by Sam Enthoven
Finally, Esme said, "I don't know."
Still, Raymond just waited.
"All my life..." said Esme, working the fine brush around the butterfly's outline with a rock-steady hand. Only when it was roughed in to her satisfaction did she turn to look at the man at the table below her. "You know?"
"Mm," said Raymond.
"I don't—" began Esme, then frowned.
"I didn't," she corrected herself, "think I'd feel like that when it was dead."
Raymond looked up at her. "Like what?" he asked.
"Like nothing," said Esme.
Raymond waited.
Esme dropped the first brush into the water jug and chose another. Frowning, she began filling in the butterfly's outline, laying the paint on thick.
"Maybe we've been wrong all this time to think the Scourge couldn't be killed," she said. "Maybe Charlie really is that strong. I mean, the Scourge died — or it certainly looked that way: I watched it die: it was screaming. But I..."
She sighed and shook her head.
"I should have felt something. Not... happy or anything. You know I wasn't expecting that. But there should have been something — shouldn't there?"
She looked down at Raymond.
"Mm," he said again.
She turned back to the butterfly — and blinked. There was nothing there now but a great butterfly-shaped splat of darkness: to a glimmer of the ceiling's original cream showed through. The thing she was going to say was growing inside her, pushing to get out, so she gave up what she was doing and looked down at Raymond again.
"I just can't believe it's dead," she said.
She waited, holding her gaze on him until he looked up at her again.
"Not like that," she added.
"No," said Raymond finally. "Me neither."
"I think you'd better find Felix," Esme said.
"Yeah," said Raymond. "I think you're right."
THE CHANCE
Charlie and Jack were walking back across the park toward Charlie's house. There were no lights in the park, and when Charlie left the path, his steps becoming suddenly inaudible on the grass, the silence settled around the boys like a cloak. Charlie stopped by the lake that ran along the park's south side. Jack caught up and stood beside him, and they looked out at the water: it was as black as ink, and Jack could hear it whispering to itself.
"So," said Charlie suddenly, his voice sounding bright and crass in the quiet. "That was a pretty classy bit of rescuing, eh?"
"Yep," said Jack. "Just in the nick of time too. I think this superhero business is starting to suit you."
"So," repeated Charlie, with sudden savagery, "why the Hell didn't you stick up for me back there?"
Jack stared at him, astonished. "What?"
"For Christ's sake, Jack, I saved your life tonight! You might at least've said something to back me up with Raymond — but instead you're all, 'Stick it something to cool it down.'" Charlie's voice had gone high and singsong a he threw Jack's words back at him. He sounded nothing like Jack whatsoever.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well, what?" asked Jack, unable to fathom where all this was coming from.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Jack looked at Charlie. Charlie's face was in darkness. Jack thought for a moment, then said quietly, "Do you think it would've helped?"
"I mean," he went on, when Charlie didn't reply, "it's not like you or the others have ever really listened to me before. Right?"
There was a long pause.
Charlie sighed.
"I'm sorry, man," he said. "I didn't mean to have a go at you. I just..."
He turned to face Jack suddenly.
"You know," he announced, "you're my best mate."
"What?" said Jack again.
"You're the only one: the only one who I know'll stick by me, no matter what. Like at the restaurant," Charlie went on, speaking so fast he was almost babbling. "You know, when you came in with me. I don't think I could've said what I did to Dad if you hadn't been there. In fact, maybe I'd never've been able to tell him how angry I was if it wasn't for... well, if it wasn't for you."
Jack squirmed a bit. Charlie had never spoken to him like this: it was weird.
"Er... sure," he managed. "No problem."
"I can't tell you how happy I am that you're with me on this, man."
"No worries, mate," said Jack, frowning. "You know, whatever." He shrugged.
Apparently satisfied, Charlie turned to look out at the lake again.
"What do you think's wrong with them?" he asked after a moment. "Esme and Raymond, I mean."
"I mean... you saw me. Right?" he added, before Jack had time even to think, let alone reply. "I killed the demon! I made fireballs come out of my hands an I burned it to death! Right?"
"Mm," said Jack. "About that? How did you do that?"
"Oh," said Charlie, with a dismissive fff ing sound, "that sort of stuff, I don't even have to think. It's just... you know, simple."
"Yeah," said Jack uneasily. "But it sounds like sometimes you sort of have to think too. Don't you?"
"What d'you mean?" Charlie shot back, instantly defensive.
"Well, prompted Jack carefully, "they didn't sound too happy with you just now."
"But that's just what I'm saying!" said Charlie. "I mean, I know it must've been a shock for them, all this. Me passing the test and not Esme. Me coming along out of the blue and just whacking this demon when everyone else has been running scared of it for years. I can see that'd be hard to take, 'specially for Esme, with her mum and everything."
"Him," said Jack.
"But, you know, they've got to deal with it! Right? Like tonight, f'rinstance. I mean, I didn't want them to make a big thing out of it, right? Of course not. Not my style. But still, you know, job well done, credit where credit's due — and what do I get? A bollocking!"
Charlie looked out at the lake again.
"Jack, can I ask you something?" he asked suddenly.
