Yet I am not immune completely to the wonders of nature that surround me, for it is a bright warm summer’s day, and the breeze is slight, a cloudless blue sky for as far as the eye can observe covering the heavens above. Bees buzz and bump their way across the meadows and into the hedgerows. It is quite calming this feeling of isolation, for casual walkers are rare at this part of the path as the view is obscured by the hedgerows.
That the cliffs are high goes without saying of course, and many times - in fact more often than not - a strong chill sea breeze can rattle across these meadows, chilling the bone and bowing the bushes. Trees are rare this high up for in the winter the wind is fierce and strong. Yet the area contains many hedgerows and meadows and once safely sheltered beyond those and tucked away from the wind the breeze is less than that which is found when one is standing on the path that edge along the cliffs. Rarely would I find butterflies here and so usually I avoid them, though the thicker hedgerows along the path form almost a tunnel of foliage that wraps itself around the path, obscuring the view. These areas are of course of less interest to the casual walker for that very reason, and so I find myself traversing these sections of the path too, and it is indeed at this spot that I have just observed the three butterflies flying over the hedgerow and into the meadow beyond.
I secured the pack on my back that contains the instruments of my trade and push my way through the hedges into the meadow beyond. I had of course as was my habit checked the contents of the pack before I had set out, for I did not want to ruin my walk by not having the articles of my passion near to hand should I secure another butterfly to add to my marvellous collection, which I inevitably would; rare was the day when I returned from my hunt empty handed and irritable. There was my net of course, lightly made with a wide spread piece of linen cloth at the end. It was I had found more by trial and error than anything, much more productive to net a butterfly from below, twisting the net above it as it attempted to escape and this net was the most successful I had constructed yet, though I will admit that I had several at home, though this was not only my favourite but also my most successful snaring device. Once I had it near a butterfly I found it unusual for them to be able to escape, their fluttering attempts at avoiding it at best futile.
Then there were my soft linen bags and stretching boards, small scraps of card upon which I temporarily impaled my catch before I could return it to my den and mount it professionally in a case if it was worthy. My magnifying glass would soon spot any imperfections or blemishes, and these useless corpses were despatched to the waste bin with all due haste, for I would have perfection, or I would have nothing at all!
To pin the insects to the boards I had a small collection of insect pins, which I would use to secure the butterfly to the board. These were fiendishly sharp and I found a longer length than normal more to my desire, though I covered the points with small cork caps to prevent cutting myself on their ends as I removed them from my pack. Finally, there was my killing jar, with which I would despatch the insects from this earthly plain. It was a round glass receptacle with a secure lid into which I would place a small amount of a chemical compound before unloading the insect into the jar and then securing the top. I am told by my fellow enthusiasts in correspondence that may occur from time to time that a nine ounce killing jar is usual, but I prefer a larger chamber, and my glass killing jar is of sixteen ounces.
I find that the larger jar affords a much more direct view of the insect as it suffocates in the chemical mist, a part of the process which I particularly enjoy, watching their futile and ever decreasing attempts to find a way out of the vessel, their wings beating in vain against the glass of the fume filled jar before finally they succumb to the chemical concoction.
In truth I enjoy this part of my hobby almost as much as pinning the now dead insect to my canvas boards. Often I find myself wondering which part of the entire process is the more rousing for me; the killing, the impaling or the viewing. I suspect that perhaps when viewing my collection, it is from the point of view of remembering the killing process, but of course this is dwelling on the whole matter mayhap just a little too much, and usually I conclude that my enjoyment is in reflecting upon every aspect of the whole process, as it were. Yet I frequently ask myself the question, if the death is not the most pleasurable part then why do I always remember it so?
To continue to describe the process by which I procure insects for my collection it is worthy of note that I had of course by this point already added some of the chemical and the demise of the insect was then assured. When I had first embarked upon my collection I was given to use rubbing alcohol, but it was not ideal for it took some time for the creatures to die in the jar. They would flutter about the jar as they suffocated, and this could sometimes cause damage to their wings or bodies. This of course would never do, and so now I use a compound of ethyl acetate which sped up the insect’s demise much more quickly. I do dilute it however as the chemical is expensive, and though it takes them a little longer to die the results are inevitably the same.
So i placed several of the cork capped pins and stretching boards into my inside jacket pocket, made sure the killing jar was at the top of my pack and hoisting my net before I made my way into the meadow in search of the three butterflies.
The meadow was wide, bordered on all sides by thick hedgerows, though the bushes through which I had just scrambled seemed less of an obstacle than the hedges in other directions. The grass here was quite deep, a good twelve inches or more and so I waded through it causally, looking all about me for the three butterflies I had seen pass this way but a moment before. I undid my jacket buttons now that I was somewhat sheltered from the sea breeze, for as I have already mentioned, it was a bright sunny day. Already I could feel the sun on the back of my neck, and I took my handkerchief from my pocket to mop my brow. Yet of the three butterflies there was not a sign. I spotted some digitalis in the hedgerow to my right and so I headed in that direction, for as a collector of Lepidoptera in all forms I knew that these beautiful insects favoured these plants, and it may come to pass that the three butterflies I was in pursuit of would make their way there. Such a prize it would be, I thought as I envisioned dispatching all three one by one in my jar, and what a pleasant reminder it would be to add to my collection: the day I encountered and slew three butterflies that had just idly fluttered past.
