***
Something is on my arm again and my foot rages with pain. The left foot is the worst, though I think my right one has been tugged at now too. I cannot be sure. Out of the corner of my eye I see the beak of a crow move into sight. It must surely be a crow for the beak is large, sharp and evil looking. As I try to make a noise to shoo it away it begins to pick at the hood that covers my head and the hat that covers it. I try to scream and hardly any sound comes from my mouth at all.
***
It is night and I can hear something snarling and growling nearby and I can feel my foot being tugged at. Oh Elizabeth where are you? Come and free me from my chains! Tell Grace to come and get me on his pony from the trap and McGee is in the trees laughing at me, Rogers sitting in the branches and mocking, but I cannot see him. Just hear him making owl hoots and fox noises. Is it mutton for lunch tomorrow? I must get out of these ridiculous clothes and go to Chambers for I believe I am behind on my school work. McGee will come and get me. Or Rogers. Stout fellows. Never been drunk in their lives. I know a rhyme now.
One.
Two.
Three.
McGee is dead.
Rogers is dead.
***
Sunlight daylight and Elizabeth pats her umbrella at me. I can see her you know. She is drinking tea. There is a crow on my shoulder. I know it is there even though I cannot see it. It whispers in my ears. It pecks at my hat too, and my shoulder. I keep my eyes closed so it will not see them for that is all that is visible of me to it. I am the eye of the scarecrow, scarecrow gone to market to see the queen. Scarecrow, scarecrow where have you been?
Time has passed but not much as Elizabeth is still on the terrace and it is still fiercely hot and bright. The crow is still there. I can feel it edge nearer and I briefly open one eye to see a sharp razor tipped beak tugging at the hood as it edges nearer… nearer… I try to scream and I do not know if I make any sound or not for I am separate from myself now, floating floating, lost on a stream of sound or not sound free and free and away I go…
***
Elizabeth Solomon sat on the terrace alone taking tea. Later she would catch up a little on her reading or perhaps busy herself with a little embroidery but for now she was happy to take the air and bask in the sun under the comfort of her parasol, for it simply would not do to burn her fair skin.
She reflected on the fact that life was incredibly dull these days for she seemed to be suddenly lacking in suitors to come call upon her. Not that she missed that dreadful Grace fellow however. Duller than ditch water he was what with his constant talk of rugby and the vagaries of school life. She had had to tell him not to stop calling in the end for she was tired of pretending that she was out. It was typical of such a bore that he would call every Thursday at precisely the same time, twelve noon. This was most certainly a clue to his personality for sure.
That nice mister Elijah Farrer seemed quite a nice fellow however for he had made her laugh, though obviously the feeling was not mutual for he had never called upon her and she had not seen him about the village for some time now. Shame. She had quite liked him. Still, never mind.
She poured more tea and glanced across the field. That silly scarecrow needed fixing up. Its hat was at a very odd angle. Maybe she would walk over some day and fix it. She sighed. Probably not. The day she found herself rearranging scarecrows is the day they could put her in a box and be done with it. She sipped the tea and looked back at the scarecrow. A large crow sat upon the arm of it, making her laugh at the fact that the crow did not seem to be scared of the effigy at all. Such horrible birds. Carrion, of course.
As she watched the crow pecked at the head of the scarecrow. Once, then twice and a few times more, pecking and pecking at the head. Such horrible birds she repeated to herself. Especially the noises they made, cawing loudly across the fields.
If she did not know any better she would say that it was most similar to the sound of screaming.
Interlude Two
~ In which the nature of Lust is examined ~
The boy I now knew as Elijah Farrer stood still at the table, a vague air of relief settling about his gangly frame. Yet he did not take his seat. He just stood there staring ahead of him as if lost in thought or deed.
“How horrible.” Said the gentleman to my direct right, the banker known, I believe, by the name of Berkeley. He had a somewhat distracted, bothered look about him that he could not seem to shake and his distaste for the contents of Farrer’s story was decidedly apparent.
