Savage Illusions

Kirk nod­ded. He let his re­ins go slack, then jum­ped from the wa­gon. Be­fo­re he co­uld get aro­und to help Jole­na, she had al­re­ady left the wa­gon, stret­c­hing and yaw­ning. He ga­ve her a lin­ge­ring, si­lent sta­re, mar­ve­ling at her en­du­ran­ce, then went to the back of the wa­gon and be­gan un­lo­ading the­ir equ­ip­ment for the night.

Jolena yaw­ned one mo­re ti­me. Then she stop­ped and lis­te­ned, he­aring a stran­ge ro­aring and his­sing thro­ugh the tre­es. It so­un­ded li­ke wa­ter drop­ping by sta­ges in­to a de­ep chasm.

Her sen­se of ad­ven­tu­re and cu­ri­osity sent her wal­king thro­ugh the fo­rest un­til she ca­me to a cle­aring that led up­ward. Lif­ting the hem of her skirt, she clim­bed hig­her and hig­her, then stop­ped when she ca­me to a high po­int on a cliff from whe­re she co­uld see not only the wa­ter­fall a short dis­tan­ce away, but the ri­ver down be­low her as it flat­te­ned out and ma­de a wi­de swe­ep aro­und a bald gra­ni­te hill be­fo­re fin­ge­ring out ac­ross the val­ley.

The wa­ter down be­low was smo­oth and glassy, and the bro­ken ri­ver stret­c­hed in­to the dis­tan­ce li­ke dull stre­ams of sil­ver.

The sun­set was lig­h­ting the eas­tern hills, sen­ding long sun­be­ams thro­ugh the mist in­to the val­ley be­low.

Captured by the lo­ve­li­ness of the wa­ter­fall, Jole­na ga­zed at it, sig­hing. Al­t­ho­ugh the sun was fast lo­we­ring in the sky, the wa­ter­fall was still lit and it shim­me­red with myri­ad co­lors. The wa­ter­fall's spu­me ro­se far in­to the sky li­ke a clo­ud of smo­ke from a fo­rest fi­re, then des­cen­ded to the earth as mist, ke­eping the ve­ge­ta­ti­on at the top of the chasm drip­ping wet.

The sun­set shi­ning on the wa­ter­fall ma­de ra­in­bows, mul­tip­le and im­men­se and so bril­li­ant they se­emed pal­pab­le. They mo­ved with the light, fa­ding and emer­ging and for­ming aga­in at dif­fe­rent an­g­les and in dif­fe­rent si­zes, so that so­me­ti­mes one co­uld ac­tu­al­ly see whe­re they be­gan and en­ded.

Standing on the cliff, so­aking up the be­a­uti­ful tran­qu­il set­ting, Jole­na grew ten­se with ex­ci­te­ment when a but­terfly flew just past her no­se.

''Lord, it's a nympha­lid," she gas­ped. The nympha­lid was ste­eped in In­di­an lo­re, and per­haps al­most as ra­re as the eup­ha­ed­ra.

She con­ti­nu­ed to watch the but­terfly as it se­emed to chan­ge co­lors be­fo­re her very eyes, a de­fen­se mec­ha­nism to pro­tect the cre­atu­re from pre­da­tors such as her­self.

The but­terfly se­emed to be te­asing her as it brus­hed past her no­se, then flew down as if it was go­ing to land on her hand. Her he­art ra­cing, she lo­oked des­pe­ra­tely aro­und her, sud­denly re­ali­zing that her net and jars we­re back at the camp.

The but­terfly lan­ded on her arm, and Jole­na held her bre­ath as she wat­c­hed it furl and un­furl its an­ten­nae, as tho­ugh tas­ting her to see if she we­re a cop­per flo­wer.

Jolena star­ted mo­ving one of her hands gu­ar­dedly to­ward the but­terfly. Just as she was abo­ut to pla­ce her fin­gers on eit­her si­de of the but­terfly's wings, the but­terfly to­ok flight aga­in. Yet still it re­ma­ined clo­se at hand, te­asingly brus­hing aga­inst Jole­na's fa­ce or ha­ir.

"I ha­ve to ha­ve it," Jole­na whis­pe­red to her­self.

