The Moth Collector

© 2002 Steve Goldsmith
All rights reserved.

I enjoy watching nature. Watching through my window. I watch the changing of the seasons; watch as leaves on the trees grow full of color, then blow off the autumn wind.

My favorite time is summer, with sunshine and birds singing. It makes me realize how much I love the world.

I live with an aide, as I have no other family—at least, no one who wants anything to do with a cripple.

My aide, Mrs. Ackerman, sleeps in the room above mine, while I stay on the downstairs floor. She's a wonderful lady, though she's getting old. She has been with me the last five years, ever since the motorbike accident, and she was at retirement age then. And there's her heart. She takes pills each day to keep her going. "Better take my drugs; otherwise I won't wake up in the morning!" she jokes.

I don't always see the funny side of things, and I know I'm selfish to think it, but what will I do when she passes on?

Of course, I could be placed in a home, but I don't want that. I want to stay here, in my home.

I have movement in my left hand. I can't lift my hand, but I have feeling in the fingers, which allows me to operate my electric wheelchair. A blessing.

Mrs. Ackerman comes over to see if I'm okay.

"How are you today, Mr. Bowles?"

I smile, unable to speak in anything but unintelligible grunts.

She opens my curtains further, giving me a widescreen-TV view of the garden.

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

One lifted finger means no; two lifted fingers mean yes. I lift two fingers. I agree. The sun's shining bright and the blue sky promises a wonderful afternoon.

In recent days I've been paying particular attention to the butterflies during the day and the moths at night. So beautiful. Moths are often characterized as nasty, ugly creatures, but they are just as beautiful as butterflies—it's simply that they are associated with the night and haven't the same pretty colors.

Mrs. Ackerman picks up the jar that rests on the bookshelf. Inside, a moth flutters. I enjoy watching moths, and I'm not ashamed to say that I watch them die in the jar. Then Mrs. Ackerman pins them into my collection. I have a dozen now, and I've only been collecting for a while.

Her son catches them for me. He's a nice man, has a family: three children, two dogs, a cat and a hedgehog. He loves nature, like me, and enjoys going out with his net and catching moths for my collection.

"Are you going to be okay if I pop into town?" Mrs. Ackerman asks.

I lift two fingers. She smiles.

"Okay, see you soon," she says as she leaves, still smiling.

I sit and watch the birds in the trees as they tweet to each other. Two bees fly by and land on a pretty daffodil, then fly on to another. I enjoy watching the wind gently blowing over the grass, sending it into swaying dance routines. Watching nature act out unpredictable, beautiful scenes. Something must be in control, deciding exactly when a burst of bright sun should shine upon a blossoming flower or when a leaf will drop from the clutches of a tree, floating delicately to the garden's fresh-smelling grass.

I see a butterfly with yellow wings and brown spots. Mrs. Ackerman says she'll find me a book on moths and butterflies, but she hasn't yet.

This one flutters by the flowers; it seems to be sunbathing, enjoying the rays. Another comes along—no, a moth. A moth? In daylight?

The moth lands next to the butterfly; they seem to communicate, and then the butterfly shoots away. The giant gray moth turns to face me. For I moment I swear the moth is looking at me. Then it flaps to my window. Bangs against the glass. Bumps its wings against the window as if knocking to come in. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the moth in my jar—he flaps his wings.

Are they communicating? These creatures never cease to amaze me.

I see another moth. It lands on my window, too. In all my years in front of this window, I had never before seen a moth at this time of day ... I'm used to seeing butterflies, but never moths.

Then a third arrives, and a fourth. Each lands against my window. I feel a shiver in my hand; if I had feeling in my back, I'm sure an icy tingle would have shot down my spine.

A fifth, sixth, seventh, eight, ninth ... unbelievable ... they are so big, these moths coming to sit on my window in the bright sun. But why? Do they want to visit their friend in my jar? I'm convinced that's it, feeling guilty now; guilty and shocked that moths are so intelligent, so aware of one another. I decide that as soon as Mrs. Ackerman comes home, I shall get her to release that poor devil from the jar—send him back to his friends.

The moths continue to gather—each lands, flaps its wings, and then sits motionless. The moth in the jar has stopped moving, and I fear he might be dead.

I hope he isn't. I want to release him as soon as Mrs. Ackerman returns. I wish to God I could move and release him myself. The moths continue to land and there must now be a hundred of them ... maybe more. Covering my window like a huge net. A dark net that is beginning to block out the sun. Shadows are closing around me.

