The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (33 page)

“Yes, sir, that’s fine,” he said in a respectful tone.

“Then wait for my call anytime after five pm.”

“Thank you, sir.”

.

F
rom there Wolf went to Savannah. She was worse than the last time he had seen her and now Wolf was certain she had gone into deep depression. She seemed hardly to note his presence. Her eyes were faraway and her demeanor listless. He tried to cheer her up, but it was pointless. Once or twice she tried to smile and play along, but it was so forced, Wolf moaned and gave up. Her proximity made
him
despondent for the first time ever. No one ate anything—there was no lunch that day. Wolf left her at four pm and she could care less.

.

T
he call came exactly at five pm.

Wolf’s breath went on hold.

Yes, it was Judge Cass.

Wolf shut his eyes and muttered a quiet prayer. He pressed the handset solidly to his eardrum.

“I’m sorry, son, I ain’t be able to do it. There are certain frontiers you just don’t breach. This is one of them. Bring me a murderer, I may find it in my heart to pardon her. But ain’t this.”

The words were like the serrated edges of a knife carving into Wolf’s throat.

And then Cass added, in a voice that was soft but firm. “There is one more thing, son—you have to finally decide between Robin and this woman. If you want Robin, you must stop seeing this woman and forget her permanently. Or else, I’m sorry you must forget Robin for good.” There was a short pause. “I give you until tomorrow noon to decide.”

It was later that night that Wolf decided to end his life. He saw no means of escape from this now. He felt fatally trapped.

.

Now
…on this Sunday early morning, Wolf had downed his final can of beer. He was badly disoriented and lay on his side, his head in the sand. There was a big globe of pain in his stomach. His throat was on fire—it was hot and sticky and involuntary low moans emanated from it. Saliva dribbled down the side of his mouth onto the cool sand. His limbs twitched spasmodically and his damp clothes reeked of liquor.

Yet, even in the deep throes, he vaguely remembered he had fifty pills to swallow, before it could be over. Pulling on his last scraps of consciousness, he tried to sit up. But his torso barely moved. He tried again and his stomach heaved and he almost choked on the little liquid that rose up his throat. He curled inward and began waving his hand despairingly in search of the bottle of pills that lay barely a foot from his crotch. But so disjointed was he, he couldn’t figure out directions on any side. He stopped for a while to recover, his breath coming in short, convulsive hoicks. The sound of the ocean and the breeze was a vague echo in his skull.

He made the final effort and somehow managed to get onto his butt, but immediately fell back against the tree and his head snapped to the side and lay limp on his right shoulder. With sheer effort of will, he thrust out his left hand…and he finally found the bottle and grabbed it desperately.

But in that same instant, he felt a sharp, stinging whack, felt the bottle go flying out of his hand.

Hysterical, he dived forward, groping frantically…groping here, there, all around him. But the bottle of pills was gone.

Comprehensively sapped now, he collapsed and lay in a crumpled mess, his face in the earth. Through the thick fog around his brain he vaguely sensed there was someone around him, next to him, hovering. The same beast that had snatched the bottle off him. One animal…maybe several. A carnivore, possibly a scavenger—waiting for him. Hanging around patiently.

And then he hiccupped mightily—his life-force gathered in his bosom, a thin wail discharged from his nose, and with a final despairing draw of breath, his body went limp.

*

She
slipped her forearms under his armpits and tried to haul him to his feet. But he was just too heavy for her. Nonetheless, she managed to flip him onto his back. His eyes were shut tight and sand was glued to his face. Some of it had crept into his ajar mouth and stuck to his tongue, which lay limp to one side of his lips, like some expired dog’s.

Sudden panic seized her and she placed a forefinger to the side of his throat. When she felt nothing, she dug the finger in deeper. Her head dropped and she let the built-up pressure in her lungs escape in a slow stream—she could feel the palpitations. Just about, but he was alive.
Blessed Lord!
She thrust her hand into her trouser pocket and realized she had forgotten her handkerchief in the rush of things. She thought for a moment, cast a glance around, and reassured, she removed her shirt and began to wipe the sand from his face and mouth. In the backdrop, the ocean carried on with its merry way, blissfully oblivious to the strife on its shore. The tide was receding now, as if this great element of Nature wanted absolutely nothing to do with humans and their troubles.

She dusted the sand off her shirt and put it back on. The sound of the ocean in the background made her skin crawl. With an effort, she blocked it from her mind and slipped her arms under his armpits again, then began dragging him across the sand, toward the big dune. But she was quickly out of breath and had to pause.
God have mercy, this is so surreal!
She should’ve been in bed, heartily asleep; instead, she was out here on a forlorn beach in the middle of nowhere, shivering at every sound the ocean made. She began hauling the prostrate male body again.

Before long, she was sweating freely and had to pause for a second time, at the base of the dune.
God have mercy, how am I ever going to lug him up that Everest!
Nor could she drag him around the dune—it was just too humungous to go about it. She knelt down beside him, panting through her teeth.

“Wolf?” she said, taking his face between both her hands. “Hey, Wolf!”

But she was addressing a cadaver. A sudden gust of breeze smacked her with the foul stench of beer-mixed-with-vomit so brutally, she recoiled. She slapped his face.

“Wolf, wake up now! Come on…UP!”

She tried to sit him, supporting his torso against the slant of the dune. It was like fiddling with a corpse. If the vein in his throat hadn’t been beating, she would’ve sworn he wasn’t alive.
God have mercy, how he looks!

She knew she had to revive him—somehow. That was the only way she could get him out of here. There was no way she could drag him up that dune or around it. She thought for an instant, then rushed up the dune to his vehicle. After scouting about a bit, she found a drinking water bottle, half full.