Halfway across the field however I was distracted as a butterfly fluttered past, its orange and red markings contrasting darkly with the bright blue sky. As if acting on instinct I raised the net above it and with a deft yet well practiced movement brought the net down ensnaring the insect. I carefully lowered the net to the grass, preventing the creature from escaping my net. I dropped the pack to the ground and kneeling, plucked the killing jar out and placed it on the grass, rapidly unscrewing the lid. I then placed my stoppered bottle of chemicals by its side but I did not remove the top yet. The chemical compound was fiercely expensive and I was not wont to use it carelessly. I wanted to inspect the butterfly I had captured first, and so I leaned in towards the netting and after a moment I could make out the shape of the insect furiously trying to escape my snare.
To my disgust I spotted almost instantly that the insects wings were already blemished by the net, such was its desire to escape, and so therefore it was completely useless to me as an addition to my collection. I felt anger rise in me for surely now my three butterflies were far away, and I had no hope to secure them for my collection. I had wasted time on this runt of an insect that was now of no use to me at all! Reaching down to the net I crushed the now frantic butterfly between my fingers, and then standing I turned the crushed corpse out of the net and ground it into the grass with the heel of my boot. Securing my jar in my pack and shouldering it once again I set off towards the digitalis once more, attempting to leave my disappointment behind me.
The sun continued to warm the mid-afternoon air and the meadow was alive with the sound of insects going about their busin
ess. Bees, crickets in the grass and so forth. I had never been interested in other insects or wavered from my pursuit of the butterfly, for no other insect interested me in any way at all. What it was that held my attention so was difficult to explain: perhaps the sheer natural beauty of the butterfly or perhaps their fragility, or the difficulty of their capture perhaps. That I found their capture ridiculously easy however, was evident. I had a great deal of practice in this matter, and the fact that I regarded myself as an expert may pass without remark.
As I approached the clump of foxgloves in the hedgerow however I was aghast to see the three butterflies fluttering just above the hedge. Relief flooded my veins; anticipation too. My special prize was still within reach! I crept forward now slowly, net in hand, licking my lips eagerly at the sight of these three insects. Their markings were spectacular even by my lofty standards, and so onwards I pressed slowly but carefully approaching them.
One given to flights of fancy may remark upon the fact that it seemed almost as if they were waiting for me, their dance through the air provocative even as they lazily looped around each other as if engaged in some form of aerial play or dance. Yet I am nothing if not a pragmatist, and so I dismissed such a fanciful thought from my head without thought and lunged forward for the nearest insect with my net. I was amazed to see the insect avoid its capture easily, fluttering about the net as it waved uselessly through the air. I swept the net around in a fresh attempt to ensnare the butterfly but already it flew up to join its fellow creatures and with a flourish they flew up over the hedgerow and into the meadow beyond.
I gave a bellow of rage and pushed my way into the bushes to make my way in the direction they had flown, though this time the scrub was ragged and thick. Hawthorn cut at me as I pushed my way through, snagging my jacket. A thick thorn clawed at my face. Noisily I pushed through the hedge and stood in the next meadow, which was, I saw, very similar to the last. Heading off to my right however I saw the three butterflies fluttering high above me and so I followed them, pulling my ripped and torn jacket closed about me as I went. I wiped my face where the thorn had struck at me and was surprised to see blood on my hand. I resolved to be more careful next time, for the cut was very close to my eye. I could have been blinded!
Almost at a trot now I bore down upon the butterflies, which although high in the air were not entirely out of reach. I leapt into the air as I pursued them, the net fully extended in my hand but they avoided its snare easily, fluttering in the meadow almost as if taunting me. Yet this did not daunt my resolve. What a prize this would be! Saliva filled my mouth at the anticipation of adding these three fine creatures to my collection. Such was the coincidence of my sighting of them, and the nature of their pursuit that I noted there and then that I would add them to my collection even if by their capture they were damaged. I gathered my strength again for we were now approaching the far edge of the meadow and yet another hedge, though I spotted that this one did not seem to be as thick as the last. One more lunge I tried, but the butterflies mocked me, floating about the net almost contemptuously, and so I followed as they rose above the edge and disappeared into the beyond.
Without thought I threw myself into the hedge and stumbled against the bushes, my encounter with the thorn completely forgotten. My progress this time was much swifter, for although the hedge was dense, it was not impassable, and so I fell through it, finding myself on the footpath that ran along the bay below. At certain places on this footpath the vegetation forms almost a tunnel, thick and fully leaved on each side. Finding myself in the shade I shivered somewhat, the difference in ambience stark and chilling. Nearby I could hear birds singing, and a bee buzzed past casually. Silence fell, but then I made out the sound of the sea near to hand. I pushed the pack back over my shoulder, for my passage through the hedgerow had dislodged it, and I straightened my jacket as it had caught on the bushes as I had made my way onto the path.
