Garden of Delights

Ernesto stood on the screened porch in his boxer shorts, glaring out at his yard while rubbing his potbelly. Sometime during the night, his beloved garden had been invaded. Several stout weeds were growing amid the azaleas. He was certain they hadn’t been there the day before; he would have seen them when he mowed. Wiry gray brows came together in a puzzled frown. “Maria,” he bellowed. “Come and see the garden.” His wife of thirty years appeared in the doorway, already dressed and bearing two mugs of black coffee. She handed one to her husband as she dutifully gazed out at the plants.

“The fountain’s not running,” she commented, settling in a lounge chair and watching the water drip slowly from the spout instead of flowing cheerfully.

“I’m talking about the weeds,” Ernesto snapped, waving his coffee dramatically. “I weeded yesterday! These must have grown last night.”

Maria sipped her coffee, while scanning the beds. “What weeds,” she began and then caught sight of some large yellowish leaves against the bright pink flowers. “Oh, I see. They’re huge. They couldn’t have grown overnight. You must have missed them yesterday.”

“I did not,” her husband insisted, slamming his mug down on the wide wooden shelf he used for potting. Coffee splashed onto the wood leaving a dark stain as Ernesto pushed open the screen door, making its hinges groan in protest. He thundered off down the flagstone path that led past beds of flowers, around the fountain, and skirted the grassy area in the middle of the yard, finally reaching the rock wall at the edge of the property. Ernesto halted in front of the azaleas, placed his hands on his hips, and glowered at the offending weeds. They seemed even bigger, now that he was standing next to them, at least eighteen inches. Maybe his wife was right, he thought, maybe he had missed them yesterday. It was hard to imagine how anything could grow so big in a few hours. Well, he decided, it didn’t matter; he was ripping them out immediately.

He put one bare foot into the rich, dark, soil and took a second to savor the feel of it against his skin. Stepping over the border of pansies, he leaned down and firmly grasped the stem of the nearest weed. Repeated tugging and subsequent streams of Spanish curses didn’t budge it. Ernesto stood up straight, rubbed the ache in his lower back, and took a breather. Glimpsing Maria approaching with a pair of shorts and an undershirt, he waved at the shed, standing against one corner of the house. “Get me a shovel,” he ordered.

“Put these on first,” she retorted, tossing the clothes at him. “What would the neighbors think if they saw you like that?”

“They should keep their prying eyes out of my business and on their side of the wall,” Ernesto snorted, but he slipped on the shorts anyway, wiping the sweat off his face and shoulders with the undershirt. He dropped the shirt onto the walkway and contemplated the best place to dig without damaging his azaleas, while he waited for Maria to return with his shovel. Oddly enough, the weeds looked as though they’d grown another inch while he’d been wrestling with them. “Impossible,” he muttered as a delicate pink flower fluttered to the ground beside him. His attention shifted to the azaleas, which, he realized, were dropping their flowers in a rain of pink. “What,” he gasped as leaves began to follow the flowers making a carpet of pink and green.

“Those weeds look greener,” Maria observed as she pressed the handle of the shovel into Ernesto’s palm. Turning back to the weeds, he discovered his wife was right. The yellowish color had deepened to a rich blue-green and the leaves were larger and more rounded. “What’s wrong with the azaleas,” he heard his wife ask.

“These damn weeds are sucking the life out of them,” he replied taking a firm grip on the shovel and abandoning caution. Ten minutes of Herculean effort finally dislodged the weed. It came out suddenly, bringing one of the azalea bushes with it. Both plants’ roots were meshed intricately and were impossible to separate.

Maria stood open mouthed, gazing at the weed connected to the azalea. “That’s unbelievable,” she finally managed.

“Unbelievable,” Ernesto echoed as he watched a new weed sprout right before his eyes. “My god, what kind of weeds are these?” he wondered aloud as he attacked the newest one. He was barely aware of Maria dashing to the shed and returning with another shovel, his concentration was so intense. He ripped the youngest intruder from the bed and together they assaulted the other two.

