Soul of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  She gives a little roll of her eyes, parting from him with a playful push. She immediately goes back to looking around, surveying their surroundings.

  The area crowds with pedestrian traffic. The locals navigate easily through the density, stopping or angling off where they wish, plodding along with forethought. Lilja notices many eyes upon them, but few linger. They are not in the most obvious place for tourists, but their singularity doesn’t seem to gain them much notice. They still spy many signs in English, these promising a variety of services or even enlightenments. A motorcycle rider honks his horn nearby, hoping to hurry the throng that holds little regard for streets and crossways.

  Colors stand out here and there, attempts to gain notice for shops and stalls. Lush saffron shades mingle with honeyed yellows as though the vibrant, pulsing veins of nature’s best offering. They are here to shop, in a way, but they hold no certainty on how they shall find what they seek.

  Time creeps like the shifting of dunes. They find a place to have a quick meal, enjoying some butter tea. Thoughts collect, but they share little. They are still gathering information, letting it simmer. They make their way back out unto the avenues, finding themselves in a tangle of people backed-up from a procession of pack-bearing horses. A few people squabble over direction as a darkly-colored mastiff keeps watch. They take the opportunity to change theirs.

  Lilja’s eyes light up and she heads over to the tree. It sprouts up in the otherwise dusty, urban area like a vivid reminder of the earth beneath them, its yellow leaves giving off a distinct scent.

  “A ginkgo tree,” Skot says as he comes up beside her, smiling at her exuberance. She nods. He reels back, blinking rapidly. “Quite the smell.”

  He watches her as she moves about, not seeming bothered at all by the odor, more eager to peer and touch. The tree stands between two apartment buildings, those tucked in right behind the small stores and open stalls of the street.

  “It doesn’t smell that bad,” Lilja comments, that youthful smile still claiming her lips.

  “I haven’t seen any others,” Skot notes.

  She nods, all but bounding over. “It does seem out of place, but it’s beautiful.” She then furrows her brow as she studies it.

  “What is it?”

  “I wouldn’t expect it to have such yellow leaves this time of year.”

  “Maybe it’s the altitude.”

  “It’s starting to get late,” David interjects, upnodding toward the sun.

  Skot looks. “Where did the time go?”

  The shops and general traffic don’t appear to be abating in anticipation of the coming night, and none too far from the tree, they find a curious store. Amidst small bottles and bowls, the place shows an abundant population of moths. They seem to have free run of the place, flittering and settling where they like. One alights on Lilja’s offered finger, and the shopkeeper gives a toothy grin, chattering in Tibetan.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you,” she says.

  “American?” he asks.

  She shakes her head, and the man narrows his eyes. “English?”

  “Close enough.” She chuckles, gaining a similar response from Skot. “What kind of moths are these?”

  The man doesn’t seem to understand, so she gestures with the one still on her hand as well as indicating all of those around.

  “Ah!” the shopkeeper gives eager nods. “Ghost. Ghost!”

  “Ghost moths?”

  “La-reh, la-reh.”

  Lilja shakes her head.

  “Yes!” the man says, extending a finger sharply into the air, motivating a scurry of nearby moths before they quickly re-settle.

  “Why are all of these here?” Skot asks, finding Lilja’s smile and energy contagious.

  The man points to a wide and shallow wooden bowl filled with what looks like dried out seed pods. “Yarza g̈unbu!”

  “What?” Skot peers, leaning closer.

  The man quickly brings up a handful for better inspection. Skot pulls back, chuckling softly. Lilja reaches in and picks one up.

  “It looks like a dead caterpillar with a plant of some kind growing out of it.”

  The man gives eager nods.

  “Caterpillar fungus,” the man manages in heavily-accented English.

  “Fungus?” Lilja arches her eyebrows and quickly drops it back into the bowl.

  The shopkeeper continues nodding. “Very strong.” He makes a fist, shaking it. “Make you strong.” He points at Skot, then David, then does an unmistakable pantomime in front of his crotch.

  “It’s everywhere,” Zoe pitches an observation, and though it is not the only item for sale, a good deal of it shows in promising heaps in various bowls and dishes.

  “No, thank you,” Skot replies, giving forth a brief smirk.

  They make their way further, now beneath a dark sky, having found themselves away from the streets. The clutter of stalls shows a denser promise now. People mill about, some engaging in terse negotiations, but their numbers show to have declined in seeming direct inverse to the number of shops.

  “Doesn’t this seem off to you?”

  Skot glances to David. He suppresses a sudden urge to give a quick negative. “What do you mean?”

  “Look up. It’s like we’re covered in blackness. Where are the stars? And look at all these people? Most of them are wearing some sort of hats with face coverings.”

  “Like they’re hiding who they are.” Skot notices.

  “Or what they are.”

  Skot steps back, gesturing, and the other three move in tight, close to him.

  “Zoe, do you notice anything out of the ordinary?” he asks, whispering.

  “You mean Infernal?”

  He gestures with his head, and she turns, looking out on the assembly. It doesn’t take long before she turns back.