Moving away from the ed­ge of the cliff, her eyes ne­ver le­aving the but­terfly, Jole­na's he­art po­un­ded as for a mo­ment it se­emed to be fol­lo­wing her. As Jole­na mo­ved bac­k­ward, so did the but­terfly flut­ter for­ward.

Then the but­terfly sud­denly so­ared wi­dely aro­und in a half cir­c­le and mo­ved back to ho­ver over the very ed­ge of the cliff. "Just you stay right the­re," Jole­na whis­pe­red. "Don't mo­ve. Ple­ase, ple­ase don't mo­ve. Be the­re when I get back with my net." In her ex­ci­te­ment and has­te to get back to the ca

mp, Jole­na al­most tum­b­led down the ste­ep em­ban­k­ment. Af­ter ste­ad­ying her­self, she mo­ved with su­re fo­oting on down the hill, then bro­ke in­to a mad rush thro­ugh the fo­rest. When she re­ac­hed the cam­p­si­te, whe­re a fi­re had al­re­ady be­en star­ted, she went to her wa­gon and re­ac­hed in­si­de, qu­ickly fin­ding her net.

"The jar, Kirk!" she cri­ed. "Get the jar and fol­low me!"

"Jolena, stop," Kirk sho­uted, not ma­king any mo­ve to do as she sa­id. "I'm not go­ing an­y­w­he­re. Nor sho­uld you. It will be dark so­on."

Jolena tur­ned on a he­el and ga­ve Kirk a frus­t­ra­ted sta­re. "Kirk, I've fo­und a nympha­lid," she cri­ed. "Now co­me with me. I may be too la­te. It's pro­bably al­re­ady go­ne!"

Sighing, his sho­ul­ders slo­uc­hed, Kirk grab­bed the jar with its so­aked cot­ton from the back of the wa­gon and be­gan run­ning af­ter Jole­na.

Two Rid­ges had be­en wat­c­hing Jole­na for so­me ti­me. When he ca­ught sight of the but­terfly she was cha­sing in­to the fo­rest, he frow­ned. He knew the lo­re of that but­terfly. It was a but­terfly shun­ned by the Blac­k­fo­ot and all ot­her tri­bes of In­di­ans!

It me­ant bad luck to an­yo­ne who lo­oked upon it!

He bro­ke in­to a mad run. He had to stop Jole­na. She sho­uld not be ne­ar the but­terfly, much less catch it to carry with her for the rest of this ex­pe­di­ti­on.

If she did, ever­yo­ne wo­uld be in je­opardy! Win­ded, yet too fil­led with ex­ci­te­ment to stop, Jole­na rus­hed back up the ste­ep hill, then suc­ked in a wild bre­ath of re­li­ef when she got to the cliff and saw that the but­terfly was still cir­c­ling aro­und at the very ed­ge, as tho­ugh it had wa­ited for her.

Clutching the han­d­le of her but­terfly net, Jole­na in­c­hed clo­ser to the ed­ge of the cliff. "I can't be­li­eve it," she sa­id, gi­ving Kirk a qu­ick glan­ce over her sho­ul­der as he lag­ged far be­hind her. "Kirk, it's still he­re. Can you be­li­eve it? It's as tho­ugh it wa­ited for me."

"Don't get too clo­se to the ed­ge of the damn cliff," Kirk war­ned, wi­ping per­s­pi­ra­ti­on from his brow. "Watch it, now, Jole­na. Don't go any clo­ser!"

Jolena did not he­ar an­y­t­hing but the thun­de­ro­us ro­ar of the wa­ter­fall and the cry in­si­de her to catch this but­terfly for her fat­her. She in­c­hed her way along the land now, but when she got to the ed­ge of the cliff, whe­re be­low her ra­pids we­re swir­ling, she stop­ped.

But the but­terfly se­emed to be te­asing her aga­in when it flew only a few in­c­hes away from whe­re she co­uld re­ach it.

Fearlessly, she le­aned out, swin­ging her net in a des­pe­ra­te at­tempt to catch the but­terfly, then scre­amed as she lost her fo­oting and tum­b­led over the si­de of the cliff.