The Girl In the Cave Read Free

professors or scientists who study these things. Instead, it stayed locked up in the spare rooms of the house, where he could gloat over it all by himself.
    And it was a collection worth gloating over. He had the very rare Papilio demoleus, with its beautiful black and white pattern and tiny red dots on the bottom of its wings. He had several rare Eurema herla, which have bright yellow wings, and all manner of common butterflies and moths.
    His pride and joy, though, was his European Zerynthia polyxena, which sat in its own special case on the wall in his study. It was the only thing in the whole house that Kate wasn’t expected to clean.
    â€œThat is the rarest butterfly in all of Australia, girl,” he would lecture while she dusted his study. “I obtained it purely by accident. It doesn’t even belong here: it came from southern Italy.”
    Sometimes Kate would look at the pretty little creature pinned into the display case. Its wings were patterned with delicate black and cream waves, with little red and yellow dots between them.
    â€œIf anyone knew I had one of those, we’d never hear the last of it,” Uncle Dermott would boast. “They’d be banging down our door, all those scientists and collectors, all of them wanting to see my Zerynthia. And do you know what? They’d all be jealous. Hah!” And then he would return to his books on rare butterflies.
    Kate often wondered how the little creature had wandered so far from its home in Italy, but she never had the courage to ask, because Uncle Dermott had an awful temper.
    Where Aunt Tina was fat, Uncle Dermott was whippet-thin, like a rake. He had pointy-out ears, a long, narrow nose, and his eyes were very close together, giving the impression that he was looking through you rather than at you. He kept his wispy, dark hair plastered down onto his head with shiny hair oil. His chin poked out in front of him, and his lips were so thin that they sometimes seemed to vanish altogether. He always wore a dark suit and tie, even on the weekends.
    On Sunday mornings Uncle Dermott rose early and loaded his car with hunting gear: long-handled nets with soft fine mesh, field guides and maps, powerful binoculars, and a compass. Last of all, strapped carefully into the back seat, he would carefully arrange a special glass tank which held small branches from the backyard mulberry tree.
    Once the car was loaded, he would drive off for the day. Sometimes out to the farmlands, sometimes high into the mountains, or sometimes to the beach. It all depended on what type of insect he was seeking for his collection.
    When he caught a butterfly, he would gently place it in the tank and then replace the lid. The butterfly would flit around, quite happily chewing on the mulberry leaves. Usually, there’d be ten to fifteen contented butterflies fluttering around in the tank when Uncle Dermott pulled into the driveway.
    â€œGirl!” he’d shout from the car.
    â€œYes, Uncle?”
    â€œCarry all of this gear into the study, right now. Then get my dinner ready—I’m starving!”
    Kate would pick up all of the nets and field guides and carry them carefully into the study. The only thing that she wasn’t allowed to touch was the tank itself. This was lifted gently by Uncle Dermott and taken inside and placed carefully on his big desk.
    After Sunday dinner came the part of the week that Kate hated the most. Uncle Dermott would retire to his study, while Kate waited for the dreaded yell: “Girl! Time to do today’s butterflies.”
    And Kate would be expected to get to his study as fast as she possibly could. At the door she had to knock and wait for permission to enter.
    â€œCome!” he would bellow from behind his desk.
    â€œAbout time!” Uncle Dermott would say no matter how fast Kate had run to get there. “Try and be a little quicker next time. Now, get the jar.”
    Kate hated the killing jar. It was