The Butterfly Heart Read online

  For Tom, Amy, Christie, Kate,

  Aisling and Maurice

  Bul-Boo

  My friend Winifred didn’t put her hand up today. Not once. She hardly put her head up. I kept looking at her sideways, waiting. But nothing. When the bell rang, she slipped out of the classroom as if she had never been there. Like a shadow. I stayed sitting for a while, wondering. Maybe she was having a quiet day. Surely everyone has those? Or maybe she didn’t know any answers. No. Not likely.

  I felt Madillo patting me on the head, my daily signal that it was time to pack my bag to go home. There is nothing shadow-like or silent about my twin sister, Madillo. I wonder how much Mum and Dad knew about armadillos when they named her after one. Not very much, I think, because apart from the odd grunt they are peaceful creatures.

  “Hey, Bul-Boo, I’m not waiting more than twenty-three seconds for you today … and two of those have gone already. Now seven… You’re out of time. I’m leaving…”

  She danced towards the door, holding her bag on her head.

  I followed her. I don’t really like walking home on my own. If Madillo is with me then no one notices me, even though we look the same. She makes more noise than I do. This afternoon she decided to count the number of steps she took … in Japanese. In our bedroom, on the ceiling above her bed, she has stuck up a chart with the numbers from one to 999,999 in Japanese. When the light is out she shines her torch onto them and counts out loud. That way, she says, they grow in her head during the night – and it is working. But she thinks one million is unlucky, so she has not learnt how to say that.

  Winifred and I have been sitting next to each other in class for two years now. Our teacher, Sister Leonisa, doesn’t like change, and all the time we’ve been in her class no one has ever moved seats. She kept a dead pot plant on the windowsill for a whole term once because she didn’t want to move it, so when you sit next to someone you know that will be it. I think if you died in your seat she probably wouldn’t move you. But I suppose your parents would when they heard.

  Winifred is the same age as me, except I was born in the wet season and her birthday is in the dry season. She is short and neat and the tidiest (and cleverest) person in our class. On her side of the desk there is hardly anything to be seen, a fact that Sister always points out to me. As if I couldn’t see it for myself.

  “Look, Bul-Boo,” she says, “can you see any pencil shavings on Winifred’s side of the desk? Any ugly bits of paper? Any pens leaking all over the place? Anything at all except the things that have to be there, the things that have no option?”

  “No, Sister,” I always reply.

  If I was Madillo, I might say, “Yes, Sister, because I see all … even that which isn’t there,” and see what she’d say to that. But I’m not, so I won’t. However, I do wonder why she keeps asking me when it clearly makes no difference. And Winifred doesn’t mind, even when I spill over onto her side. She tells me that at home there is no room to be messy. I’ve never thought about it like that, but it makes sense: if you’re messy in a small space then you can’t move.

  I always think that Winifred doesn’t mind about anything: she never gets cross or mad like Madillo does. But maybe I’m wrong. She was minding about something today.

  We normally walk halfway home with her, then we go left and she goes right – and it takes us ages because we always have so much to talk about. Winifred is almost as good at telling stories as Ifwafwa is, and sometimes (if we can stop Madillo counting) she tells us some on the way home. The only time we are ever in a hurry is when the rain comes. None of us mind the rain but we hate lightning. Today Winifred didn’t tell a story; she didn’t even laugh when Madillo fell down (as she does most days), she just carried on walking with her head down. I wondered if I’d said something to upset her but I didn’t want to ask, her face was so closed.

  We took much longer than usual to get home after we had split from Winifred, because Madillo reached 362 steps and then made a mistake. Even though I told her where she had got to, she didn’t believe me and had to start again. When it comes to numbers, the only person she trusts is herself.

  As it turned out, it was lucky she did go back because we met Ifwafwa, the Snake Man – and if we’d gone straight home we might have missed him. He promised to come by tomorrow, as he has a new story.

