Stone of Silence
by Becky Taylor

EXCERPT

Prologue
Pollen

Sir Lawrence Blackthorn
London, England
Summer, 1914

Like flint against steel, the child’s cry ignites me. Pressing my fingertips to my temples brings no relief; the striking continues like a drum in my ears. I rise from my bed like a flame. Fortunately, in a matter of two steps my cool senses return. I remember to pull my suspenders back over my shoulders. Unfortunately, it was a most difficult evening at Parliament. My conscience never before lacked such clarity.
Indeed, the Germans must not be allowed to dominate the continent. The arms race has been escalating for some time, but I never thought it would come to this. War. I thought man had reached a golden age. But perhaps a time so ripe could only produce a hunger for flesh. My twin sons paraded in uniform upon the confetti-strewn street. They pounced for this bite of glory. I could only shake my head at what I had done.

I had just dismissed the nanny and retired to my room. It was when I loosened the laces of my shoes, the tie from my neck, suspenders from shoulders when she chose to scream for her mother. Not for me. But it is I who rises like a flame to shush her from a dream – indubitably another nightmare about fire.

The child sweats as she tries to convince me of her terrible vision about not being able to fly fast enough from flames. Such drama! How is it, my offspring should develop such paranoia?

“Flambée, Flambée,” I chant her name to draw her from the land of slumber as I finger the fleshy lobe of her tender ear. It occurs to me: her name may be causing her the trouble. I tell her against all superstition (from the ignorant nanny, it now becomes obvious to me, whom I must dismiss expediently) her name has nothing to do with cooking with fire. The child thence nestles peacefully into her pillow as I explain to her how she is named after a beautiful butterfly of canary-yellow with black tiger-stripes. Quite rightly so, like a canary and a tiger, I tell her, just as her mother was fiercely free and delicately strong.

Flambée was also a nickname I called her mother. Initially, I only called her Mademoiselle Brouillasse, but she insisted I call her Francoise. Instead, I called her Flambée. She seemed pleased by the term of endearment, especially when I told her the flambé butterfly lays its eggs on the blackthorn tree. In retrospect, such an explanation probably gave her false hope in believing I would protect her.
I didn’t know how. She was wild: a flame, a butterfly, a canary, a tiger. She was everything I ever wanted – passionate and gentle – every paradox. She was a singer, an incredible singer, with a tender, unique voice. At the same time, she was far from defenseless. She earned her own keep, had an apartment in Paris. In fact, she fooled me into believing I didn’t have to provide anything. Everything had been deceivingly too casual between us.

How weak I had been in the confinement of my unhappy marriage. Admittedly, it was only my young twin boys who drew me back to the island between my wanderings. Had I had my druthers, I would have followed every thermal current. Any wisp of wind gave me reason to travel abroad. Naturally, as under-secretary of the foreign office, I was obligated to explore distant horizons and specifically inspect the development of railroads within Africa, Afghanistan, Persia, Russia, and most importantly, India.

It was my duty to the Queen Mother to follow the scent of the ever-expanding empire. I was secretary of state for India many years before becoming viceroy of India. The Queen Empress need not advise me to treat her Indian subjects with tenderness, for I was an enlightened autocrat with a genuine love for all people. My gift to India was progress and civilization. Railroads. Sanitation. I could easily defend myself against arguments about uprooting native traditions and lifestyles. I don’t have to be a woman to confirm without a doubt – no woman wants to be burned alive with her dead husband. I was quite proud, quite proud of myself indeed, to bring about relief from famine and disease.

But all of this chest puffing was nothing compared to the moment I exhaled. There was a hint of having the wind knocked out of me when we succumbed under pressure from France to resolve a dispute with Russia over Persia. I was a good sport about it. It was like a game of chess after all. The Great Game. Unity against the alliance of Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy was a critical moment in the game of power. The power sought was not of dominion, but to protect against it. It was a balance of power so to speak. Truly.

Ah, but of my great exhale. It was a crisis, a turning point, to turn back and dismiss all hope or move forward and never look back. This exhale, this crisis, I cannot accurately describe what it was, but it certainly had a life of its own. It was my heart flying outside of my chest and my courage rising with tooth and nail. These are the things I felt when I first saw Francoise Brouillasse.

It was May 14, 1900, at the Olympic Games in Paris. Mademoiselle Brouillasse was peering precariously over the stadium railing on tiptoe, enthusiastically cheering the athletes irrespective of the pouting mouths surrounding her, reaching to the sky with her delicate fist. I was instantly excited to see the woman I should have married and equally devastated I had married another when I had been too young and unaware of what I wanted. It was then, at 40 years of age, I realized I had never lived. Survived? Yes. But lived? No. I had never dared to stand and scream, never upon tiptoe or with fist.

