Chasing Butterflies

“It died.” 

“What did?” 

“The butterfly we caught.” 

“You kept that?”—a pause—“Of course it did.” 

Mumbling something, the boy turned his head back toward the window, his left leg swinging from the bay window seat, making rhythmic taps on the hardwood floor. Shik. Shik. Shik. 

The boy to whom he had addressed these remarks finally looked up from his book, to say, with a slight air of annoyance, “What’s that, Bertie? Speak up.”

Albert swung around to face the room, planting both feet on the floor with a sharp and satisfying thwack, “I said we ought to go out and catch another.” 

The older boy rolled his eyes and recommenced languidly turning the pages of the volume laid out on the desk. “Why? So you can kill it again?” 

Albert felt his eyes sting; he was really hurt by his brother’s insensitivity. But he blinked back the tears, and puffed his chest. “I did not kill it; you killed it, Art.” 

Arthur indignantly slammed his book shut. “You’re blaming me? After all I went through to catch the damn thing for you—“ He stopped himself and sighed; the younger boy always knew how to get under his skin. “Whatever, it’s fine if you don’t want to take responsibility, but I’m not going to crawl around to find you another pet just so you can kill it and cry about it again tomorrow.” 

“Fine!” Albert hated that he raised his voice, but, hurt by Arthur’s callousness, he couldn’t stop the frustration from rising and the tears from falling. “I can do it by myself, then!” Swiping at the pesky tears trailing down his cheeks, Albert stomped out of the room. 

Arthur waited a quarter of an hour, all the while trying to convince himself not to give in to the little brat, but his better nature won him over; Albert was just a kid, after all. And, though his weird fascination with bugs was, admittedly, annoying, their parents were immovable in their aversion to cats and dogs. A six-legged creature would have to do; besides, maybe Bertie would become a famous entomologist someday. Arthur chuckled at the thought, suddenly feeling guilty for what he had said about the butterfly. 

******

Outside it was all blue skies and sun; a good day for butterfly hunting, Arthur noted, warming to the idea as the sun beat down on his skin. He took a turn around the garden, which was slightly overgrown, the colorful variety of flowers, bushes, and weeds bursting from their beds along the stone pathways that wound in and out. He meandered leisurely at first, calling out his brother’s name; the third time around, he was almost frantic, and there was a note of panic in his voice as he stooped to look bushes and craned his neck to peer into treetops. 

“Bertie where are you? Albert, answer me!” Only the birds chirped in response. 

Albert was missing. And he, Arthur, had driven him away with his unkind words. If only he had just kept his mouth shut and helped the kid catch another butterfly. Their mom was going to be angry, and Bertie—what if he got hurt? Arthur looked past the garden gate; there was a forest in the distance, with streams where their dad sometimes took them to fish. But Bertie knew they weren’t allowed to go in there alone. He wouldn’t have… would he? 

He tried the gate; it was unlocked. He imagined little Bertie, struggling with a net almost bigger them himself, chasing a butterfly, which, unheeded by fences, took off across the field. Bertie, not wanting to give up the chase, especially after their argument bruised his pride, almost certainly would have pursued the creature. 

Thinking of swift-running streams, towering trees, deep ditches, and all manner of wild animals, Arthur imagined the worst and took off running across the field and toward the tree line. 

******

Albert peered into the stream; he had lost track of the butterfly some time ago, and though maybe a fish would make a better pet, anyway. Even if he could catch one now, without any fishing gear, how would he transport it back to the house? No; he would wait and ask his father next time they went fishing here together. He’d would have to ask when Art couldn’t hear, he thought, bitterly. Art would say it was a stupid idea. He sat down by the river edge wondering what to do; he couldn’t go back empty handed, giving Art the opportunity to gloat over his failure. He could just imagine Art’s smug face saying “I thought you could go it by yourself.” 

The truth was, Art was much better at catching bugs. Art didn’t like them as much as he did, but the older boy was quicker, stealthier, and, frankly, more coordinated than his clumsy, still-too-small-for-the-net brother. Also, Albert thought, moodily tossing pebbles into the river, catching bugs wasn’t nearly as fun alone. He liked to follow Arthur around, pointing out the different species and directing him to the best query; “That one’s the one, Art!” He would cheer Arthur on as he leaped around the garden, swinging the net, and then Art would help him set up a habitat in a box or mason jar, and pull down the big volume of insect species from the bookshelf to identify their new friend. His new friend, anyway—Arthur never really liked bugs.

Arthur’s aversion to anything creepy-crawly was why Albert always insisted on catching butterflies; worms and beetles he could dig up by himself, and butterflies, with their beautiful patterns, were just about the only bugs Arthur could stomach. 

Their last butterfly had been defective, though. Bertie had noticed right away, after Arthur had had a particularly hard time catching the specimen—it was a small, common cabbage white butterfly—which had evaded his net for a long time. After they had placed it in a jar, the younger boy pointed out that it’s wing was bent, and Arthur had gotten mad that Bertie didn’t think it was a good enough specimen, or that he wasn’t careful enough in catching it, after the afternoon’s acrobatics. Normally, Bertie studied his butterflies, made sketches, and then let them go (he had tried pinning one once and cried for a long time afterwards). But this last one had died (from wounds received in Art’s chase, Bertie suspected), and Arthur had been annoyed at having to go after one again so soon. 

It was a stupid argument, Bertie knew, and now, here he was, alone in the forest, probably in a lot of trouble, and no prize to bring home for his pains. What now? 

******

Once in the forest, Arthur directed his steps toward one of their father’s favorite fishing spots; surely Bertie would follow a path he knew well. He burst into a clearing, panting and out of breath, and felt a very welcome wave of relief wash over him; there was Bertie, sitting by the riverside with his back turned to the trees.

“Bertie!” Before the boy had even looked up, Arthur had tackled him in a hug. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” Arthur said, laughing. But his smile faded when he saw the Bertie’s eyes were red with crying. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Arthur began examining his brother’s arms and legs, checking for any cuts or bruises. 

“I’m sorry,” sniffled Bertie, bursting into a fresh bout of tears. 

“What?” Said Arthur, still looking for the source of the injury, but he stopped when Bertie flung his arms around his neck. 

“Sorry about the butterfly,” said Bertie, “sorry about what I said; sorry about the forest…” 

“It’s okay, Bertie, I’m sorry too.” 

“I just wanted to spend time with you.” 

“I know," Arthur paused to pull something out from his pocket. "Look, Bertie—" It was a small jar; the kind they sometimes put specimens in. “I brought this down to the garden in case you caught something. You weren't there, but... well, I thought you might need it anyway.” He finished, holding out the peace offering for Bertie.

“Thanks, Art," he took it, but added, sadly, "but I didn’t catch anything.”

“Well come on, then," Arthur said, standing up and holding out his hand, “Let’s catch something together.”