Lodo waved a hand. “They can wait for once. Fundelry will survive without me.”
“No doubt,” agreed Derksen, “but it wouldn’t be half as entertaining.”
“I’m amazed you practice your craft so openly here,” said Sal’s father.
Lodo shrugged. “I’m useful. The source of my usefulness is irrelevant to the people here.”
“Don’t the Sky Wardens worry you, though? I can’t imagine you hiding when the Selector comes to town.”
“No. I’m not frightened of them.” The old man looked down at the glowing stone. “Power is like a rope bridge, with the highest at either end and the lowest in the middle. The ones in the middle--always jostling for position and setting the whole thing rocking and swaying, threatening to tip everyone off--they’re the ones I’m afraid of.”
“That’s why you jumped?” Sal’s father asked.
Lodo’s gaze didn’t leave the glowing stone. “Yes.”
Josip cleared his throat into the awkward silence that followed. “A moment ago we were speaking of entertainment …”
“Ah, I thought you’d never ask.” Derksen reached for his guitar and took a heavy draught of wine. “Any requests?”
“Something in tune,” suggested Aunty Merinda. “For a change.”
“No use asking for miracles,” said Thess.
“Come now,” Derksen admonished them. “This isn’t a court in the Haunted City. You only get what you pay for. What about our new friends? Do you have any requests?”
Sal’s father looked startled. “Me? No, play what you like. I have no preference.”
“Well, so I shall.” Derksen plucked strings and twiddled knobs experimentally. With the sound slightly improved, he launched into a bawdy ballad Sal had no memory of hearing before. Aunty Merinda laughed and joined in on the chorus, not adding much to the tunefulness of the performance. Lodo shook his head and rolled his eyes at Shilly and Sal, but did nothing to stop them. Sal paid habitually close attention to the melody, thinking that it might be worth something at the next town they visited.
Thess leaned back against a sandstone outcrop with one hand on her stomach. When Derksen finished, with a bow to Aunty Merinda and Josip’s applause, she asked for something quieter.
“Little Gil doesn’t like the loud ones,” she explained.
Derksen shrugged good-naturedly and tried an instrumental tune that Sal vaguely recognised, a piece he’d heard called “The Mountain Rondo”. Neither Derksen’s guitar nor his playing was the equal of it, however, and Sal saw his father wince every time a note fell wrongly.
When it was over, Derksen wrung his hands and apologized for being out of practice.
“That’s been your excuse for as long as I’ve known you,” chuckled Lodo.
“Yeah, well.”
“Do you know the Marchiori Cycle?” Sal asked.
Derksen looked surprised at the question--but not half as much as Sal’s father.
“A tune or two,” admitted Derksen. “Do you?”
“I know I like them,” said Sal. “I’ve heard fragments, but never the whole thing.”
“Well…” Derksen thought for a moment, his fingers idly stroking the strings. “Let’s see. I think this one’s part of it.”
Once again he began to play, this time a soft introduction to a melody that managed to seem beautiful even through his rough playing. Sal had heard it before, in a town far away, but then it had had a vocal accompaniment. He couldn’t remember much about the lyrics, except that they were very old: something about loss, perhaps, or regret …
When it was over, the notes reverberated in the air for a moment before a wave drowned them out. The glowing yellow stone shone in everyone’s eyes--but in Sal’s father’s most of all, his gaze fixed on Sal.
“Lovely,” said Lodo, breaking the spell. “That brings back memories.”
“I’ve never heard it before,” said Thess. “Was it written for someone?”
“A place, I think. Or a time.” The old man shook his head. “I’m not certain.”
“You played it very well,” admitted Aunty Merinda.
“I won’t take any credit for that,” said Derksen. “It’s one of those tunes plays itself, if you know what I mean.”
The words seemed to stir Sal’s father from his spell. “The last line wasn’t right. Close, but not quite.”
“You know it too?” Derksen didn’t seem to be offended at the criticism; in fact, he looked almost relieved, as though he wasn’t used to praise.
“I … yes.”
“Can you play it?”
“Once, but--”
“Here.” Derksen extended the guitar. “Show me. I can always use a lesson.”
“I’ll second that,” said Aunty Merinda.
Sal’s father hesitated, then took the instrument and swung it onto his lap. His fingers hovered over the strings, as though nervous, then stuck the correct notes in perfect, fluid time. Sal was amazed: he had never heard his father play anything before.
Then suddenly the full tune was coming from the guitar, so pure and sweet it seemed to bear no relation to what Derksen had played. Sal listened breathless as his father played the passage through once, his face expressionless and the music flowing like silver clockwork, then repeated it, this time with the accompanying words sung in a smooth, tenor voice:
“I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep …”
When Sal’s father ceased singing, this time even the sea seemed to have fallen silent.
“Now that’s playing,” said Derksen, once the last note had faded away.
“I’ll say,” said Aunty Merinda. “Wherever did you learn to play like that?”
The spell broken, Sal’s father looked awkward and defensive. “I learned a long time ago, a long way from here. I haven’t played for years.” The last was addressed to Sal, as though in apology. He offered Derksen the guitar, but the would-be minstrel waved it away.