“Agreed.” Said the distinguished gentleman directly to my left, Evans is his name I seemed to recall. He had a rather chiselled look about him; ex-military I would have thought for I had come across many men of his bearing in the course of my work. Closed mind usually to a man, but rugged and determined. It would be a fool who would cross one such as him for you could ill afford to invoke their almost limitless capacity to bear a grudge. Single minded they were, as if stubbornness was forged throughout them. Apollyon however simply sat staring at the table, examining each one of us seemingly in turn as the gentleman at the table fell into silence once again.
That it was a grisly tale there can be no doubt. Quite horrible. Yet at the same time I could not help but feel that the character in the story was but the instrument of his own destruction. Such folly! Women were not some form of strange creature to be feared; they have the same desires and needs as men do. I will admit to a certain feeling of trepidation when I first met my wife Emily for she was as if an alien creature to me; carefree and quick to laughter. Several of my colleagues insisted that “she would be good for me” whatever that meant, though I suspect that they were referring more likely than not to the two fine children that she would eventually bear me, and that she ran a tidy and efficient household. She was also keen to leave me to my plans of advancement, a trait of hers I greatly admired, I must say.
Yet the story played on my mind for some reason. I am not given to self-analysis for usually there is no need. I am correct in most things that I do. I did however find myself pondering upon whether I had ever lusted after Emily. I suspected that I had not. That she was an attractive woman goes without saying, for a man cannot expect social advancement if his wife resembles a pig. But lust? I think not. There was the sexual act and the inescapable fact that I had borne two fine and healthy children, but desire was a stranger to me, other than desire to see myself at the highest echelons of society that I could achieve; no more than that.
As I pondered on these things the older gentleman, Byron Rothering I seem to recall for I had remembered his name once a mention was made of famous family and lands were mentioned by Apollyon sat unmoving but he added a comment about the tale we had all just heard.
“Terrible thing to happen without a doubt.” He said quietly as if he were musing upon it, “Yet I cannot help but feel that the gentleman concerned can blame nobody other than himself for the predicament in which he found himself.” He played idly with the cigar cutter on the table in front of him. “Such foolishness!” he concluded, almost slamming the device back down on the table in front of him in disgust.
Still Farrer stood upright, not moving, lost in his thoughts. He was not the only one either. Gabriel Moon sat unmoving at Apollyon’s left, almost as if staring into space. I felt a sneer cross my features as I regarded him yet he still did not move.
“Lust.” Said Apollyon suddenly out loud, yet he did not move. He was sat back in his chair, feet on the table once more, a manoeuvre he had undertaken halfway through Farrer’s tale. He seemed to have a silent air of satisfaction about him, whilst the overall impression I had from the rest of the table was one of horror at the tale that had just been related to them.
“Lust.” Repeated the Earl. “The downfall of many a man I fear.”
“How can it be lust?” I enquired and although the Earl did not move I saw him raise an eyebrow. I pressed on regardless, quick to make my point, “the gentleman in the tale hardly met the lady in
question at all. I would say if anything then the culprit here is stupidity rather than lust. In fact, I would say that lust does not come into it at all.”
Suddenly the Earl rose with surprising speed and at an instant was at Farrer’s side.
“It is lust because I say it is lust.” He said petulantly into Farrer’s ear; a near whisper that was nevertheless loud enough for each one of us at the table to hear. Farrer still did not move. It was as if he was staring into the distance, though as I watched him I saw his eyes grow black and begin to run with blood. I suppressed a cry of horror as the holes appeared in the young man’s head where his eyes were meant to be. His face was streaked with blood that was pouring down him now and his mouth twisted in a silent scream. Beside him Apollyon still stood, and then I saw he was staring at me too, a broad grin upon his face. Then just as soon as what was obviously a hallucination appeared it was gone and the boy’s eyes were back; the blood gone. I searched the faces of the remaining gentleman about the table for reassurance that they too had seen what I just had but there was nothing. The Earl just stood grinning at me and I was forced to turn my gaze away from him.