  “Something is definitely off about this place, but no, no Infernal.”

  “Should we get out of here?” David asks.

  Skot takes a moment to reply, surveying their surroundings. He’s not sure what is going on, but he does remember what brought them here.

  “No. Let’s look around, but stick together.”

  “An in-between place,” Lilja muses once they get back to their exploration.

  “Maybe,” Skot replies. “If so, think of what that means,” he continues, gaining a curious look from his girlfriend. “We know something of how gates may appear, and some may stay in a rudimentary state, but all of that ties to the Infernal, and as far as we know, there is no ‘in-between’. You are either in one realm or the other.”

  The various people milling about the bazaar give them no more scrutiny than might be expected from strangers or those spying the generally unfamiliar. They keep to their business, engaging in their commerce. If unwanted intruders have entered their domain, they make no movement to indicate any retaliation.

  “Are they human?” Zoe asks within a pitched whisper.

  Skot finds himself again stifling the sudden urge to jump to conclusions.

  “I don’t know,” he finally admits, feeling the coiling of paranoia on the end of the statement. It feels silly to him to say that, and he is forced to push aside the sudden conflict of impulses inside him.

  “There.”

  They all look to where Lilja points. There is a store of a much more substantial appearance than the rest of the booths, stalls, and wagons making up the area. Tall, narrow windows mark its front, the flickering of gas lamps sending out their glow from within. But what has caught their attention is the sign above the doorway. It does not bear any words, merely a symbol, and it is the same etched on the dark stone given them by Nasht.

  Frescoes greet them inside, along with rows upon rows of books. The place looks more a library than a bookstore, judging from the bindings and apparent age of the tomes on display. The paintings depict grotesque, surreal scenes, but they are not given long to examine them before someone arrives from the hidden interior of the building. He
emerges and stands as though always having been there.

  “Welcome,” the man says.

  He is slender and tall, carrying himself with a great poise. He wears a long robe with hues of dark red and bronze, nothing obscuring his head or face. Though he has the cast of a native, something of him hearkens to the exotic.

  “Thank you,” Skot finally answers him.

  “Please do come in,” he continues, coaxing with the subtle gesture of one hand.

  They go further inside, some curious glances spared to the wares, though most attention finds focus on the proprietor. Skot wonders how open he should be with their search. Though this man holds an aged appearance, he speaks English with but a slight accent. He also looks as though he is from this area, not like one displaced from Eastern Europe and come here to run from demons.

  “Help yourselves.”

  They see two metal bowls filled to the brim with what looks like small discs of bread. It is difficult to tell exactly what they are, though their shape and thickness is like a large pill. The man stands atop a dais, a short barrier going around that provides an entryway just where he waits. Two short pillars to either side not only mark the end of the barrier but also provide support for the bowls.

  “What is it?” Zoe finally asks.

  “Medicinal ambrosia.”

  They all look at him.

  “Think of it as a sort of communion. It is akin to honeyed bread, though there are some herbs and spices to enhance the flavor and potential benefits. As you may see, the amounts are small. This is more a ritual of hospitality.”

  “Thank you,” Skot replies, though none of them partake of the offering.

  “How might I help you, then?”

  “The symbol outside, over your door,” Skot begins, and this gains sharp notice from Lilja.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve come looking for it.”

  “You have?” the man replies, arching his thin eyebrows. “I am a purveyor of books, as you may note.”

  “Well, we are looking for a book.”

  Lilja steps in closer, grabbing Skot’s arm. Zoe and David have fanned out, ostensibly to browse the shop, but they also keep watch on the goings-on.

  “Then I hope to provide,” the man says, giving a slow, shallow bow from the waist.

  “A rare book,” Skot continues, “one of a kind.”

  Those eyebrows perk again.

  “Ah, I see. Something very valuable, then. Please, come this way,” he invites, extending his right hand, turning it and adding a slow fan of his fingers. The entire gesture is slow, graceful, deliberate.

  They follow to a door, one they had not noticed, such do the angles and lighting effuse a surreal, dreamlike quality to the place. From outside, the building looked common enough, at least in structure, but now that they are inside and moving about, hidden depths reveal themselves.

  They move into this next room, the ceiling angling down and away, giving the far end a hidden section of shadow. There are less books here, all shown front forward, some behind glass.

  “The pride of my collection,” the man says.

  Skot gives a dip of his head as he and Lilja begin scanning the stock. David and Zoe continue to keep an eye on the man and the rest of the store.

  “It’s not here,” Lilja soon announces.

  “Ah, I am sorry,” the proprietor offers. “What is the title? I might be able to procure it, and I confess I am burning with curiosity to know.”

  “The symbol outside,” Skot says.

  “Yes?”

  “It has meaning.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why display it so prominently?”

  “Ah, because only those who are friendly would know of it.” The man gives a polite smile.

  Skot’s brow furrows slightly. He finds the answer spurious, almost pandering.

  “Then you know the book we seek,” Lilja concludes, coming up near him.

  “I know there is reason for some things to remain hidden.” He gives his smile to her, then looks back to Skot, the expression gone. “Why do you seek this book?”

