The Island at the End of Everything

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  It is fifteen steps less and we are all outside on our lunch break when I finally see inside Mr Zamora’s hut for the first time. Mari and I are playing her one-handed version of cat’s cradle when a loud shout, more urgent than the usual playground cries, makes me lose my grip and tangle the string.

  Everyone turns towards the noise. The door of Mr Zamora’s hut has flown open and he is leaning out of the window, latching the shutters back. Then he disappears from sight again. Mari scrambles to her feet and I follow. The boys crowd around the open door and Mari and I drag logs to the window, stand on them and peer in.

  Mari gasps, and though I have seen the pinned butter-flies before, it still takes my breath away to see them rippling across the walls. Mr Zamora is hunched over his desk, magnifying glass in hand, one of the horizontal sticks suspended between two upright supports. One of the chrysalises is swinging wildly, looking more than ever like a dry leaf about to fall.

  ‘Move out of the way!’ he snaps at the boys at the door. ‘I opened that to get more light, not for you to spy.’

  The boys move and some of them gather around us at the window. They try to nudge us off our vantage point but we hold firm. Mr Zamora’s bloodshot eyes flick between the chrysalis and a pad of paper. He sketches furiously. His fingernails are long and scratch on the pad, sending chills up my back.

  Suddenly the swinging chrysalis seems to pulse, and I notice for the first time that there is a flash of colour beneath the brown – a streaked, flashing orange. The pulsing continues until a split opens at the base, and two thin black fronds poke out. Mari reaches for my hand.

  The whole chrysalis cracks open, hinged near the top like a pistachio, and the orange and black of the butterfly’s wings are deeper and richer than any colours I have ever seen. Even the older boys gasp, and they don’t let anyone see they are interested in anything normally. The black fronds wave and scrabble, and I realize they are its feet. The butterfly is pulling itself out, flexing its wings to loosen the case and its feet to drag itself out of the crack. Suddenly it slides free, its feet gripping the chrysalis, which does not look brown or any colour any more – just an empty papery shell, like the dried skin you pull off a scar after burning your hand.

  The butterfly’s wings are crimped from the cramped space within its case. Mr Zamora is still staring and sketching, staring and sketching, using sheet after sheet of paper. The butterfly climbs up the chrysalis as if it is the furthest distance in the world, twitching its wings slightly open and closed like the heartbeats of a tiny animal. Finally it reaches the horizontal stick, and stops there, letting the breaths of its wings deepen. We are all waiting for it to fly, but it doesn’t. It just sits there, growing into the world. My throat closes and I have to blink back tears. I want Nanay to be here, to see it with me.

  ‘Make it fly, mister!’ says San.

  Mr Zamora jumps, as though he’d forgotten we were there. ‘It won’t fly, not for a while. Its wings have to open fully.’

  ‘That was beautiful,’ breathes Mari.

  ‘I did not invite any of you to see,’ says Mr Zamora, though he seems pleased that we all look so amazed.

  ‘What’s that thing?’ San points at the discarded shape on the branch.

  ‘A chry—’ I begin, but Mr Zamora shushes me.

  ‘He asked me, girl.’ He turns to San and says self-importantly, ‘A chrysalis. It is strange you are so ignorant of these matters.’

  ‘We do not have butterfly lessons,’ says Sister Teresa, making all of us jump. No one noticed her enter the hut and stand in the shadows by the door. She steps forward now. ‘We focus on mathematics, other sciences.’

  ‘They would not be butterfly lessons,’ hisses Mr Zamora. ‘The term is lepidoptery. And it is a recognized science, Sister. Besides, I thought nuns didn’t believe in the sciences.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ snaps Sister Teresa. ‘We just believe that God is at the root of all things.’

  ‘Science is the root.’ Mr Zamora’s nostrils flare. ‘And I’m quite tired of you filling the children’s heads with information to the contrary. I believe I will undertake some of their education myself. I could teach them lepidoptery, and thus natural history, natural selection.’

  ‘That is not in your purview!’ Sister Teresa takes a deep breath and steadies her voice. ‘We do not have the equipment for such lessons.’

  ‘I will apply to the government for funds,’ says Mr Zamora, scenting victory. ‘It is decided.’ He turns to the windows. ‘Now go away, I have work to do.’

