“Indeed,” said Great Aunt Georgie with a pleased look upon her face. “It just so happens that my godfather was a friend of the Duke of Wellington, and upon the Duke’s death, the button came into his possession. He very graciously presented it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I already had quite a collection back then. Collecting is a passion, Henri. It can be a passion that connects a person with history and adventure!”
As Henri now gazed at the buttons upon the library wall, he saw they were just as Dom had said; they all had insects upon them—painted, sculpted, and embossed. There was even one that appeared to be a portrait of Dom himself (although it was hard to be sure since, to the average person, most flies look alike). All in all, he had no reason to doubt he’d had a conversation with Dom.
Henri headed to his room with Insect Transformations tucked under his arm. He lay on his bed and leafed through the book, taking special interest in a section titled “Order Diptera.”
Henri learned that an order is like a family. Everything in nature is ordered. Well, not exactly. It was ordered by a man named Carl Linnaeus so that minerals, plants, animals, and insects could be identified by certain signs. Flies are in the order Diptera. In Latin di means “two” and ptera means “wing.” Two wings! Flies have two wings! Finally those boring old Latin lessons were useful! At school everyone hated Latin class but now Henri had a real use, and he applied it to Dom’s name. Dom had introduced himself as Musca domestica. Domestica means “house” in Latin, so Dom was a housefly!
Henri was engrossed in the book when Great Aunt Georgie called him for dinner. He was out of his room and down the stairs in a flash. It had just occurred to him that perhaps there was more than one talking fly in the world. Maybe his family had a special talent—they could talk to flies! Hmm…that didn’t sound very impressive. Well, maybe they could talk to other insects too. He needed to ask Great Aunt Georgie about it.
Henri slowed to a walk as he entered the dining room, for he knew that if he didn’t, he would be reprimanded with something like, “You are not a pig coming to the trough, Henri.”
Henri waited until dinner was served, and finally he asked, “Aunt Georgie, do you know Dom?”
“What’s that? Have I seen a palm? Well, many years ago when I was a girl. I think it was in the Mediterranean—Italy, perhaps. Why ever do you ask?”
“No, no, not a palm,” Henri said, and Great Aunt Georgie picked up her ear trumpet and put it to her ear. In a louder voice, Henri repeated, “I said, do you know Dom? He’s a fly.”
“Is there any pie? Henri, we’re having raspberry sherbet tonight. We can have pie tomorrow.”
Henri decided to try again. “Um, Great Aunt Georgie, have you ever spoken to a housefly?”
“Have I seen a mouse die? I don’t think so, dear. Why are you thinking about such sad and horrible things?”
This was why Henri usually let her do most of the talking. It made for less confusion. He decided to try one last time.
“Great Aunt Georgie, I was in the library today and I noticed a lot of buttons had insects on them. Did you make them?”
“Yes, I did,” said Great Aunt Georgie. “Do you like them?”
Henri was not surprised that suddenly Great Aunt Georgie could hear him clearly and answered his question without hesitation. He had realized in his first week with Great Aunt Georgie that she had selective hearing. That is, she heard what she wanted to hear. If the subject was of interest, then her hearing was perfect. If it was not, then she pulled out the ear trumpet and nothing was accomplished.
“Yes, I like them very much,” replied Henri. “I didn’t know you were an artist. In fact, the insects look so realistic, I wondered if you actually drew from nature.”
“Well, I am out in the garden quite a bit, and I try to sketch when the weather is fine, but lately it’s been so dreary. I haven’t done anything in quite some time,” said Great Aunt Georgie.
Here was Henri’s opportunity. “Perhaps you could work inside if the insects came to you,” said Henri.
“I beg your pardon,” said Great Aunt Georgie, and she held up the ear trumpet. Henri knew that he would get no further information from her.
He looked down at his plate. The food was cold now. He pushed it around to make it look like he had eaten some and then said, “Great Aunt Georgie, I have had enough. May I be excused?”
“Yes, dear,” said Great Aunt Georgie, who seemed to have heard his request perfectly. “By the way, tomorrow we will make a visit to the widow Black. You will want to put on your smartest clothes and look like a proper young man.”
