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I knew a woman once who was lulled to sleep by the haunting flutter of glasslike wings. I had met her in the most unlikely of places, a camp for refugees of wars they were unaware were looming on the horizon. Many who took up residence here were unprepared for the battle, and those who left to attempt fighting it again mostly failed to return. A place like this is bleak, understand; though there were those who breathed and spoke, there was no life, no humanity. I myself was here for a different purpose than everyone else; I, too, required relief for specific reasons, but sharing them would accomplish little else aside pointless exposition. I will say that I arrived in Wei with the misguided assumption that I was to be little more than a companion to the lord’s son, but as I opened my eyes and searched the desolation around me for those I could somehow relate to, I discovered those women who wallowed in pity, and those women who gracefully accepted the fate life had prescribed them. The unwilling participants of battle scattered in the available beds, some either so content in their safety in this place, or willing to do anything to stay here, that they slept coverless on the hard ground. And yet, through all this observation, she was the only one I paid any heed to.
Something simply drew me to her; perhaps it was her piercing ice-blue eyes filled to the brim with sorrow and weariness, or perhaps it was the way her dark hair draped over her shoulders in such a captivating shape, or perhaps that underneath all the bruises and scars she truly was beautiful. Even the butterflies approached her as if they belonged with her. They would come to her every night to lick her wounds, those strange creatures who flutter about in the mornings when the sun is high and the dew soaks the petals of the morning flowers as they awaken and salute the sun as if it were an old, wise general of war. They seemed to be fond of her, and why they were I cannot say. All I remember is seeing her on my first days here, at this camp of what was at the time nothing but refugees and sorrow, when she would speak to nobody but the butterflies; I would see her wander night after night, alone, a lullaby on her lips as she took step after step, refusing to touch anyone or anything but her own cold skin, like a ghost searching for something that she lost, long, long ago.
It was not until I bothered befriending her that I understood, after months of simple gestures, of smiles in the right direction, of donating my own rations because I realized that I had made a game out of seeing how many ribs I could count on her as we all bathed. She finally told me the butterfly’s lullaby was one she knew well, by heart. And the story of us and our sisterhood began with little else—with so little to call her own, I am left to assume that the company of a stranger in a place she believed to be so cold and devoid of love meant the world. My empathy grew each day as I remembered the tale of her song, the one she finally told me in the dead of night when she was sure nobody could hurt her for finally reminiscing on memories she held of a life prior to having it torn from her fingers.
It was the story of a mother bereaved, and she desperately grasped at her fading memories as she held tightly to the lullaby she once sang to her children every night. That was the butterfly’s whisper to her, and in desperation she attempted to cling onto it and keep it locked away in her heart until she might one day return to it. Until I made an effort in fear that she would end herself, her only audience was the butterflies she followed in pursuit of a feeble wish to forget the love she had for her children that were so prematurely taken from her by one reckless and horrible man—an impossible task, yes, but only then, once she had abandoned all vestiges of emotion, did she believe she could finally find peace. As she told me her tale, I felt a brand new sensation, one that in my life I had never felt and can only hope I should never have to experience again: the snapping of a feeble heart in my chest. And yet, she still kept her poise even through losing everything. Her eyes were hollow and empty, and yet, for reasons I could not understand, they glowed so brightly. I wanted so badly to touch her warmth, to understand how through all her pain and hardship and her thirst for vengeance she spoke with such harsh conviction and, yes, even beauty. And I knew as she concluded her tale with the remnants of tears soaking the edges of her eyes, that Wang Yi’s lullaby was her most prized and valuable possession. And, being one who always received all that she desired, I knew that I wanted it—perhaps it was for myself, for reasons I will not say because I myself do not know them, or perhaps it wasn’t even the lullaby that I wanted. I had always thought her face was beautiful, and perhaps what I wanted was the simple sight of emotion, a movement in her heart that she hadn’t felt since she lost everything.
I smiled each time the flute struck the correct note, but silenced it as soon as she walked by. My husband had even approached me with wonder as to the reason I would practice the tune for hours at a time, or why it was that he had to hear it every occasion the flute was in my hands. I simply replied that it was out of respect that I refused it to be any less than absolutely perfect, in hopes that one day she would hear the song I wished with all my heart that I could play for her. He quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing, despite his usual interest in my endeavors. Perhaps he too knew the meaning behind the lullaby, or perhaps he saw in my eyes the same attachment to it as I had seen in hers.
And one day, finally, as the melody wafted past my lips and the flute sang, the sound of the strumming harp ringing out beside me, she responded to the all-too-familiar tune with perked ears, a slight smile—a reaction so small that if I was not searching as intently as I was, I never would have seen it. And then, she stumbled away with a shuffle of her feet, quickly, moreso than usual, on her nightly mission to follow the butterflies, without a glance backward or a sound passing her lips. The tune stopped and my flute fell to the ground unattended as I watched her walk away. I sank to my knees as she disappeared from view, tears forming at the edges of my eyes—I had never regretted an action more than I had regretted the tune of that lullaby. I had upset her, and I grew fearful, in wonder, but also in regret and the knowledge that I must seek her out to atone for my thoughtless encroachment on the memory she held most dear to her.
A miracle happened when I had searched and searched and finally beheld the sight of her, a butterfly at her side, and as she gingerly reached forward to allow it to land on her, she looked at me with those piercing eyes. But… I felt no chill as I had felt before. My heart had not been stabbed through like it always had when we locked eyes, no… this time, I felt as if I was bathed in a warm, clean light, and it took me so long to realize my mouth was still capable of movement. I began to apologize, my voice breaking and my throat in a vice, until finally my tears overwhelmed me and the words failed to form. And the miracle occurred just after, when in the midst of my tearful pleas for her forgiveness, she took me in her arms, holding me tightly, with only a shaky whisper of her thanks in my ear; nothing specific, merely a simply stated “thank you.” And with that, in her arms there, I wept in joy.
I was the first to move her such to feel her embrace, to be a friend, a sister, to truly remind her what life was and how even after death life goes on—and I realized that it was true, that yes, I once had the greatest friend I had ever known, who was lulled to sleep by the haunting flutter of glasslike wings.
And she loved me dearly enough to share her song with me.