Dance of the Butterfly
by Scott Carruba
Dance of the Butterfly
©2016 Scott Carruba
Published by Optimus Maximus Publishing
Edited by Christina Hargis Smith
Cover art by Jeffrey Kosh Graphics
Electronic edition, license notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
ISBN-10: 1-944732-08
ISBN-13: 978-1-944732-08-0
Acknowledgement and Dedication
Dance of the Butterfly is a tale that very nearly did not happen. It took time to take hold and even more time to truly blossom. Were it not for the ceaseless help of a very dear, close friend, it would not have been done. In a very real way, it parallels that relationship, taking from that story to add to its own. For this, I deeply thank you, Jane.
I also wish to thank my publisher, beta readers, and you, dear reader. I hope you enjoy the book.
Acknowledgement and Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Author Bio
Not even one of them can fall to the ground without your Father’s knowing it
Chapter One
He glances down at the tracks, peering over them for a moment, the collection of depressions heavy in this copse, depicting a recent scurry due to some excitement. He stays there, crouched, thick legs bent at the knee, then he inhales. He catches the scent of their spore nearby. The air is crisp, cool, eager to carry smell and sound. He raises his rifle, a custom modified FN FAL, but he does not bring it up to aim, still peering out into the distance over the land. Trees block his view in many directions, growing thicker further out.
His eyes move quickly, narrowing. It is apparent, sudden, and he easily identifies it as the sound of many feet running toward him. He hears the panting not long after, but he does not yet smell the beasts. They are approaching downwind of his own position.
He turns, booted feet shifting in place, then raises the weapon, his knee dropping to the ground as he tucks the butt of the rifle into his right shoulder, left elbow resting on his other leg. His movements display a smooth, practiced ease. He peers through the small scope, waiting, breath flowing calmly.
The pack of wolves comes into view about fifty meters away, healthy beasts running tightly together, the alpha in the lead. They lope easily up the gentle incline toward his position. These are the ones he has been tracking, and they have found him.
He continues looking through the scope, the green shade to its lenses helping to bring greater focus. Both eyes remain open, increasing his field of view, indicating his lack of focus on a specific target. The barrel of the firearm moves, sweeping, seeking prey. The wolf pack continues its approach, quickly covering the ground.
Just before they reach him, he lowers the weapon, and they move in, their posture not one of aggression, and they move up close, seeking attention.
“Nothing out there, hmm?” he speaks, his voice a mid-range bass.
He pats the alpha on his left side as the animal presses into him a moment. They display excitement. He finally looks down, a light smile taking his lips.
“Alright then. Work’s done. Go … hunt,” he emphasizes the command, and the pack emits a few eager sounds and heads out.
He stands, moving his bulk to this upright posture with an ease that suggests a good deal of muscle. He lets his eyes follow the direction of the beasts as they disappear into the trees. He glances about again, exhaling slowly, scanning the area before he finally turns to head back to the house.
The Victorian mansion holds place like a sentinel in the clearing. The expanse of property on which it stands covers many acres, most of which gives way to trees, the forest becoming denser as one moves further from the estate. Hints of gothic and baroque show themselves in the detailing and columns. The front entrance beckons, but he does not approach that way, coming in from the west side and heading for the rear entrance. The ground slopes downward, giving a suggestion of the hidden, though the secrets within the home are much better occluded than this door. He passes through easily enough, the sophisticated security systems having already identified him.
He removes the dark watchman’s cap, then adds his gloves to the small pile he creates on the countertop space in the workroom. Casting and reloading mechanisms tell of the gunsmithing that occurs here, but they are ignored as he unslings his rifle, setting it in a cabinet amidst others.
He walks through, heading into other areas of the manor, the rooms taking on a more artistic, polished flair. He passes near a small team of people going about their own business. They barely take notice of him, the senior woman giving direction to the others as they work at cataloging various items. He moves up the large, curving staircase, each step broad, the impressive structure composed of dark, rich wood.
He finally finds him, Skothiam, the Head of the House, busy at work amidst old books that lie open, baring their contents in stark contrast to the small bank of slim monitors and other electronic equipment. As though to add to the potentially confusing ambience, candles and incense leak their leavings into the air.
“Everything alright out there, Jericho?” the man speaks, not looking up from peering over a thick tome, studying the page with a magnifying lens.
“Yes.”
“What about the wolves?”
“I told them to go hunt.”
A moment passes, and it might seem that this last has gone unheard, but these two have known each other for decades, and they need not always communicate in obvious words. The other finally looks up from the book’s page, setting the glass aside.
