THE BUTTERFLY

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Emelda

Necromancers gain a lot of money for reaping souls, but it comes at a cost.

They walk the world with the tattered black robes of a reaper. Their eyes are miserable with tears and bags, so heavy they drag someone to the floor. And at night, they’re kept up by the crying of the damned.

While you can choose to learn potions and divination, you can’t choose to not see and hear souls. You’re just born that way. I know this not because I’m a necromancer myself, but I hear it from my dad. He’s not one, either.

He just wants me to kill them.

He says they’re bad people. And he says I’ll get a big bounty for killing them because they’re that rare. So much money that it can flood our rooms and bust our house door open (not saying much). He guarantees it’s more than a necromancer could make.

So ever since I was a kid, I trained with iron fans my mother once used. They’re green and blue, inspired by the calm and collected colors of a peacock’s tail. How I’ll be when I get my first kill.

But at day, I make a switch. I go from my mother’s culture to my father’s. My war fans become a stark contrast to my flamenco fans with soft edges and a bold black and red. Instead of weapons, they transform into entertainment to please a hungry crowd.

My toes tap on the dance floor. The feathered ruffles of my dress shift like waves in the ocean. My body moves in sync with the upbeat rhythm of the music, my hands still hard-working, still moving like silk. I can’t let anyone see my disguise.

Especially when my target’s back is facing me, the yellow cross on his trenchcoat sticking out like a sore thumb.

Hazel

I went to Mexico this year just for the marigolds. I have no idea why they’re so popular in late October, but I’m not complaining. They’re bright like butter, a perfect addition both to a flower bed and potion.

But just as I’m about to take a baker’s dozen from a graveyard….

¡Ay, no!

I turn around. The man behind apologizes in fluent English. He says he just put the marigolds up, and that they’re supposed to stay there for the upcoming holiday: Day of the Dead.

It’s my turn to say sorry, and that I had no idea that’s why they were there. The man says it’s okay, and if I would like to learn a little about the festivities. I must look like a tourist.

Before I can say no, I spot a bright marigold pinned to his chest. I accept, and we start walking around his town.

I ask what his name is. He pauses to think and says James.

I give him my own name, and he tries saying it. His attempt is choppy at best - Ha-zelle. The pronunciation is so rough. It’s a splinter in my thumb, but I ignore it and focus more on my tour.

I see papel picado strung around every street corner like Christmas lights. There’s the fresh scent of warm bread wafting near me, mixing with the overpowering scent of so many marigolds. Decorated skulls line shelves of shops and are carried in the hands of kids. According to James, they’re made of sugar.

Everywhere I go, there’s something new. Fantastical carvings of strangely-colored creatures, bands with guitars, and…

I thought flamenco dancing from Spain, I whisper to James as we approach a stage where girls are performing.

My new friend explains that the two cultures overlap. He laughs a little, saying that he was glad he was born a necromancer instead of a dancer.

I ask him if he’s serious. As he explains, I do my best to pay attention while also watching the flamenco show. But it’s hard.

One of the girls in front has eyes like daggers that are staring at us. Her face is red hot, her feet stomping and almost out of rhythm.

Santiago

Me being a necromancer has nothing to do with black cloaks and scary white skulls. All I do is fulfill a soul’s last wishes and send them to the afterlife. I do it year round while traveling, but always come back to Mexico for the Day of the Dead. It’s the same time that a butterfly would migrate here, so my mother has always called me her Butterfly.

I explain all of this to Hazel as we watch the sun crawl into the hillside. Purple and orange start to take over the sky as she tells me how she got her nickname ‘Witch Hazel’.

Then I tell her to stop. It’s silent.

I wait for it…

And catch the hand of the flamenco dancing girl as her iron fan is about to tear into my trench coat. Hazel sputters out a few words, her voice rough and heated.

I whisper in a calm tone to the flamenco girl. Her eyes are big and brown like a deer caught in the headlights. This, I say, isn’t the first time someone’s tried to kill me. My dad died this way, too, so I’m a little sensitive toward these things.

She backs off, tossing her fans into the grass with a soft noise. Her hands are raised in surrender, her breathing off-beat. Even though it’s dim and nearing dark, I can still make out the features of her face. She can’t be above sixteen. And there’s no way a teen does something like this out of free will.

Hazel wants to get authority involved, but I shake my head.

What’s your name? I ask the new girl. She hesitates, but tells me Emelda.

And I tell Emelda that necromancy has taught me more about life than death. I've talked to all sorts of weak and weary souls. They tell me their biggest mistake is not living for themselves. That they go about life owing people, worrying about fulfilling others expectations. These people stay in their cocoon, not allowing themselves to blossom into a butterfly.

I also say that my mother is making hot chocolate horchata tonight. She should come with Hazel and I if she wants some.