Butterfly Ranch

Butterfly Ranch

RK Salters

Copyright © 2018 RK Salters

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 978 1788030 717

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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For Giedrė

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Far upstream from the brackish reaches of its mouth, the Rio Grande loops and laces about the emerald hills of southern Belize. Tributaries snake through a maze of virgin forest, answering the call of the river. Some are no more than streams, rippling in the dark against dams of fallen trees, roots and tangled bush. Others are more vigorous, plunging from rocky ledges, frothing in pools on their turbulent descent from the foothills of the Maya mountains.

Sun and rain are a certainty every day. They follow each other rapidly, as relentless as a breathing lung. The sun is strong enough that it parches up the land and dusts up the air. The rain floods it all again, leaving behind mud and sparkling river valleys.

Not far from one valley there is a trail deep into the forest. The trail is steep. It winds up and down slopes, across warm streams and around limestone outcrops. Animals can be heard but none can be seen, only guessed from their tracks, their droppings and the flutter of a branch. Mossy tree-trunks and giant buttress roots stand in the way, and the light of day is skimmed off by a mass of foliage.

Just as the walker begins to worry about turning back, the path disgorges onto a hilltop clearing. A house has been erected out of felled trees. Behind it the forest goes on, pitching up and down the hills towards the distant flanks of Victoria Peak. But the trail goes no further.

*

It is only weeks ago. He is in their bedroom, still in his shorts but he has already taken off his shirt. It is a dark cloudy night and the only light within is from a candle in a glass chimney, standing on the floor in the middle of the room.

She walks in wearing a muslin tunic. Strands of wet hair web her temples and cheeks, and sweat glistens on her brow. The half-light softens the spurs on her chiselled face.

She peels off the tunic and plunges her pale blue body into a nightgown. Then she goes to the window, just five steps away. The candle stands between him and her. The light flickers against the back of her, casting shadows on the curves and lines of her covered body, and over her bare thighs and neck. He can see her profile in a nearby mirror, her eyes gouged out by the dark.

Beautiful friend, he says.

She does not acknowledge him. Now he feels the lameness of his appeal. Years ago these simple words were a philter for them.

Even from where he is, he can see the fine chasing on her wrists. Tiny knife cuts criss-crossing over her bones and veins. Added to over the years, like days chalked on a prison wall.

How far they have come, he thinks. And how much further will they go.

After a while the candle starts to fail. The brightness remains but the flickers grow more frequent. She recedes further into the night, occasionally revived by a lick of light.

He remains on the edge of the bed, watching her. The life in her body is palpable in the damp evening air, and almost unbearable so close to his own bare skin. Yet he remains in his own darkness, and she in hers. That night the wall of flickering light that separates them might as well be made of hard crystal.

Chapter 2

When Altamont Stanbury read a good book it was his custom to lock his door. The San Antonio police substation was well located, sufficiently set back from the village road to silence the screams from the school playground and the chatter of the farmers in their daily migrations. With his door locked, he was able to muffle the sound of the other staff on duty, who generally numbered one or two and slept through most of the afternoon. The only remaining sound was the incessant bird noise streaming through his window. There was no cure for that, as the window was a mere hole carved in the building, covered with tattered mosquito netting. But this did not prevent him from getting immersed in the stories.

He sat at his desk reading when Serafin disturbed him. He did not know precisely what time of the morning it was. The door was flimsy, like everything else in the station. It rattled rather than resisting the nudge of Serafin’s gentle knuckle, and Altamont was instantly pulled out of his concentration. He inserted a bookmark in the volume, unlocked the door and returned to his desk.

Come in.

Serafin was short and stocky. His shirt was untucked and he wore it with two buttons undone, revealing a hairy chest. His boots were on, but Altamont could tell from the dirt on his trouser leg-ends that he had been going about the village barefoot. He sighed and awaited the boy’s request.

Sorry to disturb chief, Serafin said. He took a step forward and invited in a tall, scrawny man in dirty overalls and mud-specked wellingtons. Not a local.

Yes?

This man he delivers gas tanks. He says he come from the Britisher’s ranch and the Britisher’s in trouble.

Altamont sat up and raised a hand to his capless scalp, feeling naked in the face of real police work. He took a moment to compose himself, checking his shirt cuffs were fastened as a means to steady his excitement.

Everyone in San Antonio knew of Tristan Griffin, the wealthy author of the best-selling Prospero novels. He had bought much of the land in the surrounding hills a few years earlier. He lived there alone with a woman, about whom little was known.

The stranger shuffled from one boot to the other. He had long fingers with filthy nails, a fact he seemed to acknowledge as he contorted to scratch his chin with his shoulder.

