: Trust no one.

  Eloni pauses on the first step of the staircase and leans close, his black eyes on my face. “Professor Claire told me that if you were ever to come, I should tell you about the research.”

  Tingles run up and down my whole body. “She did?”

  “Can I ask?” Eloni lowers his voice to a mere whisper. “I mean — at her laboratory … in her house far away … did you see the bu — the nipwisipwis?”

  What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly.

  ~RICHARD BACH~

  Eloni knows about the butterflies! This boy really knew my Grammy Claire. I whisper back, “Yes, I saw them! But they’re” — I start stuttering — “th-they’re gone.”

  “You mean dead?”

  I stare at him. “How do you know that?”

  Eloni ducks his head, like he’s hiding his own emotions. “I know the nipwisipwis,” he says quietly. “And you will, too.”

  His words give me shivers, but someone starts to yell and I jerk my chin up. Riley is running back and forth on the bridge walkways that attach the various rooms of the tree house. “The place is locked! How are we supposed to get in?”

  I pound up the stairs behind Eloni as he takes me and Riley to the front door. Butler Reginald retrieves the suitcases from under the giant palm in the front yard, and climbs the stairs, bumping the luggage against his knees.

  The wood of the front door is etched with a picture of a gigantic lagoon with more than a dozen islands and the bumps of the coral reefs. “Looks like a regular door,” I say, smoothing my fingers over the carvings. “Not the door of a tree house.”

  “This tree house is a regular house. With regular doors,” Eloni adds. “Very sturdy, very safe and secure. This picture is the Lagoon of Chuuk. Professor Claire paid our best island carver.”

  Riley jiggles the doorknob. “I’m desperate for a shower and a bed, people!”

  My older sister is not good when she’s tired. Come to think of it, she’s just barely tolerable when she’s rested.

  “Do you have a key?” I ask Eloni.

  He shakes his head. “Professor Claire doesn’t give me a key to her home.”

  His English is pretty excellent, actually, even with the Pacific Island lilt. I like the warmth and friendliness of it. The way his tone goes up at the end. Butler Reginald had said that the older people mostly spoke only Chuukese, but the children learned English at school.

  “So how do we get in?” I ask.

  Riley paces the bridge connecting another room of the tree house, and it looks like she’s standing at a back door. “This door is locked, too!” she calls out. “Where’s our butler dude?”

  “I’m right here,” Butler Reginald says behind me, perching the luggage on the top step. “I wonder if the house key was in her personal belongings after, the, uh, accident.” His voice drops and I bite my lips trying not to think about that. “The police would have given her personal effects to your mother after the investigation.”

  “The key is back home?” Riley spits out, and I brace for another screaming fit. Then she gives us an evil grin. “Guess we’ll just have to break in.”

  “You’re not gonna break down Grammy Claire’s tree house!” I yell. The image of Key Number Eight pops into my brain. Quietly, I add, “Um, I think I have the key.”

  Riley gives me her iciest stare. “If you don’t unlock that door in the next three seconds, I’m gonna strangle you.”

  Eloni glances between us, his eyebrows shooting clear into the dark hair falling over his eyes. Butler Reginald heaves a small sigh. I think he’s becoming resigned to Riley’s temper.

  “She’s only joking,” I tell Eloni, digging into my backpack until my hands close around the right key. The others are packed in the box in my main suitcase. “It’s called sisterly love.”

  Ten seconds later, the key fits the lock and the door swings wide.

  “First dibs on bedrooms,” Riley calls out.

  In a split second, my sister is gone, poking her head into each room, clomping her feet while I stand in the tiled entryway where little piles of sand have blown into the corners like welcome visitors.

  Grammy Claire built a tree house. Emphasis on the house. Because it is. A home with rooms of bamboo and beautiful swirly wood inside the walls and along the doors. Wide windows show off the blues and greens of the lagoon below, trimmed by pristine white sand.

  In the back of the house, the kitchen and bedrooms overlook a forest of giant palms. It’s a jungle of massive shrubs, thickets of tall bamboo, and mangrove trees whose roots and branches spill along the forest trails.

  The hall bath has running water and a real shower. And I adore the cozy dining room with its plush cushions on the chairs and a window seat stacked with Grammy Claire’s books.

  In the kitchen, a faint smell of citrus and chocolate hovers. A pineapple is rotting on the counter after so many weeks. The refrigerator stands mostly empty, except for half-used bottles of dressing and sauces.

  Eloni and Butler Reginald divide the suitcases among the three bedrooms, and then our butler flings open the windows, letting in a warm, salty breeze from the ocean.

  I wander the house, tiptoeing, testing the flooring, wondering if I’ll fall through and hit a tree trunk — or the ground and crack my skull. Soon, I forget about walking in the tops of the trees, and admire the shade falling through the windows, making me feel warm and cozy.

  Grammy Claire’s possessions are everywhere. Her books. Her dishes. Her clothes in the closet. Mud-caked sandals still sit by the back door. Pictures of me and Riley on the shelves. Mamma and Grammy Claire when my mamma was a girl. Sitting in a pirogue on the Bayou Teche. An old framed photo of my grandfather in his uniform during the war.