A good forty-five minutes later, they had succeeded in eradicating the weeds from their yard. They waited another fifteen, wondering if any more would emerge from the bed while gently scraping the metal shovels on the flagstones. Three azaleas lay with a large number of weeds on the compost pile, their poor naked branches looking like skeletons placed in a mass grave. Ernesto had deemed them an acceptable sacrifice, but Maria still mourned their loss. The resulting hole in the bed looked terrible.

“We should burn them,” Maria announced turning her head toward the weeds.

“I think the neighbors would disapprove of that even more than me in my underwear,” Ernesto responded, scooping up the undershirt and wiping down again. “Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “they’re starting to shrivel up already.” He took her shovel and started down the path to the shed. “I’ll put these away and get showered,” he told her. “Then we can go to the nursery and find something to fill up the bed.”

“Let’s eat breakfast out,” Maria suggested. “I don’t think I can face cooking after this.” Ernesto nodded. It was a good idea, he was still pretty shaken himself, and it would give him a chance to collect his thoughts. Maria padded down the path behind him, waiting for him while he put the shovels inside the shed and secured the door. “Maybe someone at the nursery will know what those things are,” she said taking one last glance at the limp weeds. Neither one noticed the shiny red eggs attached to the underside of the leaves.

************************************************

Three hours later, Ernesto and Maria returned triumphant from the nursery, bearing scented pink roses to plant in the azalea’s place. Ernesto carried his two pots to the side gate and swung it open, while Maria clutched a third. He was trying to be careful and not catch himself on the thorns, when he heard Maria gasp and looked up in time to see her drop the rose bush. The rigid plastic cracked against the flagstones and fertile soil leaked out. “Maria,” he called sharply, wondering if the thorns had pricked her fingers, when he caught movement in front of her. Stepping forward and peering around her, he caught his breath and stood flabbergasted. The entire garden crawled with caterpillars. They were spotted, with long branching spines rising from their backs, and they were voraciously devouring everything in sight.

“What the hell?” Ernesto shouted, a string of Spanish followed as he looked around and realized the caterpillars were in the oak tree shading the walkway as well. He set down the roses and pushed past his wife in an effort to get a good look at the insects. One of them dropped from the tree and landed on Maria’s rosebush. It immediately began munching the leaves at a tremendous rate. Ernesto made a disgusted noise, knocked it onto the stone with the toe of his shoe and smashed it. Instantly a noxious smell filled the air. He clapped a hand over his mouth and nose, retreating quickly and bumping into Maria in the process.

“Oh,” she gagged, backing away. “That’s horrible, don’t squash anymore!”

“I think it’s getting worse,” Ernesto choked, while glaring at the squirming bodies that suddenly seemed to be converging on the dead one. “They’re coming this way,” he gasped, trying not to breathe and feeling the first little pricks of fear travel down his spine.

“What,” Maria uttered in disbelief. She moved around him so she could see clearly. The caterpillars were definitely approaching their position. “Are they attacking us?” she wondered aloud. Before Ernesto could respond, there was a rustling of leaves overhead and several caterpillars dropped out of the tree. They landed on Maria’s shirt and jeans. “Yuck,” she said, sweeping them off with her hand. As soon as her flesh made contact with the caterpillar’s spines, she squealed. Ernesto looked up to see his wife shaking her hand, trying to remove the creature. Tears began to roll from the corners of her eyes. “It stings,” she shrieked as several more dropped onto her from above. He whipped off his shirt and began slapping at his wife until the caterpillars were knocked onto the ground. She managed to shake the one on her hand free and, clutching each other protectively, they made a dash for the house heedlessly crushing caterpillars under their feet. The odor quickly permeated the area and had them reeling, but they made it inside and Ernesto locked the door behind them.

Together, they examined Maria’s hand. It was puffed and red. “I think it’s probably like a jellyfish or bee sting,” she muttered. “I know what to do.” She went into the kitchen and began searching the cabinets. “What is going on around here?” She ran the water in the sink and washed her hand. “First, monster weeds and now, killer bugs.” Ernesto located the phone book and followed his wife into the kitchen. When he picked up the phone, she looked up from putting meat tenderizer on her fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting an exterminator,” Ernesto stated flatly. “They’ll know how to kill these things.”

“Good,” Maria said grimly. “I want them dead, I don’t care what he has to do to kill them. I want them dead.”

