felt the air whip around him in a frenzy. One of the robed figures held up a small bundle of cotton cloth, eliciting an outburst from the entire crowd, who shouted in unison: “Nzi Mkubwa! The Great Fly!” Then, as if blown away by the breath of God, the crowd scattered, ebony tendrils penetrating the streets in a flood of excitement.
The white-robed sub group ran out of the courtyard at full speed. Giles followed their wind-snapped cowls, wondering how a bunch of cloth could elicit such a strong spontaneous response from a common market crowd. The white robes passed through alleys, up, then down stairs, under the pedestrian bridges that arched over the corners of buildings, then around the ledges of dwelling-place roofs where hookah-smoking elders and laundry women mulled about. As the day wore on the buildings grew higher until, at last, when the walls and minarets of the pumice-like city threatened to push upward beyond vision, the group stopped in the middle of an empty alley. Giles was thoroughly lost. Giles did not care. He peeked around a corner to watch.
His attention was focused on the bundle that the six men – for he could now see their black skin shining under the robes – placed on the snow-white cobblestones between them. The only distraction to his peeping was the intense pain that seemed to radiate from his neck, where he had been bitten days before. A large bump had formed there, causing him to loosen his cravat to avoid the burning that now erupted from his nape. The pain increased to a point where he thought he might faint, but he held on to his concentration as the scene unfolded before him.
The men clapped their hands and stamped their feet in unison on the shadow-cooled stones. All chanted that strange phrase that Giles had earlier heard: “Nzi Mkubwa, Nzi Mkubwa,” never taking their eyes off the cloth bundle that rustled in their midst.
No breeze moved the fine cotton – no outside agency was responsible for the movement of that cloth. The chanters’ intensity and volume grew in response to the increased liveliness of the cloth until, finally, two immense black globes, the size of lawn bowling balls and surmounted by antennae, poked out from the baby blankets. Beneath the fly head was the smooth body of a human infant. The newborn struggled to get up on hands and knees, then rolled into a sitting position, shedding the cloth and revealing the rest of the underdeveloped white body, digits just separated from one another and umbilical cord freshly fallen. His – for it was a he – clear wings glistened and dried in the cool shade, the protective fluid invisibly evaporating from their crackling surfaces.
Wings buzzed with effort as the fly-headed fetal body strained against gravity and levitated into the air before the smiling eyes of the men. The multi-faceted eyes espied a perforation in the city skyline. He rose through the opening and faced west, toward the interior.
flee, Flee, FLEE! Engulfed Chadwick Giles – a blur through the streets and spires of Ngome. No matter where, you must simply GO! The word exploded in his brain, sending prickles down his spine to numb the acid boil protruding from his neck. His vision streaked, shallow breaths rapid-firing as sweat spattered from his body at full sprint, always looking up and over his shoulder for the mutant Insect Sapien that he knew was hovering somewhere, a black speck lost in the sun’s glare, perhaps, or concealed within a cloud or behind a tower or within a circling flock of carrion-birds, all of them looking for a pile of filth and decay in which to thrust their beaks, their probosci.
The fly-baby’s minions must be scattered throughout Ngome, Giles thought. The city itself seemed to breathe conspiracy from its impure white walls. Behind the bright facades, an unnatural breed had somehow conceived and birthed an abomination, a twisted, mutated, hideous offspring that patrolled the skies above the gleaming coastal gem. Though the hovels and hallways, the staircases and casements might provide shelter from the eyes above, that same urban structure provided obfuscating walls, dark shadows, and odd-angled corners behind and within which the agents of the fly-thing might hide. The sun was setting in accelerated motion – soon the conspirators would be free to wander the night streets in the open, performing whatever hideous acts they wished under the lamp of the moon.
A turn, a bump, a scream and fruit rolling over the cobblestones. A shout, a shaking fist, turn down an alleyway and across the now-deserted market square as night falls and finally, Giles’ room and collapse. Fainting sparkles provided a black out escape!
Beckwith Revisited
The salty smell of sweat warmed Giles’ nostrils. He woke groggy, unsure of where he was. His skull mask looked down at him with empty sockets, the angle of the sun through the window alerting him that it was near noon. He quickly changed into his khaki traveling boots and pith helmet for the expedition, then threw his artist supplies into a carrying case and headed for Chelsea’s suite at a run.
