Ten Journeys

by Various

  She waved his words away.

  “That’s cool. I can cruise around the town anyway. We’re in Lee County after all. The backroads of Middle America.” She laughed and looked at her own reflection in the window.

  The shark sailed into the parking lot of the Budget Host Mericana Motel, a squat brown brick building stretching back from the street, languishing in the heat. A large sign attached to the front wall said ANTIQUES. The sign seemed an unconvincing attempt at conveying authenticity – a real ranch of a motel that was built at the height of tacky excessiveness during the 1980s. Yasmin’s nose twitched.

  The shark rolled to a stop. He let his hands fall into his lap, not knowing what to do with them any more.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you.”

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  Xavier nodded. “No problem.”

  She smiled, threw the duffel bag over her shoulder and walked towards the centre of Fort Madison.

  He lay on the lumpy single bed, staring at the mildew spots on the off-white ceiling. He covered one eye with the palm of his hand, then the other, watching the spots move from side to side. The quicker his hand moved, the quicker the spots danced until he was reminded of the night of the spinning stars.

  Xavier closed his eyes and rewound the day. He replayed the time spent with his traveling companion. He could almost hear the crackle and pop of the film stock juxtaposing with the vivid colours of his memory. Yasmin’s short blonde hair blinded him. The way she slouched in the seat, so assured, so comfortable in a stranger’s car. He saw her reaction to his lack of conversation. Her down turned lips, her eyelids at half-mast. He wondered what colour her eyes were. He imagined ice blue.

  Xavier swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushing off the mattress with a grunt. The mattress sunk in the middle. His back ached. He ran his hands over his face. His forehead was damp.

  He moved over to the small kitchenette table that served as his desk, and fell onto the plastic chair in front of his laptop. According to the GPS readout the butterflies had stopped 25 miles east of Fort Madison, on the other side of the Mississippi River. He was a little disappointed that he hadn’t decided to camp closer to them. But he had already made the booking.

  He began going through his notebook, typing his tight handwriting in longhand for the MonarchWatch website. Studying the work as it scrolled onto the screen, he was quite proud of his achievement.

  The others wore painted smiles when Dr. Rafferty announced it would be Xavier carrying out the solo migration journey. The expedition provided him with the perfect environment to display his potential as an entomologist and ecologist, whilst presenting a unique opportunity to observe the monarch butterfly in a seemingly one-on-one fashion. Of course anyone could do the trip. MonarchWatch made it a reward for hard work and dedication towards the cause.

  He finished typing and perused his work. A small nod, a click of the mouse, and the entries were posted. Everyone interested in the journey would be able to read his admissions tomorrow morning.

  He stood up and moved towards the car refrigerator that sat beside the bed. A hiss of cold manufactured air cloaked him as he lifted its lid, reaching in and bringing out the glassine envelope. With slow hands he brought DOE616 out of its cage. She looked lifeless in his hands, cool to the touch. A flicker of a wing denoted the life that beat within.

  Xavier held the monarch to his lips, and prayed.

  She pulled the bourbon through the straw, the ice chinking in the bottom of the glass, her gaze piercing the smoky air. She felt the looks she was garnering. Her black jeans gripped the curves of her thighs, her red and black striped jumper stressing the message her body was trying to convey – a fish out of water. Each man cut off ties to their friends, deciding which lure to use. Entice her, drag her in. Catch of the day.

  Her eyes never left the pool table. Two men battled over the felt, weapons at the ready. The one closest to her bent over the table, lining up the shot, looking to strike the next blow. Concentration etched itself around his eyes, peering out through a curtain of stringy black hair. A cloud of blue chalk erupted from the tip of the cue as it struck the white ball. A ball is sunk. A chink in the armour. The man floats around the table, eyeing up his next kill.

  Her tongue flitted over her upper lip, the taste of sweat and sugar biting her taste buds. She drank in the rest of the scenery – flannelette shirt, ink trailing from both forearms to unknown destinations underneath the shirtsleeves, calluses upon calluses sliding up and down the pool cue. Black stubble crowding his cheekbones. His friend wrapped in black leather, his long hair kept in check by a red cap.

  The two men, the entire tavern’s clientele, were from another world. She felt drawn by the exoticness, the primitiveness of it all. The smells of sawdust, alcohol and blood mingled to burn her sinuses. Her skin tingled with excitement. She was entering into another society, one that revolved around anger and bravado. She was simply stirring the pot. An exotic intruder.

  She placed her empty glass on the bar and slid off her chair. Peanut shells and cigarette butts gave way to the pressure of her heels. Her movements drew all attention. Lips drew back, teeth bared. Shoulders moved forward, anticipating the pounce.

  She reached the men and took out a digital recorder and placed it on the pool table. One hand slid into the pocket of one of the men, the other caressed the felt.

  “Hello boys. If you let me interview you, I might let you buy me a drink.”

  The dim light overhead caught the glimmering of teeth.

  Xavier steered the shark back onto US-61. The monarchs were in flight, appearing to follow the Mississippi River. He predicted that they would stop somewhere near Summitville to refuel on the nectar of the milkweed plant, one of the few constants on the yearly migration route.

