Sound of Butterflies, The

by King, Rachael

  To avoid any suspicion, Clara still accompanied John in the mornings, and after their near miss with Ernie, Thomas discouraged her from coming with him too often. When she did, she helped him collect butterflies, even catching a few specimens of her own, but she was reluctant to kill them, and instead put them in jars, which she kept in her hut. Thomas didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was being more cruel than kind; eventually the butterflies would die like that. He suspected she set them free again, anyway.

  The afternoon rains were becoming more prevalent. They came every day now, while the men worked in their own huts or occasionally together for company. Thomas had taken to drinking in the afternoon to try to quell the sickness in his stomach that he knew was guilt, and it worked. By nighttime he was fluid and loose, with butter in his joints as he slipped into Clara’s room and crawled under her mosquito net.

  It was here that she introduced him to another pleasure. She was reluctant at first, but he pressed her to tell him what it was that made her claim that on the night they met, at the carnival, she was not herself.

  ‘It is this,’ she said, and produced a small bag of white powder, which she measured out and mixed into a glass of tea. ‘I take it for my headaches. Drink some with me,’ she said. He drank, remembering that despite what the caapi had made him do, he had enjoyed the sensation of warmth though his veins and the vision of his butterfly it gave him.

  They didn’t make love that night, just lay side by side on Clara’s bed. It was still and firm compared with his hammock: it had taken three men to carry it from the boat for her. A sweet warmth came over him, and Thomas felt at once tied tightly together with her in their shared experience and happy to be on his own, staring into the light on the net that lay over them like a shroud and listening to the calls of the night sounds. His body felt bathed in light, and he imagined it emanating from his heart, pulsing to his fingertips, warming him. Surely this is what God feels like, he thought. I have found God at last. Everything will be all right.

  Clara moved a foot against him and woke him from his reverie. She rolled over and flung her arm over her head with a small moan, knocking over two jars on the chair next to the bed. They smashed to the floor and the butterflies within sat stunned on the floor for a moment before launching themselves sluggishly into the air. They were drawn to the mosquito netting as if to his net. Clara sat up and put her hands out of the covering. The butterflies — Morpho menelaus, their colour changing from blue to pink as their wings caught the candlelight — crawled onto her fingers. She brought them back and began to sing to them, her voice low and melancholy. Thomas saw that he had been unkind to her. She was more beautiful than any woman he had seen. Her inquisitive head once again took on butterfly qualities, and the butterflies walking up her arm seemed to sense the pulsing beauty within her.

  ‘Lovely,’ he whispered, before putting his head down and falling asleep, the sweet sound of the Fado song filling his dreams.

  He was awoken by a shaft of sunlight falling onto his eyes. Clara stirred beside him. He sat up and realised the light outside was too strong. He had slept in. He should have gone back to his hut before the end of the night, but now the sun had climbed into the sky and it was mid-morning.

  ‘Damn, damn,’ he said through clenched teeth as he put his boots on. He was still fully dressed; at least nobody had come in to find him naked.

  ‘O que é? What is it?’ asked Clara. Her hair had come loose from her bun and covered her face like tendrils of seaweed.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said, and threw the mosquito net aside. He realised too late that the butterflies had settled on the floor — perhaps they were half dead anyway — and he stood on one. He lifted his foot to find it ground into his heel, its blue wings torn and its body squashed.

  Outside, he checked the yard. Only the cook was in sight, his back to the huts as he washed dishes from breakfast. Thomas ducked down and scampered across the yard to his own hut. The men had left for the day. He only hoped and prayed that they thought he had merely risen early to go out collecting; this is what he would tell them, anyway. But what about John? He would have been expecting to go out with Clara, and he didn’t remember hearing him knock on her door. Perhaps he waited for her to appear and then left her to sleep. Please, God, he thought.

  His head ached and his limbs were leaden. The heaviness would soon turn to pain, he knew; he recognised the sensation from when he was coming down with influenza.

