Butterfly Wings

Butterfly Wings

It was the sort of seaside town that stood still over time. Weathered cottages lined cobbled streets, and the scent of brine clung to every corner. Townsfolk lived by the reliable rhythms of the sea as tides ebbed and flowed from the pull of the moon. Nothing ever really happened here and that’s how they preferred it. This is until one night when the sea itself seemed to cry out to them for help.

It was half past midnight when the sound came- bellowing, rolling across their low rooftops like thunder trapped in barrels. One by one, villagers rose from their beds, sleepy-eyed and uneasy. They slipped into dressing gowns and slippers and stepped out into the chilly night, compelled to investigate the commotion down on the beachfront.

They groused and murmured about nonsensical, mythological sirens; their breath condensing in the night air. Yet, they were still drawn in droves. Lanterns flickered to life across the cliffside like fireflies as the villagers spilled down narrow, stone paths toward the strange noise echoing across the cove below.

They zig-zagged like zombies, only they were quite the opposite. A most simple and loving village, ne’er a crime more than a noise complaint or teen run amok. What community this civilized would allow for something to ever go awry? They’d never appear on BBC or ABC. They were better than all that whole hullabaloo.

They first spotted a figure on the beach—it was Nigel, of course it was. Always at the heart of the cove, Nigel was the retired town mayor turned full-time fisherman by 80, Nigel was bent and wiry, face crocheted with age and sun. He was holding a lantern high above his head.

Nigel was no ordinary man.

He’d served his country in the big war, then his town government for over forty years. And for three quarters of a century, he’d fished these waters by night. They say fish feel no pain, but Nigel doubted that with his very soul. He learned from his grandpa never to take more than he needed to live and throw back the rest. His grandpa had said, live and let live, and it somehow became Nigel’s motto over the decades.

He'd recalled the day when Nigel was just a young'un, and his grandpa had asked him if he had the chance to travel anywhere in the world for free, but in order to do so, he'd have to rip the wings off a beloved butterfly. Would Nigel do it?

As always, Grandpa had smiled down at him so lovingly then tussled Nigel’s curly blond hair when Nigel innocently responded that this cove was where he'd choose to travel and he was already here.

Then, his grandpa had asked, what about a mosquito? Nigel remembered thinking twice about that until his grandpa suggested a bee, perhaps? He didn't care much for bugs or bees, but Grandpa didn't really want answers to his strange questions; simply food for thought, he'd said. With Nigel's seemingly inherited wisdom, over time the young and old villagers alike, trusted and respected Nigel. Kindness clung to him like the scent of salt.

“Bring shovels!” Nigel shouted from down on the sand below. “Buckets and rope, too! We've got ourselves a beached whale!”

If anyone could save a whale, it was Nigel. They had known Nigel all their lives. If Nigel said it was urgent, it had to be. So, they did as good citizens do and halted on their steep paths, turned back to their cottages, but this time wide-awake and assertive with real purpose, to gather what was needed to save a stranded whale.

It didn’t take long for the village folks to gather on the beach and experience something they’d never seen before and would likely never see again. They were grateful, eager to participate in such a magnanimous and crucial endeavor. They had no way of knowing it would change their quant town forever.

A collective gasp swept through all the do-gooders at the emergent yet mournful scene. There, bathed in orange moonlight, lay a massive whale. Its dark, slick skin glistened in the numerous lanterns’ lights; its breathing came in shallow wheezes. It thrashed weakly, each movement stirring sand and desperation. They looked to Nigel for guidance, as if he was Jonah.

“The tides receding quick, we ain’t got much time.” Nigel barked orders.

Without a word, the residents scattered—some to fetch more supplies, others racing around, carefully securing thick ropes to the creature. The women and children formed lines with buckets, hauling seawater to pour over the whale’s exposed, drying skin. The men, using ropes and shovels, dug around the gentle beast, trying to create a channel, a gulley—anything to get it back to its home in the sea. It moved barely a few feet in what seemed hours while the whale continued to make that guttural, moaning sound.

Nigel moved among them like a coach; guiding, urging, and always whispering encouragement to the whale as if it could hear him. “We’re gonna save you – I promise - just hang on.”

He looked the creature right in the eye and the whale seemed to understand it would be okay. Such a beautiful yet humble animal, Nigel could swear the whale had a sparkle in its eye that expressed gratitude, and it brought a tear to his own.

Time melted. Hands blistered. The stars wheeled overhead. The whale was ever so slowly being manually pushed and pulled towards the water. It was still alive but just barely. But with decent villagers like Nigel to protect and guide them all those years, they were damned determined to do their level best, if nothing else.

Then someone down by the water’s edge shouted, “It’s bleeding!”

Another pointed, “Look, it’s hurt real bad!”

A voice rang out loudest of all, “Damn, there’s a fin—look behind her. A shark!”

A ripple of panic swept through the crowd.