A note pinned to the door notified him that he was late and that their caravan would wait on the northwest outskirts in anticipation of his arrival. He followed the crude map scribbled on the note and ran to the rendezvous – the bridal path immediately adjacent to Beckwith Mansion. As he approached, his attention was pulled away from the waiting group and toward the estate. With each step he continued to scan the grazing fields, the stables, servant quarters (empty of squatters) and the immense plantation-style house that sprawled westward, up and over a smooth-mowed hill. A flash of curtain revealed a shock of red hair – Emile Beckwith watching the loitering porters, soldiers and Chelsea. Her face appeared intent, serious, determined, analyzing the small crowd. She let drop the curtain before Giles could catch her attention with a hand wave.
“You are late, Giles!” Chelsea yelled, red-faced from effort.
Giles jerked his head toward the sound and ran faster.
“We shall be out past dark now. Here,” the plump professor shoved a hard cracker into Giles’ sweaty palm. “I presume you have not eaten breakfast. This will suffice.” Giles choked down the dry biscuit without the benefit of water.
The hike did nothing to slake his thirst. Giles wondered how the overweight Chelsea could forge ahead of him at such a brisk pace and how the soldiers and porters behind could keep apace. Most of the day was spent walking over dusty ground – far beyond the place where he and Ms. Beckwith had turned back, far beyond the now-vanished ape corpse, all six limbs no doubt swallowed up by the jungle or its inhabitants. West they plodded through rivulets of sweat, closer and closer to the interior.
Late afternoon turned the sky raw yellow when Chelsea raised his hand to halt the parade at the crest of a flat-topped hill. Beneath them spread a vast meadow, acres long, miles wide, full of blue and red and yellow flowers of the daisy family. Blue swallowtail and white miniature butterflies flitted from flower to flower, imbibing nectar through their uncoiled probosci. Off in the distance, the chlorophyll wall of the interior loomed like a horizon-wide barrier of greenery – a three-tiered fortress of flora. Chelsea’s characteristically stern lips melted into a smile. The man was clearly in his element.
Work began immediately, Giles and Chelsea chasing butterflies with the vigor and enthusiasm of school children as the porters set up camp. The soldiers, a dozen strong, rested on their weapons, laughing at the two white men prancing among the fields. They would have stories to share when they returned to the barracks, bar room tales of the professor goose-stepping through the flowers, of his dandy young companion’s glee and gloating at catching a simple insect.
Dusk inked the sky purple as the two collectors entered their tent. Here they stacked their chloroform jars and jotted down notes in an observation journal. Giles made some preliminary sketches of the more unusual wing shapes. They were hopelessly mechanical and altogether too crude to convey any sense of organic substance. He may as well have drawn an engineering diagram of a steam engine as try to catch the subtle flutterings of a swallowtail as it skittered across the grass.
“Chadwick!”
“What is this refuse?”
“If only you could . . . capture life.”
The stabbing pain in his neck,
which had been absent while collecting samples, returned. Dry lightning shot off in the distance, setting up a sympathetic reaction with the throb as if the crackling plasma exacerbated the sting with its barely felt shock waves. It would be a long night. Sleep came fitfully, in cascading waves of increasing fever. Giles felt nauseous from the hemorrhaging stream of stings so near the base of his skull. The lightning and thunder drew nearer, pulsing rapid-fire in and out of his brain.
“Bwana. Something is near our camp.” Giles woke to a soldier’s voice. Chelsea barely responded to the guard’s insistent prodding. “The men are worried for fear of demons or sorcerers.”
“They’ll see a demon if this is a false alarm,” Chelsea retorted groggily. Lightning now flashed near the hilltop camp. Giles noted that through the whole night of approaching lightning, not a drop of rain had fallen. Not even a breeze blew in, let alone the cool winds that normally portend a thunderstorm. A strange storm to shower no rain in monsoon season.
He followed Chelsea and the soldier out of the tent, then turned back to retrieve his forgotten pith helmet.
The air exploded.
Giles
The Butterfly Artist Page 5