  Today is the day, he thought, that I will find my butterfly, because I cannot last any longer. The rainy season was fast approaching. It rained every afternoon now, and soon most of the day would be taken by deluge and the butterflies would go into hiding. He would be forced to watch while his colleagues continued with their work and his dried up.

  His shaking hands found the whiskey he kept in his trunk. He poured himself a nip, downed it, and then took a slug from the bottle. This will see the illness off, he thought. Within minutes he felt better, and had another gulp just to make sure. Whatever it was that Clara had given him last night left him feeling exhausted but there was no doubt that for a time he had felt exquisite. He had to remind himself that the sensation wasn’t real … and yet how could feeling good be wrong? In the jungle, his body had come to rule him. For one evening he had been able to leave his body far behind and feed his soul instead.

  He thought it best to set out without Clara, to avoid any suspicion. As he left the camp, John returned alone. Thomas dropped his gaze, couldn’t look at him. What if he had seen him in Clara’s hut?

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ John asked, with no greeting.

  ‘I got up early.’ Thomas’s words rolled heavily off his tongue. ‘I forgot something, though, so I’ve just been back to get it. Some jars I prepared last night.’

  He couldn’t tell without looking at John what his reaction was.

  ‘Senhor Gitchens.’ Clara came walking up between them. ‘Forgive me. I overslept. I wasn’t feeling very well.’

  Thomas took the opportunity of the distraction to sneak a glance at John, whose whole body language had changed. He began to run one hand through his hair over and over again. He smiled a rare smile as he looked down at Clara. She stood close to him, her own smile loose on her lips. Thomas took a step back from them and spun on his toes to face the forest.

  ‘Good day,’ he said, and didn’t wait for an answer. If John had suspected anything, it was eclipsed by the arrival of Clara; Thomas might as well not even have been standing there.

  Despite the ache in his limbs, which was getting stronger, he decided to go further today than ever before. He knew it was unwise without Manuel or the boy to help and guide him, but he needed to get far away from the camp. Cracking branches sounded off at intervals to his right and left. Every time he caught a movement with his eye, when he looked at it he saw only moving branches, swaying as if a great weight had pushed off them. He concentrated on the markers on the rubber trees left by the seringueiros, making sure to check the direction with his compass.

  He walked for an hour without stopping to catch anything. This was a new path and it started to turn in on itself, to curve back towards the camp. He made a decision to keep going, heading north, for north was where Santos had said the butterfly was. The forest grew thicker; many times he had to go around a thick knuckle of trees. The ground grew steeper, but he would not be swayed from his course. North, north, always north. Finally he had to stoop and use his hands to pull himself up where the forest floor had become a bank.

  At the top, he stayed doubled over to catch his breath. His lungs laboured and his limbs were filled with water. His clothes stuck to his body, drenched. He dropped to his knees and looked at the small valley before him.

  He had stumbled onto a clearing covered with a lush flowering vine that trailed yellow petals from tree branches, blanketing the floor of the forest. A small river trickled its way east toward the Negro, falling first twenty feet down rocks slick with emerald slime and shin
ing with minerals. He waited for the breeze that played on the flowers to reach him, but his clothes stayed moist and warm. His eyes slipped into focus as he tried to determine what might be making the flowers waver and undulate. He picked out one flower, then another. The second one came detached from the vine, rose up on a current and floated up into the air. It was not a flower; it was a butterfly, flapping lazily through the ether towards him, one side yellow wings, one side black. He drew himself slowly to his feet, wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand. The butterflies carpeted the ground; groups huddled around pools of water to drink. The sounds of the jungle had stopped. The valley was bathed in silence; even the brook made no sound, as if the presence of the butterflies muffled it, like cotton wool.