With a sudden rush of air, the two doors through which Glackens had entered the club opened themselves, only the red lamp from within illuminating the darkness therein.
“Feel free to enter my club Master Farrer.” Smiled Apollyon and led the boy to the doors. He disappeared inside and the doors swung shut once again. “There.” Said the Earl. “Another member admitted.” He rubbed his hands in front of the fire as if he felt the cold, but I felt that the atmosphere of the room was somewhat stifling; cloying almost as if it were too warm. The Earl walked about the table quickly; two seats now empty of course. He seemed to have recovered his good humour however as he patted several of us on our backs as he strode around the table, his pace almost as if he were skipping as he went.
“Tell me your Lordship.” I said as he moved behind my chair, “Do you hold many of these dinner parties to acquire new members?” I asked. To be truthful I was simply attempting to make conversation and perhaps lift the mood of the room. As I finished speaking the Earl stopped dead behind me and I felt his hand upon my shoulders.
“Oh many.” I heard him say and I could imagine the grin he gave that everyone else at the table could see but I as he was still standing behind me. “Lots and lots.” He giggled almost which was rather unnerving. There was a pause, almost as if he were thinking. “Though some are of more a challenge than others.” I felt his arms slip off my shoulder and a cold shiver rose up my spine completely unexpectedly.
“A challenge?” I enquired politely as he moved up the right hand side of the table back in my sight again.
“Absolutely.” He smiled, stopping behind the seat of Seamus Flanagan who turned in his seat to face the Earl as he did so, clearly equally uncomfortable for some reason with the fact that the Earl was standing behind him. “Take you for instance, Jacob.” He said, calling me by my first name which gave me a slight twinge of satisfaction. He was an Earl, after all was said and done. “I am really not sure which way you are going to turn.” He paused as if considering something. “Really not sure at all.” He concluded.
To my consternation I felt I had to protest.
“I assure you your lordship that I am almost certainly the keenest aspirant to The Earl of Ranleigh’s Club in this room.” To my delight the Earl waved his hand as if flapping away my vague protest.
“I did not mean that.” He smiled darkly. “I did not mean that at all.” I considered asking him what he did mean but I was keen to leave the subject behind however and so said nothing.
“All going rather well I fear.” Said the Earl testily as he reached his seat at the head of the table and threw himself into it, feet on the table once again. “Who is next?” All turned to each other to see who would be next. Except Moon of course, who just sat unmoving as usual. I fear he had not even moved since the meal was finished at all! I therefore deigned to ignore him as he was obviously not worthy of my attention. To my right in the centre of the table a short man stood; the landowner from Devon with the surname of Faulkner I believe. It may be surprising that I am so good with names, for of course none of us had been formally introduced, but I find that if one is determined to increase one’s standing then an attention to detail, and names in particular is particularly beneficial.
“I am the third.” Smiled Faulkner, waving the ticket in the air as if he did not believe him. He had a cheery disposition, but it seemed to me that there was something else beneath the surface, almost as if he were hiding something. Perhaps I was incorrect of course, and he did have a good deposition, but he felt wrong somehow. As if he were false. I cannot explain it any better than that any more than I could not explain it to myself, but the feeling nevertheless remained.
“It is a story of a fellow not unlike myself and his hobby, which some of you may find at first quite a strange preoccupation, but he is not alone for there are many like him too.”
“Spare us the introduction Mister Faulkner.” Sighed the Earl impatiently. “Just the story please.”
“Quite.” Sniffed the short man. “I call it, “Three Butterflies”.”
Three Butterflies
Three butterflies flew past as I stood at end of the lane, net in hand staring expectantly at the hedgerows. I stood startled as they disappeared into the field beyond, my eyes wide and my heart racing. Three butterflies! Such a rare sight for one such as I, who searches for butterflies each day of the week as often as I can. The white cliffs that overlook Langdon Bay are frequently my home, and it is here that I find my peace. In short, my name is Zakariah Faulkner and I am a Lepidopterist. My collection is renowned throughout the world of fellow butterfly enthusiasts such as I.