  We climb down and the shutters bang closed. I feel badly for Sister Teresa, but still a kernel of excitement sits under my ribs.

  ‘Do you think she’ll let him teach us about butterflies?’ I whisper.

  ‘I don’t think she has much choice,’ says Mari.

  BUTTERFLY LESSONS

  M

  ari is right. The following Monday Sister Teresa announces in a disapproving voice that we will begin to have lepidoptery classes once a week. Mr Zamora comes to our first class clutching a sheaf of papers under one arm. It is like how he entered church all those weeks ago, except the sharpness of his gestures is exaggerated by how much weight he has lost. There are dark hollows under his eyes, shadows where once there was flesh. His shirt hangs loosely, a large gap between his collar and his Adam’s apple. He has tied string around the waist of his trousers to keep them up.

  He clears his throat. Some of the boys at the back won’t stop talking. San and Datu and the other older boys have forgotten how mesmerized they were by the hatching and have gone back to acting like they don’t care about anything. When Sister Teresa announced the classes, they all rolled their eyes and Datu said, ‘Butterflies are for girls,’ though when Sister Teresa asked him why he thought so, he only spluttered and shrugged.

  Mr Zamora claps his hands twice, but they still don’t stop. He holds up a hand and rakes his long fingernails across the board with a teeth-chattering screech. We hold our hands over our ears, and he smiles.

  ‘When I am ready to begin, you must be ready to begin. Anyone who does not behave will be punished. Understood?’

  The boys mutter.

  ‘Good.’ Mr Zamora starts to line up his papers on the desk. He does this very, very slowly, and again I am taken back to Culion, with him lining up his magnifying glass and tweezers.

  ‘So, lepidoptery.’ Mr Zamora writes it on the blackboard, pressing too hard with the chalk. ‘I once met a stupid man who thought it was “leper-doptery”—’

  I bristle. He’s talking about Bondoc, in Doctor Tomas’ house.

  ‘But in fact the words have the same root. “Leprosy” comes from lepido, meaning “scaly”.’ He grimaces. ‘Having encountered such people myself, I can attest to the suitability of the word. It is quite disgusting to behold.’

  My face flushes with anger and a chair scrapes near the back. I turn to see Datu on his feet, his face thunderous. He is thinking of his father, I’m sure, just as I am thinking of Nanay. ‘How dare—’ the boy begins, but Mr Zamora looks up sharply, and smiles at Datu. It is as scary as a shout.

  ‘I think you had better sit down, boy.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Datu does so. The class lets out a collective sigh of relief.

  ‘And Lepidoptera, the word for the order of butterflies and moths,’ continues Mr Zamora, switching back to his official, class-teaching voice, ‘means “scaled wing”. Butterfly wings are actually made up of many overlapping scales – though I’m sure you will agree the effect is far more pleasing on wings than it is on faces.’

  Datu makes another angry sound, stifled just too late.

  ‘Come to the front, boy,’ says Mr Zamora in a low voice. He still doesn’t address any of us Culion children by name. Datu slouches up to him. Mr Zamora takes Sister Teresa’s wooden ruler from beside the blackboard, and the nun starts up from her seat at the back.

  ‘I will not allow you to strike this child.’

  ‘I was not goin
g to.’ Mr Zamora nudges Datu’s arms up with the ruler, until they are outstretched as if on a cross, then marks the wall beneath each arm with chalk. ‘You will stay with your arms up like that for the full duration of this lesson. If they drop below the line, you will be struck.’

  ‘Is this really necessary, Narciso?’ Sister Teresa sounds bewildered.

  Mari nudges me. Narciso! she mouths. It would be funny normally, but his bizarre behaviour is making my stomach twist.

  ‘Discipline is necessary, yes.’

  Mr Zamora rests his knuckles on the desk. He takes a deep breath, then fixes his bloodshot eyes on each of us in turn, and begins to speak.

  ‘Our first lesson is on the large tortoiseshell, the butterfly you saw hatch. This butterfly frequents European countries. I had my samples sent from London. I like to breed them from egg stage – something only a very experienced lepidopterist can attempt. They usually prefer to pupate in elm, and again it takes an expert to achieve what I did.’

