The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2

by Ishbelle Bee

  I put the magnifying glass down and hunched over and vomited by my feet.

  The next evening Prunella kicked Guardian and I slammed her head into the trifle dish and found it surprisingly easy. I could have killed her.

  Mr Angelcakes came again that very same night and he brought me an axe.

  “I want you to chop Mr Icarus Hookeye’s head off.”

  “Why?”

  “It is a test. And if you refuse I will skin your brother.”

  I did what he said without question. I crept down into the kitchen. I could see Mr Hookeye looking out of the window. I jumped up onto the table and ran towards him, swinging the axe. He turned towards me, a look of surprise on his face, and I sliced his head off as easily as slicing a piece of cake. It bounced on the floor.

  Mr Angelcakes was very happy with me. He licked my arm.

  The remaining days at the Grubweed house passed like a daydream. I played in the garden with Guardian and picked blackberries and wild flowers in the woods. I imagined there were ghosts wandering about sulking, and I waved at them. Prodded them with sticks, chased them with butterfly nets.

  Mr Angelcakes told me that Professor Hummingbird had killed my Uncle Grubweed, turned him into a butterfly and squashed him between his fingers. Mr Angelcakes could see things other people could not. He knew secret things.

  The butterfly he carved into my back hurt, but he said the Professor would want me if he saw it. So I stopped complaining. I shut my stupid mouth.

  I dreamt that I was a black butterfly. Monstrous. Landing on poppy heads, devouring their juices. I pulsated and swirl-danced like a little demon, red eyed and hungry. Stepping into space, I hovered over the strange little earth: my body a hot engine. A great emptiness expanded within me.

  I am an imploding star.

  I licked everything I touched. Wet kisses, my spit honeybee sweet. My lips razor sharp.

  I dream that I am a black butterfly and my name has been erased.

  Mr Angelcakes’ plan worked and the Professor wanted to adopt me. He took me to his castle in the woods to grow up. The forest is deep and full of giant toadstools and goblin laughter. Roots of the trees are like muscles, swelling and aching under the soil. Milk-white flowers and stingy nettles grow in handfuls round the paths. Dark, secret and happy moss spreads in moist places. If people get lost in these woods they turn into a plant. Flesh becomes vegetation.

  That night I ate jam tarts for pudding with the Professor. I was his adopted daughter. I was his special girl. I knew I would miss Guardian, but Pedrock would look after him. My bedroom was bigger than my old one and I had a big red bed, a looking glass and a box full of toy knights on horses. My favourite was the black knight, who was the biggest. I liked the colour black because it is not a colour, it is like a hole in space. I made him kill all the other knights, hack them down. Mr Angelcakes played with me; he was very pleased with me.

  The Professor took a photograph of me sitting on a chair. He told me to be very still, as though I was dead. He said I was unusual. He is an expert in unusual creatures.

  A puff of smoke! And the photograph was done. I was caught like a fairy in a jam jar.

  I explored my new home. Found all the magic rooms. I found the room with the photographs of his princesses. There are six and I am number seven. I looked at all their faces. Not one of them was pretty and yet in fairytales isn’t the princess supposed to be beautiful? Aren’t they supposed to be delicate, beautiful things? We are his butterfly girls. Seven of us stuck on the wall, trapped beneath glass.

  Caught

  Last night Detective White tried to rescue me. Maybe Detective White is a prince? He stuffed me through a window and told me to run. Mr Loveheart blew up part of the Professor’s house. Mr Angelcakes thought that was really funny. Mr Angelcakes says he really likes Mr Loveheart, he says he is a Wild Card. I ask what a Wild Card is and Mr Angelcakes says, “Unpredictable, anything could happen.” Mr Loveheart has black eyes like an insect but he isn’t one.

  He’s glittery, sparkling, candles on a birthday cake. He’s only for special occasions.

  Detective White, Mr Loveheart and Constable Walnut have all disappeared. Mr Angelcakes says they are on the wall in a frame. They have become butterflies. I am sorry for it.

