Butterfly Song

by Terri Janke

  ‘It’s Uncle Essa,’ she says to me.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mother’s brother, you know the story.’

  Uncle Essa nods in her direction. Then he moves towards the front of the courtroom. He stares up at the magistrate.

  ‘Who are you?’ the magistrate asks, peering over her glasses from the bench.

  ‘Ezekiel Rafo. I am the brother of the owner of that butterfly, Francesca Plata.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ my mother asks him. ‘You have no claim on my mother’s belongings.’

  ‘Quiet!’ orders the magistrate. ‘What do you know about this matter?’ she asks Uncle Essa.

  ‘I can prove that this butterfly belonged to Francesca Plata.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve never seen this woman before.’ He indicated Mrs Nash-Hill. ‘And I didn’t know the whereabouts of the butterfly until I read the paper. So I can say I’ve seen that pearl-shell butterfly only once before, when it belonged to my sister.’

  ‘But how can you prove that?’ says the magistrate.

  ‘Look closely at that butterfly. Check the back of it. There was an etching on the back.’

  The magistrate looks down at Uncle Tally and my mother. ‘I can make out some sort of scratching behind the clasp,’ she says. ‘Court officer, can you please see if you can remove the clasp.’

  The court officer takes the brooch and turns it over. He pokes at the back with his big fingers.

  ‘That’s an expensive item you’re damaging,’ says Mr Albermay.

  ‘Mr Albermay, please can you assist us,’ says the magistrate. ‘Do you have a suitable screwdriver with you?’

  ‘I do, but I don’t think you’ll find anything there.’

  ‘Mr Albermay, please can you remove the backing.’

  ‘I don’t want to damage –’

  ‘It’s okay,’ puts in Mrs Nash-Hill, ‘I want to know if this man is telling the truth.’

  Mr Fraser looks flustered. ‘Would you believe the outburst of a member of the public who’s just walked in off the street?’ he asks her.

  ‘Mr Albermay, can you please assist the court?’ repeats the magistrate.

  Mr Albermay reluctantly opens his bag, pulls out a black case, and holds up a small screwdriver. The court officer hands him the brooch and looks over his shoulder.

  ‘There is something there,’ stammers the court officer.

  ‘Well, this is most unusual,’ says Mr Albermay.

  ‘May I?’ says the magistrate. The court officer collects the butterfly and delivers it to her.

  She looks at it, and then over to Mrs Nash-Hill. ‘Mrs Nash-Hill, did you know there were markings on the back of the brooch?’

  ‘I don’t recall, but maybe my father put some type of identification number on it.’

  ‘It’s not a number,’ says the magistrate. She looks at Mum and Uncle Tally.

  ‘Were you aware of any markings?’

  My mother and Uncle Tally huddle close. Mum whispers, ‘I can’t remember. I only ever saw the front of the butterfly. Mum wouldn’t let us touch it. It was so long ago.’

  ‘Ms Shaw, I need a response.’ The magistrate’s voice rises at the end of her sentence.

  I wonder if my grandfather might have written a word of love, maybe even his name, on the back of his present to his new love – the love he had so wanted, the life he had so wanted to live. He had such big dreams. He wanted to be a musician. He wanted to reach out to the world with his music. I close my eyes. I ask for the answer, but there is nothing in my head. I look towards Uncle Essa.

  ‘Your worship, may I call Ezekiel Rafo to the witness box?’

  ‘You may.’ She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes as Uncle Essa is sworn in.

  ‘Ezekiel Rafo,’ I say, ‘do you –?’

  ‘You can call me Uncle Essa.’

  ‘Uncle Essa, will you tell us what you know about this butterfly?’

  He looks away towards my mother and Uncle Tally. Then his eyes return to me. ‘Your grandfather was a good man. I know that now and I’m very sorry. I cannot turn around the time. We have lost a lot. I can only tell you he was so happy when he had music. When he played his guitar. I can tell you as sure as I know I’ve lost a lot over these years that the carving on the back of that butterfly is a guitar. I saw that brooch only once before. In 1942, on Thursday Island. Before they both left.’

