Sound of Butterflies, The

by King, Rachael

  ‘They’ll never believe you, Thomas. They’re enthralled by the man. He might as well be paying them in diamonds for the hold he has over them. We must do something. We’ll confront him about it.’

  Thomas’s arm shot out. ‘No!’ he croaked. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave and speak to the authorities in Manaus. We have to do something, Thomas, we can’t just stand by. I saw the scars on the backs of the rubber tappers. And Manuel … I’m sure it wasn’t an accident that cost him his tongue.’

  ‘There’s worse,’ said Thomas. ‘Much worse. You have no idea. But nobody will help us here. We must leave and return to England. We’ll be safe there.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said John. ‘We’ll leave in the morning. Santos is too ill to follow us.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Harris says … well, he hasn’t told Santos yet, so I’m not sure I should be telling you.’

  ‘But you know?’

  John nodded. ‘Ernie’s not very good at keeping secrets, not even for his patients. He seems worried for himself over it. I don’t suppose it will hurt to tell you.’

  Thomas leaned forward and squeezed one hand inside the other. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Thomas, he’s got syphilis.’

  In the early dawn, Pedro had already lit the fire and smoke hung over the yard. Thomas had stayed in his hut all night and avoided George and Ernie, for what could he say to them? He tried to push away the disgusting memories of the day, but they threaded themselves through his dreams. On top of that was another fear — if Santos had syphilis, might he not have passed it on to his wife, and thereby on to Thomas? How could he go back and face Sophie if this was the case? Was he to die a mad and lonely death?

  As he stood in his doorway, looking out at the other huts, Santos emerged and shuffled into the middle of the yard. He was dressed in his white suit, but his face was very red. His cool exterior had slipped for now, and sweat dampened his hair. His moustache drooped. Ernie emerged behind him, his sleeves rolled up, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked at Thomas in surprise — clearly he hadn’t realised he had returned — but said nothing. His face was solemn.

  ‘Clara!’ Santos roared. He stood where he was, steadying himself on the table, looking at her hut. There was no answer from inside. Thomas threw an alarmed glance at Ernie, who shook his head, as if warning him. A shape emerged from the adjacent hut — George stood in his doorway, wiping at his neck with a towel, watching. Where was John? Finally Santos strode towards his wife’s hut and disappeared inside. He came out a moment later, dragging her by the arm. She tried to walk but slipped as if on skates and could not get a foothold in the mud.

  Thomas was sickened. He wanted to rush forward to help her but something held him back. Fear. Or cowardice, he thought wretchedly.

  Santos pulled Clara to her feet and glared at her. Ernie stepped forward. ‘Steady on,’ he said, his palm facing the couple. Santos turned the glare on to him, which stopped him. Ernie folded his arms, waiting.

  Santos’s attention was back on his wife, who looked around, bewildered. ‘Look at me, you whore,’ said Santos in Portuguese. His voice was calm, but his teeth were clamped together.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ George appeared beside Thomas. ‘Can anyone understand him?’

  Thomas stayed silent, straining to hear, dread gnawing at him.

  ‘Syphilis,’ Santos now said in English: he was playing to his audience. ‘I have syphilis. Look!’ He pulled up his sleeve to show her the welts on his arm — welts, Thomas saw with a jolt, like the sores on Lillie’s body. Clara shook her head and answered him in her native tongue. ‘I’m sorry. But why are you angry with me?’

  ‘You? How else did I contract syphilis, but from you?’

  ‘Your whores …’

  ‘You are the only whore here! I know what you do when you take your opium and join the carnival. My men have seen you, bitch!’ Thomas’s head spun at this piece of information. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Santos continued. ‘I know what you have been doing here, with these men, when I am gone. Am I right, gentlemen?’ He turned to look at them. Nobody spoke. The edges of Thomas’s vision went cloudy. A thought came to him: that Santos had left her alone in the hope that she might commit adultery. And he was right.

  ‘You, Mr Sebel. It is my wife you have been seen with in the forest, is it not?’