  Once he finds his rhythm it is impossible not to listen to him. His voice grows and strengthens like the butterfly’s wings, and he soon takes to pacing up and down as he did in church. Behind him, Datu’s forehead shines, and his arms begin to shake after only a few minutes. Every time they start to dip below the line, Mr Zamora hits the wall just below them with the ruler.

  I am stuck somewhere between disgust and fascination. I feel horribly for Datu, but Mr Zamora is transfixing, speaking without notes in his low voice. I sneak a look at the boys at the back and even they are listening intently. At one point Mr Zamora explains how the caterpillar becomes liquid inside the chrysalis before forming its butterfly shape, and San whistles. Mr Zamora holds out the empty chrysalis and points out how it has lost all its colour, but that once it was a shade of rusty bronze. He holds up a colour sketch to show us. It is amazingly detailed, with shading underneath so it almost looks as if I could reach out and pluck it from the paper. Kidlat stretches his pudgy fingers out to it, but Mr Zamora jerks it away.

  ‘It even has metallic spots on the dorsal side, very characteristic.’

  Sister Teresa clears her throat. ‘Mr Zamora, time’s up.’

  Behind him, Datu collapses, hugging his arms to himself. Sister Teresa hurries to him, but Mr Zamora simply gathers up his papers, and steps around the boy and the nun crouching beside him.

  The smell of Luko and Mayumi’s cooking wafts through the open door and we head for the eating circle. Mari and I are the last to leave the schoolroom and as we step into the brightness we see Mr Zamora disappearing into the shadows of his hut. He looks triumphant.

  The next lessons pick up where he left off. Occasionally he remembers something that makes him flap his hands in excitement and rifle through his sketches to talk about a particular detail. Four weeks into butterfly lessons he has more samples to show us, but we are still only at the chrysalis stage. We are all very well behaved – the memory of Datu wincing at the wall makes sure of that – though once the shorter Igme had a coughing fit and Mr Zamora roared at her to get out. His temper sits below the surface like a second skin, fanged and quick as a snake. He still eats only fruit picked from the trees, and his hands are still raw, scoured and scarred red. When he paces, he gives off a smell of antiseptic.

  I still send thoughts from the twilight cliff to Culion most days, and I empty Nanay’s basin of my clothes to put it under my pillow. It isn’t very comfortable but it makes me think of her.

  She still has not written another letter. I am beginning to wonder if she needs to put something like a basin under her pillow to remind her of me.

  ‘I think she’s forgotten me,’ I say to Mari as we look out over the cliff. It is still our secret – we always make sure no one follows us.

  ‘Impossible,’ says Mari. ‘It’s just that it’s harder being left than leaving. She’s probably trying to get on with things.’

  I listen to her words, but they don’t sink in. I have a feeling pressing into my skin, uncomfortable as a rash – an uneasiness. I end every thought with One step less! And also, Are you all right, Nanay?

  THE KILLING JAR

  M

  r Zamora is in full flow. We have finally reached the ‘emergence’ stage, which is what we saw happen in his office.

  ‘Once it has emerged it takes some hours for the wings to be hard and strong enough for flight. You remember how it flapped them lightly? That was so they’d dry quicker.’

  Mr Zamora reaches down and carefully places a cloth-covered dome on the desk. With a flourish he removes the cloth. Mari leans forward to see better, and so do many of the other children. I can just make out a glass jar with what looks like a slice of mango at the bottom. The large tortoise-shell swoops and dives as though it is drunk, hitting the sides of the glass. The children ooh and aah, but all I can think is how horrible it must be to be trapped in there.

  ‘The final stage for this butterfly is preservation,’ says Mr Zamora. ‘Now we are done with our demonstration I can process the butterfly. Do you have a question?’

  I turn around. San has his hand up. Mr Zamora only acknowledges questions from the orphans. ‘What does “process” mean?’

  ‘It means this.’ Mr Zamora holds up a clear bottle and a gauze pad. ‘Chloroform.’

  He places a cloth over his mouth, and tips some liquid on to the gauze. I get a noseful of something chemical. It makes my head spin. Then he lifts the dome slightly and slides the gauze inside. Somewhere at the back of my woozy mind I know I am not going to like what happens next. The butterfly continues to swoop, but soon its movements become more purposeful. It throws itself against the glass with an almost sickening rhythm.

