Iron Butterfly

By Richard Lutman

At 52, Wilson, butterfly hunter, is feeling the weight of a past rich in errors and false starts. At the same time, he is obsessed with Gloria, a Chinese girl with a patch on one eye, he met in Hong Kong five years earlier. Gloria had led him into a "garden"—if that's really happened. It's from this "garden" that Wilson feels he must now escape. He returns to Hong Kong in the summer of 2000, to collect butterflies and help fight a plan to turn Hong Kong's Centipede Island into a landfill. But Wilson can only think of Gloria. With the summer coming to an end, he knows he must confront his obsession and maybe save his own life….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Lutman
• Release date: Mar 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386133292

Richard Lutman

Richard Lutman has a MFA in Writing from Vermont College and is listed in the Directory of Poets and Writers. He has taught composition, writing and literature courses at Rhode Island Community College, The Learning Connection in Providence, Rhode Island, Fairfield University, and short story classes as part of Coastal Carolina's University's Lifelong Learning Program.  ​He has won awards for his short stories, nonfiction, and screenplays. He was a 2008 Push Cart nominee in fiction.  His novella "Iron Butterfly” set in Hong Kong was shortlisted in the 2011 Santa Fe Writers Project competition. His first novel was published in 2016. A collection of his stories is due in Spring of 2019

Book preview

Chapter One: The Butterfly’s Body

The Chinese philosopher Shooing Chou used the butterfly to illustrate one of his teachings. For example, in one story to describe the happiness which goes with marriage, he tells of a young student who, while pursuing a butterfly, entered the garden of a retired magistrate. There he saw the daughter of the house. So enchanted was he by her grace and beauty he left determined to make good and marry her. They rewarded his zeal and hard work for not only did he obtain everlasting happiness, but he also rose to a high position.

1

––––––––

Summer 2000

––––––––

Did I enter Gloria’s garden and the warm, dark, hollow spaces she offers? Or is it something else that draws me? She dances by my fingertips, free to swirl against the wind like a fragile butterfly. If I sit holding out my hand, she may come and perch, hover, dip down and light, with a flutter of wings. I imagine I have caught her, body quivering between my fingers, as her silent screams disappear into the late day shadows of bamboo. I   must take her with me as I find my way back to the moment of entry, to discover the path where everything went wrong if that happened.

I am no longer sure of these words and the shifting memories that are the record of my soul and my time on Centipede Island.

****

The first time I came to Centipede Island, five years ago, was late at night from the detention center dock on the neighboring island of Lantau. The last of the ferries had stopped running for the night, and other arrangements had been made for me to reach the island.

The taxi driver didn’t want to bring me to the center because of his fear of being attacked by an escaped prisoner. I gave him an extra   twenty U.S. dollars, which satisfied him. The lights were on in the stark white buildings, but I saw no one in the rooms. The main road was empty and well lighted where the driver dropped me off at the last building by a small sandy cove, unloaded my bags and sped off as I made my way to the long cement pier that jutted out into the dark shimmer of water.

I heard the throb of an engine and saw a boat, silhouetted by the center’s lights, glide toward me. A figure ran forward and tossed a line around a piling, then motioned for me to climb on board. A shadow grabbed my bags. I jumped on, losing my  balance. No one said anything and I found a place to stand near the stern.

The man in the bow pushed off, and the water churned as the boat backed away. Plankton glowed and flashed like tiny jewels on the surface of the night sea as they tumbled in the launch's wake.

I leaned over the side and looked down into the black water.

Stepping back into the shadows and felt my stomach knot. I wondered what lay ahead of me on the island I had never heard of before and about Leighton, its overseer.

The launch picked up speed and passed several island villages, their lights reflecting off the flat black sea. Moths and stray butterflies, all doomed because they had strayed too far from land, flickered across the deck and battered themselves against the launch’s lights.

One of the crew pointed to the dark irregular mass of Centipede Island that loomed ahead where both my future and my past would merge. Whether I’d meant for this to happen, the island would be the place where I’d make my stand. Perhaps I could save the island and myself from a lifetime filled with failures and disappointments. I hadn’t realized until now as the boat thrust away from the pier how much depended on the pinned the wings of butterflies.

The launch slowed as it passed the marble statue of a Chinese woman in flowing robes guarded the entrance of the small, rocky harbor. Someone had placed a large white porcelain vase full of joss sticks at the statue's feet. In a legend, the figure was heard singing in a March fog to warn a passing fishing boat of the rocks ahead. One night after I’d arrived, Leighton, the island’s overseer, told me he tried to record the strange moaning sounds coming from the harbor, but the tape machine jammed.  He never attempted the taping again.

The launch made a long slow curve and thumped against the tires on the pier. Two men jumped out and secured it as the engine stopped.

A man stood by a yellow Land Rover watching me as I stepped onto the dock. He was lean and tanned in his sixties, wore dark glasses and leather sandals. His tan shorts and light-colored shirt were pressed like that of a military officer.

I’m Leighton, he said. Did you have a good  boat  ride?

Uneventful.

That’s the best way. I apologize for the unusual way you were met. But, at least you are here now.

He shook my hand with a firm grip.

I’ve heard of your father. Forensic entomology is a new field for me and sounds like something I should know more about. I’d like to know more about him, he never said much in his correspondence. You will stay in the hill bungalow. It’s used for our special guests who like their  privacy. I hope it will be all right.

I’m sure it will be just fine.

There are lots of butterflies here. Your father said you would sort them out. It's important, you see. The bloody Hong Kong government has designated this as one of the islands to be destroyed and used as landfill. The records of the butterflies you catch here will be beneficial. It will be more evidence about the history of the island and why it should be left alone. I hope you are up to the task.

I’ll do my best.

Come by for a drink later if you feel like it.

Thank you.

In the darkness above the bungalow, I heard crickets and the growls of dogs.

––––––––

Summer 2000

****

When I first sat at the large white table against the back wall of the bungalow’s main room, I thought about the summers I'd spend on this island. After  five years of collecting all that mattered were Gloria and the image of her haunted me wherever I went. My dreams of catching a butterfly no one else had and saving the island were far away. I felt the weight of my existence. I had failed at life, failed with the butterflies I no longer felt like cataloging and failed with Gloria because I couldn’t let her go.

Alone in the Vermont winters, I had searched the internet for the Asian correspondence organizations.

Anchee. Twenty-one. Catholic. College educated. Likes music.  Am loving. Seek correspondence with man over  twenty-five.

In the picture, she was smiling.

Aimee. Eighteen. Studies composition. Wants Christian  gentleman.

Li An. Twenty-four. Divorced. Catholic. One child.

Blossom.

What would their love be like? Would they wash my feet before I took to the island’s