“Me too,” Ernesto agreed as he punched in the number.

*************************************************

Several hours later, Maria, Ernesto, and the young man from the pest company, stood on the screened porch and surveyed the yard, now nearly stripped of vegetation. Branches and ragged remains of stems stuck up from the ground. The caterpillars had turned into chrysalides and they hung from every available surface. “What are they?” Ernesto asked in a hushed voice.

The exterminator shook his head, “Haven’t got a clue. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He shuffled up against the screen to get a good look. Each chrysalis was approximately two and half inches long, a golden orange with tiny white dots. “I’ve got a book in the van, but I can tell you right now there’s nothing in it that looks like that.”

“Where did they come from?” Maria asked. “Surely, someone else has dealt with these things. They can’t have just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Host plant,” the kid muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at their blank faces. “Well, they’re probably some kind of butterfly. Butterflies lay their eggs on a particular plant. It’s called the host plant, the caterpillars eat it when they hatch out.”

Maria and Ernesto shared a speaking glance. “These ate everything, except the boxwood and some of the oak tree,” Ernesto informed him. “I guess they didn’t have time to finish.”

“Well,” Joe mused, “sometimes the caterpillars eat other things, but the eggs are always on the host plant.” He scratched his head. “I’m calling my boss. Nobody knows more about bugs than he does.”

“We don’t care what they are, really,” Ernesto said. “We just want you to kill them.”

“Oh, can’t do that,” the kid smiled. “They could be endangered or something.” He went into the house, “Got a phone?”

“In the kitchen on the wall,” Maria called after him. Lowering her voice she addressed Ernesto, “Do you think the eggs were on those weeds?”

Ernesto shrugged. “Could be, I hope so. Maybe the damn things will die if they don’t have a host plant.” He waved a hand for effect as the kid returned. “That was fast.”

“Yeah, I told him to get his butt over here, that this was the freakingest thing I’d ever seen.” He brushed past Maria and Ernesto and hesitated in front of the door. “I’d really like to get a close look, maybe examine one.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Maria began only to have her husband elbow her.

“They’re dormant in those things aren’t they?”

“Yeah, I think so,” the kid replied. “It should be safe. Besides, I’m not allergic to bees and smells don’t bother me much.”

“I’m not allergic, either,” Maria responded, “and you didn’t smell that thing. It was bad.”

“He wants to go look,” Ernesto told his wife as he pushed the screen door open a crack. “Feel free, go ahead.” He watched critically as the kid slipped through the door and cautiously started down the path.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Maria whispered fiercely, perching on the edge of a chair.

“Shush,” her husband retorted. “If he gets stung, he’ll want to kill them too. Maybe we won’t have to wait on this boss.”

“Don’t shush me! What if he decides to sue us?”

Ernesto gave her a ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about’ face. “There’s nothing to worry about, he’s not allergic.”

Maria threw her hands up in resignation. Both of them watched the kid step carefully on the flagstones. When he reached the fountain, he leaned over to examine the chrysalides hanging from the rim. He took a pencil from his pocket and poked one of them. Maria and Ernesto held their breath. They were so focused, the buzzing of the front doorbell made them jump. Maria got up and went to answer it. She was back in a few seconds followed by a middle-aged man dressed in coveralls. The name Bill was stitched across his chest. He carried a clipboard filled with paper. A ragged string was attached to the ring at the top and a shabby looking pencil swung from the end of it. He approached Ernesto and held out a hand, “Bill,” he muttered. “I understand you folks have a bug problem.”

“See for yourself,” Ernesto replied, pumping the man’s hand. Bill’s gaze drifted past Ernesto. His facial expression changed from congenial to astonishment. Taking a few steps closer to the screen, he scanned the yard in silence for some minutes.

“Wow,” he finally breathed. “That’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this.” He caught the pencil and held it between his fingers, ready to write. “Hey, Joe,” he shouted. “See if you can detach one of those things so we can look at it close.”

“Sure boss,” Joe called, making a saluting motion with one hand.

“Now,” Bill said, turning back to Maria and Ernesto. “When did you first notice these caterpillars?” He circled the pencil above the paper.