  ‘Stop!’ shouts Mari. ‘You’re hurting it.’ Kidlat starts to cry.

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ says Mr Zamora. His gaze is fixed on the dying butterfly, and all my fear of him returns. He is enjoying watching it die. Mari is up on her feet and running to the front. She goes to lift the jar but Mr Zamora holds her wrist.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ he cries, but Mari lifts her crumpled right hand and knocks the jar over. It smashes to the floor.

  But it is too late, we can all see it. The butterfly has fallen on the gauze, its wings stilled.

  ‘Idiot child,’ hisses Mr Zamora. ‘You broke my killing jar!’

  He is still gripping Mari’s wrist and I can see her skin going white from the pressure. He raises his hand and I can see that it is not going to be a light cuff.

  ‘Mr Zamora!’ Sister Teresa hurries to the front. ‘Control yourself.’

  But Mr Zamora’s hand is not stayed by Sister Teresa’s words. He has caught sight of Mari’s right hand. ‘Leper,’ he croaks, releasing her at once. ‘Leper!’

  ‘She is not,’ says Sister Teresa, drawing Mari close beside her. ‘She has had it from birth.’

  ‘She is deformed?’ says Mr Zamora, eyes fixed on Mari’s hand with a sickening interest. ‘What caused this?’

  Mari puts her hand behind her, and starts to back away.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he says. ‘You broke my killing jar. You will fix it.’

  We all look down at the shards on the floor. It is cracked into many pieces.

  ‘Mr Zamora, it is impossible—’ starts Sister Teresa.

  ‘She will try.’ Mr Zamora’s eyes glint meanly. ‘Or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’ Sister Teresa is flushed, her voice sharp.

  ‘This is the girl you wrote to the government about, no? The one who was abandoned.’

  There is a pin-drop silence. I want to stop him talking, to drag Mari outside, but I feel paralysed.

  ‘I should have realized earlier. How many children are born so freakish?’ Mari flinches. ‘I was there when the letter came in about the white girl. You were ordered to put her into a workhouse, I believe?’

  Sister Teresa is trembling, but Mari is quite still. She is watching Mr Zamora as though he is a nest full of wasps.

  ‘I remember now,’ says Mr Zamora, enjoyin
g our rapt attention. ‘And I’m sure my brother would be most interested to learn what became of her, and how the nun flouted a direct order and spent valuable funds, put aside for orphans, on a girl who should be earning her keep.’

  ‘Please, Mr Zamora,’ Sister Teresa’s voice shakes as much as her hand. ‘I—’

  ‘So really it is the least the child can do,’ he interrupts. ‘To fix my killing jar?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mari says clearly.

  ‘It is settled, then.’ Mr Zamora collects his papers together. ‘You can bring the pieces to my workshop. I have materials there you can use.’

  He leaves a stunned silence in his wake, like the hush just before the monsoon falls like a sheet, as if the world is holding its breath. Mari kneels and begins to sweep the pieces on to a sheet of paper. Sister Teresa looks as though she has been slapped.

  ‘Dinner, children,’ she manages, then crosses to her office and closes the door. Everyone rushes to leave but I go to help Mari, holding the paper steady while she collects the glass.

  ‘Are you all right?’ It is a stupid question, and she doesn’t answer me. ‘He can’t make you fix this.’

  ‘He can,’ says Mari simply.

  ‘But how? Even if there were fewer pieces, surely with your hand—’

  Her glare cuts me short. ‘You don’t think I can do it?’

  Before I can say any more she folds the paper up and carries the glass outside. My body feels heavy, and I stay sitting a moment. The dead butterfly is still on the gauze. I sweep it carefully into my palm, but my hand is damp and the wings powder and stick. I brush it into the wastepaper basket, the crumpled wings shining forlornly until I bury it deeper beneath used maths sheets.

  When I go out into the courtyard Mari is not there. Mr Zamora is sitting on a chair outside the closed door of his workshop.

  ‘She’s inside,’ says Luko, coming over to me. ‘He says she can’t come out until it’s fixed. Sister Teresa should send word to Manila.’