Scent of Butterflies by Dora Levy Mossanen Page A

motionless, seeking warmth, or else dangle in clusters from branches.
    Mansour slaps himself as dead butterflies rain down on us from roosts where they festooned tall trees. He throws his arms up in exasperation and stops, shuffling from foot to foot, before gathering the courage to face me.
    â€œ Khanom , it’s not wise to go there.” He gestures toward the end of the grove where the grave is. “Please look around at the death everywhere. Pay attention to all the corpses and sickness raining on us. A bad curse struck this place. It’s the grave. Let’s get rid of it. Burn everything down and plant other trees.”
    â€œStop this superstition, Mansour. They’re just dead butterflies! And if they’re cursed, they deserve it. Come along, it’s hard enough to breathe in this air without you grumbling in my ear.”
    â€œBut forgive me, Khanom , it’s a contagious plague. I am obligated to protect you from this…”
    â€œI know what I am doing,” I say, silencing him with an impatient wave of one hand as I continue to walk ahead, shoes sinking into the wet carpet of discolored butterflies stretching underfoot like pale, veined leaves.
    I had read that as many as 250 million Monarchs were killed in a storm in the central mountains of Mexico, yet the loss of life, even at that extraordinary rate, did not render them extinct. How long will it take for the Monarch population to rebound this time?
    An imperceptible movement, something struggling to be freed underneath the leaves, catches my attention. I kneel to examine the leaves underfoot, cautiously sweeping back an upper layer of death.
    Mansour sprints toward me, horror further distorting his scarred face. “No! Khanom , I beg of you, please don’t! It’s very dangerous. Who knows what’s buried here.”
    I’m taken aback by the enormity of his fear, but more so by his insolent grip on my arm, which he quickly releases when he realizes what he is doing. “Stand back, Mansour. I need to do this.”
    I plunge my hand deep, past corpses and leaves into the thick underlayer of twigs and branches to discover a bunch of limp butterflies underneath. I retrieve one and examine it on my palm. Its wiry legs twitch weakly; the wings tremble. Why did this one survive? I settle down cross-legged on the ground.
    â€œ Khanom , I beg of you. Be careful of snakes down there. They don’t like to be disturbed. They hold grudges…They’ll follow you until the end of time…” He slaps his forehead. “I don’t know, Khanom . I don’t like these butterflies. They came here dragging misery behind.”
    That they certainly did, I think, as Mansour crouches down next to me, sour-faced and stubborn, wincing when I stick my hands under layers of dead butterflies to free the few that cheated death.
    â€œIt’s not proper for you to do this alone, Khanom .” He makes a face as if tasting something bitter, further contorting the scar across his mouth, and pressing his eyes shut before sinking one hand in to test the surroundings. He pulls out his hands and demonstrates his empty, mud-streaked palm. “See, Khanom , nothing. No sign of life.”
    I burrow around, then fish out another limp Monarch. Hardly alive, but breathing nonetheless. I drop it in one hand for inspection. It is larger than those that perished. Yes, its size must have worked to its advantage. An image flashes across the screen of my mind. Soraya, tall and confident; Butterfly, petite and timid. Who will survive?
    Mansour mumbles under his breath, “Please pardon me, Khanom , but I don’t understand why you care about these bad-luck creatures.”
    The truth is that I do not care much about the Monarchs. What I want is to find out what killed them, what differentiates the surviving ones from those that did not, learn their secret strengths and weaknesses. I am simply heeding Baba’s advice