A Butterfly's Transformation

The sky turns a dusty shade of pink as remnants of the sun struggle to stay above the horizon. A girl with ears pointed like the tip of a freshly sharpened pencil sits cross-legged facing a large, purple, Wisteria tree, and her left hand is placed gently on the broad trunk. Caterpillars of all types scatter around her, some even perch on her hair and body. Monarch caterpillars hug her legs, kissing every curve with grace. Painted Ladies and Black Swallowtails pass each other and land on flowers surrounding the tree. Finishing the group of caterpillars surrounding the girl protectively are Spring Azures, Clouded Sulfurs, and Palmer’s Metalmarks.

Each caterpillar dances along with the slight breeze as the moon wakes up for the night. Mother birds quiet their chicks and ready them for bed, squirrels scurry up trees to retire for the night, and bunnies and rabbits hop into their burrows. Focusing on the hand against the tree, the girl closes her eyes. After some time, her hair begins to shorten until it reaches just below her ears and her features begin to harden and become more masculine. It is there, under the large Wisteria tree, that a boy is born. The caterpillars curl up and transform into butterflies, fluttering freely, carried by the night breeze.

The Wisteria vines swing gently. The purple of the flowers matches the boy’s lavender-colored eyes, both as purple as the amethyst crystal encased in a copper wire attached to a matching chain dangling just below his collarbone. Mother Nature gifted it to him, replacing what once was a pink rose quartz that his mother had gifted, a gift that reminded him of someone he was not.

“When the time comes, offer this crystal to the village, for it will save what has been lost,” Mother Nature had said as she placed her hands on his chest where the new crystal lay.

The child barely manages a smile and rests his forehead against the trunk of the tree, but just as he does so, the purple of the flowers turns a color similar to rust and withers away, leaving the tree bare. The boy lifts his head after feeling a few withered petals fall on his thick hair. Footsteps in the distance alert him to another’s presence and he is forcefully reverted into his other form. The necklace, however, stays the same beautiful purple. He looks down at his chest where two breasts now rest once again and frowns. He then looks around for the source of the noise and notices that the butterflies have completely disappeared.

A tall woman whose looks resemble that of the boy comes to stand in front of him. She looks down into his eyes, her own crinkling at the corners when she smiles lightly.

“Come inside, my child,” she coaxes as she stretches her hand out. The boy grabs it and lets himself be hoisted up. “Look at you, oh your hair has become so long and beautiful.” She caresses a piece of the boy’s hair and he fights back a cringe. It reminds him of a time before his transformation when he was someone unfamiliar. When he would stare into his eyes in the mirror and see someone else staring back at him. “But let’s get you out of those boyish clothes. Where on Earth did you even get them? The neighbors just gifted you some adorable skirts…” He drowns out his mother’s rambling and stares ahead. His skin feels dirty as he walks back to the small cottage with his mother who’s unaware of the swirls of darkness that surround her child.

The next day, the boy awakes to the sun rising just above the horizon. He yawns, stands up, and stretches as he dresses for the day in the khaki shorts and button-up he was given yesterday and begins to walk to the kitchen for breakfast. He puts his hair into a low bun as he steps between pots of flowers and houseplants, careful not to topple any over. His mother sits in the kitchen. His father sits across from her, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, darling. I made some pancakes-” she cuts herself off. “You know I don’t like you with your hair like that. And those clothes! How many times do I have to tell you not to wear those clothes?” The boy walks to the fridge and prepares himself a glass of orange juice. His fingers twitch and he clenches his jaw.

“These clothes were a gift,” he mumbles and turns around to see his mother looking at him with a furrow in her brows. His father looks up from his newspaper.

“A gift from who?”

“Mother Nature.” His mother tuts and shakes her head.

“Here you go again with your silly stories. Mother Nature would not want you looking like something she did not create you to be.”

His father chimes in. “Wanting to change something that Mother Nature blessed you with would be greatly insulting to her. Listen to your mother and change your clothes.”

The boy growls. “Mother Nature knows that she made a mistake. What you want me to be is not who I am anymore. She even changed my necklace to prove it!” The boy’s mother gasps and covers her mouth.

