The Tale of the Butterfly - A Fairy-Tale

The Tale of the Butterfly

A Fairy-Tale

written by

Dandelo

original language

German

original title

Wie aus dem Schmetterling ein Drache wurde

Once upon a time there was a small village way beyond all hill and dale that is remembered by no one. In this village that was surrounded by old beeches that towered over all, seemingly grazing the clouds above them, there lived an old pegasus with his wife. In his youth, the stallion had been a passionate gardener, taking care of his garden beds and looking over all that grew in his vicinity - and as he grew older his eyes turned grey, the wings which he used to bolt through the sky were strong no more, but jaded and faint, and what once has been a resilient back was now bent from the years passed. His spouse too, beautiful in her very own simplicity and prudent and dear, suffered from the ailments of a long life. But it mattered little to them, for as long as they were together happiness was with them.

   They had been together since when they were young - a humble home they called their own, even though the roof was leaky and the walls skew, yet at dawn they kissed each other good morning and at dusk they kissed each other good night when the sun embedded itself in a crimson hue, casting the beeches’ shadows dark and heavy upon the village. Little did they possess and yet they offered to share it with everypony in need if they but knocked on the door; then the old couple invited that somepony to a warm soup and words of confidence and aid. There was but one thing the mare did not intend to share or trade with anypony: it was the splinter of a jewel girded by the crystal of a mountain that she kept in a little tight box beneath her sheets. All ponies from far and wide seemed to know the elderly couple. When they walked the streets of their village they were greeted with love and friendliness. Every once in a while some of them left flowers on the threshold of their miserable hut where the light fell through blind windows, barely revealing what was inside: then the mare picked the flowers from the ground, her smile wandering down the paths and thinking “to whom it may concern”.

   Day followed day, spring followed winter, and the stallion grew uneasy. With gloomy eyes tacked to the horizon, he said:

   “The current of the clouds is getting quicker every day for me now. Soon there will be a waft to take me away into lands far from here. Love, you who stood by my side over the countless years, will be left alone and you’ll have to bid me farewell. But don’t you cry for me so my memories of you and your beauty will bring me happiness in what lies beyond, and I’ll be there waiting for you. Never was there a thing that would make me happier than to look into those golden eyes of yours, but still I find agony in the thought of never being able to raise a son or a daughter of our own - this I regret.”

   The mare grasped his hoof and caressed his greyed mane, but remained silent. A single silvery tear made its way down her cheek onto the ground, where it climbed down some blades of grass until it was drunk by the thirsty earth beneath. Night broke soon after and the stallion and the mare lay with another one last time, and the folk soon noticed that she was bearing a child. A miracle they called it and a miracle it was as if the faithful stallion’s life long wish had been granted by forces not known to any of them. Alas he did not live to see his child. It was mere hours before birth when he opened his eyes for a last time, his hoof searching that of his wife, and when she found it in her blissful sleep she tightened the grip and didn’t let go and didn’t realise how her husband took his final breath, absorbing the smell of her hair and kissing her on the forehead, before he slowly - slowly, but not sad - sunk into twilight, through twilight into cleansing night to wash him free from all that has been bad in his life until he finally arrived in the garden of song and light.

   The day after, a loving mother embraced a beautiful child wound in a hoof-knitted blue blanket, viewing it tenderly. “Such a beauteous face”, the mare sighed. “Slick features without any blot. You need but a name. How proud your father would have been if he could have seen you in your precious perfection. But deep inside of me I know he’s watching from above and smiling at you.”

   As if to prove what she just had said, a hole formed between the clouds, allowing a single ray of sunlight to shine through the window and right upon the filly, covering it in a colorful spectacle. With all the colors dancing on her one could have thought of the blue blanket as the azure sky and the colors as those of the dawn painting the edge of the world. “Your father is with us, dear”, the mare said. “So he caught a glimpse of you after all. Just listen to the wind outside: this is his laughter, and the light is the gown in which he dresses you. Now I know - Sungown shall be your name and there will be no mare more fair than you.”