  Ifwafwa

  Ifwafwa. Yes, that’s what they call me. The Puff Adder. Slow and heavy, but fast to strike. The little one, Bul-Boo, she told me about that name. It’s a nickname, she said, because you catch all the snakes and because your bicycle makes that noise, fwa-fwa-fwa. Then she asked me, “Why do you put those little bits of orange plastic on your wheel spokes, Mr Snake Man?” She’s full of respect, a serious child. She wants to know everything. I think that life will be kind to her.

  I told her that the plastic is to warn the snakes that I’m coming and that they should pack their bags and say their goodbyes because they’ll be moving out. She liked that. She has a laugh that is so loud it is hard to believe it comes out of such a small child.

  I put the plastic there because I like the sound it makes. It keeps me awake when I ride my bicycle. When the sun is hot and I’m travelling a long straight road, it is easy for me to fall asleep. Especially if I’m hungry for food. But not any more. The fwa-fwa-fwa makes me think about different things. When I think, I stay awake.

  Today I thought about Nsanguni, the snake of all snakes. She is so long that if you stood at her head you could not see her tail. She is not a snake for catching.

  Nsanguni is from the water. Her home is the river. It is always wise to keep your distance from her. It is the shadow she wants: your shadow. At night time you are safe because your shadow is missing, but when the sun shines and your shadow lies on the ground, helpless, Nsanguni takes it. Swallows it whole. As it travels down her long body, it takes you with it and you follow because you are nobody without your shadow. Then you are gone. Dead. Lost in her body.

  One day, maybe, she’ll get tired and full and spit all the shadows out onto the riverbank. There will be much rejoicing when that day comes.

  Bul-Boo

  Winifred was late today. It was the first time she has been late, ever. We could be in the middle of the biggest thunderstorm and Winifred will arrive at school on time, with plastic bags tied carefully around her shoes so they don’t get muddy. Where her house is, there is a long muddy road she has to walk down before she reaches the tar road, but her shoes are always clean.

  Today was a normal sunny day but she arrived at half past eight – half an hour late. She didn’t even say anything to Sister, she just crept in the same way she crept out yesterday. So quietly I am not even sure if Sister noticed. Maybe Winifred knew beforehand that we were going to get the Tapeworm Speech. She was lucky she missed it, especially first thing in the morning before anyone had even had time to digest their breakfast. I think Winifred would have been worried by it, too – even more than we were – because she seems to be getting thinner and thinner, and that’s one of the signs of having a tapeworm.

  Sister was so excited at the thought of giving us this speech that she forgot to say morning prayers. She just stood up, clapped her hands and asked, “Who has heard about the tapeworm?” We all put our hands up then, because who hasn’t?

  “Good. Now, who knows how to entice a tapeworm out of your body?”

  She always uses words like “entice”. She once said to us that if there is an exciting word available, why choose a boring one. I suppose that makes sense.

  No one answered this time.

  “So I am going to tell you. Me, Sister Leonisa, a lion among nuns.”

  I looked across the room at Madillo, who I just knew would be grinning all over her face. An
y distraction from work or morning prayers is her favourite thing. With Sister Leonisa we often have distractions, but they aren’t always good, so I was feeling a bit nervous.

  “When a tapeworm makes its entrance into your body, it is nothing more than a small egg. But quickly it transforms itself into a long, ribbony worm with an insatiable appetite. It eats all the time, without stopping. It is the glutton of the worm world.”

  Sister drew a long, ribbony tapeworm on the board in a few quick strokes, then added the largest mouth I have ever seen. She even put teeth in it. Sharp, pointy teeth.

  “Every time you put food into your mouth, all you are doing is feeding the worm. It sits there with its own mouth open, waiting for the food to arrive.”

  Madillo had stopped smiling now and I could feel this long tapeworm inside me. I was sure it was listening to every word Sister was saying and just waiting for breaktime, when it could begin eating again.

  “So how do we stop this monstrous creature from eating all our food?”