Inwardly, Henri shuddered. Mrs. Black lived on Dutch Elm Farm to the west of Great Aunt Georgie’s place, which made her their closest neighbor. The first time Henri met Mrs. Black was when she had appeared unannounced within hours of his arrival at Woodland Farm.
Great Aunt Georgie had been napping when the knock at the front door came. Feeling like a guest himself, Henri rather tentatively opened the door to greet the visitor. He’d been completely taken aback to see a woman over six feet tall, dressed entirely in black. She towered over him with her face set in a disapproving grimace, and Henri felt frozen to the spot. Her eyes scanned him up and down as if she were looking deep inside to the core of his being, and that was very unsettling.
“Close your mouth, or are you trying to catch flies?” she’d said. “You must be On-ree Bell. Quite an exotic name for such a sickly and pale-looking boy. London air, I suppose. Not healthy.” She paused, looked directly into his face and said, “I am Mrs. Agatha Black. I live on the farm next door. I don’t want to catch you climbing my fences or stealing my apples. If I do, there will be consequences. Welcome to America.”
Then she’d turned and, with long strides, crossed the lawn and disappeared from view. Henri was left with only the swishing sound of her stiff skirt.
Further visits from Mrs. Black were no better than the first. Always she examined him from head to toe with her penetrating, somewhat beady eyes and seemed to find him wanting. Mrs. Black had a beak-like nose and black hair that was pulled back so tight that it seemed to have made the features of her face taut.
Henri rose slowly from the table, wishing he could come down with a case of chicken pox overnight. Any illness would be better than visiting Mrs. Black! He gave a little cough that he hoped might sound like the start of cold.
“Yes, Great Aunt Georgie,” he said.
Widow Black
The following morning, Henri arose. He felt tired and cranky. At breakfast Henri ate very little and gave a few more coughs.
“I think I might be coming down with something,” said Henri. “Perhaps I should stay home. I wouldn’t want to make anyone else sick.”
Great Aunt Georgie looked worried. She stood up and felt his forehead. “You don’t feel hot,” she said. “Maybe you just need a little fresh air. You were cooped up inside all day yesterday. I’m sure the walk will do you good.”
Far too quickly, they reached the wrought iron fence that surrounded Mrs. Black’s house and gardens. Henri opened the gate and motioned for Great Aunt Georgie to enter. Henri followed, and closing the gate, he thought that it was surprising that a ferocious guard dog had not greeted them since Mrs. Black seemed to so value her privacy.
“I’ll ring the bell,” said Great Aunt Georgie once they stood at the front door. Henri nodded and looked up at the tall brick house. At every window, the drapes were pulled. On the rooftop was a widow’s walk—a kind of railed platform from which a person would have a spectacular view of the countryside. Henri let escape a snort as he thought of Agatha Black up there looking through binoculars, waiting, watching for anyone who dared pick an apple from one of her trees!
When Mrs. Black opened the door, she was dressed in one of her crisp black dresses, and had a look on her face like she had just swallowed a spoonful of bitter cod-liver oil. She forced the corners of her mouth up into an awkward smile.
“Georgiana. How lovely. I’ve been loo
king forward to your visit,” said Mrs. Black with as much enthusiasm as Henri might have shown toward a Latin examination.
“It’s kind of you to ask us, Agatha,” Great Aunt Georgie replied. “Henri and I have been looking forward to it as well.”
Ha! thought Henri. He would rather take the Latin exam than be here right now.
Mrs. Black’s gaze turned to him now. “Ah. On-ree.”
“It’s pronounced Henry,” he replied with a boldness he had not expected of himself.
“But it is spelled in the French way and the correct pronunciation is On-ree,” countered Mrs. Black.
Before Henri could respond, Great Aunt Georgie stretched out her arm and wrapped it around Henri’s shoulders, drawing him close to her. As she did so, she gave him a swift kick. “Your French pronunciation is excellent, Agatha,” she said in an overloud voice. “It is obvious you’ve spent time on the Continent. Perhaps you can tell us about it over tea.”