  It was only roughly three hours away, but he intended to view them in flight, following their movement by sight rather than the GPS.

  He knew that the blonde-haired figure ahead was the hitchhiker from before. His palms began to itch, his heartbeat quickened. He wasn’t sure whether he would stop for her or not. The shark made the decision for him.

  She shook her head and laughed. Throwing her belongings onto the backseat, she climbed aboard.

  “Are you stalking me?” she asked.

  He looked over at her, finally taking her in. Her eyes were not blue, but a chocolate brown. There was power within them, fuelling her vibrancy.

  He tried to suppress the upturning corners of his lips without success.

  “No. But I think you are stalking me.”

  She leant against the passenger door, looking him up and down.

  “Is that so?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She continued to stare at him, pressing her tongue firmly into her cheek. She stuck out her hand, thumb straight up.

  “Yasmin.”

  He looked at her, the smell of daffodils flooding the car. He took her hand in his own.

  “Xavier.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Xavier.” Yasmin laughed and took her hand back, leaving an empty space in its place.

  The sun shone off Xavier’s glasses, giving him eye sockets of pure light. The needle quivered around 40 miles per hour. He peered out his side window every few minutes before turning his attention back on the road.

  Yasmin held the recorder in her lap, pretending to watch last night’s proceedings. She took in Xavier’s profile. He sat straight in his seat, his concentration on the task all-important. His long fingers embraced the wheel, caressing the gear stick, guiding the shark with a steady hand. At times his glasses would slide down the bridge of his nose, the light disappearing to display eyes of the palest green. They were calm, confident. Then he would push the glasses back up his nose, and the light returned.

  “Where are you traveling today?”

  Xavier turned to look at her. “Summitville.”

  “Oh. That’s not very far away, is it?”

  “About 210 miles, I thin
k.”

  “OK.”

  Xavier looked out his window. Yasmin peered out the windscreen up into the empty sky.

  “What are you always looking out the window for?”

  “I’m hoping to see the monarchs in flight.”

  “What? Oh, the butterflies.”

  Xavier looked at her, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose. “Yeah, the butterflies.”

  They both laughed. Yasmin watched him watch her, his face smiling, before he broke contact and moved back to watching the road and the sky.

  “What’s the deal with these butterflies, anyway? What’s so important about them that you follow them every day?”

  Xavier shrugged.

  “Well, it’s what I do.”

  “You do the monarchs?”

  Xavier scrunched his face, a prune of disgust.

  “No. I work for MonarchWatch, a conservation outreach program out of Kansas University. We monitor the monarch butterfly, its biology, life cycle, natural populations, enemies, migrational habits… We put it all together and post it on our website. It’s accessible to all manner of people, but is aimed at schools and schoolchildren.”

  One hand left the wheel as he spoke, fluttering between them, accentuating his speech.

  “So. You’re educational? Like a teacher or something?”

  “No, I do real research, scientific data, all of that. Our research is the foremost in ecological findings for the monarch. Our pieces are shown in most of the great science periodicals in the Northern Hemisphere.’

  Xavier looked at her as he said this, his eyes wide, searching. She could tell that he was nervous, trying to justify his motives. She laughed in spite of herself.

  Xavier frowned, his grip on the wheel tighter. “What?”

  Yasmin stifled her giggles. “Nothing. You’re just so, committed. To the cause and all.”

  Xavier shrugged in defiance. “And what’s wrong with being proud of your work?” Yasmin held up her hands in mock-surrender. “Hey, no offence, I was just saying…”

  Xavier looked down at her lap, his mouth agape. Yasmin felt her hands go to her crotch, feeling the cold surface of the recorder. She looked down. The light was red. She looked back up at him.

  “You’re recording me?”

  “I didn’t mean it, honestly, I was going to ask you –”

  Xavier reached over and snatched the recorder. Yasmin’s hands fell lifeless into her lap. He peered at the recorder, a strange relic he hadn’t seen other than in picture books. He swung the recorder in her direction, the light still red, reflecting off his glasses.

  “So, what is it that you do?”

  Yasmin made a feeble attempt to get the camera back. He pulled away, the red glare of the recorder focused on her. The road seemed to be forgotten; their world existed within the shark. She began to sweat. She caught the faint whiff of copper. The seat itched.

  “Give it back, please.”

  Xavier shook his head, his words clipped. “No. Look, what is it that you do? That is so worthwhile?”

  “I just want my camera back –”

  “What do you do?”

  “GIVE IT BACK!”

  The shout reverberated between them. Xavier became a statue, staring straight through her. Yasmin held his gaze, her fists clenched, struggling to conceal the trembling of her body.

  He handed her the recorder. She took it, fumbling a few times before she turned the power off. The red light winked once, and then died.

  “Look! There they are!”

  Yasmin leant forward again. The blue strip at the top of the windshield turned the sky a faint purple.

  “I can’t see anything,” she said, shrugging.

  Xavier jabbed the windshield with his finger. “There! Over near those cypress trees!”

  Eyes squinting, her forehead touching the glass, Yasmin saw a faint smudge of something hovering in the air.

