The island appeared in the distance, a smear of tan and green between the dark blue sea and the pale blue sky. It looked to be only a dozen miles in length, lying very low on the horizon as if hoping to escape notice.
Peter Flutterman in a white cotton suit and a straw hat stood on the foredeck, one hand gripping the deck railing as the boat crept up on the island. At his feet were a large suitcase, two portfolio-sized briefcases and a tubular case that looked as though it might contain a fishing rod.
* * *
As the boat approached the landing, a man came down to the end of the dock. He was wearing faded blue pants and a white shirt whose tails hung loose from his belt. A pith helmet sat low on his forehead. He looked to be in his mid-forties, the same age as Peter, although it was hard to judge with a full beard covering so much of his face. In any event, he looked well-preserved, unlike the typical islanders weathered by sun and wind.
The boat bumped up against the dock. A deckhand slung a rope that slithered snake-like across the dock. The bearded man picked it up and wrapped it around a capstan. As soon as the boat was secured, the deckhands formed a line and began transferring a series of boxes, barrels and bales from the hold to the dock. From the cabin, the captain waved silently to the bearded man, lighted his pipe and shook out a newspaper to read.
Peter picked up his tubular case and stepped over the gunwale. The bearded man reached out a hand to steady him as he stepped onto the dock. One of the deckhands added his suitcase and briefcases to the chain of dock-bound items.
The bearded man embraced Peter. “It’s been a long time, brother.”
“Walter? Is it really you, with a beard like a pirate?” Peter shook his head in wonder.
“And what about you, with cheeks like a baby’s bottom?” Walter touched the back of his hand to Peter’s face.
Peter tried to conceal his embarrassment. He wasn’t used to being hugged and touched, even by his long-lost twin brother. “Where’s your staff? We need help with this luggage.”
“We’ll manage all right by ourselves.” Walter picked up Peter’s two briefcases, leaving his heavy suitcase where it lay.
“I’ll need that,” Peter said.
“My staff will fetch it when they bring up the load of provisions. Let’s go up to the house and get you settled in.”
* * *
They walked up a footpath towards a large house framed by palm trees. Beyond the house was a quadrangle formed by long sheds. As they approached the house, a butterfly gyrated across their path. Peter dropped his case and chased it with his hat but it rose into the air and fluttered into the trees. Peter donned his hat in dismay, feeling foolish he’d been so overcome by excitement that he hadn’t extracted his butterfly net from its case.
“You needn’t have bothered,” Walter said. “You’ll see dozens more when we go into the jungle. You’ll catch them two at a time.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Of course you do. It’s the only reason you came.”
“I’d have come anyway. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.”
“I’ve been writing you for years. First time I mention butterflies, you decide to come.”
“Oh, let’s not start arguing. I’ve barely arrived and we’re at each other’s throats again.”
“Right. There’ll be time for that later. You’re staying the week, aren’t you?”
“Hardly any choice, is there? Given the frequency of your supply boat.”
* * *
After dinner, the night came upon them suddenly, like a heavy curtain at the end of a scene. They sat in rattan chairs on either side of a big sturdy table. Dirty dishes were pushed to one side. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table, a drink within each man’s reach. Through the open window, a three-quarter moon was visible. Walter smoked a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Still got that filthy habit, I see,” Peter said.
“I’ve got a lot of filthy habits.”
“Whatever your faults, you’re a decent cook. I can’t believe you made this whole meal yourself.”
“I enjoy cooking.”
“I can’t imagine doing it all the time, though. Especially not in this heat.”
“Usually I have a woman do it.”
“A woman?”
“Lovely brown-skinned thing, about 20 years old. Taiana.”
“So where is she?”
“Vanished.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Ran off. They do that, you know. They get tired of working and they just disappear.”
“But you’re on an island. She can’t just disappear. She must be out there in the jungle somewhere.”
“She’ll be back after a week or so.”
“This happens often?”
“Once a month, with great regularity.”
Peter helped himself to more whiskey. He took a sip and cleared his throat. “I don’t know whether this is the right time or not, but I think it needs saying. I hope there’re no hard feelings between us.”
“How do you mean?”
“After the will and everything. I mean, it wasn’t my idea that Father left everything to me. You were the one who decided you couldn’t stick around to work the business.”
