The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2
Ishbelle Bee
Prologue
1407 AD
Temple of Butterflies, Mexico
The Angel-Eater
My name is Izel. I am a warrior woman.
My soul is a butterfly.
I am the last of my people.
They were sacrificed to a mad sorcerer; hearts ripped out, beating in his hands. He ate them, one after another.
What did they taste of, I wonder? Something sticky, something hot. Put them in a pie, arrange them on an altar. Line them up on display. Red after red.
Does he lick his fingers or wipe them on his robes?
Does he know I’m coming for him?
I am a collector of heads. I’m going to put his on a stick. Stuff his mouth with the names of my people.
They say a butterfly is the soul of a warrior. They say when I am dead I will fly over this beautiful land, spread my wings. Glide on ghost wings.
Give me a good death; give me some meaning. Let me write my name in blood across his temple, smear it into the walls. Leave a hand print; five fingers of a star. Mark him.
I wear a butterfly tattoo of the Angel-Eater: black wings, red eyes. It is a predator; for it eats its own kind. It was carved on my back by a priest. He told me, “This will hurt. Revenge always does.” He chanted over my body, said prayers at my feet. Entwined animal bones and exotic purple flower-weeds in my hair. Charms for protection; help from the gods.
The mad sorcerer’s black temple of butterflies is soaked in blood. So many steps, they reach to the gods. My people’s bodies rolled down those steps. Bounced to the bottom.
The sorcerer wears a mask of butterflies, lightning blue and gold. Five hundred acolytes kneel before him: black robed with curved silver daggers. Hypnotised by his magic. They pray at his temple, mad-eyed, their mouths full of star shapes. Galactic poison seeps in their veins like plant tendrils, shifts and coils beneath their skin.
I am unique for a woman, for I am six feet tall; taller than any man. My hair, which is black, reaches to my bottom; it is entwined with tiny animal bones and feathers. Around my throat is a necklace made of the skulls of hawks. Their claws pierced through my ears.
My body is brown muscle and scars; for I have battled all my life.
There are five hundred of his mad-eyed priests. There is one of me. What are the odds? Who will the gods gamble on? Roll the die. Place a bet on me.
I have two blades which have been blessed in the Temple of Moons. They curve, decapitate heads easily. I prayed in that temple; I knelt on the stone floors. “Make me a weapon,” I said.
Zap!
The gods answered with a lightning bolt. Struck me down.
I woke – dragonflies dancing in my head on the temple floor. The butterfly tattoo on my back was moving, shifting under my skin. Its wings were beating.
I spun, my blades in my hand. They whirred like a hummingbird. Fast as magic. I pounded my foot on the temple floor. A crack appeared, zigzagging. Wobbling the temple pillars.
POWER
What does it feel like?
There are five hundred of them. There is one of me.
Pity them.
I walk through the valley to the Temple of Butterflies. The sun above me frazzles, bounces off the earth.
Those five hundred black-robed priests bow down before the mad sorcerer. Chanting, swaying; saliva drips from their tongues. Fever hot. Devil roast. Watch them move like waves of black water. Surround him in worship. Drown him in it. Under their robes, the flash of a silver dagger; under their smiles, a beautiful nothing.
The Magician holds an ebony staff; he sits on a throne of skulls overlooking his world. I hope the skull of my ancestor bites his bottom.
Butterflies are painted throughout his temple, dazzling from top to toe. A shimmer of wings in every shade of magic.
The gods peer down from their heavens. I am within their theatre. I am part of the entertainment.
I raise my blades. I shout, “MY NAME IS IZEL AND I WILL AVENGE MY PEOPLE, DEMON SORCERER!”
The Magician rises from his throne, his butterfly mask glints eye-blinding gold. Wet tongued, his acolytes turn their heads and examine me. Googly eyes, demented.
The Magician laughs at me. That’s his first mistake.
I shout, “YOUR HEADS ARE MINE!”
I run into his acolytes, the black-mass of them. I chop them into pieces. I am twice the height of most of them, crush one under my foot, pull a head off another. Kick one up the backside – they fly half a mile into the distance.
Easy peasy.
I pick up an acolyte and throw him across the temple as if he were a pebble. I grab another by his legs and spin him round, screaming. Turn him into a whirlwind.
One by one I end them.
Heads are flying off, bouncing down the steps. They circle me in their black robes, try to fold me into their space.