  The shark threw up gravel as it pulled onto the shoulder of the highway. Yasmin’s head pushed painfully against the glass before she was whipped back into her seat. Her complaints were met with a slammed door and fading footsteps.

  Unfolding herself from the shark, she watched as Xavier waded amongst the yellow grass below the highway. He stumbled a few times over the unfamiliar ground, only once taking his eyes off the monarchs. He looked back at her, his eyes so clear. A tuft of hair had been pushed into the air, standing up as if by static electricity. He began gesturing for her to follow, and then checked himself, a cloud covering his glasses. Shoulders slumping a little, he turned and continued his lurch towards the centre of the field.

  Picking her way across the field, taking in the smell of damp earth and straw, she could make out other scents – the cypress pines, the water of the Mississippi, ash from campfires. The wind felt cold and wet upon her cheeks.

  Xavier did not react when she came up beside him. The whirr of the recorder produced a cursory glance, but his attention remained in the sky. She watched the monarchs through the eyepiece of her camera. The sky became grainy, the monarchs indistinguishable.

  A weight dipped the camera away from her face. She looked up to see Xavier’s hand pushing it to her hip. He nodded, and then resumed his observation of the sky. She craned her neck and watched billions of butterflies get caught on the up draught, jostled by strong surly gusts, gliding on slipstreams. A conical shadow sliding across the sky, dancing just for the two of them.

  Xavier stared into the fire. Yasmin sat opposite him, the fire lighting her features from beneath, the hollows of her cheeks blackened whilst her skin took on an orange hue.

  She ate baked beans; the only sounds the clatter of her spoon on the inside of the tin and the popping of the twigs as they set to combust, keeping them both warm.

  Yasmin watched Xavier. She simulated hunger, the spoonfuls of baked beans a mechanical movement. His glasses were impenetrable once more, the fire licking the lens, threatening to engulf his fringe. His skin had softened to porcelain. His fingers twitched as they dangled over his knees.

  “What do you film?”

  She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. A dollop of tomato sauce dropped onto her sleeping bag. She regained composure and brought the spoon to its intended destination. She answered through the beans.

  “Nothing. Everything. Anything.”

  Xavier’s eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. “That must make for some great cinema.”

  Yasmin stared at him until she noticed the glimmer of a grin pass over his lips. She relaxed, allowing a smile to cross her face.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude or anything, I just, didn’t think you would want to know.”

  The light in Xavier’s face was eclipsed for a brief moment, he took his glasses off and the furrows in his forehead disappeared. He began to clean them on his shirt, his head down, expression unknown.

  “I really would like to know.”

  She placed the tin down beside her and picked up the camera, cradling it for inspiration. She took a deep breath.

  “I record society, it’s what I love. The exoticness, the eccentricities, the earthiness of society. Backwaters, backroads, the boondocks, whatever. I record these things because they are so foreign to me. And that’s what makes me love them. Draws me in.”

  “What types of society though? Like, all over the world?”

  “No, just here. There are so many different cultures and societies that exist here. You can go anywhere and be immersed in a totally different experience.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Everywhere. But I love the South the most. Mississippi, Missouri, Alabama, Georgia. The smells, the sounds… it gives me the shivers just thinking about it.”

  Xavier studied her for a few moments, nodded and looked back down at his glasses.

  “You can look if you want. I have it all in my backpack.” She held the camera over the fire towards him.

  Shranking away, he placed his glasses upon his nose. “No, it’s fine.
I was just curious, that’s all. Maybe another time.”

  Yasmin held the camera out for a few moments more before pulling it back into her arms.

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what exactly are you doing? What’s the purpose of following butterflies all over the country?”

  He shrugged. “Well, they travel from Wisconsin to Mexico to hibernate and survive the winter. I guess I want to know how they can fly all that way, and still make it to the same area every year.”

  “What, do they have memories of goldfish?”

  Xavier laughed. “No, but they have a short lifespan. They can only do the journey once. It’s probably their great-grandchildren that do the journey the following year. It’s one of the major mysteries of the insect world.”

  “Oh.” Holding his gaze for a few moments, she scraped the rest of the beans out of the tin, shoveling them into her mouth. She looked up at him again.

  “Why do you think the butterflies travel all this way to migrate? Aren’t there other areas that are closer to their home?”

  “Well, technically the Michoacan region is just as much home as Wisconsin is…”

  “OK, but still, why go that far?”

  Xavier leaned back onto the palms of his hands, looking up at the stars.

  “Well, the region does have everything they need. Trees on which to cluster, a temperature that will slow down their metabolism without freezing them, protection from the elements, a body of water…”

  “But if there are other places, it’s not like it’s out of habit, is it? If they die before the next year’s journey?”

  “No.”

  “So?” She says, holding up her hands. “Word of mouth?”

  He laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to know why, and how. There are various theories, all of them sound pretty good. But no-one knows, not yet.”

  Yasmin shrugged.

  “I think you already know the answer.”

  “What?”

  “You said it before. Because it’s their home.” Yawning, she shimmied into her sleeping bag, “Goodnight.”

  She watched Xavier pull a blanket around him. He returned the gaze for a moment.

  “Goodnight.”