Looking slightly surprised, Mrs. Black apparently decided to let the matter drop. “Do come in,” she said. Mrs. Black stepped aside to allow Henri and Great Aunt Georgie to enter and then firmly shut the door.
They stood in what Henri supposed was a hallway. It was so dark he really couldn’t tell. Mrs. Black had all the drapes drawn; no natural light illuminated the space. It took a moment or two before his eyes adjusted and he started to make out the shapes of furniture and pictures on the wall. Mrs. Black ushered them into the parlor, where the tea service sat on a table.
“You’re in for an interesting visit, Henri,” said Great Aunt Georgie. “Agatha is a collector too!”
“What do you collect, Mrs. Black?” Henri asked politely.
Mrs. Black seemed to pause as if she was thinking about the question. “Seeds” she finally said.
Taking a seat beside Great Aunt Georgie on a very hard sofa, Henri gazed around the room. Seeds placed in patterns, landscapes, and portraits were framed and hung upon the walls. Larger pods were displayed in curio cabinets that stood on either side of the fireplace. A small selection of books all about seeds sat on the end table.
Clearly Mrs. Black was a learned woman, and although he disliked her, he was curious. “I would be very interested to learn how you began collecting seeds. Some of these are enormous. You must have traveled to some very exotic places.”
“My dear departed husband, Dr. Black, was a great scientist—a zoologist. His specialty was bats, and the two of us traveled the world as he pursued his research. I began my collection during those trips. I accompanied him on all his expeditions.”
“That must have been nice for him,” said Henri.
Mrs. Black gave him a cutting look. “I should think so, but my job was not just to see to his comfort. I was his collaborator!” She stood up and walked over to the pile of books that Henri had noticed earlier. She pulled out a slim volume and passed it to Henri. In gilt upon the black cloth cover was the title, A Monograph of the Bats of South America, and in smaller type, “by Dr. Alistair Black, illustrated by Mrs. Agatha Black.”
Henri gently opened the book to the title page, which showed bats swooping out of the jungle into the sky, a full moon illuminating their silhouettes. Leafing through the pages, Henri saw delicate, expert illustrations showing comparisons between various bats’ ears, their heads, their teeth, and their wingspans, down to their clawed feet. There were other pictures in which a bat’s belly had been sliced open to show the internal organs.
“Agatha, you are a marvel. The detail! Really, you are quite an exceptional artist,” gushed Great Aunt Georgie with what Henri recognized was a kind of nervous intensity. How very strange. What was bothering her? The corners of Mrs. Black’s mouth turned up as she attempted what Henri supposed was a smile. He doubted that she had much practice in smiling, as it looked more like she was showing her teeth to the dentist than sincerely showing her gratitude.
“Thank you, Georgiana. You are too kind.”
“Did you draw these all from life?” Henri glanced down at the page, and upon seeing a bat sliced open from its neck to abdomen, rephrased his question. “I mean, from actual specimens?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Black replied curtly. “I am a keen observer. I notice the details.“
So fixed was her gaze upon Henri that he felt anxious. He wondered just what she was noticing about him at this very moment. Uncomfortable, Henri quickly glanced back down at the book and immediately regretted it, for upon closer examination his eyes beheld the sliced-open bat, its eyes wild with pain and fright, its heart exposed. Quickly, he shut the book and gave an involuntary shiver.
“I watch patiently and then I learn,” said Mrs. Black with a dry chuckle.
“Just as all good scientists do. Patience is a virtue. Curiosity is another admirable quality in an inquiring mind,” remarked Great Aunt Georgie in an anxious twitter. “Agatha, I must excuse myself and visit the powder room,” she said, putting down her teacup.
Mrs. Black watched Great Aunt Georgie leave the room and turned her gaze back upon Henri. “What do you think, On-ree? Is curiosity a desirable characteristic?”
Suddenly the room seemed very hot. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck. He was sure this was a trick question. Reluctantly, he said, “I suppose that it is.”
“Just don’t forget, curiosity killed the cat!” She gave a raspy cackle. “You know your great aunt has been such a help to me with my collection. I trust she will continue to assist me. Thanks to her, I have expanded my collection of seeds to include scientifically related areas. Perhaps you will help me too?”