  It is a week later and Mr Angelcakes has given me some chalk and tells me to draw butterflies in the courtyard, as many as possible because the Professor will like it very much. And so I do, I begin my wonky butterfly drawings, some with enormous leaf-like wings; some squint and limp looking; some soaring like dragons, heavy and hell-raisers. I hear a clippety-clop and a pony and trap arrive and out steps a man called Detective Waxford. He looks very angry and he shouts at the Professor and takes us both to London. I sit in his office and draw butterflies on his desk with the chalk. He asks me questions and I tell him what I know. He thinks I am mad.

  The Professor’s lawyer, Mr Evening-Star, says that we are both free to go and that Detective Waxford has no evidence. Mr Evening-Star has a face like an eel: greyish skin stretched over his skull.

  We return home and I am so tired I fell asleep on the train and the Professor has to carry me to bed.

  For the next ten years I grow up in the home of the Professor, the moated castle in the forest. Am I in a fairytale? All the dresses I have are black. It is the only colour he wants me to wear and yet it is not a colour. I am not allowed to see anyone. I must remain in the castle but I am allowed to wander into the woods, as long as I don’t stray too far. Sometimes I think I can hear Guardian howling, but I know he is well loved and very well fed and so I am not sad. Pedrock will cuddle him all the time. I imagine I am a strange queen under a terrible curse. I imagine I am a butterfly trapped under glass. I imagine I am the Professor’s wife.

  During the days I wander into the woods and play games in my head, pick flowers, chase ghosts and fight with a wooden sword the Professor gave me. I hack away at the trees. I cleave great chunks out of them. I am trying to disguise how strong I am becoming.

  At night Mr Angelcakes blindfolds me. He says I must learn to be able to fight without seeing. I must pretend I am blind. I can’t do it at first. I stumble around, smack my head on the wall, stub my toe. And then he tells me to focus, to think about the Professor’s favourite butterfly. I see it inside my head, all the black and red, the huge wings and then the slow, slow beating of wings. I look into the eyes on the wings, they see all. Time is slowing down. I can see everything without opening my eyes.

  Now I fight in the woods with my blindfold on. I CHOP CHOP CHOP.

  I CHOP CHOP CHOP the air.

  I think about the butterfly. It is swimming in my head. It is lighting fast. CHOP CHOP CHOP.

  I dismember space.

  I need something better to practice on.

  I need a real weapon.

  I have turned eight years old. The Professor gives me a present. It is a black heart pendant. He puts it on my neck. He says, “Never take it off Boo Boo,” and so I obey him. I wonder what colour my heart is? I wonder if, it too is black. I touch the space in my chest and feel for a beat.

  THUD THUD THUD

  How fast does a butterfly heart beat ?

  We are having a guest for dinner tonight. His name is Sebastian Crabmouth. He is a medical doctor and the Professor has known him for many years. Mr Angelcakes would like me to kill him over dinner. The three of us sit round the dinner table. Tonight we are eating roast duck with plums and buttered potatoes. For pudding there is a birthday cake the Professor bought in a London cake shop. It is red with vanilla sponge and a cream filling. Sebastian Crabmouth is a little man with dark hair and spectacles, and a round squashy face. I look at my knife and fork and I think about murder. I know Mr Angelcakes will want to be amused.

  “Happy birthday, Boo Boo. The Professor tells me you are eight today,” says Mr Crabmouth.

  “Do you collect butterflies too?” I ask.

  “No, I am the Professor’s physician and I also run a practice
in London.”

  How long, I wonder, do I have to wait before I can kill him?

  The Professor turns to Mr Crabmouth. “Sebastian, I was thinking of inviting the explorer Oberon Lionheart over for dinner one evening. I hear he has some specimens of the emperor moth and I would love to arrange an exhibition.”

  I throw my fork at Mr Crabmouth’s head. It sinks between his eyes, buried deep in his skull. He dies instantly.