  The magistrate turns the brooch over and looks again. My mother and Uncle Tally glance at each other. ‘Yes,’ says the magistrate. ‘It’s very small, but that’s what it is indeed. Mrs Nash-Hill, have you anything to say in respect of this?’ asks the magistrate.

  ‘I’m not sure. It seems a bit strange,’ she starts. Then she turns to Mr Fraser. ‘It looks like it might be theirs after all.’

  ‘Your worship,’ says Mr Fraser, ‘this is not standard court practice. We were not advised in advance that this person would be called as a witness.’

  ‘Damn you, Mr Fraser. Sit down now.’ Mrs Nash-Hill is standing. From where I sit, I can see that her chin is quivering. ‘I’ve heard enough. I want to say sorry to this family. I want to give them back the brooch. It belongs to them.’

  Mr Albermay interjects. ‘But, but, you’ve signed –’

  Before he can complete his sentence, Magistrate Griffiths slams the gavel on the bench. ‘Silence!’

  Uncle Essa’s eyes are moving from me to my mother to Uncle Tally.

  The magistrate continues. ‘The court has been presented with the evidence. Mrs Nash-Hill is satisfied that the brooch offered for sale and called the Pearl Butterfly Brooch, here-with marked Exhibit A, is the same butterfly, although then an amulet, that was made by Kit Plata in 1942, the same one that appears in the photograph of Francesca Plata. Let the record reflect that Mrs Nash-Hill wishes to withdraw the item from sale and has asked that it be returned to the immediate descendants of Kit and Francesca Plata, they being Lily Shaw and her brother Talford Plata.’

  My mother is clapping her hands. Uncle Tally is slapping me on the back. My own hands are up in the air. I feel like flying, high and straight, like a smooth-winged butterfly.

  The court officer takes the box and hands it to Mrs Nash-Hill. She moves forward and gives it to my mother.

  My mother opens the box and touches the butterfly like it’s a real live animal. ‘Thank you, Mrs Nash-Hill.’ Her eyes are red.

  ‘Call me Cynthia,’ says Mrs Nash-Hill and she holds out her hand. Mum gives the box to Uncle Tally and hugs her. Uncle Tally is smiling so hard his lips are sticking to the top of his teeth.

  I look at the magistrate. ‘Thank you, your worship,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I didn’t do anything. You persuaded Mrs Nash-Hill before I gave my decision.’

  I can hear mumbling in the background. It’s Mr Fraser talking to Mr Albermay. ‘The magistrate’s decision wouldn’t have held up under appeal anyway. There is no way that family had legal grounds for stopping the sale. There’s the statute of limitations for one thing, and then the evidence is arguably inadmissible. But there’s not much we can do if the owner decides to give it back.’ He is shaking his head as if it’s all been a waste of his valuable time.

  Mr Albermay is carefully placing his tiny screwdriver back in its black case. Uncle Essa is still in the witness box.

  ‘You may step down now, Mr Rafo,’ says the court officer.

  Uncle Essa moves out slowly. The magistrate picks up her papers.

  ‘Please stand,’ the court officer directs, and the magistrate smiles and leaves.

  Uncle Tally passes me the open box. ‘Here, Tarena, have a look.’

  The colourful shell forms two round-edged wings. I turn the butterfly over to see the small guitar engraving. It’s the most beautiful thing I have seen.

  I’m not aware that Mrs Nash-Hill and her party have left, but suddenly there is only Uncle Essa, Mum, Uncle Tally, Sam and myself in the courtroom. I move towards Uncle Essa and hold out my hand. ‘Thank y
ou.’

  ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry we did not stay close as a family.’ He looks at my mother and Uncle Tally.

  ‘Uncle Essa, how did you know to come to court today?’ I ask.

  ‘I read about the sale of the brooch a while back. Then I read the court list earlier this week. I thought I’d come to tell what I knew.’

  ‘I’m thankful you turned up when you did,’ Mum says as she touches the pearl-shell butterfly. Its blue, black and white wings look too innocent to have been the subject of this case.

  ‘I’m happy to help after all the trouble I caused for your father and my sister,’ Uncle Essa says. ‘He was so crazy for his music and he was always playing his guitar.’

