Vaughn M. Watson is a New York-based fiction and non-fiction writer who lived in China for two years. He has appeared on NPR and has work forthcoming in Tahoma Literary Review. He was the winner of the 2016 Winston-Salem Writer’s Flying South competition and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is currently working on a collection of stories and essays, Payaos, and serving on the Newtown Literary editorial board.
The Brightest Light It Will Ever Know
They are beautiful at first, their wings adorned with symmetrical patterns. They are browns, golds, and reds, always dark and earthy colors that contrast the green of local flora and the blue Yunnan sky. Their wings are camouflaged in the red dirt roads that connect this town to the city. This does not matter; however, as more often than not one sees them in rooms, reflected on the cold stone floors or perched on walls painted in layers of beige. The moths hang from the walls patterned and colored, their wings spread flat against the wall, two-dimensional as paper.
They come in through the windows and always at night. Their entrances are made of glass and metal, painted a red, Martian rust. A section of it, one that can slide, is left open to let wet air into the room. They come in on their second or third attempts. As if propelled by winds, the moths enter the room and settle on a resting place. They move once or twice, shifting around as things do in an effort to prepare for a resting state. In the case of the moth, this state is called torpor, and if the moth survives the night, it may remain on the wall or the stone floor in that state for the daylight hours. Its resting state mirrors that of humans, but entomologists say they are more aware than humans are when sleeping. They are resting but aware, able to return to their nocturnal state at the slightest change in stimulus.
When night falls, a moth comes alive. It is decorated with colors of the earthy, dark shades of brown and black and brass. Its wings and the lines on them curl like brackets, perfectly even on both halves. It is on the western wall, the emptiest one. Of the four walls, this one is painted the best. Most of the it has been painted using the same shade of white, but there are patches that have been painted over in a slightly darker beige. The room smells of smoke.
The moth lands on one of these patches, near the upper left corner, as if able to discern this difference in color. Its wings flap twice and then rest flat, revealing their naked detail. Hanging from the ceiling’s center is a string and a makeshift light fixture. A light-emitting diode (LED) light bulb is screwed into the fixture. The light is off now, but the sun will set soon.
At night, the windows should be closed to prevent the moths from clamoring in to experience the siren of fluorescent light. The mountain nights get cold and after the sun disappears behind the clouds and myriad peaks, one begins to feel the effects of altitude. With the doors and windows closed, the room is a comfortable temperature, just slightly cooler than that of a room at sea level, because stone lacks insulating properties.
The light goes on and the bracket moth is aware of this. It is still in torpor, resting but conscious. It considers movement, its wings aflutter, but the moth’s interaction with the light is troubling. Instead of flying directly into the light, a moth to metaphorical flame, it begins a choreography.
Moths are positively phototactic. They are attracted to light, counterintuitive to their nocturnal nature. Entomologists theorize that they are so attracted because they use the moon, the brightest known light to them, as a compass. The invention of light, the use of fire and electricity, has confused them. The brightest lights have now become closer than ever before, and the moths have confounded these lights with the light of the moon. They approach the brightest lights, thinking they will carry them to safer places. It is their nature; it is their tragedy.
Now the moth is dancing, circling the brightest light it will ever know. After several rotations, the moth winds around the bulb with sickening speed, always getting closer and closer. It is pulled into the light it believes has guided it for most of its short life. It is pure instinct; it is their romance.
The moth is closing in on the light and beginning to touch it for the first time. It circles and touches, then it only touches, knocking into the light with all its might, the path to the heavens. It knocks and knocks, but then it knocks a final time and retreats to the wall. The moths in Yunnan are large and do not die so easily. Instead, it goes into shock, experiencing the singeing of its insect flesh for the first time. It rests, a brief torpor, then convulses, flying to each corner of the room, taking off as abruptly as it lands. The wings are still for seconds, resting on the stone floor. It convulses again, moving three-quarters of an inch at a time but somehow managing to fly.
When it is certain that the moth is dead, it is swept into a metal dustpan and left outside to rot. But for tonight, it will remain on the coldness of that uncovered and dusty section of the stone floor, not in torpor but in death.
The room is silent without the fluttering of its wings and its constant crashing into the furniture. It sounds empty and the light goes off. A fainter light goes on beneath the covers.
From the front window a sound can be heard. It is like human knocking. The room is quiet all except for that drumming. The moths are knocking against the doors and the windows. They are knocking with all their might.