I'm getting annoyed. Mrs. Ackerman has been gone a while, and she knows I shouldn't be left alone for too long. Anything might happen to me: I could stop breathing; my chair might malfunction; I could be electrocuted—anything might happen.

Hundreds of moths have grouped on my window, apparently waiting for me to release the little moth in the jar. Just a single moth, I want to yell. I want to explain to the swarm of giant moths that I'm sorry and I will release him, but I can't; I can't because I'm paralyzed. But I have to try.

I press the forward button and the wheelchair buzzes into life. I know I won't be able to get the jar down; it's too high for me to reach. But if I try, maybe, hopefully, the army of moths will see I'm trying. The net of moths on the window shifts around, flaps a little. Maybe they have seen what I'm attempting. Maybe they will fly away and leave me alone. See that I'm a good man—a cripple who loves their beauty, who just wants to kill a few to add to his collection.

My heart almost stops as I notice the frame in which my moths are pinned. It is open on my desk. The moths, if they have eyes—I don't know if they do—will be able to look down from where they wait on the glass, flapping, wriggling, and see it. The dead moths inside might be their brothers, sisters, best friends—stiff and dead, pinned into my collection.

Another batch of moths land and wait—wait for what? What can I do? I'm paralyzed, goddamit! I shout, although anyone in the room would hear only an unintelligible groan. I press the lever to reverse. If I can get the jar down, I might be able to open the lid. God, where is Mrs. Ackerman?

I drive forward and bang into the wall. The shelves wobble, the jar wobbles.

I reverse again, then into forward. I smash into the wall—the jar wobbles ... wobbles ... then falls and lands in my lap. But it's out of reach. It's a good eight inches out of the slight movement range I have in my hand. What now?

I reverse to face the moths—to show them my attempt. Nothing. They stay watching ... waiting....

But there is nothing else I can do! I look down at the jar. The moth wriggles about, flutters ... then slows ... slower ... losing life ... draining away ... then nothing.

Pain stabs my heart, a stab of regret and ... and fear.

I raise my eyes to the window. I try to say to the army of moths: I'm sorry, I tried to help your friend ... I'm sorry ... never again, I promise.

The moths, thousands of them, fly off the window into the air. I feel a moment's delight. They have forgiven me. They have seen that I tried to help the moth in the jar and now they'll go back to wherever they came from and wait for night.

They don't fly far. They circle in the garden like a swarm of bees, flying, swooping, soaring. Some come close to the window, others make contact.

I hear the front door open

"I'm back," Mrs. Ackerman shouts. "Sorry I took so long."

As I hear her footsteps, another moth hits the window. Before my eyes they group together and fly, swoop directly toward the window, closer ... closer ... the window shatters.

Moths everywhere! In my hair, on my face—I close my eyes and reverse the wheelchair, then move forward. I wriggle the stick madly, trying to throw them off, but it's no use. They are on my face—trying to open my eyelids, trying to squeeze through my eyelashes. They fly about, crash into me, crawl over my body ... though thank God I can't feel them.

They begin to crawl down into my pants, passing the loose belt and down ... down. More moths cover my face. Near my lips I see their flapping wings and horrible black devil heads.

Mrs. Ackerman rushes in, swatting them with her hand. But the moths, thousands of them, are all over me—all over her —it is useless. They continue to bite or sting or whatever the hell it is they do. I see blood running down my nose—they seem to be feeding on it. Their ugly gray and white bodies sit like vampires drinking from my body. I can do nothing. Mrs. Ackerman tries to take hold of the wheelchair. I see her face flash through the blanket of moths as she tries to get near.

"Go away, get out of here!" she screams. "Don't worry!" she shrieks to me.

She gasps in terror. I see her collapse, eyes wide, mouth gaping, hands pressed tight to her chest—to her heart.

The moths swarm me. I vomit. Moths are in my mouth—my vision spins.

I wake. Afternoon light and a cold breeze comes through the smashed glass of the window. The sun is setting behind the trees.

Mrs. Ackerman is in the same position: on her back, eyes bulging, mouth stretched wide, hands over her heart.

All the moths have gone—all except one, which sits on my frame of pinned moths. It walks about a bit, flaps, then stops dead.

I press the forward button and drive around to the mirror. Stunned, I see a giant moth.

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