Emerging from its chrysalis into a world of bright sunshine the moth stretched its wings, pumping their tiny veins full of blood. The tips of its antennae quivered with expectation and excitement at the wonderful sights surrounding it.
Ready to fly, the moth fluttered its wings, but hesitated when it heard a snigger from behind a nearby leaf.
Intrigued, it moved closer and peeked over the edge, where it saw two of the most beautiful creatures it could ever have imagined.
The creatures wings were bright orange, laced with black patterns. White spots, highlighted by thin silver veins, added a touch of sparkle and the whole effect was so amazingly stunning that the moth could do little other than stand and stare.
“Go away,” said the first butterfly. “You’ll frighten the flowers and make them close up with such drab wings as those.”
“Yes go away. You look horrible,” said the second.
“But how did you get such amazing wings?” the moth asked, looking from the splendour of the butterfly’s wings to its own drab ones.
“The sun gave them to us,” the first butterfly called as they fluttered away on a blaze of colour.
“Yes, because it likes us so much,” shouted the second.
The moth watched them go, its heart heavy, wondering why the sun must hate it so much.
* * *
For the next few days the moth did its best to reach the sun and ask for new wings, flying as high as it could, over and over again, only to be dashed back to earth by the wind.
Laying on the warm soil, the moth looked up at the sun with such a longing that it thought it might die. Every fibre of its being was drawn towards the heat and light with such intensity that it could think of nothing else.
“What are you doing?” a quiet voice asked. “Why do you keep flying up and down like that?”
The moth turned. A large black beetle stood behind it, antennae waving back and forth.
“I am trying to reach the sun,” the moth said. “I want beautiful wings like the butterfly, not these dull old things.”
“But you’ll never reach the sun,” replied the beetle, its wise voice carrying the authority of one who knows such things. “It’s much too far away.”
The moth furled its wings and hung its antennae dejectedly, beaten and forlorn.
“What you need to do, is find a candle,” the beetle concluded slowly.
“A candle?”
“Yes. It has heat like the sun. It has light like the sun. In fact I’m pretty sure that it is a teeny, tiny part of the sun.”
“And where will I find this candle of which you speak, beetle?”
The beetle clattered open its wing cases, pointing with one of its thin, diaphanous wings. “Fly that way. At night you will see lots of them.”
So saying the beetle scuttled off towards a large hole in the ground and disappeared, leaving the moth alone with its sadness once more.
* * *
That night the moth flew in the direction the beetle had pointed out to it and came upon an old cottage. Shining out from the cottage window was a soft light.
The moth fluttered closer, its excitement rising as through the window it saw a candle. The strong flame beckoned it with such a force that it could contain itself no longer.
The moth battered itself against the window pane over and over, unable to work out why it couldn’t get to the precious light. Until finally it flew higher and found an opening.
Resting on top of the window sash the moth studied the flame, every atom in its small body drawing it towards the light.
Curling its antennae tightly, the moth finally launched itself upwards, its wings fluttering madly as it flew towards its destiny.
“Please candle,” the moth called as it reached the flickering flame. “Please make my wings as beautiful as the butterfly’s.”
And for one brief moment, just as the moth was swallowed by the bright hot flame, the small creature’s wings burnt as bright as any butterfly that would ever exist.