"Sure," said Jack. "'Course."
"Do you ever wish that the world just... didn't exist?"
Jack stared at him again. "How d'you mean?"
"Well... all this stuff," said Charlie. "The Scourge. The Brotherhood. My folks..."
The list was an odd one and Jack might have smiled ifit weren't for what Charlie said next.
"Don't you think it'd be simpler if... none of it was here anymore?"
"Sorry?" said Jack.
"Wouldn't it be better if there was nothing? " Charlie asked, turning to face him. "Don't you ever feel like it'd be better if one day everything, the whole universe, just came to an end — pop! — like that?"
Jack looked at him. He didn't really know what to say.
"Sometimes," said Charlie, frowning, "I just feel like... I don't know..."
He bunched his fists.
"Like I want to reach out and smash everything," he said. "Like I want to rip everything up. Tear it to shreds, burn it all down and dance in the ashes. Do you ever feel like that?"
Jack looked at Charlie carefully.
"Not really, mate, to be honest," he said. "No."
Charlie sighed. "Ah, forget it." He grimaced. "Listen, it's late. Mum'll be having kittens. I reckon I'd better just head home by myself."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
Jack looked at his superhero friend and attempted a smile.
"'Faster than a speeding penguin'," he told him.
"Yeah, right," said Charlie, attempting a smile back. "See you."
"See you."
They parted.
Later, Jack would look back at this moment and wonder if he could have done things differently. By this point Charlie was already helpless under the Scourge's influence, but even so, if Jack had said something, if he'd obeyed his instincts telling him that something was badly wrong with his friend and stayed with him until they'd talked things out somehow, then maybe the rest of what was to come might not have happened the way it did.
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Now it was too late.
BUTTERFLIES
Esme was most of the way through her third butterfly of the night. Her eyes were tired, and her eyelids were beginning to droop — but as soon as she heard the noise, she was wide awake.
She slid to the ground soundlessly, placing the tray of paints and brushes on the floor. At that moment, the only light in the butterfly room came from the single lamp she'd left glowing in the center of the long table. Crouching well back in the shadows at the far end of the hall, she watched as the double doors swung open, and a dark figure strode in.
"Esme?" said Charlie. "It's me."
"Oh, hi, Charlie," said Esme, stepping slowly out into the light.
Charlie gestured behind himself vaguely: "The, ah, door to the roof was open. Mind if I...?"
"Sure," said Esme. "Come in."
They stood at opposite ends of the table. Charlie put his hands on the back of the chair in front of him.
"Been painting, I see," he began.
"Yeah," said Esme. "There hasn't been much time the last couple of days, so I had a bit of catching up to do." She smiled at him politely. The grin he gave back was very eager.
"Butterflies, he?" he said.
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"What made you choose them?" asked Charlie. "Butterflies, I mean."
Esme, surprised, looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.
"It's partly because there are so many kinds," she said. "Also, they're hard to paint: getting the colors right used to be pretty tough, especially when I was starting out."
"But the main reason," Charlie interrupted, "is that they're like you." He grinned. "Aren't they?"
Esme frowned at him. "What do you mean?"
"You've been waiting your whole life to fight the Scourge," said Charlie, his eyes never leaving hers for an instant. "Every day you've been training, preparing, perfecting your skills: you said so yourself."
"Yeah," said Esme. "So?"
"Well, you're like them, aren't you?" said Charlie delightedly, gesturing at the walls. "You're there in your cocoon, waiting to come out. Waiting and waiting — waiting all your life for the moment when you can spread your wings and fly."
For a second, Esme just stared at him.
"What on Earth are you talking about?" she said. "I...just like butterflies, that's all." To her horror, however, she could feel her cheeks beginning to go red.
The thing was, though she'd've died before admitting it... Charlie wasn't entirely wrong. The life cycle of caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly had fascinated Esme ever since Raymond had first explained it to her. It was the reason she had started painting butterflies in the first place, seven long years before. And Charlie knew. He was grinning at her now smugly, pleased with himself for making her lie like that. He knew.
"They're beautiful," he said — looking at her.
"Thanks," said Esme, infuriated.
"How many was it again?"
"Five thousand, four hundred and seventy-five," said Esme, "now."
"Wow," said Charlie softly.
Esme took a breath. "Charlie, don't take this the wrong way, but... do you mind if I ask what you're doing here?"
Charlie's grin grew wider.
"Do you like surprises?" he asked.
Esme frowned at him again.
"I don't know," she replied. "It depends."
"Because I had this idea," said Charlie. "A surprise for you. As soon as I thought of it I came straight over."
"That's... nice," said Esme.
"Just you wait," said Charlie, still smiling. His fingers clasped and unclasped on the back of the chair.
"You know," he said, "I was thinking. It's all happened very fast, this whole thing."
"Uh-huh."
"And they way things've been going, you and me haven't really had much of a chance to... get to know each other."
"No," said Esme. "I suppose that's true."
"Well, I don't know about Raymond," said Charlie quickly, "but I think you and me could... get on. You know?"
Esme looked at him.
"I want us to be friends," said Charlie. He shrugged — a study in elaborate casualness. "What do you say?"