  ‘That’s so strange. I guess that’s what he was trying to tell me,’ says my mother. ‘That’s why the guitar fell off the wall.’

  I hug my mother. ‘You are too much. Thank you.’

  We leave the courtroom. ‘Will you come over to our house?’ asks my mother.

  ‘Yes,’ says Uncle Essa.

  ‘The address is –’

  ‘I know where you live,’ says Uncle Essa. ‘I’ve known for a long time.’

  Mum hugs him. ‘You are welcome in my home.’

  We head back to the house for a celebration.

  the letter

  Cairns, 1992

  Uncle Tally leads Uncle Essa into the kitchen. Sam and Mum sit down, still talking about the case. I prepare a plate of nibbles – cheese and biscuits. I plonk the plate in the middle of the table.

  ‘You got some mail,’ says my cousin Steve. He lays the envelope on the table. I can see the university’s insignia in the left-hand corner. The address of my house in Sydney has been crossed out and Mum’s address written alongside.

  ‘Is it your results?’ says my mother. ‘Open it!’

  Inside the envelope, I see the familiar results notice. ‘I’ll just go to the toilet,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’re being a doogie,’ says Sam. He is already removing the wrapper from the bottle of champagne.

  ‘But what if I’ve failed? I won’t feel like celebrating.’

  ‘You’re a good lawyer,’ says Uncle Tally. ‘You’re sure to have passed.’

  I unfold the thin paper. In black ink, opposite the four subjects listed, the letter D is written, four times down the column.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ says Sam.

  I am unable to speak.

  ‘D doesn’t sound good.’ My mother’s voice is starting to break. ‘I know a pass is C, and B is good, and the A is excellent.’

  I let go of the paper. Sam picks it up. ‘D, that means you got distinctions for every subject,’ he says. ‘Congratulations!’

  My mother shrieks. Uncle Tally takes my hand and starts shaking it like he’s a used-car salesman. ‘My niece, a flash city lawyer!’

  ‘Well, say something,’ says Sam.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’

  Sam pours the glasses full of champagne. Uncle Tally wants a beer. I have a sudden urge to shout out to the world. So I do. ‘I passed law school and I got distinctions!’

  ‘That’s the best Christmas presents I ever had,’ my mother says. ‘First the butterfly returns and now this. Sam, you must stay with us for Christmas.’

  Sam looks at me and I smile. Another week or so in Cairns surely won’t be too much of a sacrifice.

  Later, Mum takes the guitar off the wall. ‘This used to be my father’s guitar.’ She hands it to Sam. ‘Can you play the song again?’

  ‘Wow! This is Kit Plata’s guitar? I’m really honoured.’ Sam plucks the strings and turns the tuning keys. He starts to play the song and we all join in with the words where we can. Uncle Essa too.

  medicine

  Cairns, 1992

  Uncle Essa’s home is at the beach. I drive there alone and thank him for helping out with the case.

  ‘Your skin is dry,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, eczema,’ I explain, ‘but it’s looking better. It’s usually much worse.’

  He tells me that he learned about plants from his father, who had in turn learned from his father. Island medicine is powerful medicine. Remedies are handed down from one generation to the next.

  ‘When I was a child, my dad would take me out into the scrub and make me collect petals and roots. Show me how to smash them down into a thick paste, mix it with hot water. Then you put it on the skin to make it better.’

  I sit on the back step and watch as he potters around his backyard, pulling plants from the garden. His hands move quickly, like a pecking hen. Uncle Essa has plants with different seeds and fruits in his yard. He makes a special tea for me.

  Uncle Essa is healthy. His eyes sparkle, his complexion is perfect. He moves with the calmness of a masterful spirit. He has the swiftness of an arrow. I watch as Uncle Essa makes an incision at the base of a tree. Carefully, like a master surgeon, he cuts through the skin of the trunk. He holds a small coconut bowl under the flow of the white sap exuding from the tree. It is a bright white liquid that turns a golden colour, similar in consistency to honey.

  Later, in the kitchen, I say, ‘Uncle Essa, tell me about Granny Francesca. What was she like?’

  His hands play with a teaspoon. ‘She was always on the go. She liked to sing and dance. We had some differences over on the island, but she wanted to be with your grandfather Kit, and she made her choice to be with him.’

