Sound of Butterflies, The

by King, Rachael

  Sir dipped a paintbrush into the tin of sweet mixture and smeared a large patch on the trunk of the tree. He stepped up to the next tree and did the same, and then the next.

  ‘That ought to do it,’ he said.

  ‘What do we do now?’ whispered Henry.

  ‘We wait,’ said Thomas, and Mr Lafferty nodded and smiled at him before lifting his hand and ruffling his hair.

  ‘I knew we should have brought you,’ he said, and the other boys looked as if they might just want to kill Thomas. But Thomas didn’t give a hoot.

  The dusk darkened into night around them. Close by, an owl called, then swooped with a flurry of wings as it caught a mouse. The outline of the larch trees against the sky began to fade and merge.

  ‘That should do it,’ said Mr Lafferty. ‘Hold your lamps out.’ He lit them one by one and they approached the first tree.

  The sticky mixture shone in the lamplight. Caught on the trunk was a collection of writhing insects: woodlice, centipedes, beetles and huge slugs, which, when Thomas looked closer, were covered with hundreds of tiny mites running back and forth across the vast flanks of their host.

  A murmur of disgust arose from the other boys, but Thomas pushed his face as close as he could. In the middle of the mayhem sat a large death’s head moth. The skull on its thorax stared open-mouthed back at Thomas and his heart flipped.

  It became a weekly outing throughout spring and into the warm summer. The other boys grew bolder, and began to take almost as much pleasure as Thomas in the catching of the moths. Mr Lafferty showed them how something so big and brutish could have a delicate iridescence to it, such as the elephant hawk moth, with its shimmering of pink and green, and the startling colours of the red underwing.

  One night, Mr Lafferty bid the boys split up. ‘So we might discover the diversity over a large area. I’ll blow my whistle when we are to meet again.’

  ‘On our own, sir?’ asked Henry.

  David, who never said a word, just hugged himself with definite fright at the prospect.

  ‘You will be fine, men,’ said Mr Lafferty. ‘Just don’t stray past the boundaries of the forest and you won’t get lost. Follow the sound of my whistle.’

  Thomas had no fear. The thicket in which they stood was relatively small. He had never been allowed out in the dark on his own, and he relished the opportunity to move through the undergrowth, stealthy as a fox.

  They fanned out as the last of the light began to drain from the sky. They each carried their own can of sugar mixture now, as well as the net and killing jar. Thomas walked for a few minutes until the path was too murky to see, and stopped to paint the trunks. Then he waited.

  When he had collected four beautiful specimens, he turned the lantern off again. He pretended he was a fox and slunk low to the ground, trying to force his senses to the front of his mind to guide him. He sniffed the air but could only smell the molasses and rum in his tin. The moths flickered in the jar in his hand; he felt the vibrations through the glass. Perhaps there wasn’t enough cyanide in there to kill them all. His ears, which he imagined pricked in anticipation above his head, caught a cracking sound off to his right. He stopped and crouched lower. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark now — besides, he was a fox, and he was after his prey. He moved noiselessly along the path towards the sound. As he went further, he heard a new sound, a low moan, and another, snuffling sound. A large figure stood only a few feet away.

  He struck a match. In the flare of the match head, he saw Mr Lafferty. He stood tall while a boy — it was David, poor, quiet David — crouched beside him, his hand wrapped around the teacher’s penis, moving it back and forth. The boy looked at Thomas in surprise, and his face was wet with tears and snot. Mr Lafferty’s hands were on David’s head, stroking his hair, and his eyes opened at the sudden light. The jar of moths slipped from Thomas’s hand and smashed on a tree root. There was a fluttering of huge wings; the moths flew towards the light and hit Thomas in the face. He brushed them away, but they came again, into his eyes, his ears, his mouth. The match fell to the ground, spent, and Thomas ran until he heard the teacher’s whistle calling him back. He hesitated for a moment then ran on, back to the school and to his safe bed.