Yet this is not my trade, though it consumes more of my hours than I care to admit to anyone other than myself. No. as a gentleman farmer on the south coast I have sufficient funds and time on my hands these days to ensure that my hobby is the sole purpose for my continuance. Yet is it a hobby? Mayhap not, for if you were to ask me my feelings on such a matter then I would without doubt insist that it is the singular imperative for my continuing existence. I live to collect these beautiful insects, to capture them with my carefully placed snares, then to remove their souls from this earthly realm to enshrine them forever within my home in cases and frames where I gaze upon their beauty, frozen in time; forever beautiful.
In certain religions it is said that a butterfly is a depiction of a soul departing to heaven which is of course a nonsense, and yet when I watch their graceful forms fluttering along the meadows and see them soar into the bright blue sky then sometimes I cannot help but wonder whether there is an element of truth to this in some way that is beyond the ken of mortal men. Yet it is a scientifically proven fact that insects do not have a soul; only Homo Sapiens, and so this cannot be given much credence at all.
The killing jar is of course a necessary part of my procedure, and yet I feel it eases the insects from this world quickly, for they rarely struggle for a minute or more. Then I pin them on a stretching board before returning to my home upon the cliffs, coveting my treasure, increasing my agglomeration. My collection grows of course, and this very morning I was in discussion of extending my home even more to house it within with my man of all trades, one mister Brandon, who as far as daily events are concerned it is he who actually runs my estate, leaving me more time to be up on the cliffs and meadows, net in hand.
“The old barn would be handy for a new cattle shed sir.” he had informed me but this very morning. Yet my mind was set. Mere mundane barns and the like were the stuff of his world, not mine, and I coveted the space to increase the storage available for my butterflies.
“It is my intention to use the barn to further my collection, Thomas.” I noted the look of dismay upon his face but it was my estate and I would do with it as I would. “As you well know.”
I dismissed him to go about the everyday chores that a
farm deems necessary and watched as he shuffled away to attend to some no doubt trivial incident around and about my property. I had no patience for it. There - I admit it! Yet it was the sole provider of my income, and so Mister Brandon was adequately rewarded to care for that in which I held little interest. As long as the farm made profit then I was content, and that was his area of passion and not mine. I harboured the thought that he did not share the same level of enthusiasm for my lepidopterist activities, yet this did not play on my mind at all. He had never seen my collection, though he knew what it consisted of, of course, as did all my household staff. Indeed, I can safely state that none had seen my wondrous collection of butterflies but I, for I kept them secure under lock and key. They were for my viewing only and that was that. Long hours I would sit studying each perfect form pinned lifeless within its glass case. The very thought of looking upon them makes my heart beat faster and the desire to view them once again almost forces me from my afternoon hunt back to my house to spend some time viewing my hard won collection of butterflies.
Yet there must always be more. Each pattern or display of a butterfly’s colouring entrances me for I have rarely seen the same pattern twice. There are certain similarities of course, yet an expert such as I can easily see the differences and am therefore enraptured by them, so various are their forms, colouring and displays. They are a thing to behold indeed and my hunt will continue for as long as I am able, which I anticipate to be for many a year yet.
And so. Three butterflies. I find myself as I quite often do on the cliffs above Langdon Bay. The cliffs are famous of course, their white limestone faces pointing across the sea to the damned French and all other sorts who arrive in this country unbidden and unneeded. Yet to the quintessential Englishman it is a sign of home, and so it should be, as magnificent as indeed they are. The view from here is of course quite spectacular, yet I hardly notice it at all. I am more concerned with the sighting of my prey; additions for my collection and now three butterflies have flown past, gambolling, spinning and racing through the warm summer breeze.
The Waiting Room Page 7