His stare was very intense. Esme found herself looking away.
"Sure," she said, shrugging carefully back.
"Great!" said Charlie, delighted. "Great! Well! About that surprise I mentioned..."
"Oh yes."
"It's the classic. You know — you've got to close your eyes. No peeking!"
Esme just looked at him. "What?"
"Come on," said Charlie. "Just close your eyes for a moment."
"Charlie—"
You'll love it! I promise!"
"Well..."
It was odd, but Esme really didn't want to. Still, what could she do? Pursing her lips, she did as she was asked and closed her eyes.
"Now," she heard Charlie say, "just give me a second here."
She heard him take a breath and hold it. then the air in the room seemed to be heating up.
She could feel it from where she was standing. It was as if the atmosphere were thickening or swelling somehow. There was a weird smell, like ozone or hot metal, and the air was crackling with something like electricity: it made her scalp tingle. Esme tried opening her eyes but found, with a shock, that she couldn't. Then—
"Fffffff," said Charlie suddenly, as he let out a great breath — and as quickly as it had come, the weird feeling in the air vanished.
"You can open them now," he said.
Esme did and looked around, but the only difference she could see was that Charlie's big, satisfied grin was even bigger and more self-satisfied than before.
"What?" she asked uncertainly. "What am I looking for?"
"Just a second," said Charlie. His eyes were darting little looks around the walls, as if he were searching for something. Then—
"There!" he said, pointing, almost jumping up and down, he was so excited.
Esme looked, and her breath caught in her chest.
On the ceiling above her, one of her butterflies, the one she'd just been painting — was moving.
It was nothing more than a tremble at first. Very faint. But in another moment the unfinished butterfly, one set of markings on the lower part of its right wing still not properly inked in, was twitching convulsively. Its small black body was straining and pulling. One thick powdery wing came free, then another, and then the butterfly was flapping its wings experimentally, each flapping movement revealing the wing-shaped gaps in the surface of the paint underneath. Now, suddenly, the movements were spreading, being followed and imitated all across the ceiling and down the walls. All over the room, all Esme's butterflies, all seven years' worth of them, were rippling and twitching, jerking and straining — and coming free. She looked back at the first one, the unfinished one, just in time to see it tense itself, then leap away from the ceiling. It plummeted like a stone, and Esme thought for a second that it would hit the ground — but then, as if with a heart-stopping effort, the oversized butterfly flapped its wings once, twice — and bobbed back up into the air.
And then—
—suddenly—
—they all took off.
"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HEEEEE!" screamed Charlie, disappearing from view in a blizzard of fluttering wings. The air was thick with them now, thick with the butterflies and the soft clattering sounds they made as they flew — a sound like the slow, soft crumpling of a million sheets of paper. They followed each other, swinging round the room in a great arc, a seething, shivering, whirling mass of blurring bright painted colors.
Charlie danced on the spot, still screaming and waving his arms in the air as the butterflies dived and swooped all around him.
Esme, however, stood still.
For a second, as the air cleared between them, Charlie saw her. Still grinning, he called out to her.
"What do you think? Huh? How about this?"
He made a c
asual gesture in the air with one hand, and suddenly tens, hundreds of the painted creatures were landing on her shoulders, on the skin of her bare arms.
Esme watched one on her hand, She recognized it: it was an early one. Her brushstrokes had none of the finesse she'd developed later. Without legs or antennae, it bumped against her blindly, each contact shaking tiny flakes of paint dust from its dark wings.
"They're alive," she said slowly. "They're really alive."
"Yep," said Charlie.
"You can do this?" asked Esme. "You can bring things to life?"
"Looks that way to me," said Charlie, smirking. He too was covered in the oversize butterflies now, all over his arms and his hair. Behind him, the rest of the great flock suddenly changed direction at once, sweeping the other way around the sides of the room.
"And you've done this," said Esme, "just to impress me?"
Charlie looked at her.
"It's a present!" he reminded her. "Why? Don't you like it?"
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" asked Esme. The butterflies leaped off her as she rounded on him, her hands shaking with sudden rage. "Stop it!"
Charlie stared, his face slack with surprise. "What?"
"Stop it!" shouted Esme. "Turn them back!"
"Why?"
"Do it NOW!"
"All right!" said Charlie. "All right!"
He blinked.
For a second, the butterflies froze in the air.
Then they fell.
Each one shattered into powder as it touched the ground. In a moment, the floor was a mess of tiny flakes of paint. The walls were covered in butterfly-shaped silhouettes. These things were all that remained of Esme's seven years of work.
From opposite ends of the table, Esme and Charlie stared at each other.
"Don't ever," said Esme, "ever do anything like that again."
He stared at her for a moment. Then he scowled.
"I'll do what I like!" he said.
"No, Charlie," said Esme quietly. "You won't"
Something in her voice made Charlie stop dead.
He looked at her and grinned uncertainly.
"Come on," he said. "I don't want to fight you, Esme."
Esme just looked at him.
"I mean, it was a present — right?" Charlie's grin was wide again now, as if he were sure she'd still come round. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted us to be friends."