My mistake was thinking this opportunity would hover above me for the grabbing until I was ready to seize it. I rationalized justice, peace, and paradise were products of slow and steady progress. Science and technology was making mankind richer. This increasing wealth would gradually spread from minority to majority. It was just a matter of time before my course would lead me to my earthy paradise. That’s what she was to me: heaven on earth.

Still, my beliefs tormented and divided me. On one hand, I was a gentleman, a diplomat, English for God’s sake. My image was inseparable from my duty to my country and family. As for my family, I had my two boys to think about. As a result, I asked her to wait for me – for the sake of my sons – perhaps in twelve years they would not be so dependent on me. And this was my other hand which made me think I could hold so much within my possession.

Our love has a life of its own, I reasoned with her. Naturally as an artist, she was poetically inclined and believed in humanity and peace. Our arrangement worked quite nicely for many years, despite the English Channel which divided us most of our ten-year love affair. There was an exquisite two-year period in which I managed to find comfortable placement in the Paris embassy. She was finally able to quiz me endlessly about politics and philosophy – the very things I hoped to be able to teach my unfortunately narrow-minded housewife.

Flambée was so beautiful and worst of all, too smart for me. I knew it was a matter of time before she realized my deck was stacked. I knew heaven wasn’t meant for earth and so I was quite relieve despite myself to be required to return to Parliament.
It was to be expected: she would call it off. She was young: in her early twenties. Why should she sacrifice her youth waiting for me? Still, she surprised me the day she called me a hypocrite and forever-after refused my callings.

The shock pressed upon me with conviction. I felt instantly rooted and strong again, like a tree. I could assume my habitual being with certainty once more. Save my imagination, I knew reality held no place for us. But forgiving my dream only deepened my understanding of how she had touched my life. I missed her flitting in the branches of my mind and scratching at my thick skin. Each day passed with agony. Each month marked with misery.

Before experiencing this pain of longing, I believed I had bent beyond flexibility. My mind had been quick to remind me: I was nearing my breaking point. Suddenly, it snapped: I was ready to stand tall or fall. Forget bending, trembling, and dipping in duality. I surrendered my pride and fell in love.

I blew numerous letters in her direction. Every breath had her name on it. I hoped for a response. I expected a birdsong of forgiveness or a roar of reproach, but all I heard was silence.

I could continue endlessly with unnecessary analogies. It only goes to show the poetic imprint she has left upon my soul. It is sufficient to say – in all of my weaving of dream – I became ensnared in a web of illusion. I had made her a metaphor – always out of reach. I saw what I imagined, touched what I desired, smelt what I wanted, tasted what I needed, and heard nothing.

I didn’t know she was pregnant. The most important things I should have known were hidden from me. In my dreams of freedom and strength, I failed to realize her fragility. She was but a delicate butterfly.

It all seems so obvious now – now that my dreams are dead. Now, I see things for what they are. I have to face myself. I stare into the mirror and see the face of hypocrisy. Even now, I see its reflection in the glass mounted upon the wall: pressed under pin is baeotus baeotus; its blue bands of scalloped wings appear too incredible to be real.

In an attempt to collect and preserve beauty, I have a cupboard overflowing with butterflies – over 300 species from various continental corners. One drawer contains three small white butterflies from Africa; their forewings appear to be dipped in blood. Another drawer smells of must and reveals an orange albatross from India; the swift flyer gave me quite a chase. 50 large yellow brimstones are pressed together within another wooden compartment; their wings are as fragile as pansy petals.

Delicately displayed in a saucer on top of the cabinet is elymnias nelsoni. The purple outer wings have become tattered from handling by my enchanted guests. It was a difficult decision to sacrifice it to touch over preservation.

But what had been preserved? Certainly not butterflies, on my account. I was merely adding to my collection. And touch? Had I touched any hearts to the wonders of butterflies or had I simply fed an appetite for collection?

I had touched her heart. She wanted to save the butterflies. She hid my net from me more than once. And once, she cried when I offered her a sacrificed species. It was disquieting to see myself not as naturalist, scientist, or humanitarian, but as a destroyer of innocence.

The greatest shock of all wasn’t to come for many months later, when I learned she had died in childbirth. I can’t tell you how this affected me. It was beyond a great exhale. I believe I died too. What keeps me alive today is this child of mine. It was a resurrection of will and miracle which allowed me to find and claim my daughter. My wife left me and my sons rejected me, but it mattered not; I was dead to them.
Flambée. She is my daughter. Flambée. She has detached earlobes, just like her mother. Otherwise she looks just like me. I don’t pity her for having my long face, although I know she will be teased about it when she is older. As I finger the flesh of her apricot-skinned earlobe again (even though she is long asleep), I find reason to love everything about myself.

I shall raise this child right and I shan’t lie to her about her mother. The duality of these goals will require much silence on my part, to spare her innocence and preserve my dignity. I shall forever be tormented about the things I could have done differently, but it is my duty to live with this. I must keep a tight fist around what I want. Like pollen, my daughter is what remains of the wilted flower of love, peace, and beauty.

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