The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY Read Free

chauffeur and the family favorite, had orbited him into this assignment. Knott snorted unpleasantly. Any of the dozen other senior chauffeurs could’ve replaced Scoff, but it has to be my blithering misfortune to be chosen for the gallows. This family just doesn’t have any class! Too blithering bad for me. It was a temporary position of course, but one that had Knott’s nerves in a terrible tangle. For, like everyone else in New Halcyon, Stanley Knott was only too aware of the Butcher family—the first family of the city-state...nay, its virtual royalty, with a reputation that ran the length and breadth of the island nation…and way beyond, across the seas.
    He wasn’t to know then that it was no chance that had brought him to this assignment today…that there was a deep design to it all.
    Knott’s assignment today was to wheel the family—well, half of it—to the airport, at the northern tip of the island, from where they were to fly to San Francisco in one of their private jets.
    He ran his hands over the black body of the big Mercury. It was a prehistoric car, so rickety if you pushed the doors from the inside with any strength, they would fly open. Knott wondered why the world’s richest family would want to still own an old bag like this, far less travel in it. But then he remembered what he’d been told: this was senior Mr. Butcher’s first ever car and held serious sentimental value. He liked to journey in it whenever possible, especially on long drives like these. That had also answered another question he’d wondered about: why can’t the Butchers simply fly to the airport in one of their choppers and save much time...why the blithering road? The road is for mortals.
    Knott glared at his quivering hands. He knew he had to do something before he fell completely apart. Something drastic. And there was only one thing to do. He had been hesitant to employ it, but he saw no other way now. His breath on hold, he looked around him furtively, a glint of cunning coming to his eyes, then dipped his right hand into his trouser pocket.
    Five minutes later, he felt himself calm down a tad and then he began to appreciate the beauty around him. Butcher Garden was a veritable Shangri-La. A Rose Paradise. A great fan of flora since his nappy days, Knott knew more than a thing or two about them. Adjoining the front porch steps on his right was a bed of ‘Fragrant Cloud’, a bright-red, thick-petal rose whose high scent made you want to shut your eyes and swim in it. On the other side of the porch steps was a bed of ‘Elina’, a delightful yellow-and-cream flower that rested your brain. Knott found himself move away from the car, so he could see the front garden properly, and his lips automatically stretched into a smile.
    Even at a distance he recognized them all. He spotted the ‘Pot-o-Gold’, a dazzling yellow rose, and he tasted its wonderful perfume on his tongue. There was the amber-orange ‘Sunset Celebration’ and again he could imagine its fruity smell. And there was ‘Scentimental’, a burgundy red-swirled-with-creamy-white rose, with a sweet spice odor. And a bed of ‘Livin Easy’, a scrumptious apricot-orange rose. And another bed of ‘St. Patrick’, a gold-shaded-green with a mild smell. It was as if Knott’s mind had suddenly been fitted with a high-powered multi-sense binocular that brought the pictures and the smells right up to him. He saw and smelled the ‘Yves Piaget’, with its bountiful mauve-pink petals and strong perfume. As he did the blushing creamy-white ‘Snow Waltz’... Oh, just beds and beds of roses speckling the entire estate. It was a sensory overload and Knott felt he would pass out in exquisite agony.
    Linking the beds was the lawn, a fertile carpet of rich green. Coconut palms, banished to the periphery, picket-fenced the property. Here and there were Christmas trees, of varying heights. In the center of the front garden was a miniature replica of the Dancing Dubai