Sound of Butterflies, The Read Online Free PDF Page B

just beginning to ease. John Gitchens returned soaked and smiling; he grabbed a half a loaf of bread and made a line of wet footprints to his room, where they soon heard him vigorously unpacking.
    In the twilight Thomas had ventured outside again, as the mechanics of the cicadas and crickets started up and the smell of wet earth rose and permeated his clothes, his skin. The air still held its moisture from the downpour; he could feel it on his face and hands.
    As night fell, the forest was outlined black against the softening sky. It seemed to suck away the last of the light. Thomas stood on the balcony with his face turned towards the jungle sounds, and a new cacophony of rhythms — booms and clacks from toads and frogs, mostly — enveloped him.
    Earlier in the day, as they walked through the forest, the noise had enthralled him. The forest in England was a silent place — nothing but the sound of his feet crunching on pine needles; animals stayed out of sight. Here, the air throbbed with the screams of birds and monkeys, the distant crack of falling branches, and the scuttling in the undergrowth of creatures that could choose to be seen or sink into camouflage on the forest floor. The air was thick with heat and moisture; he felt as if he were wading through warm porridge.
    When he caught sight of his first morphos, their blue wings shining in the sun like stained glass, he felt a familiar stirring in his trousers. This was something he couldn’t explain, and had long ago given up trying to. Ever since he was a young lad, his body had occasionally — only occasionally — reacted this way to the excitement of spotting and catching butterflies. This was not a problem for him when he was alone, roaming through the fields of England — and it didn’t happen often, usually only during the chase of a particularly rare species — but in company it was an inconvenience to say the least. He took off his hat and held it with both hands in front of him, enjoying the sensation of his hardness pressing against his breeches as he spotted another morpho, then a pair of buttery Pieridae.

    Ernie had finally turned on his side, and was no longer snoring. It hardly made a difference to the night sounds and Thomas wondered if he would ever get to sleep. He put his hand to his groin and thought about Sophie. His dear, sweet Sophie. The way her tiny, thin nostrils went red in the cold. The way she stamped her foot out of frustration, but always kept her good humour. The feel of her breasts the first time they had made love — not on their wedding night, when she had just wanted him to hold her, but two nights after. Her breasts were heavy and smooth and the nipples were cold to touch. She had been trembling that first time he entered her, but the next night she had pulled him on top of her, lifting her nightgown to receive him quickly. He remembered the square of moonlight in her hair, her eyes dark smudges in her face. By the end of the week she was moving around beneath him, little sounds escaping her. She had begun to guide his hands to the places that gave her most pleasure, and together they learned about each other’s bodies as well as their own.
    He had nearly made love to her in the park once, in a discreet pocket of forest, when she had accompanied him to collect butterflies. He had brought a rug, and they sat down together well out of sight of the forest path. He remembered kissing her, and the velvet of her fluttering tongue, like the wings of the butterflies in the jars that lay beside them. One of his hands was in the earth, and as he scratched at the ground, the damp odour of mushrooms was released. He moved to lie on top of her and she opened her mouth wider, but when he began to lift her skirts, she pushed him away and sat up.
    ‘Not here, Thomas,’ she said.
    ‘It’ll be fine,’ he breathed. ‘Nobody will come.’ But when he covered her face with insistent kisses, she turned away and got to her feet. She stood