DE GAL AT DE TOP

1,000 words
Short Story

DE GAL AT DE TOP

         De tree frog be beautiful. De hummin’bird, her black streamers whirrin’ in de wind, be more better beautiful, and she perch on my finger. ‘Tis true, de truest story I ever told. Like petals droppin’ from a rosemallow, de Lawd sprinkle purely lovely things on my islan’.

         But none be prettier than de blue swallowtail.

         She be dotted with blue like too-perfect shafts from a perfect summer sky, makin’ peekaboo through de rain forest. On each wing, she got a tail dipped in India ink. You see her skippin’ around de banyan and you say, “Whoa, what a thing de Lawd has made!”

         All de islan’ butterflies be special. And we got everywhere butterflies—admirals, skippers, daggertails, silverspots. But I want to relay to you an adventure of de most specialest—a swallowtail named “Blue.”

         My tale begin with young Blue, paler green than de inch worm, softer than a baby leaf. Now de forest be a dangerous for a caterpillar, de snack of de warbler and chickadee and a wholeheap other birds, gobblin’ up tender caterpillars all over Jamaica.

         One day, a-crawlin’ on de forest floor to escape the hungry birds, she wander away too much. Prickle bushes scratch her belly. Too far to dressback now, she crawl on, lookin’ for help, gettin’ more tangledy than any caterpillar should. From the brambles, she see a beautiful orange boy, deeper orange than de sunset. She had to get to him. But Orange, he has yellow caterpillar, blue caterpillar, pink caterpillar around him, all licky licky:

         “Orange, yah coat be so bright.”

         “Aoah, yah be fastah dan any catapillah on de islan’.”

         Blue, she feel big up on him. She be covetous of dese gals. Because she be brought up not to act big up on boys, Orange sense somethin’ special ‘bout her. He notice her and free her from her tangledy mess. Maybe he like her special color. Who sees green caterpillars on de South of de islan’? Or maybe bein’ around her, he smell de wild ginger in de air—de way it be with some gals. Whatever it be, he make her his galfrien’.

         Orange and Blue spend every minute together, ticklin’ one another’s soft belly and nuzzling each other’s fuzzy head. She understand him. He understand her. All summer, dey be “all fruits ripe,” as we say. Surely de Lawd made Orange just for her.

         You may think this story ends here, all happy, happy. But with caterpillars, big things are gwanna happen. After sharin’ leaves on every tree dey climb, Orange and Blue both need a mighty rest. Dey spin a pad of silk and sleep on de leaves of de blue mahoe.

         After many sunups and sundowns, Blue wake up. She flap and flutter, shakin’ off her silky bed. She have wings, fringed with black, like scallops from de bay, laid side-by-side. She be a most stunning creature.

         Blue dip over de rain forest—a lacy flash in de sky, searchin’ for Orange, near de jackfruit and breadfruit where he feast in summer days long gwan. No Orange. She flutter all day long. No Orange. When de sun crisscross de sky and ‘bout to say goodnight behind de trees, Blue have no more flit in her wings and decide to give up.

         Suddenly through de leaves fly Orange. He have wings...and he have a gal with him.

         “Yow, Orange! Where you been?” Blue ask.

         “Go away, pesty gal. Don’ know you,” Orange say.

         “’Tis Blue. Your galfren. Come to de top of de mahoe with me, to make our little fam’ly, like we say befah.”

         “You look differen’. Be all blue an’ lacy. Don’ ax me to fly nowheres. Don’ wanna bother flyin’ to de top. I prefa de bottom. I prefa dis gal.”

         And Orange and his gal, off dey flicker together, leaving Blue alone.

         She soar to de top of de mountainside, a flit of blue against a sea of green. But no beautiful boys be flyin’ around. No butterflies but her.

         “Orange don’ want me. He prefa de brown gal. I be ‘all blue an’ lacy,’ he say. Oh, kill me dead,” she say and hurl herself from de top branch, half de mountain high, this mahoe. She press her wings to her side and spiral down, faster, faster—a death spiral she do. Until a wondrous thing happen.

         An islan’ man be climbin’ that day, a man who lope de hills like strollin’ in his backyard. Some days he be uncommon lucky and take his treasures home to his forest-away-from-de-forest, filled with all the creatures he be crazy for when he be a boy.

         Carryin’ a new net, he see a blue swallowtail, fallin’ as if her wings be broke. He catch her and sweep her away from danger. He take her home to a grove with tropical flowers and thistle and boneset and other swallowtails where she meet de most handsomest blue boy, who want to make her happy all her days.

         Now I tell you a secret. De man with de net be me. I know de butterflies soar to de high places, followin’ de sun for warmth, for life. How be I so lucky to find Blue, to make a home for her? Because good luck favor de righteous, mon.

         What can we learn from this tale?

         De most beautiful, de strongest gal be unafraid to fly to de mountaintop. Most boys d’wanna make de trip. Dey settle for a gal at de bottom, easy to find, maybe not so special. Orange abandon her, so Blue think somethin’ be wrong with her. When nothin’ be wrong with her. She be an amazin’ gal. She don’t need no chickeny boy afraid to fly high. She need a boy brave enough to climb to de top of de mountain for her, who want to soar in the sky with her.

         Now I tell you somethin’—de truest thing I ever say. Orange would never make Blue happy. He hate bein’ in de sunlight; he swarm around at night. Because Orange be a moth, just a plain, nothin’-special-ugly-old moth nobody glance at twice or say’, “What a pretty thing de Lawd has made.” Not never.

         Not even Blue.

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