  George gasped. His hand went to his mouth. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his gaze darted back and forth between husband and wife, then at Thomas.

  ‘Come now,’ said Santos, ‘it’s not your fault, I don’t blame you. I blame my whore of a wife. Just tell me and we’ll get it out in the open.’

  George, with wide eyes, gave a small dip of his head: a nod. Thomas looked at him in amazement. This couldn’t be true. Could it?

  ‘Dr Harris, you too, I’ll warrant?’

  Ernie was standing very still. He groaned, as if finally understanding something. His hands were in his pockets and he raised himself briefly onto his toes and back again. ‘That’s right, old man. Yes.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Clara sank to her knees, Santos’s hand still a vice around her arm.

  ‘And you, Mr Edgar? You too?’

  Thomas looked at Clara. She was getting to her feet once again, her nightgown smeared with mud and gaping at the neck, revealing more flesh than was seemly. So he had been caught, as had they all. First by Clara, crouching like a mygale spider in her web, luring them all in. Now by her husband. Thomas hung his head.

  ‘It’s not true, Thomas!’ cried Clara, and Thomas flinched at the sound of his name.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Santos.

  Thomas found he could not speak. He nodded.

  ‘You see?’ said Santos, triumphant. ‘And you carry on with Mr Gitchens when you go into the forest. You have even made the poor man fall in love with you. You are a whore. Puta!’ He struck her with the back of his hand. For a moment after she had spun in a perfect ballerina’s pirouette she seemed to hang, upright, before she fell backwards. As she fell, her head struck the corner of the wooden table. Thomas, rooted to the spot, watched her go down and not get up.

  ‘Christ!’ said Ernie, and sprang forward to the fallen woman. He squatted down beside her while everyone looked on. Thomas’s feet were bolted to the ground. Ernie put his fingers to Clara’s neck.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked Santos. His voice was light, free of remorse.

  ‘No,’ said Ernie. ‘Her pulse is weak; she’s taken quite a blow. Help me turn her so I can examine the wound.’

  A dark stain of blood was already haloing out around her head.

  ‘Please step back, Doctor,’ said Santos. There was something tense in his face that Ernie seemed to respond to. He stood abruptly.

  ‘You’re quite sure she is still alive,’ said Santos.

  ‘Yes, but we must—’

  As he spoke Santos turned and picked up a chair, which, though Ernie lunged at him, he brought down with force onto his wife’s head.

  Still Thomas made no sound. He couldn’t cry out because he didn’t believe what his eyes were seeing. George gasped and ran, not towards Clara but away from her, into the forest.

  ‘What have you done?’ cried Ernie. ‘Have you gone mad, man?’

  Santos pointed a finger at him and said in a low monotone, ‘Dr Harris, I am warning you.’ Ernie’s shoulders slumped. He turned and looked at Thomas, who found he was shaking uncontrollably, and for a moment their desperation passed between them.

  ‘Now is she dead?’

  Ernie dropped onto both knees and again felt for her pulse. He stayed there for ten seconds, moving his fingers, now dark with blood, to different points, searching. Finally he laid his head on her chest and listened.

  He came up again, nodding. ‘She’s dead.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, shaking his head slowly, avoiding Santos’s eyes.

  Santos gave a satisfied nod, turned and
walked back to his hut, just as the first drops of morning rain fell. Within seconds the yard was enveloped in sheets of water and Clara’s body was drenched.

  Thomas awoke on the floor. He must have fainted — or did he lie down right here and go to sleep? His body had shut down and could cope with no more. The air was hot and moist and dreams of Clara had been dancing through his mind. He saw her face again and again, pleading with him: ‘It’s not true, Thomas.’ In another dream he saw her on her knees in front of George, as he had seen George and Joaquim, while Ernie took her from behind. He felt sick again. When had he last eaten? He had nothing left to vomit and was weak. And yet, no matter what her behaviour, she did not deserve to die, and a part of him knew he missed her already.

  He crossed an empty yard to John’s hut. The rain had stopped, and Clara no longer lay on the ground, though there was an impression of her body in the mud, which had taken on a ruby tint. John’s hut was empty, but his collecting equipment — his machete and bag — was propped in the corner.