   But it was not long after that misery struck the village as its residents had long wondered how it could be that it did not rain for weeks on end with dry winds coming from the south that brought no comfort, but dust and sand, tearing the branches off the beeches that stood silently against the world. Soon they realised that a drought was ravaging their beloved homeland. Grass withered away, plants died, the rivers and brooks became shallower and shallower, and the woods went silent: neither a bird’s song nor the careful snooping of a fox could be heard as if the animals had already left this part of the world. The old mare used to watch over Sungown all day and all night all the while the filly developed a feverish heat that burnt her from the inside out. The mare did what she could, but to no avail as her beloved daughter grew weaker every day. With all salubrious herbs dying from the draught the mare went from house to house begging for help for dear Sungown, not unlike she and her husband had provided it over the years, and yet she was shunned by her neighbours as though they did not recognize her. There was no help nor bliss nor confidence, no flowers to be put on the threshold and without that no smile to be send down the streets. “This is how they repay you”, the old mare uttered, “you’re of no worth after all these years and invisible to them. But I cannot blame them for their behavior. Each of them has loved ones to look after on their own. Even if they could, none of them would be able to save my child. I’m left with no other choice: I shall leave this village, praying to find someone along the road to take care of her.” Thus she packed that little what remained of her belongings and, passing the beeches along the way, left her home for the very first time in her life. With her, covered in her blue blanket, Sungown peacefully slept despite her condition. Blessed be the child too young to know of the world and its grief!

Many days and nights the old mare wandered about, but for long she had been gone now, nopony could tell: could have been one week, ten days, or more. Under open skies the two of them slept, watched only by myriads of blinking stars as if they resembled eyes, and not one cloud gave the desiccated earth what it longed for the most. Yet after a while the old mare noticed how the bushes were filled with life again and how the grass became greener the further she was from her village. Soon she came to find a narrow river that led her into the heart of the country. Cold and brisk, the water proofed to cure Sungown from her fever, and the old mare sighed in relief and gratefully looked up into the sky because she knew that the sun that was burning the earth was also full of the mercy and the love of her departed husband. But as time went on, weakness began to grip the old mare - not only of the body, but of the mind as well. More often than before would she lie down in the somber shadow of a tree, a hill, or even a shrub, and as the shadow crept along the ground, so did the old mare. Her hooves were hurting, her lungs aching, her back creaking. And the weariness! Not the kind one would expect after lang days of marching. This one was incisive, crippling, obscuring her wit and clouding her vision, it snuck up her limbs with a terrifying cold that made her shiver even though it was hot during the days that were followed by mild nights.

   The old mare thought by herself: “This is the longing of my husband that’s tearing me apart. Soon I cannot take it any longer: Then I will follow him. I can feel death inching closer and closer. Alas I can’t leave my little Sungown alone! Without me she will starve and I shall not meet her up there without her living a life of happiness.” Thus the old mare wept. Not one single pony did she meet on her path and the mere thought of the distance that must lie between her and the village she had left let her lose all hope. Lost in her sorrow, she did not notice how the sweetest music swole, and it was only after a dozen of voices started singing that she looked up - only to find what turned out to be a big swarm of butterflies dazzling in the sunlight, wafting through the air near the banks of the river she had followed. Playfully they spun and sang and laughed and cheered as if no grief in the world could ever come to them! Displaying their mellow, vitreous wings, the swarm danced on even the tiniest breeze, giving the flowers surrounding them a nudge every now and then, and the flowers nodded in drowsy agreement.

   Mesmerized, the old mare stood up. “Hear me, you butterflies, buoyant and pied! “, she whispered, for even a sudden thump could hurt the tiny ears of a butterfly. “Allow me to speak, I beg of you, I need your help!”

   At first, the swarm didn’t seem to take any interest in her. And just has she thought they’d ignore her, the swarm surprisingly gathered around her and plunged the old mare in a kaleidoscope of ever changing patterns. And from that pattern, a voice clearly spoke:

   “Look, look! A pony is this and a very old at that! What does she seek so far off from everything all by herself, I wonder?”

   “Why are you blind?”, a second voice chimed in. “She’s not alone. There’s a second one right there, hiding in the blanket.”

   “A newborn”, a third voice spotted before adding: “What do you want? What do you desire?”

   “It is true”, the pegasus replied. “Old I am, weak and almost blind. My life is coming to a close, but it is my daughter I fear for. You see, I was hoping to find a new home for her, however, I could not find one, and once I am gone, she will be alone - that would be her death. So I beg of you, kind, generous butterflies, take her in and raise her as your own to grant her a new life! It’d eat at my heart to know she is not safe.”

   Some of the butterflies inched ever so close to take a better look at the filly. “What is her name? How do you call her?”, they asked softly.