His father slams a fist on the table, making the boy jump. “Don’t go spouting nonsense, child! She made you a girl so that is what you are!” How ironic, that those who are taught to love will be quick to hate and judge.

“No, I’m not,” The boy sneers, punctuating each word. He slams his untouched orange juice on the counter and speeds out of the cottage, ignoring his parents’ yells from behind him.

Once outside, he looks down at the amethyst. He was never allowed to go into the village. His mother claimed that it was too dangerous for him so she kept him in their small cottage and homeschooled him, teaching him everything she believed he needed to know. This would be his first time there, but if Mother Nature gave him the task, surely she wouldn’t put him in harm’s way. With that thought, he lifted his chin and headed into the village.

A person wearing raggedy, dull clothes greets the boy at the entrance. They smile and nod their head in a light bow. The boy does the same back.

“I have something. Is there someone in charge?” he asks. The person shakes their head.

“Not yet,” they respond and gesture to follow. They have medium-length hair with half of it tied up into a bun and a petite frame.

The two head deeper into the village and the boy is met with a sorrowful sight. Dead vines cling to every house like venomous snakes, and the shrubbery is bare and so dry it looks as though one small gust of wind can make them crumble. And the butterflies… oh the poor butterflies. The boy stops in his tracks and bends down to get a closer look. Their wings are moving but not enough to lift them off the ground, and their colors are extremely muted. It’s an awful sight to behold. He reaches his hand out and gently touches the wing of an unmoving monarch. He frowns and quickly stands up to follow the person the rest of the way.

The few villagers that walk in the open sneer at him as they pass as if they can see straight through his unnatural skin, telling him he doesn’t belong. If the person leading notices, they don’t pay any mind to the interaction. Other villagers hide in the shadows and watch. He’s starting to understand why his mother never let him come here, but Mother Nature wants him to help these people so he pushes forward.

They finally stop in front of a large, dying tree and turn around. “Your necklace,” they say. “It is from Mother, correct?”

The boy pauses, then asks, “How did you know that?”

Instead of answering, they gesture to the tree and step aside. Broken tree branches, caterpillars, and nearly-dead butterflies litter the surrounding ground. The boy walks up to the tree, the foliage crunching underneath his bare feet and makes sure he doesn’t step on any of the precious insects. He places his hand on the trunk and takes a deep breath. A strong, yet familiar, energy flows through his fingertips. A breeze picks up around him as the area around his hand begins to glow. His hair becomes short and his features turn masculine once more. He’s back in the body he was meant to have all along!

Next to his thumb, he notices a divot in the shape of his amethyst. With his other hand, he yanks the necklace off, breaking the chain, and pushes the crystal into the hole. The crystal merges deeper and deeper, and as it does so, it too begins to glow.

Slowly, the tree starts to fill with life, regrowing branches, leaves, and flowers, and eventually blooming into a large purple Wisteria tree. The dead vines hanging onto the houses are restored into colorful flowery vines that now hug the houses cheerfully, crops grow large enough to feed the entire village for a month, and the bushes grow back their green puffs. But most importantly, the butterflies flutter back to life and caterpillars transform.

The rude villagers gawk at the scene that unfolds, but eventually, they disappear into thin air. The villagers who hid themselves in the shadows step forward and begin to glow. Their hair and clothes rustle in the wind and they look around as transformation after transformation takes place. Some with long hair watch as their hair shortens and their bodies harden and become more masculine while those with short hair watch it grow as their bodies soften and grow chests. Some even watch as their bodies become a mixture of both. The villagers cheer and laugh as happiness is once again restored to the village. The boy pulls his hand away from the tree that doesn’t wither away like before and touches his still-short hair. His lips curve into a bright smile and he laughs. Here in this village, he’ll no longer have to pretend to please anyone. He can just be.

The villagers hold a week-long celebration filled with laughter, music, dancing, and vast amounts of food, and every evening, when the sun hits the amethyst crystal that’s fused into the bark of the Wisteria tree, the villagers leave offerings in thanks for restoring what they were born without and feared they’d never get.