The rain started again. What began as a light drizzle, where the tiny water droplets, unperturbed by the pull of gravity, playfully swayed in the air forming mist – had now burst into a heavy shower, flooding the cobbled streets and pointed tiled roofs. Before the droplets even had a chance to seep into the soil, an onslaught of their peers followed accumulating in cracks and gaps in between stones, smoothing over the roughness of the ground and covering man-made imperfections with its immaculate mirror-like facade. It seemed as if any more rain would ruthlessly wash away the whole town, which has been clinging on to the side of the mountain for many centuries now.

The years came and went, and the rain continued to lash unceasingly, eating away the foundations of buildings, provoking landslides and washing away the fertile soil of people’s gardens. But as stubborn as the rain was, the residents incessantly fixed their homes, brought new soil to their gardens, and not once considered the idea of leaving their old town to move to the valley where they could spread out at the foot of the mountain that beckoned them with its green meadows and unploughed fields.

The grumbling of the young ones over the rain and the dampness of their surroundings were always met with the shaking of the grey heads of the elderly, who would say:

“That’s how it’s always been. While the sun shines in the valley, it rains in the hills. It took our forefathers hundreds of years to build a town in this desolate place – and when it was finally done, they handed it down to us to live in and to preserve for our children.”

As the elderly would then fall silent, the young ones would let out a sigh, before joining in with the rest in setting out to bring boulders from the top of the mountain, to reinforce roads, repair bridges over mountain rivers and replace rotten piles or fix the tiles on the roofs of their solid stone houses. The evenings were often spent gathering at cozy living rooms and heartily discussing market prices, work and, of course, the rain.
Moments of sudden reprieve from the downpour, where the timid sun would take a peek from behind the clouds, were surely met with squints and suspicion by people who have come to terms with the constant rain.

“Doesn’t it look like it’s going to rain tomorrow?” they would ask each other, before carrying on with their work.

And surely enough, the next day brought back the downpour, which cast an impenetrable blanket of gray beneath the sun and drenched the whole town below. The first few drops reluctantly bounced off the roofs and the paved roads, but soon joined in with the dance of the other raindrops to the rhythm of upbeat drum rolls. The townsmen fell asleep to the familiar sound of the rain and its steady cadence of tapping on the roof – and they would have gone on sleeping if it weren’t for… the butterflies.

They appeared one sunny day – in one of those occasions that came upon the town ever so rarely that it was almost a phenomena. Tiny, light-blue, and fragile, they fluttered their wings so vigorously, that it seemed as though they would fall to the ground in exhaustion losing against their futile struggle with the breeze. Then, there appeared butterflies with large, dark brown and bright violet circles on the bottom half of their wings, and long spiral antennae adorning their fragile head. They were followed by the orange butterflies, with their neat dark trimmings on their wings and black dots that randomly decorated their long furry bodies.

The butterflies filled and entranced the whole town, whose residents now ceased everything they were doing to swing their windows wide open. The people were captivated by the seemingly magical and colorful swarm that kept changing its contour. The swarm pervaded every nook and corner of the town: from the rooftops to the trees, and to the grass, pathways and streetlamps, until they were all riddled with colourful, quivering splashes of hues. Those passing by froze in amazement, with some tiptoeing and craning their necks to get a better view of this extraordinary phenomenon. Shopkeepers left their customers and, grabbing binoculars, immediately rushed outside. Parents momentarily became oblivious to their children who, also forgetting about everything, stood petrified with their mouths open, afraid to move, so as not to scare this miracle away.

The whole town became wrapped in trance and silence.

Then, all of a sudden, a dull roar reverberated through the streets. A horde of feet shook the ground as the townspeople frantically ran. Some stumbled and some fell, but rose to their feet and continue running. They took their hats, coats and scarves off while running and waived them in the air in glorious celebration. The children chuckled and squealed with delight as the men victoriously held their fists in the air. The commotion from the shrieking women also pierced the silence, which soon drowned in the general chaos of noise.

Everyone wanted to catch the butterflies.
Their clothes flew in the air and their heavy bodies thumped on the ground, flattening the grass and crushing the tiny, fragile and defenseless creatures – breaking their paper-thin and delicate wings apart. A hundred pairs of hands waved in the air in an attempt to snatch the poor, frightened insects which were now thrashing around in between their hands.

It turned into a massacre that lasted an hour. In their attempt to chase and catch this beauty, the people were left with the wreckage of what just recently captivated and beckoned them. And as soon as they realized what they had done, they carelessly brushed the dead creatures off their clothes and began returning home. The surviving butterflies managed to escape, leaving behind the children that could only longingly watch them fly away.

“Those jolly things have flown away,” said a little girl with a sigh, “and they won’t be coming back.”

Twilight descended upon the city and the yellow streetlamps lit up. The road sweepers tidied up the lawn and swept the cobbled paths. Soon, nothing was left to remind the sensible townspeople of their short-lived insanity. The first drops of rain started to splutter steadily on the ground, prompting everyone to rush and shut their doors and windows. It only took a minute for the streets to be deserted, for the rain had taken over the town with renewed strength.

Almost nothing changed in the ways of the small, old town, but people increasingly dreamed of an unknown country where you could swim in the sunlight, smell the flowers and feel the warm gentle wind against your face. The children learned to draw the butterflies, while the elderly sat by the fireplace examining their pictures and trying to light up the grey everyday reality with brief moments of light.

Several years passed and the town became deserted. Stone houses stood lonely and abandoned, the wind rattling the shutters as they randomly flew open and shut, creaking as the rain began rusting their fingers. This helpless screech was drowned out by the roaring downpour, which washed away any remnants of humanity without resistance. Everything returned to the natural order, as the sun shone into the valley, reflecting from the spines of new churches and the windows of houses, while the rain ceaselessly poured on the mountain.