“Thick-headed old bugger, he would never take my advice anyway. It was like working for a dictator.” Walter stubbed his cigarette in a saucer.
“I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t hold you any grudges. I went my own way, and you stayed at home. How he disposed of the estate was his business.”
“I was afraid you’d still be bitter. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried about coming here alone.”
“I’ve found peace in what I do.”
“Hard to imagine, living out here in the middle of nowhere, in charge of forty hardened criminals.”
“It has its rewards.”
“Really? What are they?”
“You’ll see – later in the week.”
“I never really liked surprises.”
Walter nodded. “I know.”
An old clock atop a cabinet in the living room began striking twelve. Peter noticed the tones had no sustain to them, as if they were muffled slightly.
Peter yawned. “I ought to pack it in. It’s been a very long day.”
“I’ll see you to your room.”
* * *
They entered a small bedroom containing a single bed, a clothes dresser and a small bedside table. Walter carried a lantern, which threw barred shadows on the walls. A canopy of mosquito netting lay draped over the bed. Walter set the lantern down on the bedside table and opened the window.
“I keep the windows open for the fresh air. The drawback is the mosquitoes, but the net will protect you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Peter said.
Walter opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a revolver. He spun the cylinder and set the gun atop the table.
“What’s that for?” Peter said.
“Snakes. Prisoners. Taiana.”
“Snakes?”
“Boa constrictors. Sometimes they come into the house, looking for mice.”
Peter scanned the corners of the room. “Prisoners?”
“This is a penal colony,” Walter reminded him.
“And Taiana?”
“This is her room.”
“Really?”
Walter went to the door. “Good night. Pleasant dreams.”
* * *
They sat at the breakfast table. Walter was finishing off a fairly large fish. Another fish, complete with head, lay untouched on Peter’s plate. He toyed with a piece of toast.
“No appetite?” Walter gave him a glance. “Did you sleep all right?”
“Not really. I had a nightmare.”
“Probably shouldn’t have eaten so much of that goat cheese last night.”
“A woman came into my room last night, wearing only a grass skirt.”
“Couldn’t have been Taiana. She never wears anything after midnight.”
“She sat on the edge of my bed and put her fingers on my lips,” Peter said. “She told me I was in great danger.”
“You would be, if you ever let Taiana into bed with you.”
“She told me you had gone insane.”
Walter snorted. “She’s a fine one to judge. Once every month she runs off into the bush and lives in a tree.”
“She said that, every full moon, you go insane and kill somebody.”
Walter clucked his tongue. “Quite a dream.”
“It seemed so real.”
Walter shook his head with amusement. “Look outside. That is reality. The jungle waits for us. Beautiful butterflies. What do you want to do, get out there and add them to your collection, or sit here and relive some cheesy nightmare?”
* * *
Peter, carrying a basket and a butterfly net, walked with Walter, who had a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. They passed through the prison compound, a square courtyard bounded on three sides by long low sheds, and on the fourth side by a wall. The doors of the sheds were closed, the windows shuttered.
“Where are all your prisoners?” Peter asked.
“They’ll be gone all week. My guards took them to the other end of the island, harvesting pineapples. I didn’t think you’d want to have them around while you’re here.”
“Still, I was curious.”
“If you really wanted, we could hike to the other end of the island to see them. But it’s fifteen miles – a full day’s journey. We’d have to camp overnight and come back the next day.”
“Sounds like an adventure.”
“Wait and see how you fare today. This might be as much adventure as you can handle.”
* * *
Peter followed Walter along a jungle trail. The trail was barely visible. Now and again Walter swung his machete to clear away vines and undergrowth.
“Aren’t we close yet?” Peter said. “We’ve been walking for two hours.”
“You want prize specimens, you’ve got to get off the beaten path.”
“Frankly, I can’t see a path at all.”
They emerged into a large clearing on a hillside. At the upper end of the clearing was a 20-foot cliff separating them from higher ground above. In the middle of the clearing was a huge stone head similar in size to those on Easter Island.
Peter stared in amazement. “What is that?”
“Piece of local art.”
“It looks like me, without my glasses.”
“It’s me – before I grew my beard.”
“The natives regard you as a god?”
“It was done by one of my prisoners.”
