The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (5 page)

“What sort of a mother would forsake such a child?” Sister Clara said, echoing Sister Toynette’s own thoughts.

“Not a very good one at all, be sure.”

“A pathetic one, if you ask me.”

The ball went into the brush for the third time and unfailingly Robin pursued it. And then a sharp scream tore out of the thicket. Sister Toynette’s heart gave a leap of alarm and she was on her feet in an instant. The boys and girls had flocked around the bush, but no one dared to go in.

“Back! Back!” Sister Toynette shouted, brushing them aside. Her heart was racing as she blindly cut through the bush. In a small clearing within was Robin. She was kneeling on the ground, clutching her right wrist and weeping softly, and Sister Toynette saw drops of blood.
Oh, the girl has cut herself a bit,
Sister Toynette thought, exhaling relief.

“You’re alright, girl, you’re alright. It’s just a little scratch...don’t cry now, you’re such a brave girl,” she said, going down on her haunches beside Robin and inspecting the wound.

Then her eyes fell on something. Slithering away into the thicket on the other side was a snake. Its head was triangular, its body thick like a grown man’s forearm, and it was about five feet long. Sister Toynette shuddered, for she had immediately recognized the creature. It was a Rattler, one of the deadliest snakes in the world. Only last week, a local herpetological group had given a lecture-demonstration at the Home and the information was still vivid in Sister Toynette’s head. Her chest cramped with fear. Although not many types of snakes are found on the islands of the north Pacific, New Halcyon was an exception. Being home to the Western Wall, one of the world’s most wholesome natural habitat, it has a fair variety of these reptiles, many of them venomous.

She stared at the two clear fang marks on Robin’s wrist, blood trickling out of them. The forearm had begun to swell and the adjoining flesh had started to go a dirty red. Without anymore thought, Sister Toynette hauled the girl into her arms and was dashing out of the bush and toward one of the buildings that had the in-house infirmary. She began to utter a silent prayer, even as her pace automatically increased, oblivious to the great agitation of the kids following her, aware only of the great thudding of her heart. She glanced down at Robin and saw that the girl had stopped crying; her eyes were shut tight and her face was contorted in a deep frown.
We have to save her...oh, Lord Jesus, mercy!
Sister Toynette kept entreating. Nonetheless, she knew that the chances of the girl making it were slight. As they neared the building, Sister Toynette began shrieking for help.

***

Saturday, September 29, 2007...

THIS
was Wolf Butcher’s first public appearance since the great Butcher tragedy and President Grant Butcher was an anxious man. He covertly glanced at the young man sitting beside him in the Toyota sedan. Wolf seemed calm on the outside, but Grant knew what hurricanes still swirled inside of him, and Grant himself hurt as a result. It had been over a year and a half since the deaths, yet Wolf’s wounds simply refused to heal.

On his part, Grant missed Sage the most. The young man had been more than a son to him. At first, Sage had joined his father, Eric, in business, but in time had realized that commerce wasn’t his brew after all, and he had quit, to sign-up with Grant. That had been four years before the tragedy, and ever since, Sage had been Grant’s right-hand man, taking care of his office, helping him win the Presidential elections. Grant now glanced at his son, Art, sitting passively in the front seat next to the chauffeur. Oddly, Art had taken strongly after Eric. What Grant and Sage had shared, Eric and Art shared—the same vision in life, the same likes and dislikes, the same principles... Both Eric and Art were hardcore businessmen, and although they swore by honesty, there was always an escape clause, called ‘Being Practical’, that excused almost any practice. This was something not acceptable to Grant, but he never interfered. It wasn’t his place to...not unless any law was clearly violated.

The catastrophe had been an unspeakable disaster for the remainder of the Butcher family. For Grant, it had been a nightmare coping with his own grief, while taking care of his brother’s son. Wolf had gone into complete shock, then had turned suicidal, then had become a vegetable, and Grant had been truly scared. He had taken the lad under his care, been his constant companion, and somehow kept him breathing. Just barely.

