Rachel Wolcott, Fact & Fiction

According to The Junior Practical Entomologist, a book I first encountered at age eight, simple household items can be easily made into a kill jar. A few cotton balls soaked in a toxic liquid (rubbing alcohol or ammonia) and placed in the bottom of a mayonnaise jar, suffice to kill a butterfly, moth or any insect instantly. As I came to learn, coaxing the creature into the jar is not as academic. It requires persistence to transfer the fidgeting specimen from net to jar and lithe fingers to screw down the lid before it escapes.
Most butterflies only live for a few weeks. Some may last for eight months or so if hatched in autumn. There are moths that only live for three days. Since these creatures are so beautiful and possess certain colors–iridescent indigo or translucent tawny saffron – we want to keep them as decorations to remind us of what real beauty is. To this end, we euthanize these nymphs, mount their carcasses in boxes reminiscent of Snow White’s glass casket and attempt to preserve their brief moment, their rarity and scarcity. We keep them filed in customized mausoleums with others of their kind to protect them from disintegrating or from being consumed by an equally unusual mite.
I have been collecting butterflies for years now and have developed a rare patience which permits me to turn over every leaf of a host plant looking for a clutch of minute opaque eggs or even better, a caterpillar. Any larvae I find is hatched in my lab, where I then observe and record the entire metamorphosis. In aid of my research – charting the genetic relationships between butterfly species – I am forced to execute my wards and then pulverize their corpses so that I might unzip their genetic material. My mother thinks I am disgusting.
The research is going quite well. Every few months I add another theoretical bough to the family tree I am piecing together from the strands of amino acids which reveal themselves to me in the lab. I have genetic material from thousands of species frozen in miniature plastic vials. Lately I have been searching for new species of moths in the Northeastern region of the United States.
I have found no published record of what I call the Cobweb moth – a shimmering and opaque naiad – white with azure veins in both its fore and hind wings. I, Lyon Goodfellow want to be known as the first lepidopterist to describe this species. Still this nymph eludes and frustrates me. Every year I capture an adult or two, but have not succeeded in charting a complete metamorphosis or determining their host plant. I cannot finish the description. Every year I am left with the same vague bits.
My most recent collecting trip was to the foothills of the Pale Mountains to hunt for these undocumented, fragile moths which congregate in secluded copses. Simon, a colleague from my laboratory came along for what has become an annual event in my life.
The last weekend in May brings the greatest concentration of moths and we drove north to meet them. We camped near Great Vale, along the Nimbus River, where we hoped to catch a few trout as well as gather our limit of moths. Usually I convince a few friends to come along, but this year it was only we two entomologists, no laymen.
Last year, my girlfriend of the time – Helen, came along. I’m not sure if it was the trip which sealed the fate on our relationship, but when we returned I became mired in work and she drifted away. A few months later I found a package of my love tokens returned to me without explanation. I’m beginning to believe that there is a correlation between the life spans of romance and butterflies.
The field Simon and I pitched our tent in was thick with young clover. White and purple flowers speckled the ground, Queen Anne’s Lace grew tall at the edge of the dirt track, its blossoms appearing to be parasols used by the likes of Mab and Titania. We weren’t far from the main road, but far enough to feel isolated and wild.
Simon and I walked up a slight rise towards the forest that consisted of some conifers, but mainly deciduous trees. Our flashlights shone ahead, their golden beams illuminating an infestation of buzzing motes. Based on my largely unfounded theory that Cobweb larvae feed on young pine needles, we selected what we imagined to be a perfect gathering site, a clearing surrounded by tall pines, their brown needles cast off making a spongy, quiet floor. We then figured out where, the next evening we would place the lamp to attract the moths.
Simon stepped back from the center of the clearing and sat down near some fiddleheads. He looked up towards the pitch forest ceiling, jotted notes about the flora in the clearing and estimated the air temperature. I inspected tree trunks for cocoons, larvae, perhaps a moth at rest, but the copse was still and cold. I shone my light on Simon and noticed that the fiddleheads behind him were curling back into their tight spirals.
The next morning before I awoke, Simon drove into town and bought food and coffee at a bakery. I split open a croissant and stuffed it with cold cuts from the cooler. Still in my shorts, I sat in the damp grass and thought about the passage of moths I expected to witness that evening. I pictured the dark forest before me, the lamp glowing hot and hundreds of Cobweb moths orbiting each other in a shapeless blur of blue and white, until they tired of the ritual and flew away to hide themselves where they were to die.