“No, I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing myself further. Play something else, please.”
“I’d rather not.” Sal’s father kept the guitar at arm’s length, as though it might cut him.
Derksen took it with a shrug. “Okay, but it seems a waste.”
“A story, then,” suggested Josip. “You promised me one the other day.”
Sal’s father looked relieved. “Yes, I did.”
“Well, I’d call that a fair trade.”
“Aye,” said Lodo, nodding. “Your time in the spotlight isn’t over yet, son.”
Sal’s father and the old man exchanged a long look that Sal couldn’t interpret. It was as though they were playing a game of cat and mouse no one else could join.
“What story, then?” Sal’s father finally asked.
“Something new,” said Josip. “We don’t get many inlanders through here.”
“What about Polain the butterfly merchant?” Sal suggested.
“Yes.” His father nodded. “A good choice--if no one here has heard it, of course.”
No one had, so Sal’s father settled down into a more comfortable position and began the tale.
Sal listened with half an ear. Not only had he heard the beginning just four days before, he was still stunned by what he had just learned about his father. He had had no idea he could play the guitar, let alone so well. Sal couldn’t have been more surprised if his father had unscrewed his head and booted it into the sea. Again, he was at a loss to understand why such knowledge had been kept from him--especially when music was something he had pursued with interest throughout his travels. If he had know
n his father had shared that interest at all, it was something they could have explored together …
But gradually the tale of the merchant’s quest for the last, unique butterfly in the world succeeded in dragging him in, as it always did.
“He searches the branches and ground nearby,” his father was saying. “Polain creeps carefully through the enclosure, making absolutely certain that nothing is underfoot. His heart beats a little faster as he thinks: Maybe this is the one, the last unique butterfly in the world. Maybe my search is over.
“And when he sees it, perched on a branch with its wings upraised, still soft from birth but beating the air with increasingly sure strokes, he knows. Its coloring is pale green across its abdomen and thorax. Its antennae have an orange hue with yellow highlights and are curled in a tight spiral. Its wings are black, lightening to blue around the edges, with a subtle cross-hatch pattern in silver visible only as the light reflects off them. In the center of each wing is a single, pure white circle.
“Polain has never seen its equal. Backing away, wary of startling it, he calls hoarsely for the butterfly feeders. Sensing his excitement, they come running. One of them has the forethought to bring a silk net. Polain snatches it from her and swoops up the butterfly with a swing more delicate than a gentle breeze.
“He cradles the captured butterfly in both hands and takes it to the main enclosure, where a special habitat has been prepared and kept ready. There, the specimen is examined for flaws and signs of ill-health. None are found. It is weighed and its markings are recorded. The clerks dive into the vast bookcases, the catalogues, following themes of shape and hue in search of a match. This is the most nerve-racking time for Polain. All he can do is wait impatiently for word to come that his venture has not been in vain. It is too late to breed another with this butterfly in the hope that a similar but unique creature will result. And the chances are infinitesimally small that another will be born in the one day remaining. It is either this butterfly or none at all.
“The night passes sleeplessly. Still no word comes. He joins the clerks at dawn to supervise their quest and promises them substantial bonuses if they work without rest until they are satisfied. Midday comes, and the queen’s departure is only hours away. One of the clerks declares in exhaustion that he is sure that, judging by the shape of its wings, the butterfly is unique. Polain sends him home, relieved to a small degree but still anxious. Two hours pass, and another clerk, specializing in abdominal markings, similarly declares satisfaction. She too is dismissed with thanks. The third and fourth clerks--wing markings and head/limb composition--are certain by five o’clock that their work is done. Only then does Polain begin to feel anything like joy. These two clerks are sent home with smiles and a shot of liquor burning in their bellies. Just one remains, an elderly man specializing in the relatively small field of antennae.
“With just two hours left, Polain hurries about the business of preparing the butterfly in its presentation jar, dressing himself in his finest suit and composing a short speech of thanks--to the queen, for accepting the gift, and to the people of the city, for buying his butterflies in the past and permitting him the indulgence of his vocation. Without them, he might have been a street-sweeper or postman or something as insignificant. Instead, his name will be known forever as the greatest butterfly breeder who ever lived.
“As he puts the finishing touches to his bow tie and his speech, a soft knock is heard at the entrance to his chambers. When he opens the door, he finds the elderly clerk waiting in the hallway outside.
“’What?’ Polain snaps, angered by the interruption to his train of thought.
“’I’m sorry to bother you, Master Polain,’ says the clerk, ‘but I thought you should know immediately. I’ve found a match.’
“Polain’s heart freezes. ‘No, that’s impossible. The others are satisfied, and I myself don’t recall another butterfly like it. How can it be?’
“The elderly clerk holds a large book open in both hands. He raises it as he explains: ‘I, too, thought I was certain until I happened across an obscure morphology in an old record--one of your own, sir, made before I joined you. A tight, clockwise spiral not dissimilar to the one we have before us.’ He indicated the glass-bound butterfly, which flapped its wings innocently. ‘I followed the record backward, through several generations. The chances were slim that I would find one with not just the same antennae but the same coloring, shape, legs and features--but I did, sir. Here. I’m sorry.’