  Thomas took a step forward. A cloud of yellow and black rose before him like a small tornado, and a faint noise went with it — a rustling, like leaves caught by a wind on an autumn morning, or the shuffle of tissue paper on a desk. The butterflies made a sound in the stillness; he had never expected to hear it. The cloud dispersed, joining mates on tree branches that bent under their collective weight. Each specimen was as large as his outstretched hand.

  He wanted to scream; to lie down on the ground and beat his fists and feet against the happy earth; to have the Papilio sophia cover him like a shroud while he lay, not breathing. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared. Finally he poised his net and swiped gently at the air, catching one of the butterflies. What would he do with it? He sat on the ground, suddenly overcome. He had forgotten to breathe and his head hammered. He was reluctant to turn it out into a killing jar. Now that he had it, he knew he couldn’t kill it. But here were thousands — no, millions — of the species; surely one would not be missed? He examined it through the net, the exquisite sculpting of the swallow-tail, the black wings like dark velvet, the yellow delicate, like freshly churned butter. He lay back on the ground and held it close to his face. He kissed it, only a layer of fine netting separating him from his heart’s desire. With the captive on the ground beside him, he closed his eyes and, as he felt the Papilio sophia alight on him one by one, fell into a sweet sleep.

  It was the rain that woke him, huge drops that fell into his eyes and his open mouth. He brought his hand up to shield his face but lay on his back, disoriented. He thought at first that the roof of his hut had sprung a leak, but he gradually became aware of the sounds of the jungle around him and the weight of a hundred anacondas inside his head. He tried to sit up, but found that every muscle ached. He groaned and rolled over on his side. A procession of ants crawled past his nose and into his bag, which lay open a foot away; another line exited carrying morsels of fruit. At intervals a drop of rain fell on the parade, scattering ants the way an explosive would. But, limbs intact, the ants shook themselves off and rejoined their army.

  He pushed himself up. His net lay beside him and for a moment Thomas knew he had forgotten something. He looked about him. He sat in a clearing with a waterfall running through it; rain fell into the small river and bowed the leaves of palms and epiphytes. Birds and monkeys shrieked in the treetops. The sound penetrated deep into his eardrums and intensified the pounding in his head. Despite the rain, he burned. I have a fever, he thought. I’m done for.

  He swayed to his feet, and it was a monumental effort just to stay upright. He tried to get his bearings; behind him was a bank, and he had a vague recollection of pulling himself up … and the rest came to him. He began to search wildly with his eyes: no flowers, no butterflies. No papilio. Not one. He fell on the ground beside his net and lifted it with trembling hands. It was empty.

  He cried out. Birds rose in fright, calling back, and hammered their wings in the air. Thomas ran his hands through the mud on the ground and sobbed. He brought up handfuls of gloop, smeared it over his cheeks and his aching chest.

  ‘Who did it?’ he shouted at the treetops. For this was the only explanation he could think of. Somebody had frightened the butterflies away, then stolen the one specimen he had caught.

  He sat for half an hour while the rain fell around him, too exhausted, too angry, too scared to move. But he knew that the heat rising from his body and the pounding inside him was not disappointment but illness, and he had to get back to camp while he could still move.

  It was a miracle that he found the path. He stumbled south for half an hour before darkness ate at the edges of his vision and he fell to his knees.

  He didn’t know how long had passed before he felt strong arms lift him and he was weightlessness itself, soaring through the forest, coasting on a current of air, catching the updraft with a flick of his wings.

  He was carried — by John, it turned out — and lowered gently into his hammock. Figures surrounded him. Ernie mopped his forehead and murmured to him, ‘Just a touch of the ague, old boy. Nothing to worry about.’

  Clara was there, too, and George. Behind them loomed two large dark figures, conversing in Portuguese: Antonio and Santos. Santos is back. The room tilted on its axis and a wave of nausea crashed over Thomas. It was Santos, it had to be. He had followed him to the butterfly valley. He had waited until he fell asleep, then he had played his cruel trick on him. He was punishing him for his relations with Clara.