As she doused his face with the fluid, he stirred a little. But not enough to dent the coma. She had to have more water. She turned to face the gray ocean and her heart cramped. Her worst nightmare grinned at her.

She had always had a terrible phobia of oceans and to be here alone (essentially), in the dead of night, was terrifying beyond words. Her hand went to her face.

Yet, she knew she could not shirk if she was to salvage this man from shame or worse. And she was going to salvage him no matter what the cost to her. She closed her eyes and took a step toward the ocean, and immediately she began quivering. But she kept on. One little step. Then another.

She pulled up abruptly where the waves broke on the shore, shuddering violently at the feel of the water on her feet. It was cold and merciless and for an instant she stared at it with stricken eyes, as if she were looking at the devil himself. In truth, she was. But she could watch no more and she shut her eyes again and began muttering a prayer.

I can’t stand here all night
—it would only get worse. Somehow, she locked her mind to the growling sounds around her, and hugging herself tight, her fists clenched, one of them around the bottle, she began dragging her feet through the fearsome water, half-step by shivering half-step. She did not dare lift her foot off the ground, fearing the loss of touch with the earth. Every little wavelet against her skin sent a chill up her legs. When the water was ankle deep, she halted, then crouched gingerly.

But she collected only sand, not much of the water.

With a pitiful moan, she straightened, and began budging again, refusing to look at the ocean, refusing to hear the snarling waves, her prayers getting ardent. Someway, she made it to shin deep water and she could go no further. She felt engulfed in the arms of a pitiless demon of infinite vastness. Shaking almost savagely now, she lowered the bottle into the saline water.

Ten seconds later, she turned around and made a riotous dart toward the shore. In her rush, she tripped and gave an involuntary shriek of fright, as if someone had suddenly grabbed her. But she was immediately back on her feet and sprinting wildly.

It was only when she neared the dune that she breathed again.

Then she pulled up abruptly.

Wolf was on his side, supported on his right elbow. And he was throwing up in great gushes.

She watched him, transfixed.

Again and again he barfed, until he was almost swimming in his own puke.

Snapping out of her momentary immobility, Rochelle now rushed over to him.

.

S
he had finally managed to get him in the back seat of his Gypsy. She laid him down and sat beside him.

“Where are you taking me?” he said, his words quivering in the night.

“Home,” she said, nodding encouragingly. “It’s going to be all right. Everything shall work out fine.”

He shook his head with amazing vehemence. “NO…I don’t want to go there!”

“Alright, where do you want to go then?”

“I don’t know,” he said plaintively, his eyes forlorn. Rochelle bit her lip. Somehow she smiled down at him. His lips trembled as he struggled to speak and she lowered her face close to his. The putrid stench of puke commingled with beer hit her nostrils, but she braced herself against it.

“Would you like me to take you to Savannah?”

He looked away. “No.”

Rochelle placed her hand on his cheek. “Fine.” She took a long breath. “Then I’ll take you someplace else,” she said softly. She began to get up. He grabbed her.

“Where?” he asked with fresh unrest.

“Do you trust me, Wolf?”

He nodded.

“Then trust me.”

“Not to Butcher Garden?”

“No, not to Butcher Garden. Someplace else…someplace very safe, and very quiet.”

.

It
was a ground floor maisonette, of an apartment building called Dias Apartments, on Dias Street, in an area called Dias Park—a lower to lower-middle district in the northwest of New Halcyon.

The maisonette was tiny—one bedroom, a kitchen, and a fifteen feet by thirteen living room, which also served as the dining. That it hadn’t been used in a long time was plain from the thick layer of dust that covered everything from floor to roof. Whatever articles of furniture there were—and there were few—were piled up against walls and covered in sheets of translucent blue plastic. Cobwebs saturated the place like in some horror flick.

Rochelle went in first. She shook her head in disgust.
So what if it isn’t used anymore—why can’t Ma and Pa have some maintenance at least?
Once a month would do fine.
She wrinkled her nose to the mild stench and if it hadn’t been for this emergency, she would’ve left right away. The main door opened into the living room and further north led to the bedroom. She pulled the plastic covering the double bed and folded it, carefully collecting the carpet of dust in its belly. She inspected the bed—with its pillows and blankets—for an instant and nodded. Well, at least the grime hadn’t crept through.

From the beach, driving Wolf’s Gypsy, with Wolf prone in the back seat, she had taken a detour, waking up her parents at their home, and asked them for the keys to their old house.

“Ma, Pa, no questions please!” she had said sternly. “Just hand me the keys and go back to bed. I’ll explain later.”

Now, it was nearing six am and the horizon had quietly announced the imminent arrival of His Majesty the Sun anytime now. The birds had left their roost and they waited on other branches, patiently awaiting His Royal Highness. In the meantime, they preened. Later, they would proceed in search of food, but only after paying respects to His Majesty, not before.

Yet, it was reasonably dark to smuggle Wolf in without the neighbors noticing.

He leant on her heavily and they climbed the four steps and soon he was in bed.

“I’m sorry about this, Wolf. But the place hasn’t been used in centuries.”

The little effort had sapped him and he lay on his back struggling for breath. It was only five minutes later that he could speak.

“Whose place is this?” he asked.

“Ours…my parent’s,” she answered, now delicately removing the plastic from other pieces of furniture—two chairs, a table and a short, stout steel cupboard.

“But you people have a house on Baker’s Street.”

“Yes, now,” she said. Suddenly nostalgia began clouding her eyes. “This is where I grew up. My parents really struggled in the initial years.” She waved her arm around. “This is the memory of that struggle. So while my father made it reasonably good later, I didn’t have a privileged start in life.” She noticed Wolf flush. “I’m sorry, Wolf, I didn’t mean it that way.”