Specimen & Other Stories (6 page)

“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 brandy 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. The maid.”

“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 the maid?”

“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 hat 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 brandy 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 brandy 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 onto 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.