Scent of Butterflies by Dora Levy Mossanen Page B

that it is prudent to know my enemy as well as I know the palm of my hand.
    Not daring to face me, yet feeling obligated to keep me company and lend a hand, Mansour drops another Monarch in my cupped hands.
    I check it closely, flip it around, and feel its frail legs, limp antennas, the wings surprisingly warm to the touch. It must be the dry warmth underneath the leaves that saved the larger, sturdier ones. Perhaps the others perished because the temperature suddenly dropped last night. But it is spring in California. How cold could it become?
    I continue to riffle deep among petrified corpses. A slow-spreading dull pain radiates from the center of my palm toward my fingers. I jerk my hand out and spring up to my feet. A sharp pain shoots from my hand toward my wrist and elbow. I take a close look at my hand and notice a small cut I’d incurred when gardening. My palm is turning a dark plum color. It is swelling, swelling fast.
    Pale-faced and bewildered, Mansour shouts, “ Mar ! Snake! Help! Oni, quick. Here!”
    Doubled over with pain, I am unable to speak. My fingertips are becoming numb. I check my fingernails and notice a slight bluish hue at the base.
    Mansour makes way for Oni, who runs toward us with a first aid kit. She kneels and inspects my palm. She quickly snaps open the box and in silence begins to apply alcohol, ointments, and bandages.
    I am relieved by her efficiency. She is taking all the right steps. Also assured by her calm demeanor, Mansour stops cursing and grumbling and begins to send salavat prayers to his Allah.
    Having cleaned and applied antiseptics, Oni collects her supplies and bows to me a few times.
    I massage my hand. Give myself a moment to catch my breath, time for the pain to take its course.
    There’s an unexpected chill in the weather. Nature herself is troubled. The hiss of agitated ghosts can be heard in the stale air.
    â€œYou are very good, Oni. Where did you learn to do this?”
    She shrugs, endearing in her attempt at dismissing any compliment as undeserved. Assessing my situation and concluding, perhaps, that I am out of danger, she turns on her heels and disappears as silently and purposefully as she had appeared.
    Mansour lets out a low growl: “I am getting the car, Khanom , taking you to a doctor! Zahreh mar snake venom can stop your heart faster than a sharp knife.”
    â€œCome back, Mansour! It’s not a snake. Monarch caterpillars are filled with the toxin of milkweed leaves that’s poisonous to humans if consumed. But here, with thousands around and such a concentrated amount of toxins, the smallest of nicks on the skin allows the toxin into the bloodstream, causing severe reaction.”
    My throbbing hand pressed against me, I continue to walk deeper into the grove and toward the direction of the grave.
    Mansour begins to mumble and curse anew, voicing all types of incantations to ward off evil djinns and spirits.
    The grave is covered by a velvety quilt in different shades of orange, embroidered with black veins and strewn with pearls. A blanket of Monarchs with wings spread out to heaven as if praying for salvation. Their flamboyant wings are lovelier than the most ornate Japanese fans. Dead, they are so beautiful. So harmless.
    I like this specific posture. Like the idea of trapping and displaying praying Monarchs on glass shelves in my cabinets. An homage to my best friend, who once raised her hands in prayer to a framed nuptial kerchief.
    Had she, even then, prayed for what was mine?

chapter 12
    Mansour glances at the rearview mirror as he maneuvers the car down the silent streets of Bel Air toward Sunset. He must be wondering why I would wake him at midnight and ask him to drive me to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Why I am not asleep after a hard day in the eucalyptus grove, overseeing a group of lepidopterists who took hours to study thousands of dead Monarchs, poking and prodding the earth and trees with scientific instruments.
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