  Like she’d left to go on vacation.

  Which she did.

  And will never come back again.

  But now I’m here. My throat is tightly wedged with emotion, and it hurts.

  I find a glass in the cupboard, recognizing it as the same style as our Doucet crystal back home, and run the water, peering through the curtains at a red-and-yellow bird perched on a branch across from the window. The bird watches me but doesn’t fly off.

  I explore the front of the house again, passing through a narrow hall that leads to an outdoor walkway — which leads to another room of the house separate from the main house.

  Hesitantly, I cross the bridge walkway and try the door. It’s locked.

  Inserting Key Number Eight again, I turn the doorknob and step inside. Overflowing bookcases greet my eyes. Walls covered in graphs and charts. A messy desk, unlit lamps, two filing cabinets side by side in the corner. Grammy Claire’s Chuuk office.

  And there are pictures. Dozens of photographs of nipwisipwis hanging on all four walls. Nipwisipwis in every variety and species and col
or. Brilliant, dazzling purples and oranges and yellows. And Giant Pinks. Small blues. Species of white and green with feathery wings.

  I gaze at the Giant Pink photo and shivers slither along my arms like a snake. “Oh, Grammy Claire, what happened to you?” I whisper. “Why did you have to die? Who killed you?”

  The door bangs open and Eloni stands there. “Miss Tara, I will show your bedroom now. Suitcases inside already.”

  “Thanks.”

  The boy stares at me and his eyes are dark and soulful.

  I shiver again, trying to shake off the melancholy feeling. “What?” I finally ask. I have to admit, it’s sort of nice when boys stare at me, but this is different, peculiar.

  Eloni shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “You look like Professor Claire when you watch the photos of nipwisipwis.”

  I’m startled, but then I realize that he’s complimenting me. I’m glad I look like Grammy Claire, and I know I look like her when she was young. Must be the Pantene Princess hair. “Thank you. I — it’s hard —” Abruptly, I stop. I’m not going to tell a perfect stranger how much I miss my grandmother, but I find myself wanting to confide in Eloni. He seems innocent, gentle. I’m drawn to him. I want to be friends, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to. Grammy Claire should have given more details in her letters!

  An explanation shoots into my mind. Maybe she wrote those letters before Eloni started working for her. Because there are no dates on them. A month ago? A year ago? Two years? “Hey, how long have you worked for my grandmother?”

  Eloni turns his head. “Almost a year. When I become twelve. Professor Claire is very generous to my family. She let me help her with the nipwisipwis.”

  I point to the pictures of the butterflies. “A Giant Pink came through her bedroom window. It was absolutely beautiful. I’ve never seen a butterfly like it.”

  “Yes, the Giant Pink is very special butterfly.” He walks along the rows of butterflies, pointing to various species. “The purple butterfly, they are — you hear — I mean that they are soothing. And the small blue … so fragile and delicate.”

  I noticed how he hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “There were dozens of the blue nipwisipwis in her laboratory,” I tell him. “And they were all dead,” I add, trying to shock him.

  Eloni holds still for a moment. “The blues don’t live long. Very short life.”

  I spot a series of maps on the opposite wall. One map is the entire world cut into pieces, like a globe opened up and displayed. There are individual maps of all the continents. And a map of the South Pacific with endless blue water and clusters of islands spread across like dots on the ocean.

  “Is this the island we’re on right here?” I ask, pointing.

  Eloni nods. “That is Weno, or Chuuk. The islands of Chuuk are many, but we are on the main island. The capital.” He circles a big area of the Pacific Ocean with his finger. “All these islands are Micronesia. Hundreds of them.”

  “I can’t believe I’m so far from home.”

  “This will be your home away from home,” Eloni tells me with a smile, and I think he means it. “Or maybe you will come here to live all the time.”

  “But — but my mamma is back in Louisiana. And my daddy. Well, he’s in California.”

  “Why?” Eloni asks me, and his voice is innocent, curious.

  “Actually, I don’t really know,” I answer. I’m suddenly desperate to chew on my hair. But I can’t in front of him so I pretend to straighten the maps.

  Eloni’s eyes flicker over my face, and I think he senses my anger at Daddy and my hopelessness about Mamma. I need to hide my feelings better. Eloni and I stand there, not speaking. As if testing each other. Waiting for the other to bring up the subject I know we’re both thinking about.

  Finally, I can’t stand it. “Where are the nipwisipwis? And where’s the laboratory — Grammy Claire must have one here!” Eloni watches my waving arms as my voice rises louder and louder. I feel a little silly getting all crazy so I immediately drop my arms as well as my voice, trying to be patient.

  Eloni opens the two side windows and I can hear the pounding of the surf below. Grammy Claire’s office is perched in a tree, the last one of the thicket, and when I glance down there is nothing below us, only sand and surf and waves. I feel like I’m floating over the earth, anchored to nothing.