“Sharks!” they cried in unison. “Get out of the water!”

“It’s got a death grip on the cow’s backside!” a man screamed.

“That shark is trying to kill the whale! We need to kill the shark." A young boy looked to Nigel, pleading.

“It’s our only chance to save this majestic creature." The boy's older sister chimed in; tears streaming down her cheeks.

Nigel’s face hardened into intense focus. He’d only felt this way once before, half a century ago and halfway across the world, when he'd found himself with just a bayonet behind enemy lines. This time, he needn’t worry about his own life, but rather the life of an innocent animal not so different in mind and spirit than himself. They were all on the same side this time, his people, this struggling sea ally. Nigel would take it upon himself to rid the poor whale of the menacing leviathan.

He seized a flathead shovel typically used to breakup ice and pushed through the gawking villagers toward the whale’s rear quarters, and the horrific scene before him. He clearly saw the telltale point of black triangular fin slice the water behind the whale. The smallish-sized shark was so attached to the massive whale’s tail; its jaw latched so far into the mammal's backside, its jaw couldn’t even be seen. And there was so much flowing blood. It may just be too late, Nigel realized, but looking back at his people’s frightened but expectant expressions, he didn’t hesitate.

With the fury of a man defending the helpless as he’d done all his adult life and without another thought, Nigel brought his shovel down on the deadly fish. Again and again, he struck the fish as it writhed just under the surface of the shallows. Then, a final flail was followed by stillness as the shark finally released itself and surrendered to the brutal slaying. The villagers cheered when Nigel finally relented, exhausted. Even the whale keened, as the sea foam swirling around his shins turned crimson.

Continuing their efforts to save the whale, the men continued pulling and the women went back to the task of pouring sea water over the whales massive body. A teenage girl went to fill her bucket with water and screamed down at the dead shark that had slowly washed onto the sand, just a mere lump of mutilated torso laying motionless and tucked next to the huge whale.

Suddenly, a lantern was dropped and shattered, kerosine flames spread quickly around the sand, shining a bright glow that lit up the beaten shark. A bloodied body but its face as clear as if the sun shone on it. It was not a shark, after all.

It was a calf. A baby whale, born moments before, lay still and bloodied next to its mother. A child began to sob, then another, perhaps already understanding the implications of the fateful night.

“She was giving birth.” said a woman in a tenuous tone of complicity. She hugged her own infant closer as it slept swaddled in a sling around her neck.

“Dear Lord, what have we done?” someone whispered.

Nigel, helpless, fell to his knees in the surf, his trembling hands covering his face.

“This is all my fault, I’m so very sorry,” he cried out to no one but the dying mother whale and her murdered baby.

He let his shovel drop to the sand where it slowly caught a drift and floated away on the surface of the water like a smoking gun refusing to bear witness to the aftermath of such an obscene act of violence toward nature.

The mother whale groaned-a sound so guttural and soaked in grief, it bypassed the villagers' ears and pierced them in their very hearts. And then, as if she understood what had happened; and could no longer bear it, the mother whale gave a final sputtering blowhole breath, closed her eyes and stilled. She was gone.

Simultaneously, the lantern's flame burning on the sand flickered and went dark. The townsfolk stood frozen, the sun just barely breeching the horizon. Children clutched adults' hands. Old, weathered men wept in their own. Heads hung low as they wordlessly made their way back to their cottages, never once looking back at Nigel, still slumped over on his knees rocking back and forth next to mother and baby.

Together, the men buried the calf in the dunes at dawn. Small wooden crosses made with branches and string by the local children, surrounded the mound. When the tide rose high enough the next evening to take the mother to her final resting place, the villagers gathered on the rocky cliff side. With their tear-streaked faces, some clutching rosaries in their hands, they watched her drift out to sea, then dispersing without uttering a word, as the setting sun made a swan dive over the horizon.

No boats went out for a week. Some elderly fishermen never returned to the sea. Nigel did not speak to anyone again. Occasionally, when the moon hung just right, he could be spotted sitting along the shoreline of the cove, his eyes fixed on the vast sea, waiting for something that would never return.

All he got were ripples of utter sadness in every foamy crash, followed by receding waves of goodbye from a sea he’d respected and loved so dearly, which now seemed to mock his very existence. He recalled his grandfather’s final question all those years ago.

“Well, Nigel, then what would you be willing to do to get what you want?”

Although he’d always prayed, ever since the war, he'd never have to make a decision like that again in his life, Nigel thought about those butterfly wings and wished to be anywhere but here in this cove. Then, one day, Nigel was gone.

And all too often—on cold nights, when the wind blew just right—the villagers could hear a strange sound rising from the cove. A cry, low, mournful, and full of remorse as powerful and meaningful as a mother’s unrelenting love, or a fisherman’s greatest loss. A reminder nevertheless that the sea knew what they had done, not just Nigel, but all of them.