  ‘And what became of the boy?’ asked Clara. She had come to his room to find him beating at the moths that crowded around his lamp. He had cried then, leaning into her breast, until she asked him to tell her about the moths. He couldn’t tell her about George, though; not yet.

  ‘David never looked at me or spoke to me. The other boys went out sugaring a few times, but it all stopped when the weather went cold. Mr Lafferty had a new team of boys the following year, and the year after that. I could see it in their eyes, always at the end of August. But I never did anything.’

  ‘What could you have done?’

  ‘I could have told somebody. A parent. A teacher.’

  ‘No, Thomas. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I should have confronted Lafferty about it. Threatened to tell.’

  ‘You were only a boy.’

  ‘Yes.’ But he was not a boy now. At least he had put a stop to it this time, saved one little boy. But had he made sure George would leave Joaquim alone? What about the next boy, and the next?

  ‘And the moths?’

  ‘I can’t look at them now without remembering. They give me shivers. I actually feel it on my skin. A prickling sensation. They make me feel sick.’

  Clara moved forward to embrace him but he stopped her. ‘What about your husband? You shouldn’t even be in here.’

  She made a hissing sound through her teeth. ‘He’s dead drunk. He and Dr Harris have been drinking all afternoon. He won’t be awake until morning.’

  ‘All the same, Clara, I don’t feel comfortable about this. Not after …’ he wanted to tell her about what had happened with Manuel, how he feared for his safety. But the words would not come. Clara was neglected enough by this man; he didn’t want to worry her further.

  ‘You seem agitated,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ She put both hands on his face.

  Thomas grasped her wrists and held them in front of her chest. ‘I can’t. It’s nothing. Please, Clara, I need to be alone. I need to sleep.’ He glanced mournfully at the moths striking against the cracks in the walls, flicking around the lamp.

  ‘Here,’ she said. He let go of her wrists and she reached into her pocket. ‘Take this. It will help you sleep.’ More of her white powder. The last time he had taken it he had become ill the next day. Didn’t he see his papilio in the forest after taking it with her? He was now surer than ever that he had hallucinated it; that the butterfly, if it existed at all, was slipping further from his grasp.

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ he asked. She had become sallow in the weeks since he had first fallen ill. Her eyes had a dull glaze to them and her pupils were pinpricks. Her skin was grey, and dark creases etched lines under her eyes.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, misunderstanding him. ‘It is easy enough to get. Antonio brings it to me every time he comes back from Manaus. Those ships, the ones that take all the rubber away. They have to fill up with something before they come here. This is the finest money can buy, and I can have as much as I want.’ She moved close to him again, and for the first time that he could remember, his body remained flaccid beside her. Her breath smelt of seaweed. He pushed her away, but she clung to his arms.

  ‘Please go, Clara,’ he said. ‘Go back to your husband.’

  She let him go and moved towards the doorway. ‘He would rather I was dead.’

  Thomas’s mood was a heavy blanket over his body when he awoke. Nothing seemed to carry any purpose in the day — not the urgency in his bladder, not the shouting of monkeys outside nor the clouded light that slipped under his door, reflected in the puddle of water under the floor. He forced himself to rise and shoved his feet into his boots. Who knew what creature would attach itself to him if the yard were flooded? He had already
endured bites of leeches and mosquitoes, not to mention the fire ants. His body was covered with hard knots of scars and the red welts of fresh bites.

  Ernie and Santos stood conversing in the yard. Ernie’s arms were folded and Santos stroked his huge moustache as he talked. The ground they stood on was wet, but not underwater; the flood was seeping quickly into the earth.

  ‘Ah, Mr Edgar,’ said Santos. ‘We were just discussing whether we stay here or move back to Manaus. We face the possibility of more flooding if we stay, but Dr Harris here says he has not finished his business. What about you?’

  Thomas’s head was slow and dull. He blinked, heavy-lidded. ‘Yes. That is, I would like to leave, yes.’

  ‘Scared of a little water?’ Ernie bared his teeth at him.

  ‘It’s not that.’ He sighed. Words seemed difficult today. His tongue had become lazy. ‘My work here is done.’