We took our fly rods and a cooler of provisions down to the riverbank and set up a temporary base camp devoted solely to an afternoon of leisure. By mid-afternoon I had not caught a thing, but Simon netted some gorgeous, plump brook trout that we planned to fry for dinner.
The stretch of the Nimbus River near where we camped is about two hundred feet wide, shallow and pebbly. I stood in the center where the water rose thigh high on my khaki green waders. Water rolled through my legs, making them feel damp and clammy. The current moved too quickly to allow my fly to rest in one spot long enough for a trout to rise and take it. I pushed my way to the opposite bank where the water moved slowly along the sandy bottom. I cast my line out onto the water and allowed it to undulate and ripple along the surface.
Simon positioned himself by the bank opposite me. He methodically flicked and maneuvered his rod, artfully snaking his line along the bubbling water. He began to sing “It Ain’t Necessarily So” with emphasis on the verse about Jonah. I joined in and we exchanged verses, our voices echoing over the water, until we were hoarse.
By twilight Simon was anxious about the gathering site. He wondered if weren’t too cold for a true bounty of moths. I was not too concerned because I was in the midst of romanticizing my relationship with Helen. I began to ask myself if I shouldn’t give her a call when I got home. Last year Helen asked me if we couldn’t just spare the lives of one or two moths, that they were so beautiful. I told her that it didn’t make a difference, that they were all going to die in a few days anyway. I distantly recall the grimace on her face, just before she turned away and disappeared into the dark forest. When I returned to the camp, she was already asleep. On the drive home the next morning, she hardly spoke a word to me and I remained silent, not being in a mood to embark on an analysis of our relationship.
Shortly before dusk we unloaded the lamp and a small generator from the bed of Simon’s truck. Being awkward to carry Simon and I struggled to haul it up the slope to the copse. I then returned to the truck for a can of gasoline, the nets and collecting bags. We positioned the lamp in the center of the clearing. I clumsily maneuvered the gas can’s nozzle to meet the generator’s plastic tank and filled it. With a flip of a small metal switch, the lamp burst into a halo of scalding white light which changed the color of the pine boughs from a deep aquamarine to a sickly transparent and ordinary green. We then waited for the Cobweb moths to emerge from their daytime hiding places.
The sky was still faintly lit as we waited. I walked away from the lamp, scattering pine needles in front of me. Overhead bats glided and swooped between the treetops. The chirrups of spring peepers came to a crescendo and the air mingled with the smell of wet grass and delicate pine. The heavy night sky closed over the trees and I returned to the lamp.
The first few moths sped towards the lamp, their thick bodies colliding with the hot metal and falling to the ground. I ran to inspect the remains only to find that they were nothing but Mustardseed moths – an invasive species introduced from Europe. These pests soon inundated the copse and greedily swarmed the light.
I waved my net through the air hoping that a few Cobweb moths were among the interlopers. The net filled quickly and by the time it reached the peak of its upward swing, it fell to the ground overloaded. I pointed my flashlight at the net and quickly dug through the squirming bodies and wings. I dredged out three or four Cobwebs, and dropped them into a collecting bag. I dumped the Mustardseed moths into a larger bag, sealed it and tossed it to the edge of the clearing.
Simon stood about ten feet away, his back to the lamp, moths streaming past him like bats from a cave at dusk. Thousands of sooty, unremarkable imps flying without any motive except to mate. I, too, was enveloped by the moths. They crawled through my hair, on my face and neck, and beneath my clothes. My skin writhed with grotesque beige bodies. I refilled my net again and again.
Three large collection bags bulging with Mustardseed moths lay at the edge of the copse, while I only collected a few Cobweb moths. I called out to Simon who appeared and kicked a bag of moths. The lamp dimmed to a faint red glow as the gas in the generator ran low. Fewer moths flew to the clearing, but the scales from the wings of those there before still billowed around the waning lamplight.
I grabbed a bag of moths, hoisted it over my head and slammed it into the ground. The bag split open and a few mangled wings, abdomens and antenna nestled into the forest floor. I gathered the bag together and threw it into the ground again. I continued to do so until nothing inside it moved