  There was silence. Fred, our next-door neighbour (who I will tell you about) was bent over his desk, not even looking at Sister. He was clutching his stomach.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said. “You starve it. Deprive it of food. Don’t give it anything, not a morsel, for three days. By that time it will be your slave. It will do anything for you. After the three days are up, pour a little milk into a saucer and go and sit somewhere comfortable. Open your mouth and hold the saucer in front of you like this.” She held the chalkboard rubber in front of her wide-open mouth.

  “You will feel a sudden movement in your stomach: it is your worm realizing there is food near by. It is sitting up now, its mouth open and waiting. But nothing happens. It has become mad with hunger, so it leaves its comfortable home and sets off to look for the food. It creeps up from your stomach into your throat and pops its head out of your mouth.”

  All our mouths were wide open. Not a word from anyone.

  “As it sees the milk, it bends down and starts lapping it up with its tongue. When you hear the first little laps, you must reach up with your other hand, grab its head and start pulling as fast as you can. Do not close your mouths now, children, or you will bite it in half and it’ll wriggle right back inside you and start growing another head. Pull and pull until you reach its tail.” She paused for breath as she showed us how to do this. “It could be three metres long, depending on how well you have been feeding it, so this part can take a long time. When it is out, stamp on it over and over again till you are sure it’s dead. And that, girls and boys, is that. One dead tapeworm and one happy and healthy child.”

  I think Sister Leonisa is a bit mad. I am one hundred per cent sure that worms don’t have tongues or teeth, and I do not think they are able to smell. At least Sister didn’t draw a nose on her worm. I must tell Mum and Dad this story. Or maybe I won’t. They like coming into school to have their say and they’d certainly have something to say about this.

  Anyway, it was just as Sister Leonisa was finishing her speech that Winifred arrived. Sister probably didn’t notice her because she was too busy stamping her imaginary tapeworm to death.

  Ifwafwa

  I knew home once, when I was young. I knew my mother. She was tall and her back was straight. She could look into the sun without blinking her eyes, and pass her hand slowly through flames without feeling pain. People said that she had inherited magic ways from my grandmother; that she was a muloshi, a witch. She could do things other people couldn’t. Some of the people in our village were scared of her, but others came to her for help. She never lied to them. If she could help, and if the helping was for good, then she would. If there was nothing she could do, she would tell them, “No, this is not for me. This is a sadness I cannot change. I am not strong enough for that.” Those people would leave with their heads hanging, and I think it was they who started the talk against her.

  For me, she was just my mother. She was my home. The path back from school was always long and hot, but when I reached the tree on the corner I knew I was close. Always at that tree the hot tasty smell of porridge, the nshima, would float towards me on the wind and I would run and leave the dust behind me. On Fridays sometimes she would cook kapenta fish, silvery and salty. In the rainy season there would be mangoes for me, picked from the tree at the back and brought inside to cool.

  But it was not my mother who taught me how to talk to the snakes, it was my grandmother. She had lived with us ever since I was born and she told me that she could see I had a gift, a gift that was good. Her grandmother had had the same gift and she had been quiet and slow, like me. She told me how her grandmother would sit under the shade of a tree and sing. If there were snakes near by, they would come to her. She would sit still, her small thin legs stretched out in front of her, and the snakes would draw closer. Some would come and rest against her and others on her. She never moved. When she stopped singing, they would leave.

  I did not know her, but sometimes she is here with me. Sometimes I hear her singing voice. It says things to me. My grandmother would have been happy to know that the old lady, her own grandmother, visits me. Maybe they are together now. Maybe they are both watching over my mother, who died before she was ready.

  Bul-Boo

  We waited at the gate when we got home so that we would be there when Ifwafwa arrived. He had promised to come, and he never breaks his promises and never lies. Which, if you think about it, is an unusual thing to be able to say about someone. I know there is a difference between small, necessary lies to make other people happy and really large lies that are – well, just big and not very good. But Ifwafwa doesn’t even tell the small ones. Or if he does, I don’t notice.