“Polain looks down at the open book with something approaching horror. There, sure enough, is a picture of a butterfly identical in every respect to the one in the jar. A note in his own handwriting refers to its purchaser, a banker from a neighboring province who had paid a fraction of its true worth many years ago, before Polain’s name had become known. The butterfly may have only lived a day or two in the hands of such an ignorant carer, but it had lived. That is the important--and tragic--thing. There is no escaping the fact.
“’I’m sorry, sir,’ repeats the clerk. ‘I can’t imagine how you must feel.’
“’No,’ says Polain. ‘You can’t.’ He takes the book from him and considers smashing it down upon the glass jar and its fragile occupant. Such has his life become. One hour remains until the presentation--until failure and ruin, public humiliation and mockery. Despair fills him.
“Or … need it be so? Polain’s mind seizes a possible solution. Yes, an identical specimen had once existed, but who knew of it? Its owner had been no one in the butterfly world; such a man would never remember a token bought for a lover or mother so long ago--and even if he did, who would believe him? The chances are exceedingly slim that the butterfly itself has been preserved--and if it hasn’t been, there is no evidence at all. The remains would be nothing but dust, worn down by time.
“Polain decides to present the second butterfly to the queen anyway--and accept the accolades of the crowd--confident in the knowledge that his deception will go undiscovered.
“There is only one problem.
“’What are you going to do now, sir?’ asks the clerk.
“Polain looks at him with cold calculation. The record he can destroy as easily as tearing it from the book and throwing it in the fire. But the clerk knows the truth, and he will not be easily bribed. Money and prestige are not important to him. A man obsessed with antennae associates only with those like him, when he associates at all. He will let the secret out before long. It is inevitable. Who would miss a man with such an obscure fascination?
“Polain resolves to get rid of the clerk, otherwise his plan, and his life, will come to ruination. It is the only way.
“So he does.”
Sal’s heart always went out to the aged clerk, whose life held only his beloved butterfly antennae and whose reward for diligence was nothing but a violent death. He didn’t know if the story of Polain was true, but even if it wasn’t it still had the capacity to make him sad. The first time he had heard the story, many years ago, he had cried for so long his father had thought he might never hear the end. This time, he kept carefully quiet. The only sound was the relentless breathing of the surf.
“Polain kills the clerk and goes to the presentation. The queen accepts the butterfly with a gracious smile and the crowd farewells him with a loud cheer--although neither matches his expectation. The queen smiles far wider at the thought of going home, and the crowd cheers more for the fireworks and streamers than him. Even his own heart, he must confess to himself, isn’t really in it. He is already planning how to dispose of the old clerk’s body by burying it in the soil of the various glasshouses.
“So he leaves behind the gaily colored pennants and goes home to finish his work. He dismisses the feeders to prevent his grisly deed from being discovered. He burns the treacherous record and catches up on his sleep. Soon, he promises himself, he will be alone with his butterflies. He will be content then. Breeding has alw
ays been his first love, not the endless competition and cataloguing. With no need of money, he will be happy for the rest of his life, once the unpleasantness is forgotten.”
Sal’s father paused to clear his throat and take a sip of water.
“It can’t end here,” said Thess.
“No.” Sal’s father smiled at her comment. “Life is never so simple. First, the clerk’s body putrefies in the soil and emits a powerful stench. No amount of perfume will hide it. It fades only with time, and leaves behind an unexpected boon: patches of explosive growth where the plants in the glasshouses have taken sustenance from the old man’s decaying flesh. The flowers are beautiful and large, and the butterflies seem to favor them over the others, so Polain is pleased enough. But their association with his crime is not so easy to expunge, and he is ill at ease around the flowers.
“Then the police call to ask him questions about the dead man. The clerk’s absence was noted after all, by a granddaughter whose birthday he had never before missed. Polain feigns innocence. Yes, the last time he had seen the clerk was just before the queen’s departure. He had worked all his staff hard in the days leading up to the presentation. Perhaps the clerk had worked too hard and had had a heart attack on the way home. Is it so unlikely that the body of an unidentified old man might go unnoticed by the medical system?
“His evasion doesn’t entirely satisfy the police, but they leave him alone; they have, after all, no firm evidence to suspect him, and no motive. Still, Polain’s conscience is troubled, and will not let him rest. That night he dreams that the queen has rejected his gift and returns it to him with a disgusted expression on her face. He looks down into the crystal jar and sees a spider swimming in a puddle of blood, trying to escape.
“He wakes screaming and goes down to the glasshouses, seeking solace. A new generation of butterflies is being born, slipping from their pupae and inflating like balloons. He watches in awe: their colorings are striking, their patterns unique. All of them have the same corkscrew, orange-yellow, antennae of the butterfly the dead clerk identified. It seems almost like a tribute to the clerk, as though somehow his essence had been leached into the soil from his body, fed the plants upon which the caterpillars ate, and reached a strange expression in the resulting insects.
The Stone Mage & the Sea (Books of the Change Book 1) Page 18