  ‘Done?’ said Santos. ‘But what of your butterfly, Senhor? You’re not giving up, are you?’

  ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’ His hands trembled as they pushed his hair off his forehead. A new insect bite demanded scratching. What was wrong with him? The forest had taken on a lacklustre sheen; he no longer saw a fertile habitat for his beloved butterflies, but a hot, messy tangle of vegetation, filled with snakes and prickly insects. He longed for a cooling breeze, the light touch of Sophie’s hand on his neck. His legs gave way beneath him.

  ‘Steady there.’ Ernie grabbed him as his knees sank into the mud, and hauled him to his feet again. ‘I’d say you’re still not well, Tom, my friend.’

  Not well? Or just shrivelled by disappointment? He concentrated on putting all his strength into his body, to stand upright.

  ‘I suggest you go back to Manaus,’ said Santos. ‘Give yourself the chance to convalesce.’

  ‘A good idea,’ said Ernie. ‘I won’t rib you about it any more. It’s probably for the best. Listen to your doctor.’

  George Sebel appeared beside them, mud sucking at his feet.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re sending Mr Edgar back to Manaus for a rest,’ said Santos. ‘And you, Mr Sebel? Are you still ill?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. He avoided Thomas’s gaze and looked from Santos to Ernie, to the ground.

  ‘Antonio will accompany you,’ said Santos. ‘You need a proper bed in a cool room. Some comforts of home.’

  ‘Home?’ The word hung in the air beside Thomas, close enough to touch.

  ‘Come now, Mr Edgar! I don’t mean England. You mustn’t give up now. Do you want to go home defeated?’

  Thomas shook his head slowly from side to side. Like a donkey, he thought.

  ‘I thought not. All you need is a rest.’

  ‘Can I …’ he stopped, took a gulp of air before he could continue. ‘Can I take Joaquim with me?’ It came out as a whisper, full of the breath he had just inhaled. There was a palpable tension in the air between him and George, who began to back slowly away.

  ‘Joaquim?’ said Santos. ‘That boy? I suppose so, if the other men can spare him until Antonio gets back. Mr Sebel? Have you finished with our young friend?’

  Was that a knowing look Santos gave George? George nodded and stared at the ground as if it had betrayed him. His ears were a glossy shade of red, but it may have been sunburn; perhaps Thomas had simply not noticed it before.

  ‘Now who’s going to help me?’ said Ernie. ‘I’ve got all sorts of cumbersome beasts to carry.’

  ‘I will,’ said George. ‘I’m running out of insects to collect with this rain. I can help you with your stuffing.’

  ‘God help me,’ said Ernie.

  ‘Manuel can be your guide,’ said Santos.

  As if in answer to his name, Manuel emerged from the cooking hut. He crept over the wet ground, his eyes on his muddy feet. At first glance he looked no different from yesterday, and yet something about him had changed. There was a stiffness in his legs and his whole body seemed to droop towards the ground. What had Santos done to him? He moved like a man in a brace.

  Thomas excused himself, pleading hunger, and went to find Pedro.

  ‘Tell me what Antonio did to Manuel,’ he said in Portuguese as soon as he entered the cooking hut.

  Pedro looked at him with fright and put a finger to his lips, but Thomas knew everybody was out of earshot.

  ‘No more than can be expected,’ he whispered. He limped over and stood close to Thomas to speak into his ear. ‘We have to be careful in this job. But Manuel can be thankful he is a servant and not a rubber tapper.’ His head bobbed; he had said too much.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Thomas. ‘And why don’t you both leave if you are scared to make mistakes?’

  Pedro laughed, a dry, hollow sound like that of a wasp inside its nest. ‘Leave? That is not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Pedro turned his back on him and began to chop plantain. Thomas noticed for the first time a dead howler monkey, draped over the table like a stole. Its eyes had been eaten by ants; their cavities stared back at him. ‘I have a family, Senhor Edgar. How will I feed them?’

  ‘You could find another position.’

  Pedro just shook his head and would not face him.

  ‘What happens to the rubber tappers?’

  Pedro would not speak.