  The Professor stares at me with interest. “Boo Boo dear. That was a bad thing you just did.”

  “But you won’t tell me off, will you, because you want to marry me?”

  The birthday cake tastes delicious.

  Mr Angelcakes is very pleased with me. But I feel I need more practice. More human targets. But no one comes to visit and so I have no one I can kill.

  Boo

  Hoo

  Dream of the Angel-Eater

  It is the witching hour when the Angel-Eater comes to me. Floats above my bed. Speaks to me directly.

  She is a great black star.

  “Our souls are under glass squashed together. You must get someone to break us out!” she says, hovering over me.

  “Where are you?” I stand on my bed.

  “On your wedding night he will reveal me. It is his pattern. You have to wait.”

  POP

  She vanishes into the wallpaper.

  I dream of edible clocks. Each one tastes like insect-meat.

  London

  The Butterfly Exhibition

  I am nine years old and I have had to wait a whole year but target practice has finally come. Tonight the Professor is taking me to an exhibition in London at the British Museum. The famous explorer, Oberon Lionheart, will be there with his moths. Mr Angelcakes has given me two butterfly blades made from silver. They slot neatly down my high leather-laced boots. The Professor looks at me quizzically. “Are you going to kill anyone tonight, dearest?”

  “Very likely,” I say.

  “Can I ask you to refrain from murdering Mr Lionheart, at least until I get to quiz him on his emperors?”

  A huge banner hangs outside the steps to the British Museum with the emperor moth, in all its dazzling blues and purples. It is very beautiful, but not as rare as the Professor’s. Mr Angelcakes tells me to kill as many people as possible. So I will try my best.

  I am let loose to roam free in the exhibition, and I would say there’s about fifty people here and a large amount of champagne. I take a glass and try it, the bubbles fizz up my nose. There are also strawberries and cream, big bowls of them. I dip my fingers in the cream. It’s like a bowl full of angel tears, delicious.

  I see a huge man with a mane of red gold hair and great bushy beard. He must be the famous explorer, Lionheart. I go up and say hello.

  “My name is Boo Boo. I am Professor Hummingbird’s adopted daughter.”

  “Well, well,” he growls. “It’s an honour to meet you little miss,” and he shakes my hand with his great paw. “And what do you think of my emperors?” He points a finger behind him to where a row of them sit encased in a display cabinet, each one a deep midnight purple blue. Like the eyes of mermaids.

  “They are very beautiful, Mr Lionheart. Have you seen the Professor’s angel-eater?”

  Mr Lionheart is startled. “I had no idea he possessed one.”

  “Oh yes, he hangs it usually in his bedroom, or the study, if guests are coming to visit. Maybe you will come and see us?”

  “I would love to Miss Boo Boo,” and he smiles a great predatory smile. I like him very much. I have decided not to kill him.

  I amble lazily up the stairs with a handful of strawberries which I am popping into my mouth, as if I was a god eating severed heads. I can see the Professor now talking with Mr Lionheart.

  I wait.

  I am approached by a gentleman with a fuzzy red moustache and a cigar in one hand.

  “Hello, my dear. My name is Rufus Hazard.”

  “Hello,” I reply. “Are you a collector of butterflies?”

  “Egad, no! I’m an adventurer, my little one. A thrill seeker, treasure hunter. Most recently I had my leg chewed by an amorous witch.”

  “Why was she chewing your leg?”

  “Animal magnetism. I’m a dangerous chap around the women.” His upper lip wobbled.

  “They can’t seem to control themselves around me. You’re too young to understand my dear. But let me tell you, I’m cursed with a terrible affliction.”

  “Delusion?”

  “No,” he continues unabashed. “Sexual magnetism.”

  I actually feel sorry for him so I fling him out of the window. He screams and lands safely in a dust cart ambling off into the shadows.

  “What the blazes?” he yells.

  I remove the blades from my boots and extend them as if they were wings.