“Why’d he make you look so sinister?”
“Artistic license, I suppose. But then, the prisoner never loves his jailer.”
Walter walked to the base of the cliff, where the sun cast a deep shadow, and slung his rucksack from shoulder to ground. He stuck his machete in the ground and removed his pith helmet to wipe his face on his sleeve. Peter, still staring at the stone head, followed him into the shade.
“So this is it,” Walter said.
“What?”
“Your hunting ground. Take a look around.”
Peter set his basket down and began to walk along the perimeter, where many flowers grew. Suddenly the air was filled with a cloud of butterflies. Peter pursued them with his net, capturing several in a few swipes. He came back to where Walter was now seated on the ground, his back against the face of the cliff.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Walter said. “Two at a time.”
“This is amazing.”
Peter opened his basket and took out half a dozen small jars. One was filled with cotton, another with fluid, the rest empty. He opened the jars, took a cotton ball and dipped it into the fluid, then put the ball in an empty jar. Carefully he plucked a butterfly from the net, examined it and then put it into the jar with the cotton ball.
“Ether?” Walter guessed.
“Chloroform.”
Peter plucked another butterfly from the net, examined it and tossed it away. It fluttered away across the clearing. He plucked out another one and put it in a jar.
* * *
Walter sat at the base of the cliff, reading a book. A bottle protruded from the top of his open rucksack. Peter trudged in from the sun and collapsed on the ground beside him.
“Anything interesting?”
Peter caught his breath. “Three new families.”
With obvious weariness, he prepared the last three jars. He poked around in the net, mauling the undesirables, and withdrew one by one the best three specimens of the catch. He placed each in its jar and put all his jars into his basket.
“What a day!” he rejoiced.
Walter offered Peter his bottle. “Celebrate. Have a drink. You’ve earned it.”
Peter hesitated, then took the bottle and drank.
* * *
Walter stood in the middle of the clearing, facing the stone head. Their expressions were equally grim. Walter dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his foot. He walked to the base of the cliff, where Peter lay curled, sleeping on the ground. Walter picked up the machete. He looked down at Peter, at the carotid artery pulsing in his exposed neck. Walter ran his finger along the edge of the machete. Peter snorted in his sleep, his legs twitching. Walter moved in closer until he was standing directly over Peter.
“Peter,” he called.
Peter woke up and raised his head. He saw Walter looming over him with the machete. His face convulsed in alarm. “No!”
“Yes,” Walter said. “It’s time to go. It’ll be dark by the time we get back.”
Peter lay frozen a moment, then scrambled to his feet. He gathered up his hat, his basket and his net. “How long was I asleep?”
“An hour or so.”
“What were you doing?”
“Getting hungry. Are you ready to go?”
* * *
Peter sat alone at the dining table. He removed the last specimen from its jar and with a long pin mounted the butterfly with the others on a panel of his portfolio case. He sat back and admired them.
Walter came in from the kitchen, carrying a platter of meat, a bowl of vegetables and a few plates balanced on his arms like a waiter.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Peter said.
Walter nudged the portfolio cases aside and set down their food. “Yes, but more so when they were alive.”
* * *
Six nights later, they sat in rattan chairs on the verandah. A pair of glasses and a bottle of whiskey occupied the small table between them. Walter smoked a cigarette. A full moon hung well above the horizon. The water was dead calm.
“I can’t believe the week’s gone already. “Peter shook his head. “Tomorrow the boat comes to take me back.”
“Pity, isn’t it? We barely got to know each other.”
“I know. We’re still awkward – like strangers.”
“And there are still so many things I don’t know about you.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know anything about your personal life.”
“I have none. I told you I never married.”
“But with no heirs, then what would happen if…?”
“Everything goes to the Royal Society.”
“Really?”
“Science is my only passion. I want to help support their research. I suppose you might think that’s unfair.”
“Not at all,” Walter shrugged. “As I said the night you arrived, I’ve made peace with my life. I don’t need your money.”
Peter squirmed a little in his seat and cast a suspicious look at Walter. He reached for the whiskey bottle and refilled his glass. Walter lighted another cigarette.
“And the business,” Walter asked, “does it take up much of your time?”