Help Mrs. Black with her collection? What a very odd request. “I wish I could help you,” Henri said politely. “But I don’t know anything about seeds.”
“Well, perhaps you know about related fields?” Mrs. Black suggested slyly. “Such as insects?”
Henri felt tense as he thought of his conversation with Dom the fly. Avoiding the question, Henri said, “I didn’t know that seeds and insects were related.”
“Surely at school you studied that insects pollinate flowers, which in turn produce seeds?” asked Mrs. Black in an almost accusatory tone.
“Yes I did. I…I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
Rising, Mrs. Black said, “Come with me, On-ree. I have something I want to show you.”
She led him to an adjoining room. It must have once been a conservatory for indoor plants, but the glass panes had all been painted black. There was no natural light. Henri could hear something that sounded a bit like the fluttering of birds’ wings. Mrs. Black lit a candle.
Henri saw a shelf holding two glass tanks, like the kind people kept tropical fish in; but these contained no water. Mrs. Black ushered him closer as she held up the candle to the first tank. Staring out with unblinking eyes was a very large red, black, and white striped snake. Henri felt his heart speed up, and he took several quick breaths. The snake in turn seemed to stick out its forked tongue in time to the rise and fall of Henri’s chest.
“It’s a king snake,” announced Mrs. Black.
Moving to the other case, she held up the light and said, “And this is a monitor lizard.” Henri faced a gigantic lizard that was clearly too big for its tank. He had no desire to move nearer.
“And up here”—Mrs. Black raised her arm to a wire cage mounted on the wall—“are my beauties!” She said this with genuine enthusiasm. The fluttering sound stopped as the light hit the cage, and Henri could see at least six bats dangling from the top by their feet. “It’s feeding time. I thought you would like to help me,” Mrs. Black said. She grinned—or perhaps it was a sneer, Henri couldn’t tell.
“Um…thank you for the opportunity. What do they eat?” he inquired.
“Their diet varies. Rodents, frogs, insects. Today they will be dining on crickets.” Mrs. Black picked up a small wire box and pulled out a wriggling, very unwilling cricket. She moved to the lizard’s tank. She was about to drop the cricket in when Henri heard a noise. It sounded like high-
pitched wailing.
“Do you hear something?” asked Henri.
“No,” said Mrs. Black as she dropped the cricket in. A second later, the sound was gone. Henri looked at the lizard in time to see it suck the cricket’s last leg into its mouth, like a person slurping a length of spaghetti (not Henri, of course, since that was considered poor dinner table etiquette).
“Ready to give it a try?”
Henri moved forward and Mrs. Black dropped a struggling cricket into his hand. He quickly cupped his other hand over it so it could not escape.
The creature thrashed about in desperation, seeming well aware of its fate. Again Henri heard the high-pitched wail. “I hear it again! Someone’s crying,” said Henri. “Maybe it’s Great Aunt Georgie. Perhaps she’s fallen!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, On-ree. I hear nothing. Now, go ahead and drop that cricket in.” Henri turned toward the tank, but the wailing was becoming even louder. The fluttering of the cricket in his hands sent tremors up his arms, and he realized that he could feel the insect’s fear. “Do it!” commanded Mrs. Black.
Henri looked at Mrs. Black, blinked, and then felt himself falling. Suddenly everything went black.
The Escape
Henri opened his eyes. He was lying in his bed at Woodland Farm. Something wet and cold was on his forehead. He reached up and touched it. “Ouch!” It must have been a compress and underneath it was a very large bump. His head hurt! Just then Henri felt a tickle on his hand.
“Good. You’re awake at last.” Henri looked down to see a fly sitting on his hand.
“Dom?”
“The one and only! At your service.”
Though it hurt, Henri couldn’t help but smile because, after all, how could a fly be the one and only? And how could Dom possibly be of any help? Actually, he might be able to answer some questions. “What happened? Why am I here?”
“As I understand it, you fainted and cracked your head hard on the floor during your visit to Mrs. Black’s house this morning.”
In Search of Goliathus Hercules Page 2