  It is like a dance. I can feel the limbs fly off as I spin. I can hear the screaming and the running. I can smell them: it’s sweat, human shit and semen. Fear between their legs; in their throats vomit. Heads spin off my blades. It’s a beautiful dance. I can see the butterfly in my head, I can hear Mr Angelcakes laughing and clapping. Chop chop, spin spin.

  Chop

  chop

  chop

  Silence. I am standing in a heap of body parts. The Professor is watching me from the corner of the room, eyes like dark pools. He’s excited by me but he also fears me.

  He takes the emperor moths and we get into the coach and drive back home. Into the darkness; into the deep, beautiful darkness.

  Fourteen

  That is how old I am. I have an insatiable desire to kill. It’s like a fever running inside me. I lie on my bed and put my hands between my legs.

  Mr Angelcakes says I have surpassed what he thought was possible. He runs his finger up and down my thigh. The skin suit he is wearing is beginning to rot. I have sucked so much power out of him. He is just a voice now and a sack of skin. But I follow his commands. I am stronger than Mr Angelcakes. I am stronger than the Professor. Why don’t I kill them both? Because then I will be alone.

  Mr Angelcakes speaks to me, his rotting green tongue lolling inside his mouth. “My little weapon.” He strokes my face.

  I am going mad.

  Melting into the floorboards.

  Pedrock Grows up, 1899

  Sailing

  The lake today is full of silvery threads and spirals of colour. Insects dart over the surface, deeply in love with their reflections. I have returned to the village of Darkwound and borrowed Grandpa’s boat. I have returned for my little sister’s wedding. I haven’t seen her in ten years. He has kept her locked away. The little boat glides gently over the water, like a leaf. Gliding without any particular purpose. I can see the edge of the woods, the edge of the world.

  I work as a clerk in the ship-building firm of Winkhood & Son in London and have lodgings near St Martin’s. I am courting a hat maker’s daughter, a Miss Penny Seashell, with hair the colour of white honeycomb beaches and eyes as green as algae.

  Much has happened over the last ten years. Mrs Charm’s Medieval Horrors were published and a phenomenal success; she is currently writing her seventh book, The Wicked Monk of Winchester, which again explores the notion of demonic possession in the clergy. I have read and enjoyed them all. She misses Mr Loveheart terribly and dedicates all her books to him, hoping secretly that he is somewhere safe, reading them, and not dead as everyone believes. Cornelius, who is now twenty-six, has sadly become an opium addict and is cared for by his mother at home. He has also become fascinated with turnips, which, I have been informed by the village apothecary, Mr Pinhole, is a side effect of the drug usage, although Mrs Charm tells me this is complete nonsense and Mr Pinhole has been obviously self-prescribing himself laudanum. Grandpa is still with us, at the ripe age of ninety, but Guardian the dog died after a night of howling at Boo Boo’s window and is buried under a rose bush in the garden. His ghost, I am sure, watches over her. He will forever be her Guardian.
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br />   Prunella and Estelle, now twenty, are plump, pretty and blonde, with the sole intention of marrying Horatio Beetle, who is still unmarried, although has broken a string of hearts according to village gossip, and has by all accounts several bastard children in the village. Mr Grubweed was never found and Mrs Grubweed has still not yet uttered a word. Whether she has chosen never to speak or is simply unable to remains a mystery.

  Mr Wormhole, the vicar, will be performing the wedding service for my sister next Saturday. He remains still paranoid that he will join the other “missing”.

  The sun is starting to set, an orange ball sinking; the moon, as white as baby teeth, emerging. My little boat floats on under this new moonlight, sweaty glinting water ripples. It moves forward, it must keep moving forward.

  Above in the black sky, a comet tail blazes and explodes. Ribbons of gold and shocking phosphorescence dazzle. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and yet it is

  the

  death

  of

  a

  star.

  The butterflies in the house

  of Hummingbird

  are shaking on the walls.

  The glass is cracking

  Scotland Yard, July 1899

  Detective Waxford and the butterflies