  ‘I had it,’ he wheezed. ‘He took it.’

  Muttering erupted around him. What’s he on about? … He’s delirious … Get him to drink some water …

  Thomas caught Santos’s marble eyes looking at him. Then all went black.

  Nine

  Richmond, May 1904

  Sophie pauses outside Thomas’s study to listen for any sounds. Nothing. She knocks gently, then opens the door.

  ‘I brought you tea,’ she says, as if she needs an excuse to enter; besides, it’s obvious from the cup she holds in her hand.

  He looks up from his work and nods, before resuming bending over a specimen with a magnifying glass. Sophie puts the cup down beside him and hovers about. She has been crying and she doesn’t care if he sees her puffy eyes. Let him know how he upsets her. There is no doubt he is changing: the colour is coming back into his cheeks; his abrasions are healing and he seems to walk more upright. His brittle frame has become more robust.

  But still he will not speak to her.

  After the agent’s visit on Thursday — two days ago — Sophie tried again to find his journals; when she couldn’t, she thought about asking him for them. Another day, though. It was not the right time. Mr Ridewell spoke of secrets, and hindrances to his work, a fever. But when she studied her husband as he ate his dinner, his eyes downcast, taking the food in neat bites, he was unreadable.

  He glances over his shoulder at her, as if to say, Are you still here? She folds her arms and moves closer.

  ‘I found the blue butterfly, Thomas.’ He freezes. He goes on looking at the specimen in front of him, but every muscle has gone rigid. ‘I meant to say thank you. It’s beautiful.’

  He nods, and his body relaxes once more.

  ‘Did you ever find your papilio, my love?’

  He lays his magnifying glass to one side, brings a fist to his mouth and coughs. His throat sounds full of tiny stones. It’s the first real sound she has heard from him, and it fills the room and swirls around her. Then he shrugs.

  How can he not know whether he found it or not? She’s irritated suddenly at his evasiveness, the way he always has his back to her or his eyes down. At least when he was catatonic she could tell herself how sick he was, but now he seems to be wilfully keeping silent. Now that he spends all day in his study, unpacking, ordering, cataloguing, and writing, she can’t make excuses for him. If only he showed as much attention to her as he does for his stupid butterflies. For the woman in Brazil, even. Perhaps a spell in hospital would do him good after all.

  What is she thinking? She shakes the thought away and removes an old teacup from beside him. No, the next step is to continue life as normal, as if nothing has happened. Take him to do the things he loves. Tonight they will go to
the theatre. She will make him notice her again.

  It has been a long time since Sophie has dressed up properly for an evening out and she takes her time getting ready. She selects the dress Thomas bought her before he left and has never seen on her. The copper-shot lavender chiffon falls in soft folds about her body. She worried at first that it was too daring — the neckline is cut low and her shoulders are exposed through peepholes — but now it doesn’t seem to matter. She knows that Agatha must have helped Thomas choose the design, because it is something she can imagine Agatha wearing — the height of fashion — and the sort of thing her friend is always trying to persuade her to buy. She doesn’t dare think how much it must have cost: the details are exquisite, with a blouse waist, a plaited belt of Liberty satin and the sleeves formed from draped pieces of gauze held with satin. She shimmers as she walks and the spangled material and fringe catch the light.

  She pins her hair in a high pompadour and fixes a silk flower to the front of it. A matching lavender fan and a diamanté necklace complete the outfit.

  Earlier in the day she laid Thomas’s evening suit out for him while he sat in his study. She had found it when she unpacked his trunk of clothes. Everything else had been worn thin and filthy. When she sniffed at the rags of his collecting clothes she fancied they smelled of the jungle, and his old boots were muddy, with grit and dead leaves embedded in the soles. He had inadvertently brought back more of the forest than he had intended. In the middle of all that tattered and dirty clothing — which she later threw away — was a glossy black suit, with shirt and tie and even spats. When could he have worn it? She brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke.