The Butterfly Forest

SEVENTY-NINE

Billie and I’d walked about a half mile when he said, “Over there, I see some coontie plants.” I looked in the direction where he pointed and still had a hard time distinguishing the coontie from surrounding foliage. We approached it, and I griped the shotgun a little tighter. Billie knelt by one of the plants. He reached in and lifted a caterpillar from a leaf. The caterpillar was blood orange red with two rows of bright yellow dots like match flames along its back. “Birds won’t eat it.”

“So I hear. How’d you know that?”

“One way is the bright color. Also, these caterpillars emit an odor. Nature warns the birds that this caterpillar, and the butterfly it will become, is not to be eaten. I think the songbirds develop a sixth sense, too.” He set the caterpillar back on the coontie leaf.

I thought of Molly, thought of her smile that day in the restaurant and what she said, “Have you ever held a live butterfly on the palm of your hand, Sean? They like the human touch… the warmth that comes from our hands, and maybe our hearts.”

I felt Billie tap my shoulder. “Ready?”

“What?

“Ready to move on?”

“I was just thinking… yeah, let’s keep moving.”

Billie nodded and walked between a few of the coontie plants, heading deeper into the forest. We hiked through scrub oak and dry sandy soil. Billie pointed to a gopher tortoise digging a hole, its front feet and claws tossing sand. Then, there were more coontie plants and a wall of oak and pines that seemed to go on forever.

Billie stopped. I thought he’d spotted a rattlesnake. He studied the landscape directly in front of us for a few seconds, and looked to our far right. “The springs are to the east,” he said.

I saw what he’d found. We both knelt down at the same instance, his brown hand touching the hose. It resembled a typical garden hose. Olive green, blending well with the surroundings. But more than two feet of it was visible. An animal, maybe an armadillo, had dug up the soil around the area exposing a few feet of hose. I lifted the uncovered part and could see it ran from the direction of the spring to the north.

“It’s roto-rooter time,” I said, handing Billie the shotgun. Pulling gloves from my pocket, I slipped them on and used both hands to lift the hose from the few inches of soil that covered it. I headed the opposite direction from the springs, uprooting the hose as it led me toward another shadowy section of the forest.

Billie followed behind me. I saw vultures riding air currents high above the forest. When we were within fifty feet of the next bank of trees, I dropped the hose.

I looked to my right and stopped. I recognized the area.

The image was trapped in my memory. Unlike a digital picture, it couldn’t be deleted from my mind. This was where Molly and Mark had taken the photos. The adrenaline poured into my bloodstream. I held up my hand. “What is it?” Billie asked.

I whispered, “This is the place. It’s where Molly and Mark first took all of the pictures.” I didn’t want to turn my body, only allowing my eyes to scan to the right and left, aware that a rifle bullet could come from the shadows. “Let’s go this way.” We crouched behind a strand of pines and looked through the bushes and scrub.

There they were. Tall as stalks of corn in an Iowa field.

Marijuana. Hundreds of plants. And many were harvested, drying and ready to be stripped of leaves.