   “When she was born, all colors of the light did she wear. Therefore is Sungown her name.”

   “A strange name, even for a pony”, replied the second voice. “No animal do I know of that ever had such a name, and no animal do I know of that made light its dress.”

   “Then she’ll be the first”, the mother lovingly remarked. “My daughter is such animal; she will grow into a fine, gorgeous child to you. That is, of course, if you decide to keep her. A drought drove us from our home and we were searching for a new one ever since. You are her last resort: Deny her and she will die at her mother’s side.”

   For a moment, the swarm grew unpleasantly silent. Then the voice spoke again: “We are fleeing the drought, too. My tribe is on its way to the rich meadows from where we came back then, right beyond those hills you see. Bring your daughter there and we will be her new family and raise her in the way of the butterflies, as we did for centuries.”

   And with that, big tears streamed down the elderly pony’s face. “I thank you, I thank you, oh by the heavens I thank all of you. One last venture - so be it. After that, I’ll be gone, and you, precious butterflies, will have my undying gratitude.”

   The butterflies knew how to shorten the journey with their pretty voices as they sang of joy and felicity. The old mare could think of nothing but her daughter, though, and as soon as they arrived, she handed her to the butterfly she had spoken to earlier: Sayay was her name, and her wings were of a marvellous red and white and black. Two things the old mare left her child: The blue blanket she had knitted in the months before Sungown’s birth, and the jewel she’d kept through all her life. “She’s my life now”, she calmly uttered, “and where I’m headed it won’t be of value anymore.”

   As the sun sunk behind the trees of the forest that surrounded the butterflies’ meadow, the butterflies saw how the old mare gave her daughter one last warm kiss. Because such is a mother’s love: warm and gentle and fond in any way. She then bid Sayay and the others farewell. Silence overcame the swarm, a rare event that only occurred to those fairy-like creatures under one of two circumstances: in times of desperate sorrow, or of deep, honest sympathy.

   Moved by her actions, they watched as the old mare walked deeper into the darkness. After a while she was but a silhouette - then a shadow - then nothing. None of them ever learned of how or where her life ended, but, deep inside of them, they knew of whom she was thinking of.

Twelve years passed in the blink of an eye and the meadow lived in immense prosperity, with grass as green as ever and water clean and shimmering in the sun. The soil here was deep and fertile, the winter was mild and the summer as beautiful as it was magnificent. Nature blossomed after every shower, revealing nature’s sheer creativity in all facets; on sunny days however, the air was so clean that you could see snow covered tops of the far-off mountains, sneaking a peek at eternal ice that never would melt, no matter what. No minute did the meadow see that was not filled with abundance - and the shadow of the drought that had dried out the lands of the south could not reach this mythical landscape.

   The butterflies lived peacefully in their haven, and Sungown lived among them. Keeping her promise, Sayay had raised her as one of her own. Everyone seemed to like Sungown, this butterfly that was so different from what they’ve known: Bigger than anyone in the swarm, she was tall enough to sniff at the blooms of small trees; her shadow was so large that over a dozen butterflies could find shelter from the sun; her appearance overall did not resemble that of a butterfly at all! The older butterflies of course knew that she was, in fact, a young pony, and a pegasus at that. The younger ones however thought of her as a sister - and thus, a butterfly. Sungown even felt like one: As far as she was concerned, she was a butterfly and did not wish to be anything - or anyone - else. “Why should my looks bother me?”, she said to her mother one morn as she had questioned her stepdaughter about it, and, laughing, Sungown added: “After all, you might be the strange ones as well!”

   And the way was always the same.

   No one treated her differently - she had always been a member of the swarm, no matter how you’d put it, and thus learned their customs and adapted to their traditions as well as to their illustrious, playful behavior. She sang their songs, danced their dances, became soft - yet one thing set her apart from the others: her curiosity. No hour would pass without her asking about the reason behind this thing and that oddity. Quite a lot did it happen that she ventured into the forest, only to return with the setting sun, branches in her mane and dirt on her fur, and you could usually tell from the glow in her eyes if she had succeeded in learning something new. That is why, even in young age, Sungown had seen much and learned more to the degree that none of her family or friends could teach her anything she didn’t already know.

