Faithful Pebble
Part Ninety-Five
"The poison does this," Pebble said. "The butterflies here love the smell and taste of the poison. You can always tell the closer you get to the tree because they flutter about it in swarms. They'll land on a branch, drink the poison, then fall asleep just like Snow White did in the story. After some time, though, the poison changes them, makes them look like this, act like this."
"Like what?" The wanderer wondered. Once more, he stepped back. He stared at her, at the creature dancing quietly in her hand.
"Like a flower." Pebble answered. Her hood billowed in the sun, its brown and coarse and tattered fabric twirled like a dank shadow in the light. She continued softly. "The poison was never a killing concoction. My father figured this when he was a young man. Its purpose is not to kill, but conceal. Designed to change the outward appearance of its victim, the elixir is the cocoon that kills the caterpillar before it changes, the sticky syrup that makes its fat flesh sprout wings. When he realized this, my father decided to use the poison for his own purposes. Look," Pebble replied. She fisted the flower. The wanderer watched as she crumpled it between her hands, rolled it into a ball and then twisted sharply until a purple liquid dribbled from between her dirt-crusted claws. It fell, the poison, it dripped one bead at a time into the earth, pooling and vanishing as it seeped slowly into its rich soil flesh. "My father harvested the flowers for its poison. Then, he dipped the pit arrows into the liquid so that when a victim fell in he wouldn't die, just fall asleep. Even if an arrow pierced the victim's heart, the poison would keep him alive and heal him."
At this, the wanderer tilted his head. "And what wakes them up? Don't tell me true love's first kiss is a viable solution."
Pebble shrugged. "He never tested it that I know of, but his victims eventually woke up on their own once the magic was finished. The time differs with each person."
"What happens when the magic is finished?" the wanderer asked.
It was logical question.
Pebble ignored it.
"My father was ingenious," she said. "He figured if he sprinkled the poison on the pit netting the butterflies would settle on it. Eventually, they would become flowers and each time they pollinated, the poison would drip onto the arrows below. The pits are, thus, self-replenishing."
The wanderer netted his eyebrows and re-asked the question. "What happens when the magic is finished?"
Suddenly, Pebble dropped the flower and walked back to the porch, her fingers tangling, fidgeting before her, ringing about her like her words.
"He made them as markers too, a path of sorts. They look so much like violets. He planted those right next to the butterflies saying to follow them. If you follow the purple flowers, he said, you'd find the tree, the mine and eventually the town. If you follow the white, you'll always find your way home. But you have to be careful with the white ones. The poison has begun to settle into them too, tainting their stems, turning them blue. You have to look carefully to make sure you're not going the wrong way."
"Iris," The wanderer whispered. Her name caught her off guard. The girl froze a moment, her feet on the porch, her face to the door, her back to the dying sun. She picked up the screwdriver and then went back to fixing the door, kneeling until her cloak painted the floor boards. The wander sighed. He eyed it, her cloak. "Is the poison the reason why you wear the cloak? Is it what killed your mother? She was wearing one too."
Pebble didn't answer. Her silence admitted what her words could not.
The wanderer heard it and crossed his arms. "What happened to your father? You must have loved him. He's all you talk about. Did he…"
"He disappeared," Pebble whispered.
Happy Summer! - Calla