  ‘Pedro?’

  The cook pivoted on his heel. The sand crackled beneath his feet. ‘Do not ask me any more questions, Senhor Edgar, if you count me as a friend.’

  Travelling with the current, the boat sped towards Manaus. Rain splattered the surface of the water, churning it to a deep black. There was nowhere he would rather be at this time, apart from safely at home perhaps, but he couldn’t bear the thought of returning empty handed. And yet, what was he doing? He was travelling in the opposite direction to the place his butterfly had been spotted, according to Santos, and according to his own sighting, real or imagined.

  Then again, Santos was not to be relied upon as a source of information. He could just as easily have made up the facts of the butterfly. What had he said at dinner in Manaus? There is a valley to the north, where they appear in their thousands, only at sunset. He had called it the giant beauty. Well, Thomas had certainly found the valley, but perhaps the idea had been planted that night at dinner and the drug and the illness had done the rest.

  No, Santos was not to be trusted.

  He thought of his companions, huddled in their huts as the rain pounded down. Clara had clung to him when he said goodbye, and he had had to snatch his arm away from her, hitting her on the jaw by accident as he did so, before her husband or anybody else saw. Her small mouth quivered and she ran off, calling for John, and Thomas wondered just how far she would get in the forest before she needed to turn around again to have one of her daily ‘rests’. John’s face had come alive at the sound of his name from her lips and the two of them strode into the forest, while Clara cast a look back at Thomas and laid her hand on John’s arm.

  Thomas shook off the memory, but felt some satisfaction that he seemed to have broken Clara’s grip. He tried to concentrate on reading. Joaquim avoided him, and when Thomas tried to speak reassuring words of Portuguese, the boy dumped his plate of food on the table and ran off. Thomas heard Antonio growling orders at him; the gentleman may have requested his company, but he was not going to be kept idle. Later Thomas found his boots polished and his cabin swept.

  He realised that though he had spent some months in the company of Antonio, there had been little communication between the two of them. Thomas had preferred to leave himself in the hands of his more experienced companions when it came to making plans and requests to do with their expedition. Antonio had been a solid presence in their lives, always standing behind them, making the going as easy as possible for them, and Thomas had always felt that he was watching their backs.

  But alone with him, he didn’t feel as safe. Antonio said little at dinner, and he drank frequently from a bottle of clea
r, strong-smelling liquor. After they had eaten, he offered some to Thomas, who found he could not say no, and the fiery liquid calmed his shaking insides. Emboldened by drink, he tried to make conversation; perhaps he could even take the chance to try to find out what had been making him so uneasy about the Amazon of late.

  ‘Do you ever work with the seringueiros, Antonio? Senhor Santos’s rubber workers?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But I prefer life in the city. Besides, Senhor Santos has preferences for the type of people who work on his rubber.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I started out as an overseer for him, but when the British bought an interest in his company he began to import men from Barbados. They are British subjects. And as for the tappers …’

  ‘He uses Indians in some of his plantations.’

  ‘That’s right. Senhor Santos has found the Indians to be more … pliable. On the whole they have helped to make him successful.’

  ‘On the whole?’

  ‘That camp I took you to, up the Tapajós —’

  ‘It was abandoned.’

  ‘Yes, the Mundurukú tribe believed the area belonged to them, that they could harvest the rubber as they saw fit.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Most of them ran off, back into the jungle.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘They tried to fight. Senhor Santos still has camps there, but he is not welcome. He was lucky when he came to see you that he did not get a dart in the neck. But they are probably scared of him. His men, the overseers, they enjoy their work.’ He chuckled and showed stained teeth.

  Thomas thought of Captain Arturo and his tribe of acorn-skinned children. His wife with her quiet eyes. Perhaps Santos had even known him. A terrible thought came to him and then another, following like a hiccup: it was Thomas who had alerted Santos to Arturo’s hostility.

  Thomas took another swig of his drink. ‘And what about the fire? In the village?’

  ‘What fire?’ said Antonio. His eyelids drooped until his eyes were lazy slits.