“Not really. Two foremen handle everything in the factory. An accountant takes care of the books, the bank transactions…”
“A business that runs itself,” Walter mused.
“That’s right. I have almost complete freedom to devote to my studies and researches.”
“Admirable.”
The clock in the living room began striking twelve.
“Good heavens, midnight already. No wonder I feel half dead. It’s time I retired. What about you?”
“I don’t usually go to bed until after one,” Walter said.
Peter stood. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Pleasant dreams.”
* * *
Peter lay snoring in bed. The door opened softly and Walter entered with a jar in one hand and a small towel in the other. He sat gingerly on the edge of Peter’s bed and parted the mosquito netting. He opened the jar and poured some liquid onto the towel. Averting his face, he gently placed the cloth against Peter’s nose and mouth. Peter snorted and raised a hand. Abruptly his hand fell back down to the bed and he heaved a deep sigh. Walter remained motionless at his side, the towel still on Peter’s face.
When Peter awoke, he discovered himself bound by wrists and ankles to a wooden frame propped against the wall of a shed. His surroundings were dimly lit by a lantern hung from a beam. Peter looked around and saw the vague outlines of several large whitish objects propped against the opposite wall. He sniffed the air and made a disgusted face. He struggled against his bonds but couldn’t budge.
Succumbing to panic, he screamed, “Walter! Help!”
Another lantern approached from the far end of the shed. It was Walter, with one hand behind his back. He hung the lantern on another beam. Peter looked beyond Walter and now, in the improved light, saw the lime-caked hulks of several dead men on wooden frames propped against the wall opposite, each with a wooden stake in his chest.
Peter fought to find a voice in his dry mouth. “Walter. Those men…”
“My prisoners, my specimens… As are you.”
Walter brought his hand from behind his back, revealing a heavy mallet and a wooden stake. He took the stake in his free hand and placed its sharpened tip against Peter’s chest. He raised the mallet over his head.
Peter screamed to no avail. “Please, no…”
* * *
Walter shaved off his beard and rinsed the soap from his face. He toweled himself dry and ran his hands over his smooth cheeks. He picked Peter’s glasses off the sideboard and put them on. He regarded himself in the mirror. Lovely. He looked just like Peter.
* * *
Walter stood on the dock, wearing Peter’s white cotton suit and straw hat. The supply boat bumped up alongside the dock. The deckhands unloaded a couple of crates and carried Peter’s suitcase, portfolio cases and net case aboard. Walter stepped onto the boat.
“Good morning, sir,” the captain greeted him.
“And to you, Captain.”
Have a good vacation?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Your brother’s not here to see you off?”
“He’s busy at the moment, tracking down an escaped prisoner. But we said our goodbyes already.”
“Right, then. Let’s be on our way.” The captain called to his deckhands. “Cast off, there.”
Walter strolled back to the stern as the boat pulled away from the dock. He stood there a long while, looking back as the island slowly receded in the distance. He picked up one of the portfolio cases, placed it on a deck hatch and opened it. Dozens of pinned butterflies lay arrayed in neat order within the case. He pulled the pin from a butterfly and placed it in the palm of his hand. He tossed it up into the breeze and watched as it appeared to flutter away towards the distant island. He pulled the pin from another butterfly and did the same. And another, and another, as the distant island sank into the horizon.
– The End ‑
If you liked this short story, try one of Alan Annand’s novels:
SCORPIO RISING
Kindle: www.amazon.com/Scorpio-Rising-ebook/dp/B0050IOY6I
All other formats: www.smashwords.com/books/view/59231
HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT
Kindle: www.amazon.com/Hide-in-Plain-Sight-ebook/dp/B0050K1EZA
All other formats: www.smashwords.com/books/view/59291
HARM’S WAY
Kindle: www.amazon.com/Harms-Way-ebook/dp/B005LVXIA2
All other formats: www.smashwords.com/books/view/86740
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Tags: butterflies, murder, tropical island, twins
Alan Annand is an astrologer as well as a writer of humor and crime fiction. His Mercury Retrograde Body Mitten tickled the funny bone of astrological aficionados everywhere. His New Age Noir series (Scorpio Rising, Felonious Monk, Soma County) features astrologer Axel Crowe, whom one reviewer dubbed “Sherlock Holmes with a horoscope.”
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