  My grandmother’s assistant leans out the window closest to the sea — and his head is so far out, I start wondering if he’s going to jump through the opening and started climbing the palm trees! “Um, Eloni?”

  He smiles mischievously. “I will show you a laboratory. Will that be good?”

  I prop a hand on my hip, wondering how many laboratories there are around here.

  Eloni reaches out and grabs my hand. “Then come with me!”

  We go flying out the door to the walkway, but Eloni doesn’t head back to the main house. Instead, there’s a little gate he opens, and a small flight of stairs going downward. My feet stumble on the narrow steps.

  Eloni holds my hand super tight so I don’t fall and as soon as my sandals hit the next walkway I’m down a third set of stairs and running straight for the forest. It’s cool and dark and smells sweet with the scent of ripe fruit and dead leaves. I run with him through clusters of palm trees, and then there’s another flight of stairs going up again.

  Straight in front of us, another little house — or room — is set off by itself in the shadowy cluster of palmettos. “Do you have the key?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say, fumbling in the pocket of my sundress with my free hand. Because he’s still clutching my left hand in his own.

  I used to be jet-lagged, and I had been thinking about a bath and a nap, but not anymore. I’m nervous holding the hand of a boy I barely met, but his palm is cool and firm and steady — and — and I like it. But maybe this is just island friendliness, and actually means nothing.

  “If your key opens the door, it is meant for you.” He gives me a big grin. “Which will mean you are meant to be here, Miss Tara.”

  My stomach flies into my throat and my heart pounds louder than the crashing waves on the distant shore. The key twists in the lock and there’s a clicking noise. “It fits!” I breathe out.

  Eloni turns on a lamp against the shadows. The little building is cooler under the trees, more private, darker — and right away I see that it’s Grammy Claire’s island laboratory. Tables, cupboards, vials, and microscopes and a mountain of paperwork on a far table.

  “Look at the miniature trees and shrubbery!” Green is sprouting up through cracks in the floorboards, creating bushes and shrubs and vines right inside the room.

  “Professor Claire wanted a special place to study them.”

  “Nipwisipwis,” I whisper, feeling dizzy. “That’s your language, right?”

  He smiles, and a warm glow spreads through me. “It’s the old language of my tribe and we all still speak it. My grandfather was teaching Professor Claire. She wanted to talk to the nipwisipwis.”

  I stare at him and my throat swells up with emotion. “They’re friends, then? Your grandfather and my Grammy Claire? I mean were friends.”

  “Still friends,” Eloni assures me. “Dying doesn’t stop friendship and love and family.”

  Tears sting at my eyes. His words are true. Death doesn’t stop love. Memories keep on going, forever, and so does love. “I like that,” I finally choke out. Because I’m a girl who never cries in front of boys.

  “I will show you a wonderful thing, Miss Tara. Professor Claire — her experiment is good.”

  A strange thrumming begins in my chest. Eloni opens another door, which leads to a second room — a room very much like the butterfly garden in Grammy Claire’s house back home. There are a couple of tables, but the tables have been swallowed up by masses of vines growing straight to the roof. Tendrils of cool green leaves brush against my face as I follow him through the maze of vines.

  When we reach the end of the
room, Eloni releases my hand and points up into the emerald foliage. “Do you see it, Miss Tara?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what I’m looking at. But suddenly I do see it. A light green shape, about the size of a fat finger, smooth and perfectly formed, clings to the slender trunk of a small vine.

  “Did that used to be a caterpillar?”

  “Professor Claire was trying to grow more nipwisipwis in the laboratory.”

  “Are nipwisipwis different from any other butterfly?”

  Eloni laughs. “Nipwisipwis is the word for all of my island’s special butterflies. They come from caterpillars, just like other butterflies. Then it is a larvae. After the larvae eats and eats, it makes a cocoon, or pupa.”

  “I’m trying to remember my science lessons.”

  Eloni doesn’t make me feel stupid like some boys do, laughing when the girls don’t know all the answers right away. “While the pupa sits on the leaf inside the cocoon, the caterpillar is changing. They call that metamorphosis.” He says the word slowly, and I can tell Grammy Claire taught it to him.

  “I remember now. It’s called a chrysalis.”

  “That chrysalis up there has been changing. Not so green. More clear.”

  I raise my eyes to where he’s pointing and let out a little gasp. “It is getting clear! And this is the same kind of chrysalis as that dark green one over there?”

  “Soon two butterflies will fly here in the laboratory. Watch — the chrysalis is getting ready.”

  Neither of us moves as the chrysalis slowly, achingly, begins to crack apart.

  Several minutes later violet wings are fluttering outside of the chrysalis. Then the head, legs, and antennae break free. All at once, the butterfly is sitting quietly on the edge of its chrysalis.

  “That was fast,” I whisper. “How long has it been changing and waiting to be born?”

  “Two to three weeks. Some longer, some not so much.”

  “Did Grammy Claire know this was going to hatch right now?”

  “Everything is on the charts. I will add today’s birth for this nipwisipwis.” Eloni glances up at a clock on the wall, then retrieves a thick file folder and a clipboard with an attached pen.