Look at him,
Grant thought now, feeling a pang in his bosom. Wolf’s beautiful male body had shriveled—once one-hundred-eighty pounds of robust energy, he had lost thirty pounds in the last nineteen months. The eyes, once lively green, had gone dull and withdrawn. The hair, once luxuriant blond, had gone a lifeless yellow. The face, once a healthy tan, had shrunk to a pale white. Lines of ageing had appeared on the cheeks and under the eyes and mouth—a face that had begun to sag prematurely. The voice, once so pulsating that it had stopped young girls’ hearts across the globe, was now a hollow echo. The carriage, once so full of spring, like some fine leopard’s, had wilted and now he almost hunched. The attitude, once so keen, had now given up on life. Here was a brilliant boy who had aged thirty years in a year and a half.
Oh, this is not the Wolf that I know.

Now, as the remains of the family—and it included Grant’s wife Estelle and Art’s wife Rochelle, who were seated in the middle row of the sedan—proceeded to the silver jubilee function of the St. Teresa Children’s Home, Grant Butcher glanced at Wolf again and a lump came to his throat.

As usual, Wolf had not wanted to go. But this time around, Grant had been firm. He had been almost angry with the boy for the first time ever.

“You cannot go on like this, son. I am there to support you, but finally you must want to be helped,” he’d said, then added, “It is vital you attend this function. We are the chief patrons of the Home, indeed the only patron, and your mother was involved here full-time. It is a major family occasion.”

So finally, Wolf had tugged along...most listlessly.

Grant understood Wolf’s unrelenting inert grief was principally due to the loss of his beloved daughter. It had profoundly affected him…beyond imagination. Philippa’s death had been out of the blue and had swallowed Wolf up in a bottomless fog of grief—a void, an emptiness, that had inundated his heart, his lungs, that had strangled his ability to think, to even breathe. An infinite ocean of sadness had swamped his every cell, every fiber…his whole being.

Philippa wasn’t just his daughter—she was his life…his All, and just when he was on the cusp of getting it on paper, she was cruelly snatched from him.
They talk of ‘Matches Made In Heaven’. But why is it always in the romantic context? Why not a bond that is even higher…purer? Could there have been a match more wholesome, more uplifting, more worthy of Heaven than this father-daughter?
Grant thought. Grant was sure that had things been the reverse, had Wolf died instead, it would have been similarly disastrous for Philippa.

Now, they neared the Home and Grant was startled to see a huge crowd at the entrance. So the word had somehow gone out that the big Hollywood moviestar would be visiting. He noticed Wolf cower instantly.

The crowd surged as the sedan approached the main gate and then there was a stampede. Policemen swung into action, but they were badly outnumbered and the Toyota was forced to a complete halt. Grant saw Wolf duck. Luckily, the car’s glasses were plastered with dark sun-film. Grant placed a soft hand on Wolf’s lowered head.

It was ten minutes before some semblance of order was restored and by then the sedan had lost one headlamp and the bodywork had been broadly redone. Grant let out a soft whimper.
Perhaps I should have permitted the Presidential security to tag along this one time.

Police reinforcements had arrived by now and they pushed the crowd back, allowing the sedan to move into the Home premises. Then they quickly secured the gate.

The anxious reception party was waiting at the main building—the Sisters and other dignitaries, and Grant gently took hold of Wolf’s arm. And then a huge cheer volcanoed in the background—at last they had spotted the mega-moviestar. Grant noticed a fresh surge forward as the crowd went almost ballistic. Two contrasting emotions swept through him. One of great pride, that his boy was still so popular, so loved, and yet fear, that the crowd would manage to break through. His hold around Wolf’s arm tightened instinctively, and his body covering Wolf, he led him into the safety of the building.

.

T
hey were seated on the big dais, the Butchers. To Wolf’s right sat Grant and Estelle, to his left, Art and his wife. Besides the Butchers, there were three other people on the stage: Judge Ian Cass, the Chief Justice of the nation’s Supreme Court, and the chief of the National Adoption Board—a diminutive man in his early sixties; Cardinal Valerian Misquitta, in his late sixties; and Sister Blessing, head of the St. Teresa Children’s Home, a spinster in her late fifties. Together with Grant and Art, these three were the trustees of the Home.