  Thomas went to find Ernie, who lay on his back, snoring, an almost empty spirits bottle on the floor beside him. The room smelt of alcohol and stale tobacco; the odour seemed to emanate from the man.

  ‘Ernie.’ Thomas shook his shoulder. Ernie opened his eyes, then quickly closed them again and clutched his head.

  He groaned. ‘Go away. It’s too bright. Oh, my head.’

  ‘I need to talk to you about what happened.’

  Ernie sighed and nodded. ‘All right. Get me some water, would you?’

  Thomas fetched him some water while Ernie rolled a cigarette. He lit it and closed his bloodshot eyes as he inhaled and blew the smoke out. ‘Right,’ he said.

  Thomas could barely contain himself any more. ‘What are we going to do? He murdered his wife, Ernie!’

  Ernie just shook his head. ‘It’s best not to get involved, Tom. Things will run their course, you’ll see. People will ask questions when he returns to Manaus. In the meantime, what can we do? Nothing. Just forget about it.’

  ‘She was a person, Ernie, a human being. How can you be so callous? Especially after you and she —’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Me with her? I hardly even noticed her.’

  Thomas stomach lurched and he tasted bile in his mouth. He stared at Ernie, who carried on smoking, staring at the ground. Now he was just confused. ‘What do you mean?’ He didn’t know if he even wanted an answer.

  Ernie said nothing.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Thomas.

  Ernie harrumphed. He shook his shoulders and rubbed at his forehead. He stared at the ground. ‘That’s nothing new.’

  ‘But before, in the yard. Clara. You said —’

  ‘I know what I said.’

  ‘But it wasn’t true?’

  ‘Wasn’t true.’

  Thomas couldn’t decide whether Ernie’s tone was ashamed or amused. ‘And George?’

  ‘George? He doesn’t have any interest in women. Haven’t you noticed?’

  It was starting to make sense. Horrible sense. ‘Yes, of course I have,’ Thomas admitted, surprising himself. ‘So why would he say that? Why would either of you say that?’

  Ernie looked at him through squinted eyes. ‘Santos has given me something I could never afford on my own. I’m not a poor man, but this was way beyond my reach. He said he would need a favour in return, and I guess that was it. I’m not proud of it, Thomas, but we all had our reasons, I’m sure. Why did you? I just assumed you were coming along for the ride, like you always do, but maybe you had something else in mind.’

  Thomas looked away. This changed everything. Santos had Ernie and George in the palm of his hand. He must tread carefully. He must try to speak without stuttering. He felt his cheeks flush. ‘I don’t know.’ The words fell out of him, heavy and solid.

  He turned without another word and went outside. He needed to walk now, to be alone in the forest. If Ernie had done this to repay Santos for funding his whore, why had George? He thought hard back to the moment when Clara was on her knees in the mud, imploring. What had Santos said to George? It is my wife you have been seen with. George barely even spoke to Clara, let alone went anywhere with her in the forest. But Joaquim was another story. Perhaps Thomas wasn’t the only one who had seen George abusing the boy; Santos had merely been waiting for the right moment to use the information to his advantage. George had said it to protect himself from the threat of exposure. It was blackmail.

  He realised he had spent all this time in the forest with these men, and yet he knew nothing about them. He knew them no better now than he did at the beginning. He might as well have been alone all this time.

  And what of himself? Antonio could have followed Clara and Thomas at any time — after all, Santos knew about George’s transgressions somehow. Would Santos believe that Thomas had really committed adultery with Clara, or think he was lying like everybody else? Perhaps he was sure that Thomas would just go along for the ride, as Ernie had suggested. That he wouldn’t have the strength to protest or that he was worried about being left out somehow. Thomas hated himself at that moment — that he had been so predictable. And weak. So weak. And when Clara had fallen, he had let her. He could have spoken out, denied it all, helped her. But he had stayed silent, and his silence had killed her.

