Lawson

 

 

The Tasmanian summer was hot and dry. Not as hot as Melbourne, but still, I hadn’t expected it to be this warm. I opened the back door of the Defender and pulled out one of the plastic tubs. Jack was suddenly beside me. “What do you mean, it doesn’t exist?”

I handed him the tub. “As in, non-existent. Never been documented.”

“How is that possible?” he asked, looking at the tub, then back at me. “I mean, if it doesn’t exist, how can you look for it? How can you even know to look for it?”

I stacked another tub on top of the first one Jack was holding. “Well, you see, Professor Tillman believes they’re here.”

He looked around the woodlands, but the look on his face had sceptical written all over it. “He believes they’re here?”

“Correct.”

I stacked two tubs on top of each other and lifted them out of the Defender and walked out into the clearing. “Boy, it’s warm. I thought Tasmania was supposed to be cold.”

Jack followed me. “It is. Normally. I mean, down south it gets cold, but up here it’s not too bad. We’re in a drought, remember? That generally means dry. Not forgetting the fact it’s summer.”

I stopped walking and looked right at him. “Are you being facetious?”

He grinned. “Facetious is a little harsh. I think roguish is more flattering, possibly with a dash of sarcasm.”

“I’m not a fan of sarcasm.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I do happen to like roguish.”

We stood facing each other, both holding two tubs each, both smiling. “What’s in the boxes?” he asked eventually.

“My equipment.”

Jack’s lips twitched. “Your equipment? Really?”

I rolled my eyes and put the tubs on the ground. “My field equipment. I have a backpack, notebooks, texts, notes, specimen jars. A GPS, emergency beacon, thermometer, barometer, satellite phone.” Jack’s smile got wider when I listed each item. “What?”

He put the tubs he was holding down next to mine. “I dunno. I don’t know what I was expecting.” He was still smiling but it was as though he was secretly pleased. “You have all the right gear.”

“Well, of course I do.”

“Most academic types come out with no supplies, no tracking equipment, and no clue, if I’m being honest.”

“Did you assume me to be irresponsible?”

Jack seemed to consider his answer before speaking. “Let’s just say I had my concerns, but I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“I spent many vacations and weekends in national parks in and around Melbourne as a child and was taught the importance of safety from the very first. As I grew older, particularly now, I do a lot of field study alone. Like when I was in the middle of the Blue Mountains by myself, I was very aware of my isolation.”

“Do you always do field study by yourself?”

“Mostly.” I shrugged. “I love it. I’m comfortable with my own company enough to spend hours, or days, by myself.”

Jack frowned. “Are you bothered by my being here?”

“Not at all. Though I do have work to do.”

“Right.” He took a step back, fighting a smile. “Then I’ll let you do… whatever it is you do when you look for a butterfly that doesn’t exist.” He took a few more steps backwards, smiling now, before he turned and walked back to the Defender.

Jack Brighton really was a very good looking man, and the playfulness and flirting were exhilarating. The anticipation even more so. I would be very interested in something physical happening between us, and I had no issue in instigating it if I had to. But now was not the time. Professor Tillman had entrusted me with what could be the legacy of his career.

He swore to me the species was here. He’d seen it. Many years ago when he had youth on his side, a keen mind and able body, he’d hiked all over these ranges. It was the late seventies, he’d said. He had no paper or pencil and his camera was out of film. He’d seen one single specimen. That was all. He’d gone home and drawn what he saw from memory, and he’d been back a hundred times in the years that followed. But he’d never seen it again.

Now his mind was still keen but his body wasn’t able. He told me he’d met a lot of lepidopterists over the decades, but none that he trusted. Until me.

In his words, I wasn’t owned by The Society. Yes, I worked under the world-renowned Professor Michael Asterly at Melbourne University. Yes, I was his best and brightest student: I published journal articles years before my classmates, and yes, I was one of the best. It wasn’t even that I’d specialised in Lycaenidae. It was because I wasn’t liked by the scholar squad, he’d called them. And that, according to Professor Tillman was why he chose me. As it turned out, he never cared much for their opinions either.

When he’d told them he’d seen an Eltham Copper Butterfly in Tasmania, they’d laughed at him. Only it wasn’t an Eltham Copper. How could it be when it was not found anywhere near Eltham? Eltham Coppers were so named, they reminded him, because Eltham, Victoria, was the only area in which they were found. But Professor Tillman was adamant. He said it was like an Eltham Copper though it had varying distinct marks on its hindwing, like no other Copper in any book he’d found. And that made it a new discovery. A new species.