“Good, good,” he says, nodding, then exhales. “Seems neither of us found anything, though that’s not a positive result for me.”
The taller one merely observes, for just as the outside, the hunt, are his elements, this sanctum is somewhat alien to him in its role to the other.
“Doesn’t matter, really,” Skothiam speaks after a short pause, then he picks up what appears to be a small, thin, plastic window of sorts, its right side showing advanced gadgetry of electronic equipment and indicator lights.
He presses on some of the icons in the graphical interface then sets the device over the page of the book. A rendering of that same page quickly resolves, a duplicate suspended above itself, given life from the translucent window.
“Maybe the analysis program will find something that I- ahh, Sharon,” Skot pauses, smiling warmly as the woman enters the room.
She wears a uniform that bespeaks of her role as a maid or attendant, her garments pressed and professional, mingling modern utilitarian with an antiquated aesthetic. She holds up a tray on which are balanced two tall
glasses bearing blue-grayish, thick contents.
“Gentlemen?” she offers.
“Thanks, Sharon,” Jericho says, taking a glass, and then she moves to the other who does the same, offering his thanks with a dip of his head.
“Anything else?” she asks, stepping back.
“Nothing else, Sharon. Thank you,” Skothiam says, continuing to offer the same warm expression, lips curved within the thinly trimmed goatee, blue eyes crinkled a bit at their sides. “You seem capable of sensing our needs prior to our even asking, anyway.”
She smiles, taking the compliment, then gives a tiny bow before exiting. Both men then sip of their blended drinks, swallowing, then looking at each other, nodding. A short chuckle is shared between them.
“It’s good,” Jericho comments.
“It is.”
“So, what are you working on?” the guardsman peers at the advanced contraption at work over the open book, then glides his eyes to the monitors, the depictions on their screens also obvious signs of work going on within the powerful computer.
“More of the same.”
Jericho gives a nod, vague hints of dissatisfaction taking his expression as he does. He glances about, giving cursory observance to the various analyses taking place.
“It’s a never-ending battle,” he offers.
“I suppose they calls those ‘wars’, hmm?” comes the retort, tempered with a light smile and perk of eyebrows.
He is greeted with a serious stare. His friend is not bereft of humor, his boisterous laugh well known, but he may just as easily, if not more so, resolve into this quiet intensity. The sudden, rising tension is interrupted by a beep from the electronic device analyzing the open book, and Skothiam blinks, turning thankfully to it, but his expression changes dramatically once he sees what is there.
A figure resolves, rising from the device or the book just as easily as it appears to be emerging from nothing. It suggests one of the three dimensional images which may be rendered by the advanced tool, but some of it is hazy, indistinct, and it continues to increase in size. It has a definite anthropomorphic shape, looking like a person rising from some depths.
The two observers do not move. They merely watch, held in awesome silence. Jericho is not as familiar with this device, but even he knows this is very much out of the ordinary for its function. He is aware that the gadget is connected to the house’s elaborate and powerful network, just as with most every other electronic appliance on the grounds, but he can also tell from the other man’s reaction that this is very unexpected.
“What in the Nine Hells?” Skothiam breathes, looking upon the form as it takes on a finer definition, his expression morphing from bewilderment to a more focused study. “Father?” he finally dares to ask.
The apparition smiles, moving its head in affirmation. The man’s father was not known for being overly exuberant in his expression of emotions, but this is most definitely the very image of the well-respected man, dead now these past four years.
“Dad?” he tries again, hope painting his voice like daring whispers, “Is that really you? What … what’s going on? How did you get here?” he asks, looking down again at the experimental device still in place over the book as it dutifully, if not blindly, continues its work.
The apparition nods again, still giving that characteristic light, pleasant grin. It rises further, taking on more distinction, even as it shows no more coloring than might a sepia-toned photograph.
“Can you not speak?” he asks of it, for the illness that claimed his father took his ability to speak before taking him.
The ghostly image shakes its head, and he nods in understanding fashion.
“Why are you here?” he finally asks.
The color-starved specter gives a piercing look, though it is still pleasant, like the smile, closing toward him. He dares not move. Then the apparition turns and heads away, passing through the unopened door in slow, hovering locomotion, the two corporeal beings in quick pursuit.
“Is that really your father?” Jericho asks, speaking in an urgent whisper as the two head down the large staircase.
“I don’t know,” is the honest response, “But it feels like him. I don’t know how else to explain it, but … regardless, I am left wondering how this is happening at all, much less who or why.”