“This morning, about two hours ago,” Ernesto responded.

Bill frowned. “They were adults when you noticed them?”

“I don’t know,” Ernesto said, his eyes on Joe, who was struggling to remove one of the chrysalides from the fountain. “There weren’t any, and then they were crawling everywhere.”

“But caterpillars don’t mature in just a few hours,” Bill argued. “You must not have noticed them until they were grown.”

“How could we not have noticed so many,” Maria countered. “There must be hundreds.”

Bill looked out at the garden. “More like thousands,” he sighed. “You say they stung and that they smelled really bad when you stepped on them?”

“That’s right,” Ernesto confirmed, watching Joe put up the pencil and take out a pocketknife.

“Well, that’s not so unusual, many insects do those things.” Bill finished writing and laid the clipboard casually on Ernesto’s potting shelf. “Joe,” he shouted, “What’s the holdup.”

Joe straightened, closing the knife and shoving it back in a pocket. “These things aren’t coming loose. What are they Boss?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Bill whispered. He stood still for a moment and then turned toward Ernesto. “There’s a guy at the University that might be able to help us. Mind if I give him a call?”

“We don’t care what they are, just kill them,” Ernesto insisted.

“Can’t,” Bill replied, “they could be a new species or one that’s new to this area anyway.” He gave Ernesto and Maria a placating smile. “Phone?”

“I’ll show you,” Maria sighed, rising from her chair.

An eerie silence descended, punctuated by the dripping fountain. Joe moved along the path quietly examining twigs, looking for chrysalides. Ernesto watched intently, wondering why Joe didn’t try to pry one loose from the tree bark. Joe walked around the back of the fig tree. His form was slightly obscured by the branches. “Alright,” his voice drifted up to the porch. He stepped back onto the path, waving a section of stem excitedly. “Got one!”

“Hey,” Ernesto shouted into the back door, “he got one!”

“Great,” Bill called back. Ernesto could hear him saying something into the phone and then he shouted, “I’ll be right there.”

Turning to relay the message, Ernesto found Joe standing in the middle of the path staring at the side of the house. “What is it?” he asked, putting his hands on the shelf, stretching up and peering over. The compost pile was lush with plants about a foot high. Their leaves were rounded and deep blue-green. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Well they didn’t eat those,” Joe commented. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice them earlier.”

Maria and Bill shuffled through the back door. “What are you looking at?” Maria asked her husband.

He turned to her with a rueful smile. “Those weeds we pulled up this morning are back,” he paused, “in the compost pile.”

Maria rushed over to the side of the porch and stared through the screen with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I knew we should’ve burned those things.” Bill crowded up next to her and studied the weeds. As they watched, the weeds swayed and stretched upwards another inch.

“Un-freaking-believable,” breathed Joe. “I feel like I’m watching time-lapse photography.” Soft velvety hairs sprouted on the underside of the leaves as the weeds continued growing, their stems thickening and turning woody. The boxwood hedges under the kitchen windows began to drop their leaves and turn brown.

The three inside the screened porch watched in amazement. In a matter of minutes the weeds had grown over three inches and the boxwoods were history. When the oak tree began to lose the last of its leaves, Ernesto slammed a fist against the shelf. “I’m covering that entire section with Roundup,” he snorted. “I don’t care if I kill everything on that side of the yard, I’m getting rid of those weeds!”

Bill backed away from the screen and perched on a chair. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “This place is the Twilight Zone,” he muttered. Maria turned, her hands on her hips, and stared worriedly after Ernesto, who stalked past Joe, chrysalides forgotten. He was halfway to the shed when Joe, still staring at the weeds, suddenly jumped and dropped the twig.

“Hey,” Joe gasped. “It moved.” Ernesto halted, and retraced his steps until he was standing next to Joe. He bent over and studied the chrysalis. It twisted and turned as a tiny crack opened down its side. Getting over his fright, Joe squatted down and scooped up the branch. “Get a jar or something, will ya.”

Ernesto nodded and trotted to the porch, waving at Maria. “Get a jar,” he ordered unnecessarily to Maria’s back as she retreated into the kitchen. Bill got up and approached the screen on the other side of the porch. All the other chrysalides were performing the same gyrations. Ernesto stepped onto the porch letting the door slam shut behind him. “What’s happening?” he asked.