But he had no proof. And after decades of fruitless searching, he’d passed the baton onto me.

So, with that in mind, I opened the first tub and got to work.

I took recordings of temperature, wind direction, GPS location, aspect, and sun position. Then I took notes on plant types and soil types. I could see why the professor had liked this area for finding Coppers. On paper, it was perfect.

Eltham Coppers liked north facing aspect for warmer weather, they lived in vegetation classified as woodland, and this area was both of those things. If I were a betting man and these butterflies were going to be found in an area outside of Victoria, then I’d say there was a very good chance for it to be here.

I got so carried away with my data collation like I always do, that I forgot Jack was in the Defender. Actually, I kind of forgot he was there at all.

“Hey!” his voice, even far off, still alarmed me.

I spun to the sound of it, to find him trudging through the scrub toward me. “Jeez, you scared me,” I admitted with my hand to my heart.

It took him a few seconds to keep walking so he was close enough for a conversation. “You always make a habit of walking off without telling someone where you’re going?”

“Well, no. I’m normally here by myself,” I explained. I pulled the GPS and satellite phone from my backpack. “I know where I am.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know. I finished my paperwork, looked up, and you were gone.”

“Oh.”

“Scared the crap outta me.”

“Sorry.” I felt bad about making him worry. “How did you find me?”

He finally smiled. “You were whistling. A tune or something.”

“Was I?” I had been told by other colleagues that I tended to whistle to myself when I was lost in my work, particularly out in the field. “I didn’t realise.”

“Lucky you hadn’t gone too far or I wouldn’t have heard you.” Jack gave a nod back to the direction he’d come, and following his line of sight, I could just make out the white of the Defender through the scrub. “Found anything yet?”

“Not yet. It’s mostly data collation at this stage. The conditions are right, though. The elements and vegetation are correct for the habitat of Coppers, though I’ve not seen any ant colonies or any butterflies, for that matter.”

“What do they look like?” he asked. “I mean, I could’ve seen one by now and wouldn’t have known.”

“Have you ever paid attention to butterflies?”

His lip pulled down to one corner. “Well, no. Not really.”

From my pocket I fished out the photocopy of the professor’s drawing and showed it to him. “That’s it.”

It was a detailed sketch, the very one the professor had drawn all those decades ago. The copper-coloured wings were what gave the specimen its name.

Jack looked from the drawing to me. “It’s brown.”

“That’s a photocopy of an old drawing. The butterfly is copper. Hence the name Eltham Copper.”

“Okay, so it’s not brown. It’s copper.” I was surprised he didn’t roll his eyes.

“Coppers are part of the Lycaenidae genus, and Elthams, in particular are on the endangered species list. I happen to study them in efforts of conservation.”

“Endangered?”

“Yes. They’re found in only a few very small, decreasing pockets of vegetation in Victoria. So I’m sure you can appreciate the importance of what the professor found.”

Jack nodded, all humour gone. “Yes, of course. I didn’t realise it was endangered.” He seemed to think something over in his mind for a moment. “How do you go about finding them? I mean, it’s not like animal tracks. The Tasmanian devils, for example, dig burrows, leave scratch marks on trees and logs, and disturb the topsoil. Or there’s leftover meals or scat. Actually, they’re messy buggers. Butterflies aren’t exactly intrusive.”

It was a good question, and one I got asked frequently. “There are markers, if you know what to look for. The Eltham Copper have a very complex triangular dependency with the Notoncus ant and the Bursaria spinosa―”

“Sweet Bursaria? The shrub?”

“Yes. Are you familiar with it?”

“Well, yeah. It grows all over these ranges.”

Flora and fauna, of course. I started to smile. “Can you identify more specific areas on my map?”

“Sure I can. It’s my job.”

I leaned up on my toes and kissed him softly on the lips. “You are a godsend.”

He grinned. I had no idea one little kiss could make him smile like that. “Maybe we could go over all your maps tonight with dinner?”

“You’ve set the bar pretty high for date expectations,” I teased. “Not sure what you could do to beat last night.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Then I’d love to.”

He leaned in and, with his fingers under my chin, tilted my face up toward his. He pressed his lips to mine, gently at first, then harder, and sliding his hand along my jaw, he urged my lips open with his own. God, how he kissed me.

In that perfect moment, the world stopped turning. Nothing existed but him. He left me breathless and dizzy, and certain of one thing.

There was more on the menu tonight than just dinner.