  “Protection.”

  “Protection? From what?”

  Skot produces the pendant, showing it to the shopkeeper. The man fixes his eyes upon it, widening them as he does.

  “We have this. Does it not give us credence?”

  “This is entirely unexpected,” the man says, speaking quicker than he has until now. “I would ask something of you.” His tone also drops, closer to a whisper. “You must know that no place is safe. Safety comes not only in protection but also keeping that place secret, yes?”

  Skot gives the man a single nod.

  “Good. Good. Will you return tomorrow? I will have it for you then.”

  “It’s not here?” Skot asks after a moment of thought, his eyes never leaving the proprietor.

  “It is not here.”

  “Where is Kuranes?”

  “What? That is not the name of the Book.”

  “Nevermind,” Skot dismisses. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

  *****

  “You know,” Therese begins, not fully looking over from the barrage of windows on her computer’s monitor, “some of this demon stuff might make sense.”

  Duilio gives a nervous laugh, the expression causing a jig to the unlit cigarette held in his lips. “Come now, Therese. Surely you don’t believe in such things?”

  “I don’t mean literally,” she carries on, still focused on the screen. “Hell, Satan can be some imaginary character, but a Satan-worshiping serial killer is still a bad thing.”

  “Yes, yes,” Duilio agrees, nodding emphatically. “Is that what you think this has all been?”

  She finally stops, pushing back from the table and looking up at him. Her eyes pierce into this man who once kidnapped her and now is a guest in her scant apartment. He steps away from the proximity he had gained during their talk.

  “Is Denman Malkuth a devil-worshipping serial killer?”

  A quick pinch flits across Duilio’s face. He then sighs.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Which part are you not sure about?”

  “I don’t think he actually fits the definition of a serial killer.”

  “But he worships the devil?”

  “Therese.”

  She continues looking at him, waiting.

  “I don’t know his personal … religious beliefs, but I doubt he does.”

  “Why is it that every time I dig more into stuff related to the vigilante, you turn up?” She stabs a finger at him.

  “I …” he shakes his head, holding out his hands as he inches further away. He then blinks, looking aside, brow furrowing.

  “What? What is it?” Therese presses, standing and moving closer.

  “I just … thought of something,” he says, still looking away, his voice low, measured.

  “What did you think of?”

  He finally looks back at her.

  “Why does that happen, Therese?” he asks, and as she begins to reply, he waves it off. “I am being rhetorical, but why? Is the vigilante somehow connected to the Malkuths?”

  “What?” Therese recoils. “From what you’ve told me of them, then no.”

  Now it is Duilio’s turn to affix a pressing stare.

  “You do not know that, Therese. You are defending him.” He waves his hands again as she prepares to speak, the gesture more emphatic. He then takes up his cigarette as he gesticulates. “You were working for the vigilante, and you were caught.”

  “By you.”

  “Uhm, yes, but I was then working for Gnegon, or I assume I was.”

  “Both times.”

  “Yes, yes, I know this, Therese.”

  “What is the connection to the Malkuths?”

  “That is a very good question.”

  Therese narrows her eyes at Duilio.

  “And you said this all began from you doing research on rare books?”

  “Yes,�
� she finally replies.

  “Did it, or did it not?”

  “Yes. I was researching the rare books collection at the university, and the name Denman Malkuth came up. Apparently, he visited it.”

  Duilio nods, for they have gone over this. Still, he tries to the let information percolate into something new.

  “Yes, but this research of yours into rare books was really about trying to learn the vigilante’s identity.”

  He has not asked, and she says nothing else, merely watching as he continues to walk the pathways of his mind’s library. He finally looks back at her.

  “The vigilante came the second time and rescued you, but you said you did not call him.”

  She nods.

  “Presumably he was there to dismantle Gnegon’s operation or disrupt things and summon the police.”

  Therese nods, wordlessly.

  “I wonder … what else the vigilante found there.”

  “You were there,” Therese flings at him. “You said something bad was going on, and there was all that … chaos outside.”

  “I don’t think the vigilante caused that.”

  “Neither do I,” Therese says, again slitting her focus. “Look. The vigilante rescued me, got me out, and then … went back inside. All that … shit was going on, but the vigilante didn’t leave.”

  A weighty silence descends as both ponder.

  “Did the Malkuths have anything to do with what happened there?”

  “No, no. Well, I don’t think so. Maybe they did. I don’t know.”

  “What the hell is going on in this city?”

  Duilio looks at her, but she has now found her own way into the inner paths of her contemplation. He is not inclined to give an answer, even though he knows things she does not. This knowledge has not given him more confidence that he is any closer to an answer. On the contrary, it has pushed him further away, as though shoving him back from a dark abyss.

  *****

  The darkly-garbed figure moves through the throng.

  She had thought the crowds might thin by this late hour, but then she just as quickly wonders why she assumes. They had all been here some hours ago, and once settled back into their hotel, she had snuck out. She has her own ideas about what is going on, and so she risks a second trip, going it alone.