Bill glanced up at Ernesto and then waylaid Maria, who was returning with an old peanut butter jar. “They’re emerging,” he said grimly, while taking the jar and exiting the porch. When he reached Joe, they broke the twig and placed the chrysalis carefully into the container. The crack in the chrysalis had gotten larger and insect legs began to protrude. All over the yard other chrysalides also began to break open. “Definitely some kind of butterfly,” Bill mused as the insect shrugged itself free and began to stretch out its wings. With a soft rustling sound, hundreds more emerged in the yard. Everyone stood spellbound as the butterflies’ wings unfolded.

The one in the jar didn’t have enough space and the tips of its wings brushed against the plastic. “Take it out,” Bill ordered, “if you leave it in there it won’t be able to fly.” Joe opened the lid and let the insect crawl out. Immediately, its wings opened out completely. It perched precariously on the rim of the jar and Joe held it up high so he could get a good look at it.

“Hey boss,” he said, pointing with his pinky finger, “is that some kind of stinger.”

“Hard to tell,” Bill replied, leaning closer. The butterfly tentatively flapped its fully extended wings. The light caught it, reflecting off brilliant blues and greens. The wings were edged with gold and stretched a full six inches. On the insect’s abdomen was a long, thin extension that gleamed purple in the filtered sun’s rays. “Could be some strange reproductive organ, I suppose,” Bill speculated. “Gorgeous things, though.”

The shrill ringing of the phone broke everyone’s concentration, causing Joe to jump and unsettle the insect. Maria went inside to answer it with a worried backward glance. The butterfly leapt into the air. It was a strong flier, spiraling up and away from Joe before reversing its direction and zooming in close. Maria called to Bill, “It’s Dr. Valdez, from the University.”

“Coming,” Bill responded. “Be careful with that thing,” he whispered to Joe. “If it can sting, you don’t want to upset it.” Leaving Joe standing in the yard, he strode onto the porch, nodded at Maria and Ernesto, and went into the house. In a minute, they heard him conversing on the phone.

The other butterflies soon took flight and the garden looked like a fantasy world populated by little jeweled fairies. They flitted about, landing on the stems and branches of the bare plants for seconds before lifting off again. The butterfly circling Joe landed on his shoulder and crawled down his sleeve. When it reached bare skin, it started moving its feet excitedly and fanning its wings vigorously. Without warning, it stabbed its abdomen down against Joe’s skin. Joe gave a squeal and slapped at the butterfly. “Ow, that really burns!” He turned and started for the porch, but all the butterflies converged on him before he could take more than a few steps. Joe erupted in a furious whirling dance, trying to bat them away. Maria cried out and started for the screen door, while Joe began to scream.

Ernesto grabbed his wife and yanked her back. “It’s too late,” he said, as Joe fell to the ground completely obscured by butterflies. Hundreds swarmed over Joe while others began to fly against the screen. They beat their wings frantically, ramming their bodies against the mesh over and over. Bill burst onto the porch and took in the scene in one horrified glance. “Call 911,” Ernesto shouted at him, holding Maria who’d broken into terrified tears. Bill rushed back into the house. Ernesto followed, dragging Maria who was still staring at the mound of seething insects covering Joe. The screen began to give under the butterflies’ concerted effort and with a metallic whisper the mesh tore away from one corner of the frame. The butterflies surged through, while Ernesto hauled Maria through the door and slammed it, securing it with deadbolt and chain. “Are they on the way?” he shouted.

Bill shook his head. “I’m on hold,” he stated flatly. Maria, forcing herself to calm down, went to the kitchen window and peered out. The butterflies appeared to be settling down. They flew in circular paths in lazy maneuvers, landing on Joe from time to time. Parts of his body were now visible under the mounds of insects. Large sores appeared to cover most of the parts of him they could see. Each sore oozed a thin, bloody discharge that the insects were sucking up like nectar. Every so often Joe’s leg or arm twitched spasmodically.

“Do you think he’s alive?” Maria gasped. Ernesto let forth a string of Spanish, while Bill handed him the phone.