There were about five hundred people packed in the large hall, mostly children, and Wolf noticed all eyes were squarely on him. Although he was used to the public gaze, had even relished it at times, it felt very strange today. Today, he wanted to run, to hide, and would have done so had it not been for Grant. His proximity made all this somewhat bearable.

The formalities ended and Grant was called upon to speak. Wolf watched him get to his feet, and he felt as if his protective cloak was suddenly being snatched from him and he felt more naked than ever before. Somehow, Grant seemed to sense it and he leaned low and placed a comforting hand over Wolf’s.

Wolf bowed his head and began studying the floor between his feet as Grant began to speak, not daring to look at the people before him any longer. But it didn’t help and his uneasiness only grew. And then it threatened to get out of control. Finally, Wolf looked up and he looked at Grant. And he kept looking at him and felt reassured again. He saw Grant glance at him from time to time, and Wolf’s eyes suddenly misted over. What would he have done without this beautiful man, without the overwhelming support and comfort he had received from him in the last nineteen months? There had been many times (oh, countless!) when he was on the verge of losing it. But for this man, he would have. Somehow, Grant had held him together. Wolf felt a sudden surge of affection for him and he badly wanted to run up to him and hug him and keep hugging him. Instead, he remained glued to his seat and watched him weakly.

As he watched Grant, another reflection came to Wolf and he shook his head in wonderment.
What a marvel of a human being this man is otherwise too,
he thought.
Here is the President of the nation, the most powerful man, with all the privileges of the world at his feet. And yet, he refuses them all.
Grant wouldn’t stay in the palatial Presidential residence at the tax-payer’s cost, preferring to reside at the family home. He wouldn’t have the all-encompassing, round-the-clock security that was a given for a man in his position. “Perhaps I am being naive, but I really do not think I have enemies,” he’d say. And he didn’t. His policies were so people friendly, so all-embracing, so very transparent, he somehow managed to melt the most hardened and hostile heart. Indeed, he completely dispensed with any official security when on a private visit like this. “It would just not be right,” he’d say simply. The same went with the other stuff. He disdained using the presidential vehicles to move around, choosing instead one of the family cars. No roads were ever shut down when the President had to pass—no citizen was ever inconvenienced on his account.
How can the people of this country not love such a man?
Wolf thought.
And how can I not feel totally blessed to have this man in my life?

Wolf had decided, though he had told no one of this yet, that he would follow in his brother’s wake; he would join Grant, be his right hand man, like Sage had been. That way, he could be close to him at all times. He was calling it quits at Hollywood. It was time he did something real in life, something productive and meaningful, and who better than this man to show the light.

And then the speech was over and Dad had spoken for barely five minutes and Wolf instinctively knew that he had kept it short so he could return to Wolf. As Grant lowered himself in his chair, he smiled at Wolf, then quietly patted his hand and gave it a little squeeze, and Wolf smiled back and exhaled.

It was Art Butcher’s turn now to speak—now the world’s richest man, inheriting the Forbes title from Eric Butcher, having inherited the latter’s wealth. For a while, Wolf watched him, thinking how strong the man was. Art had been deeply attached to Wolf’s father, and, like the rest, he had been crushed. But how swiftly he had recovered and moved on. In a way, Wolf envied him.
There’s something about these business people.
Observing Art make his speech and donate a million dollars to the orphanage—to thunderous applause—Wolf couldn’t help wonder how dissimilar Art physically was from the rest of the Butchers. He was barely five feet eight, had raven eyes and hair, and generally features that resembled no other Butcher. A thought struck Wolf...but then he was immediately ashamed.
I shouldn’t be freaking thinking this way!
Wolf watched Art’s comportment as he spoke—the cultivated professional manner. He was the reserved type—always had been; the mature type. And so correct in everything he did—whether it was the way he spoke, the way he dressed, even the way he walked and smiled. Everything was measured and in place. Wolf thought he would die of asphyxiation if he had to live in the man’s boots for even a minute.