Jericho takes this in with no outward response, merely following, ever-watchful. They tail the moving apparition into the impressive library. They see as the entity stops, then turns to them. Is it waiting? Has it come to its intended place? No answer seems forthcoming as it moves no further, just looking at what may be its son, a kind, calm expression to its appearance.
The man looks at the books, noting them well. He moves his eyes back, but gets nothing more from the apparition. He again looks over the books nearby, scanning over them with rapid, greedy movements of his eyes.
“I don’t understand,” he finally admits, looking back at the ghost, “Is this … I know of these books, but … what is it you are trying to tell me?”
And then he experiences a dawning, as though a chemical recomposition caused by the slow spread of heat from a focal point, and that point is the apparition, staring at him, into him. His eyes widen, his form stiffening, and then a hand is placed on his left arm, close to his shoulder.
“Are you alright, Skot?” comes the voice of his friend and companion.
Skothiam pulls in a breath through his nose, turning to look at the larger man.
“I just … felt something. As if he spoke to me.”
Jericho tilts his head, brow furrowing, “What?”
“It’s one of the Three Books!” he exclaims. “He says he found it and hid it here in the library.” And then Skothiam moves quickly, going to nearby shelves, searching, running fingers rapidly over spines, pushing books aside, seeking for some hidden treasure.
“What!” the other tries again.
“One of the Three,” Skothiam speaks from the other side of the shelf, “I don’t know how I know. I don’t know how he is even here, but I feel certain. He found it before he became ill, then he hid it in here in the library. We must find it!”
The other man shakes his head, a mute commentary contained in the economic gesture. He then proceeds to try to help, going about in search amongst the crammed, tall, numerous shelves.
“How will I even know if I find it?” he calls out.
“You’ll know,” comes the reply from some ways away in the expansive room.
“That’s not my specialty, Skot. You know that. Hell, if anything, I may be resistant to any-”
“Resistant does not mean deaf. Let’s just keep looking. Even if you just see something that seems out of the ordinary …”
He gives forth a huff accompanied by a roll of the eyes but continues the search.
The sudden, sharp intrusion of the alarm interrupts their activity. Both stand up straight, startled by the noise. They consult small, electronic devices – Skot pulling forth a slim cell phone, the larger man looking at an item buckled about his wrist. They move to each other.
“Fire,” they say in near unison.
“We have to get out of here,” Jericho declares.
“Dammit!” Skothiam curses, a pleading look given to his friend, “But the book.”
“Don’t make me carry you.”
“This can’t be a coincidence.”
“Don’t … make me … carry you,” and this time it is delivered with more insistent tinges of threat.
Skot’s eyes snap back up to the tall guardsman. “The fire’s on the first floor, front east side. It may even be contained before it gets here.”
“Good, then it won’t damage the books, and you can continue the search after we know everything is safe, now … don’t make me ca-,” and the words are cut off by the sound of a loud explosion.
*****
He sits outside, a safe distance from the burning house. It will take some time for the fire department to arrive, even though the
y have been alerted and are on their way. He can even hear the sirens, but the estate is located on the outskirts of town, tucked away within the large expanse of privately-held land.
He does not know when he finally allowed himself to sit, just plopped here on the grass, watching as his home burns. His eyes are glassy, the moist sheen reflecting the chaotic dance of the flames, but he does not cry. His thoughts move from the many valuables inside to the good fortune that so few people were here at all. Sometimes, the mansion is filled, but his mother has been spending time with his sister, and his son is off with friends.
He glances over as Mary nears him, the elder woman acting as Chief of Staff. He sees the comforting, careful expression. He offers a meager smile.
“They’ll be here soon. It won’t be a total loss,” she tries.
He nods, then glances back at the house. Her assessment is correct, but the fire is already licking and lapping hungrily through the library. Despite the immense value of the possessions in the house, they are insured or backed-up, but the main thing that is irreplaceable haunts him.
One of the Three Books …
With the life he has led, he rarely gives credence to coincidence, and he does not now. The trigger for the fire and explosion relates to the appearance of the apparition and realization of that immensely important book having been hid away in the library for no telling how long. The book that is now ash.
He hears a question off a ways, and it taps at his awareness like an annoying nibble. He blinks back into focus, turning to where most of the others are gathered. Not everyone is here. He moves closer to them, eyes searching about, then he turns, peering in the distance at various angles, then back at the house.
“Jericho? he calls out, his practiced voice evincing a sudden, controlled boom of volume and power, but despite this, there is no reply, so after a time, he tries again, calling the name of his old friend, “Jericho!”
“There!” someone else calls out, and he jerks his head over to see them point.
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