White Crystal Butterflies | Wattys 2021 Shortlist | ✔

Rocks Can Dance (Update)

The shatter of glassware jerks my attention up from my laptop faster than Iraj's accompanying shriek. He's somewhere in the lab section of the camp; last I checked, he was messing with microscope slides, but this sounded like a beaker. I slide my overheating laptop onto the nearest side table. A stream of what I can only imagine are unflattering descriptors in at least three languages leads me to the room with our soon-to-be plant tanks. I find Iraj gripping a coil of tubing like a weapon and facing down a dusty-orange moth the size of my hand.

I squint to make out its finer details. "Is that a real one, or a demighost?"

"Hit it and find out," says Iraj dryly. "Whatever it is, it's drunk."

"It won't hurt you."

"It came for my head."

I have to fight down a laugh. For someone both earth-born and earth-raised, who spent both his graduate degrees studying drought-resistant fungi in Panama, Iraj is still hilariously easily startled by the rock moths out here. I needled him about it once. His indignation hinted that it's far from a new joke on his own team.

"I can't tell if it's real," I say. "Pass me that container—no, the clear one."

"I need that one."

"Iraj, I swear to god, do you want to me to deal with this or not?"

He moans and empties a variety of pens, pencils, and rolls of differently-coloured labeling tape from the plastic box. I take it, step carefully over the broken glass on the floor, and begin to stalk the moth. Iraj moves to the opposite end of the room. That doesn't put much more distance between him and the offending insect, but he's probably hoping to dive out the door if it comes for him again.

The moth fans its wings, drawing my attention back. It's perched on the rim of one of the empty fish tanks. I'm going to need to get it onto a flatter surface to trap it beneath my makeshift bug catcher.

"Don't," says Iraj as I lower the container and reach for the cardboard lid of the microscope slide box. "Lingmei, I swear, if you make that thing fly again—"

Too late. I take a deft swipe at the moth. Rather than take flight, though, it explodes into a cloud of dust, making Iraj and I both leap back.

I fan the orange fog away with the lid. "Demighost."

"And now it's shat dust all over my tank," grumbles Iraj. "Do you have any idea how long I spent cleaning that one?"

"Longer than someone spent cleaning the entryway, clearly."

"That—" He breaks off mid-sentence, a guilty look replacing his brief flare of protest. When I raise an eyebrow at him, he reaches under the nearest table and drags out a bucket of rocks. A bucket of very dusty rocks. Without a lid.

I point the plastic container at him. "Next time I hear you complaining that anyone else doesn't do as thorough a job of the entryway as you do..."

"Okay, fine. I deserved that." He caps the bucket. "Thank you for disposing of the intruder."

"You'll want to wipe that up before it regathers."

He accepts the plastic container back and heads to the kitchen to grab water. I keep a close eye on the dusty patch as Iraj bemoans our less than expeditious water-recycling system. The container fills slowly; I can hear it from here. Iraj has just turned off the tap when the dust on the side of the tank shifts visibly.

"Iraj, hurry!" I call, grabbing the microscope slide-box lid again. I take a swipe at the dust. It scatters, and I notice too late that the real culprit wasn't anywhere near the top of the tank. A nearly-formed moth wing flaps about behind a box on the table. I whack at it, but it tumbles off the table's edge and flares back to full form in a shower of dust. The demighost rock moth makes a break for the ceiling.