  ‘Was it a problem that she wanted to be with him?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, but in those days it was the duty of the women to look after the elder brothers.’ He looks for a brief moment out the window at the medicine tree. ‘But things change. She wanted to be with the man she loved. They moved here during the war, just before all of TI was evacuated. That’s when I came to the mainland. I went to Townsville first, and then I moved here.’ His eyes return.

  ‘I want to know how she died. Mum says Granny Francesca was exhausted because she had to look after two children alone.’ I don’t say it, but I want to know why he never helped Francesca.

  ‘She was very proud, she would never ask for help.’

  ‘Could you have made her better?’

  ‘I was in Townsville. We didn’t keep in contact. Your nanna was young and strong. But then all of sudden she got sick kidneys. That’s not something old island medicine can help much with.’ He pauses and places the cup of tea in front of me. It signals the end of our conversation. ‘Drink it, it will make you feel better.’

  I sip on the tea. It is hot on my teeth.

  ‘Keep your head clear,’ Uncle Essa says, ‘sickness and worry go hand in hand.’ He tells me of a man who had been so enraged with anger he shook violently, frothed at the mouth, and even threw spasms. ‘The saliva from his mouth turned to poison. Like venom from a death adder,’ explained Uncle. His fingers make a shape like the head of a snake.

  ‘Uncle Essa, I’m okay. I just need something to help me sleep and get over the stress of this case,’ I say to him.

  He gestures for me to stand straight. Pointing to his forehead, he advises, ‘Think clear of what you want. When you see your dream, go for it. I should let you know that I stood in your grandmother’s way when she was a girl. I regret that now. I must live with regret.’

  When he walks me to the car he hands me a jar of the tea mixture. As I drive away he tells me, ‘Follow your heart.’

  sam’s journey begins

  Cairns, 1993

  My holiday is over. Sam is leaving tomorrow for Broome. I’ve got things to do too. The College of Law sent me a letter, forwarded by my housemate. It offered me a place in the practical-admissions course, starting at the end of the month and running for six months. So now I have to book a flight. Get prepared. That makes it hard for Sam and me to make a go of it. There’s the phone, the mail, aeroplanes. Maybe we can stay in touch.

  At dinner I am restless. I play with my fork, and knock over my glass of wine as the waiter delivers our ent
rées.

  ‘Relax,’ says Sam. ‘You’ll be a good lawyer. Look at what you did this week. You argued a case in the Cairns courthouse and got a really deadly outcome. You’ll get a job for sure.’ He clinks his glass on mine. ‘Here’s to the deadliest lawyer in the big smoke.’

  ‘What about you? What will you do?’

  ‘After Broome, I’m going to London for six months. And then, you never know, I might even get to Sydney.’ He is holding my hand.

  ‘You’ll do well,’ I say. ‘Your music is inspiring. I’ll miss you.’ There’s a lump in my throat like I just swallowed a cane toad. Do I want to say ‘love’? Is that a word I want to articulate?

  ‘I’ll miss you too,’ he says. ‘I’m hoping the UK will be good.’ When he says ‘the UK’ I suddenly feel lonely, so far away. ‘I just want to make a go of it.’

  ‘Well, if you are ever in Sydney,’ I pick up a prawn on my plate, ‘you must invite me to your concert.’ I put the whole prawn in my mouth, even the tail, and chew.

  We make love on the beach, next to the ocean. My lips keep kissing his. My tongue searches for his. I can’t stop. My hands can’t stop reaching for him. I want to freeze time but I know he will be gone in the morning.

  ‘I won’t come to the airport to see you off,’ I say as I drop him out the front of his aunty’s house.

  He touches me, hands over skin. My skin shields me. No itchiness, just tingles.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I understand.’

  the gift

  Cairns, 1992

  I watch the planes line up along the runway. My mother clutches her bag in her lap. ‘What time’s the flight?’

  ‘Three-ten.’

  ‘You don’t want to miss it.’ Mum never misses anything. She is always completely organised. Her bags are packed the night before leaving. She packs for all possible weather. A jumper, socks, skivvies – just in case. ‘Look after yourself, and good luck with the interview.’