  It was Fred’s great-granny who first told us about him. Fred says that she is a very famous witch and that even Alice Lenshina was scared of her. That is something to brag about. Alice Lenshina started this kind of a church called Lumpa, meaning “better than all the others” in Bemba, which is one of the languages I speak. (I say Bemba, although I am supposed to say Chibemba because that is the proper name – but Dad says it’s OK to use the shortened version.) So Alice Lenshina’s mission was to rid Zambia of sorcery and witchcraft, and if she – with her army of something like 100,000 followers – was scared of Fred’s great-granny, then Fred is right, she must be famous. And very scary. Alice is long dead now, but Fred’s great-granny is still alive. She is the oldest person I have ever seen. You cannot even see her eyes any more because of the wrinkles.

  A couple of years ago she told us that if we ever had problems with snakes, we should look out for a kind man on a big black bicycle. We would know him by the sound he makes as he rides around, she said, because he has tied little bits of orange plastic onto the spokes of his wheels, so you can hear him coming. You wouldn’t imagine you could tell that someone was kind just by looking at them on their bicycle, but with Ifwafwa she was right. We did find him, and since that day he has been our friend.

  When Ifwafwa arrived he was carrying his bag, and we could see from the bumps that there were snakes inside.

  Madillo is always excited if Ifwafwa has snakes with him because he lets her stroke them. I have only tried that once. They do feel soft and dry, not slimy, but I still don’t like the feeling of their muscles moving under their skin. I told Ifwafwa once that that’s what people call him, the Puff Adder, but he didn’t mind. For him, it’s not an insult to be called a snake name, because he loves them.

  He sat down on the grass and we sat down next to him, me the furthest away from the snake bag, and he began.

  “This is the story of the Bangweulu Swamps, the place where the water and the sky meet and become one, the place where the lechwe live: the red deer with the legs that can leap in the water. It is not near my home, it is in the place of the Kaonde people.”

  When the Snake Man tells us a story, he tells it in a very quiet voice so it is hard for us to hear him. He is clever like that; he makes us listen. Sister Leonisa does
the opposite, shouting and waving her arms around, sometimes even jumping up and down. With her we have no option but to listen, but with Ifwafwa we want to.

  “A long time ago a small child, only a little bigger than you,” he said, nodding his head towards me, “was playing down by the river. She was with her mother, who was drawing water. A black shadow fell across them and the mother looked up into the sky, as they had been waiting for the rains for many months. Then she heard her small daughter scream and turned around.

  “The Kongamato, the one they all dreaded meeting, was swooping down out of the sky towards the little girl. Its long beak was wide open and the mother could see its teeth. Its huge wings blocked the sun. It was almost upon them when the mother reached up and grabbed hold of its tail. She held on tight – she did not want her little girl taken from her – but the Kongamato was too strong for her and grabbed the child and flew up into the sky. The mother managed to keep her grip and the creature flew away silently, carrying them both as if they weighed no more than a flake of ash.”

  The Snake Man looked at Madillo and me. “Do you know of the Kongamato? The overwhelmer of boats?”

  We shook our heads, hardly daring to breathe.

  “It is a bird without feathers. A lizard with wings. A creature like no other, with a beak and teeth. It flies slowly and has lived on this earth since time began. Its skin is like a snake’s, soft and smooth. No one knows where it goes to rest, but it always flies around the Bangweulu Swamps. It causes floods by stopping the river and there is no boat in this world that can resist it; no person either, for to look into its eyes is death. The Kaonde people make a potion to protect themselves against it, only this poor mother and her child had forgotten to use it. No one ever saw them again. The Kongamato returned alone.”

  Ifwafwa sat back on the grass in silence. Then he opened the top of his sack slightly to check that his snakes were still well. He smiled then closed it again. That’s the downside of him not telling lies: he doesn’t have many stories with happy endings.