Bamboo, Butterfly
Unnatural Recollections #7
Part 1: Strange Places
Bamboo
In different seasons, you will see different things in the bamboo forest. When the spring mist seeps into the hollow sections of bamboo, you’d hear the cry of a baby in the haze, separated by a layer of film, as if in a mother’s womb. If you brush aside the mist, you’d see your feet moving forward like a cat, and your hands fluttering like a lost butterfly. Then, the bamboo forest suddenly sprouts in front of your eyes, with the bamboo tube shaking in the distant cry like an overseas call. You would see a knife being pulled out, lacking a flash in the fog, but the bamboo tube breaks open in response, revealing a baby’s bright crying face inside.
In different seasons, you would see different things in the bamboo forest. When the summer sun evaporates the moisture of the earth, you can hear the panting of beasts in the rising air currents. You put down your telescope and backpack, take off your hat that’s as hot as a grill, and peel off your soaking wet clothes, letting the sun suck up the leftover sweat on your skin. Then, you squat behind the bamboo forest, and see two entwined bodies in the dappled bamboo shadows, forming a shape like a flame.
In different seasons, you will see different things in the bamboo forest. When the sounds of autumn fall to the ground, the soles of your feet will never lack for conversation. You always hear footsteps that match your own, in front of you, behind you, or beside you, but you can’t see the figure of the sage. Then you come to the bamboo forest where each section represents a different age, tracing back to many past events, the skeletons and patterns of the past, until your hair falls out, seeking companionship among the withered leaves.
In different seasons, you will see different things in the bamboo forest. When the winter winds are closer to you than your clothes, you will wear the feelings of homecoming to stay warm. The road is filled with familiar scenery until you reach that secluded bamboo forest. Like an iron gate, the bamboo keeps you out. You hear a call, but you cannot see the secrets within. Thus, you can only imagine that in different seasons, what you actually see in the bamboo forest are the same things, including mating and murder.
Butterfly
It was that clear morning when butterflies massively invaded our city. That day, before my wife left for work, I reminded her to take an umbrella because it was raining outside. Looking closely again, I realized that what was flickering in the sky was not spring rain, but countless dancing butterflies.
My first reaction was to rush into the room to get my specimen collection box and net. What a rare opportunity! I told my wife. There might be a lot of rare species! When I came to the street, I realized I actually didn’t need a net. The butterflies were so dense that they nearly hit your face and automatically fell into the collection box. I had to pour out the excess butterflies.
In the evening, I was counting my scores and discovered all kinds of butterflies - swallowtails, tiger butterflies, emperor butterflies, and white butterflies. Among them was a stunningly rare red sawtooth tiger butterfly. Yet, my wife looked worried. The TV news reported various accidents caused by butterflies. Cars crashed due to butterflies disturbing the driver’s vision; crowds in the subway station trampled each other trying to avoid butterflies; a woman found her bathroom mirror filled with butterflies while she was taking a bath, and jumped out of the window naked; a family of five died from poisoning after frantically spraying insecticide at their home.
After nightfall, panicked police officers were wildly shooting at the flickering shadows under the street lamps, and many bullets hit the residential buildings, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass and screams of people being shot. Later, the firefighters sprayed water cannons or chemical liquids. Deep into the night, there were raging fires outside, and it was said that the military had launched flamethrowers, and the air seemed to be filled with the aroma of burning butterflies and fried nectar. My wife and I escaped and pushed through what were either butterflies or ashes, and took refuge on the only small hill in the city for the night. I thought of my specimen box, which seemed to have been buried in the sea of fire.
In the morning after, we looked at the city reduced to ruins on the mountain. Above the charred buildings, clusters of wobbly butterflies fluttered, looking like colorful stars in the sunlight. My wife said, “Actually, the butterflies haven’t done anything, they’re just flying there.”