“There’s a bee suit in the truck,” Bill announced. “I don’t care what these things are, endangered or not, I’m putting it on and killing the damn things.” He went through the house to the front door and hesitated. Stepping into the living room, he drew aside the curtain and peeked out. The street was empty. The truck sat at the curb undisturbed. No butterflies floated on the breeze and a stray dog lolled under the tree across the street. “I’ll be damned,” he mumbled.

“Something’s happening,” Maria yelled from the kitchen. Bill let the curtain slide back into place and retraced his steps. Ernesto was still holding the phone. Maria pointed out the window. “They’re doing something.” Bill joined her and together they stared out at the gruesome sight. The butterflies were now spiraling around each other, pairing off. They rushed together several times and broke apart. One of them suddenly lost its wings and plummeted to the ground. It crawled a moment before falling onto its side and lying still. Others followed suit and soon the ground was littered with wings and dead and dying insects.

“They’re mating,” Bill said. “I think the ones dying are the males. Maybe we can get to Joe and pull him inside.”

“No,” Ernesto snapped. “We can’t take the chance.”

“What about the bee suit,” Maria reminded them. The butterflies that were left abandoned Joe’s body in favor of the weeds. In seconds, they were crawling all over the leaves.

“I can get the suit, no problem,” Bill said galvanizing into action. “The butterflies are staying in your yard for some reason.” He took off running toward the front door and seconds later they heard it slam.

Maria continued watching as the butterflies began to drop off the leaves and lay still on the ground. “They’re dying,” she said excitedly, just as Bill returned partially dressed in the suit. “We can get him now,” she crowed and brushed past her husband on the way to the door.

Ernesto caught her arm as she went by and swung her around. “No you don't,” he declared with a stern look. “I’ll help Bill, you talk to the police, if you ever get off hold.” He shoved the phone into her hand as Bill unlocked the door. Both men cautiously moved out onto the porch. When nothing flew into the air, Bill put on his hat and eased open the screen door. Determining it was safe; Bill rushed down the flagstone path, the loud crunch of insects beneath his feet. When no butterflies appeared, Ernesto followed, and both men knelt down by Joe. He looked horrible, his flesh was reddened and streaked, his breathing labored, but he was alive and his heartbeat seemed strong. “Should we try to move him?” Ernesto asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Bill replied, opening his mouth to say maybe they better not, when Maria came out carrying a blanket. She joined them next to Joe and gently covered him.

“An ambulance is on the way,” she told them, “the police, too.”

“Finally,” Ernesto growled, glancing up. Immediately, the weeds caught his attention. The leaves were covered with shiny red eggs. He slapped Bill’s arm and pointed.

“That’s why they didn’t leave the yard,” Bill exclaimed. “They had to be close to the host plant to lay their eggs.”

Ernesto stood up, went to the side of the house and began to unwind the water hose. “There’s gasoline in the shed,” he told Bill. “You can help me burn these weeds or not, but those things aren’t getting a chance to do this again.”

“I’m with you,” Bill said, already on his feet and heading toward the shed. By the time the wail of a siren was heard, Ernesto had thoroughly watered down the house and the ground surrounding the weeds, which were soaked in gasoline. As Ernesto lit the match and tossed it onto the plants, Bill scooped up the peanut butter jar. He began collecting insects carefully placing their dead bodies and wings into the container. He met Maria’s puzzled expression with the ghost of a smile. “For Dr. Valdez, maybe he can identify the suckers.”

Joe stirred under the blanket and groaned loudly. “Lie still,” Maria whispered to him, as the weeds popped and blackened in the flames. “Everything is going to be all right. You’re going to be fine,” she sighed deeply, feeling the tears of relief begin to sting her eyes.

Ernesto watched his wife take care of Joe, then let his attention drift to the burning weeds and the rest of the garden. He'd replant he decided. He had some potting soil in the shed. He could start tomorrow, that is if Maria didn't insist on gutting the garden entirely.

Inside the shed, two sacks of potting soil rested on the floor. Inside the sacks, dark, rich organic matter mixed with lighter sand and minerals. In between the bits of organic matter nestled clusters of tiny buff colored seeds and bright red eggs.