I stood there listening to the sea as I gathered my breath, whilst at the same time looking wildly about me for any sign of the three butterflies, yet it seemed that they had disappeared! I turned on the spot madly; my net poised to strike but of the insects there was not a sign! I peered about the path that led off in both directions, eagerly examining the flora and fauna for signs of movement. There a bee. Here a fly, but no butterflies. Then off along to my right near to where the hedge grew thinner I saw them, fluttering idly, again as if waiting for me. I had a brief moment of disquiet, but I paid it no heed for my moment of triumph had nearly arrived. It could be that I would be able to snare two of them at one, I considered, or with God’s will maybe all three into the net with one deft swoop! What a sight that would make watching all three suffocate in my killing jar!
Tip-toeing slowly forward and raising the net I approached the thinning hedge, closely checking my progress as I quietly approached, attempting to make myself as small as I could. I could feel my pulse racing - I must say that in that moment I had never felt more alive in my life, for my prize was almost within reach!
Slowly, ever so slowly I quietly crept forward. The sound and smell of the sea was stronger now but I put it to the back of my thoughts, my full attention gathered on the three butterflies that danced idly before me, almost as if in wait or anticipation of their capture. The killing jar rattled in my pack as I crept forward and I paused in fear of scaring the creatures away, shrugging the pack more securely back onto my shoulder as I did so.
Slowly I edged towards them and raised the net. My preparations for their capture was obviously first rate for they had not moved at all, fluttering around each other as if completely oblivious to my presence.
I realised I was holding my breath now, and I could feel the sweat trickle down my spine despite the shaded hedge I found myself in. It was time to strike! Pushing back on my heels I leapt at the hedge, my net whirling through the air mercilessly. Yet still they avoided me. Almost with disdain the three butterflies rose into the sky and my net cast uselessly into the air, missing all three completely. I had but a moment to consider the fact that they surely seemed to be watching me but it was too late for me to spend time on this thought, for my momentum carried me forward helplessly into the hedge, and I fell forward, the thinning bushes and shrubs failing to stop my forward momentum completely. With a scream of fright, I emerged falling from the hedge and fell forward.
Into nothing but the sky.
Down the cliff I fell, head over heels, the bushes vanishing above me, my pack flung from my shoulder and cartwheeling away into the air, falling away as I continued to plummet downward. My screaming filled my ears as I seemed to plummet for an age and then all of a sudden I came to a complete halt with a dull thud and a loud cracking sound. I had barely time to register that I had seemed to have come to a stop when all faded to black.
When I came to my body was filled with pain and I grunted as I gathered my wits about me. I quickly however determined that I had not been unconscious for very long as the sun did not appear to be much lower in the sky. I estimated that I had passed out for not more than an hour, but as pain raged all about my person I truly wished that I was unconscious again. I began to take stock of my surroundings. Mercifully I had not fallen the full height of the cliff. The sea crashed against the rocks some way below me, though quite how far away I could not be sure as every time that I attempted to move my entire body was racked with pain. I could not move! It was as if I were pinned to the cliff itself!
I looked down at my left leg which was sticking out at a most peculiar angle, tucked away underneath me almost as if I was sitting on it. Without a doubt it was broken. My right arm too hung uselessly at my side and when I tried to raise it the fierce pain made me desist immediately; broken too obviously.
Of my backpack and net there was not a sign, though why I lamented this so was a mystery to me. I began to realise that I was having a great deal of difficulty concentrating, my mind sliding slowly over my problem like oil on water, yet failing completely to make sense of the pr
edicament in which I found myself. Which was considerable. I had at least two broken limbs and I was stuck half way down a cliff on a particularly lightly used part of the footpath that was no doubt quite some way above my head. Although I seemed to have trouble collecting my thoughts about this I attempted to call for help and was both discouraged and greatly scared by the thin croaking sound that was all that came out of my throat.
I tried to move, though the ledge on which I was sat was slight and it was an unwise decision, for were I to fall any further then my demise would be assured. Yet I could not rouse myself. My two shattered limbs prevented my movement in any direction at all. Panic threatened to overcome me and then faded. It was if I could not concentrate on anything of substance at all. I felt dizzy and light headed, as if I were to swoon at any given moment. Thoughts rose in my mind but it was if I was unable to grasp them. I placed the blame for this squarely on my shock at falling and my shattered limbs, yet I needed to gather my wits; to form a plan of action to overcome my predicament. Instead I was amazed to find myself giggling.
Snapping to it I shook my head and looked along the thin ledge just as at the end of the shelf I found myself on three butterflies flew down and settled on the ground. This time I knew they were watching me. That it was the same butterflies there could be no doubt. It was not the markings or the size. I just knew.
I tried to scream in rage but only a small mumble made its way out of my mouth and I felt myself going cold. I raised my undamaged left arm and wiped my forehead, and as I did so I smeared blood across my face, which I thought was strange, for although my left leg and right arm were shattered, there did not seem to be any blood on them. Yet as I glanced down into my lap I could see blood pooling there, soaking into my waistcoat, jacket and trousers. I was horrified to discover that my shirt was soaked as well, the bright crimson blood soaking the cloth.
The Waiting Room Page 8