  He found himself down on the riverbank just as more rain started up. It was incessant. Why was he still here? He needed to leave, to find John and get out of here. The others wouldn’t listen to him — Ernie would want to stay for Lillie, and George was too much of a coward to leave now. He let the rain wash over him, run down his face and through his clothes. He hadn’t bathed since Manaus and the water felt cleansing. It hit him, then: the memory of Clara and Santos’s blow to her head, the feeling he’d had of his legs being made of iron and riveted to the ground. He had done nothing to save her and now she was dead. Killed for being an adulteress when he was the other party. And as for Santos’s anger that she had given him syphilis — Clara had said herself that Santos hadn’t touched her for months. He desperately wanted children, but because she would not give him any, he had found a way to justify killing her. Now he was free to marry again. A sob welled in his stomach. He slipped and landed painfully on his tailbone, but didn’t get up, just sat there on the mud while the rain poured onto him and he cried for the dead woman and for the man he should have been.

  Through his tears, which felt like hot, angry stings on his cheeks, he looked out over the black water of the River Negro. Something large floated near the shore. He thought at first it was an alligator, and his body tensed, ready to jump up and run. But it was the wrong shape for an alligator, too stunted.

  As the rain began to ease and soften, Thomas wobbled to his feet and stepped down to the water’s edge. It wasn’t a log either; it was human. A bulky body floated face down, not three feet from where he stood. He launched himself into the water and grabbed at it, pulling it by cold pale arms back onto the mud. Long straggly hair plastered itself to a face with a thick beard. Thomas cried out: one of the cheeks had been eaten away by fish, and beneath the closed eyelids one of the sockets was empty. The skin was as blue as a duck egg. This was more than Thomas could bear. He gathered John in his arms and silently rocked him.

  His arms were weak and his back griped with every effort as he pulled the body back towards camp. He wanted to call out for help but could manage barely more than a whisper. His voice seemed to be deserting him.

  Pedro was the first to see him, still a hundred yards from the compound. He ran forward and took one arm while Thomas dragged the other.

  ‘Is he …?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Dead.’ His voice crackled and was swallowed by his breath, which puffed with every exertion. He wouldn’t be able to take much more; his arms were losing their feeling.

  Pedro nodded. ‘The bouto, Senhor Edgar.’

  Thomas stopped and dropped John’s arm. He squatted on the ground to stretch his aching back and to calm hi
s breathing. ‘The dolphin? What of it?’

  ‘This is what they do. They take the form of a beautiful woman and come onto land to lure men to the water.’

  Thomas remembered the day on the boat, on the way to Manaus. What was it John had said? Not a bad way to go, drowned by a beautiful spirit. He pushed the thought away. It was ridiculous.

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Pedro looked towards the camp, where Antonio was moving silently through the trees towards them.

  ‘Senhor Edgar,’ the big man drawled with a nod. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘As if you don’t know!’ Thomas’s hands were trembling. As Antonio bent over John’s body Thomas took the opportunity to run; once again his legs took him in their own direction, back to the compound and into John’s hut, the two men and the dead body of his friend far behind him. He grabbed the gun that leaned against the wall and checked that it was loaded. It was only shot but it would have to do.

  Without stopping to think about what he was about to do, he sprinted through the mud for Santos’s hut, his feet slapping the ground.

  ‘Get up!’ he shouted at him. Santos was concealed behind a mosquito net and said nothing, so Thomas presumed he was asleep. He stood for a few seconds, tempted to back out, but Santos pulled the net aside.

  ‘Mr Edgar, what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘You killed him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John, you blind idiot. Don’t deny it!’

  ‘But I have been ill in bed, grieving for my wife.’ His tone was smug. Thomas, dripping wet, with water running into his eyes, gripped the gun tighter in his anger and pointed it at him. If he closed his eyes when he squeezed the trigger, he would be spared the sight of more blood.

  ‘Mr Edgar, put that gun down. You don’t want to have a murder on your hands, now, do you?’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’

  ‘You cannot prove that.’

  ‘But I can prove you killed Clara … you wife. There are witnesses.’