What kind of trouble?

Death chief.

Altamont’s chair fell behind him as he shot to his feet.

Death trouble. He hurried to fetch his cap and jacket, but strove to speak with the authority required of his seniority.

When was this? he said to the man, who evidently did not understand a word and looked at the clock as he conversed with Serafin in Mopan, perhaps with his next gas delivery in mind.

He came straight, Serafin translated. He says the Britisher lies on the floor. He left his gas and ran back.

Can he show me the way?

Serafin translated back. The man’s face convulsed as he spat an answer. He pointed to the sky with one hand and made a money gesture with the other.

The man he got deliveries in San Pedro Columbia. He got five childrens.

Very well, Serafin you take this man’s statement and details. Then you run and find Philomena. Tell her to bring medicines and meet me by the shop. Then you stand by the radio, and you do not go home before someone else takes over. I will go up there and let you know what next.

Altamont knew most of San Antonio’s thousand-odd souls by name. Every one of those souls knew him back, if only by sight, for he was the only black officer, the vast majority of residents being Mopan Maya farmers. He had started his career in the coastal town of Punta Gorda, and had only been moved to San Antonio three years earlier. The new posting had been presented as a sure route to corporal; it had in fact ended his progression and he was still a constable. It had also almost ended his marriage, and his wife Dee was determined to move back once his retirement came, which was in one year’s time.

On leaving the station, he folded the end of his right trouser leg into his sock, launched and mounted his bicycle with grace, and rode down to the road. The air was crisp with recent rain and the tarmac sang under the rubber of his well-pumped tyres. The sun was hot, though dulled by a haze of freshly risen forest moisture.

Griffin’s housekeeper Emiliana Cho lived a little way out, in what could only be described as a barn. Although Altamont knew its approximate location down the valley, it took him a long time to locate the exact dirt lane, and lunchtime neared by the time he came to the right allotment. The soil around was poor and nothing useful seemed to be growing, but he noticed a few chickens. The innards of a freshly slaughtered pig were laid out in five adjacent dishes near the door to the building, neatly distributed according to size and anatomy.

A dog strained at its chain and barked as he left his bicycle against the fence, took off his cap and swung open the rusty gate.

What’s the purpose? a voice asked, heard before it was seen. It was a young female voice, no older than twelve, with a strong Mopan accent. Its owner was wearing a perfectly ironed school blouse and a long pleated grey skirt. There was a small crucifix around her neck, and a colourful bead bracelet on one of her wrists.

I’m a police officer. Your mum knows me.

A male voice boomed something in Mopan from inside the barn. The girl hitched up her skirt, which was one or two sizes too big, no doubt on purpose so she would grow into it. She conversed with the voice, then she turned once more to Altamont.

She don’t able.

Why? Is she away?

She consulted the male voice before replying. It boomed again, then coughed and spat. It seemed annoyed. A baby started crying. Altamont strained his neck but could not see inside the dwelling.

Yes, she said. She selling tourists at Placencia with my aunt. We keep my baby cousin.

What does she sell?

The girl struggled for words. She pointed to her wrist.

Bracelets, he said.

Yes.

And when will she return?

I don’t know.

You don’t know?

No.

Altamont played with the frayed lining of his cap.

May I see your father? he said.

Once again, the girl consulted the man inside the barn. The voice was silent for five seconds, then there was an angry outburst. The girl gave a soothing reply before turning back to Altamont.

The daddy’s not well today.

I see, he said. He tried one last approach, an appeal to greed. In that case, if Emiliana comes back today, perhaps you could say I have work for her, to show me the way to Butterfly Ranch, the house in the forest. I would pay well.

When the girl relayed this in Mopan, the voice inside was silent. Altamont could hear faint but animated whispering between two people. One of the voices, female, was resisting persuasion, begging. Then the man answered the girl.

Thank you, the girl translated. She selling tourists and we don’t know when she coming back.

Minutes later, as he walked his bicycle back to the road wondering what to do, Emiliana Cho hollered to him in Mopan. He waited for her to catch up. She hurried down the rocky path holding her long skirt. Her parched Indian skin glistened with sweat. She wore an unusual necklace of animal teeth and locks of hair on a leather string, which heaved on her wrinkled chest as she breathed. He smiled, not enquiring about her miraculous return from Placencia. She showed him ten digits as her price. He countered with five and they settled on seven, which he paid out on the spot, one dollar per finger.