   Adding to her bursting mind she was blessed with a stunning beauty. The bright green of her coat was akin to the rich grass beneath her hooves, her petite body was slender and flexible like young sprouts on a tree; her eyes resembled fiery rubies that caught every flicker of light and made them shimmer; her tail was short and her mane undone, drifting in the gentle breeze, streaks of her orange hair that reminded one of the sun at dawn fondled her adequate face up to her nostrils that were sprinkled with freckles. Streaks of yellow and red in her mane caused the flock of nearby birds to give her a special nickname - Leafhead, as the colors were like those of the leaves once fall came around. Sungown soon found the name to be rather fitting and laughed at the mention of it, disregarding her mother’s disapproving words. “What is a name anyway? It says nothing about how or what I am and is but a sign, similar to how we call a tree tree and a river river. Never did a name change the thing it stood for.”

   Life was placid in the meadow. They did not know anguish nor worry, as it has always been, and that could have been the end of the story.

The curious mind can never have enough. It seeks the knowing of all details and is occupied by the reasons behind them. Sungown, knowing all the details of the meadow and their reasons, craved for more and soon found herself to be bored. By everything. The most glamorous days were too bright and the calmest of nights too cold, food was dull, and she started to avoid her friends as they did not prove to be diverting company as she had hoped for: Just how could they live everyday like the last, replicating the same old jog without ever exploring the possibilities of their minds? No butterfly shared her curiosity, for they had lived their tiny, beautiful lives with joy and felicity since the dawn of time and would continue to do so until the end. Sungown longed for more. Agitation was building inside her, a natural characteristic of her race, but hard to describe in the words of a butterfly.

   And yet there was one thing that weighed more on her heart than anything: Though twelve years of age, Sungown didn’t know how to fly. From above, she thought to herself, the world must be yours for the taking. Days on end would she spend staring into the azure sky, watching the slow current of the clouds as they drifted towards the horizon… wishing to be there with them. Unfortunately no teacher seemed to be able to show her the right way: Since a butterfly’s wings were petty and their bodies small, they could simply fly with the very next breath of air. A pegasus however must learn how to coordinate the muscles on her back and build up enough strength to lift off. Because of that, Sungown consulted the birds, but still to no avail: Though similar in appearance, the way of the birds was not that of the pitiful pegasus, and she grieved over her inability to fulfill her greatest wish.

   Sayay watched her daughter as she seemingly fell apart bit by bit. She had learned to love her as if she was her own, and thus she had come to fret the day that she now knew was right upon them. That fateful evening, after Sungown had returned home - long had she stood on a lonely hill, wings spread to the fullest, in anticipation of a breeze that’d be strong enough to pick her up -, she awaited her daughter by her bedside. The daughter lay down and the mother hopped on her hoof, glancing at her lovingly. “What your heart wants and what it needs are not always one and the same, my child”, Sayay said.

   “I need my family”, Sungown answered after some time.

   “Yet you yearn for something entirely different. You yearn for the world since we cannot give you what you desire most.”

   “It’s true. I want to learn how to fly - I’ve got to. Still… I am afraid. I’ve never been alone, ever.” It was then that Sayay noticed Sungown’s silent tears. She comforted her daughter and said the following:

   “Nobody is ever truly alone as long as someone remains to remember her by: She who is gone is always followed by the wishes and thoughts of those who have watched her go. Those are the ones she loves, and she is the one they love. To think of you leaving breaks my heart in ways I’ve never imagined, but because I love you so, so much I am trying to persuade you: go. I know of your pain. And I also know that, somewhere, there will be a master who will teach you the art of flight. One thing I ask of you: Never ever shall you forget who you are and whence you came so that you may return one day, not the same butterfly that left, but more. You will always be my daughter and I could never stop loving you. That is all.”

   Not once did Sayay lie to her daughter; yet when the swarm gathered to see Sungown off she couldn’t stand to tell her the truth about the old mare that once brought a little filly to them.

   Tearful was the departure. Her friends hugged her thoroughly and sang songs for her. Flowers were woven into the feathers of her wings and bright ribbons into her mane. Sungown said goodbye to every single one of them. On the inside she was torn but she felt that it had to be done for her to grow. A new world lay before her, unknown to the filly with the butterfly’s past: She could not wait to discover it. With her she wore the knitted blue blanket she was wound in as a newborn - as she had grown, she started using it as a kerchief -, a brooch in form of a splinter of a jewel girded by the crystal of a mountain as well as her name and the memories of a happy youth in the meadows of the butterflies. She was a part of them.