Altamont halted and commandeered a passing truck. The driver was a Mestizo old-timer, inscrutable, half-deaf, listening to Spanish mass on a portable radio wedged in a corner of the dashboard. He and Cho climbed into the back. The bicycle lay in a heap between them, jingling at every bump. Altamont was unsure how much English or Kriol she could speak. She pre-empted any attempt at conversation by looking the other way, casting only furtive glances in his direction.

The truck freewheeled down the hill into the village, taking the bends approximately. It squealed to a stop in front of the shop.

Altamont’s youngest daughter Philomena stood in front of the entrance, surrounded by thrilled children and nosy adults. She was wearing drawstring linen trousers and a black blouse, and held a rusty metal case with a red cross to her generous bosom. Her girth, and the glasses at the tip of her nose, gave her a professorial aura uncommon for her years. At 19 she had only just finished her first year at Bliss nursing school, but was already serving as unofficial village nurse alongside Dr. Delgado’s visits during her summer break, filling Altamont with pride.

Afternoon sir, she said. She heaved her metal case onto the back of the truck and slid it in. Then she eased her bottom onto the edge, and swivelled round to join Altamont and Cho. She smiled and tipped her head at Cho, uttering a Mopan greeting. The sour woman yielded a nod with averted eyes.

Altamont unloaded his bicycle and instructed the shopkeeper to look after it. Then on the way he explained the situation to Philomena. Professional concern erased her daughterly features. She asked a few questions to which he did not have the answers. How critical was the patient’s state. What had happened. How long ago. Then the uphills came and the engine became too loud to allow conversation. The driver shifted to first gear and flattened the throttle pedal with both feet. And by the time they heaved to the top, Altamont’s ears rang and burnt rubber smells pried into his nostrils.

When the old-timer dropped them off at the junction with the dirt road, just as the sunlight reached maturity, they still had a couple of miles of overgrown dirt road to walk until the head of the forest trail to Butterfly Ranch.

The afternoon was clear and the forest shade had a serene shine to it, belying any sense of urgency. But Altamont hurried on down the rocky path, setting a good pace. Cho was a hovering presence, now in front now behind him, like a pilot fish in the slipstream of a whale. She was remarkably nimble for her age, short height and absence of footwear. Philomena, as always, lagged some way behind.

Which days do you work at the Ranch? he asked.

Cho, in front, halted but did not turn back. He was not sure she understood him. She started walking again and looked over her shoulder to gesture him on, pointing up to the sun for want of a watch. They soon reached the trail and entered the forest without pause.

To Altamont’s knowledge, his daughter had never walked in proper jungle in the years that the family had lived in San Antonio. It was easy, as a young girl, to live a life turned in on your village. A life that could be traced the length of the main and only road, which took you to the parched sports pitch, the church, home, the police station on the rare occasions he let her visit him at work, and the bus north to Belize City for her nursing studies. Parents did not encourage their children to venture into the forest. He himself rarely gave a thought to the green ocean that hung over the village and threatened to swallow the road that wound out to lesser wilderness. The decay, the moistness, the permanent taunt of unseen fauna, the rippling of shallow streams dammed by toppled trees and curdled mud.

After a while the path got steeper and the vegetation denser. He mopped his brow at regular intervals but did not remove his uniform. He never removed his uniform on duty. He hardly ever removed his uniform at all. This, he knew, made him an oddity. Most of the other officers in Belize were half his age. Some rarely wore more than half their uniform. Many in crimeless backwaters whiled away the days playing football, or cycling their beats at walking speed.

After half an hour a small outbuilding and the gable of the Britisher’s lodge rose into view as he scaled the last feet of a muddy slope. Once on the flattened hilltop he stopped for breath.

Before he could recover himself, Cho took his right hand in both of hers and bowed with her eyes to the ground. Then she darted a worried look around the hilltop, crossed herself and skipped back down the trail without asking for permission.

Hey! he said. But it was too late. The trailhead remained undisturbed until Philomena emerged, glasses steamed up by the effort.

Is she coming back? he said.

His daughter lay down her medicine case and doubled up to catch her breath. Then she wiped her glasses against her blouse, pinched the sweat off her nose and gathered her things to tend to the emergency.

She said she will pray for us.

The main building on the hilltop was the lodge itself. Altamont shielded his eyes from the mellowing rays as he measured it up. The structure was hexagonal, with a ground and first floor, and a covered veranda running right round. There were openings on two opposite sides of the building, each with French doors, each wide open. Not the kind of place you locked up.

Philomena walked straight in. The afternoon sun shone right through the lodge and hit her full on, throwing a large shadow over the clumpy grass. He followed her in.

The open space on the ground floor was divided into two halves. On one side, there was a sofa, a wicker armchair and a crescent of low bookshelves along the