Scattered Bones by Maggie Siggins Page A

arthemis (White Admiral), June 1893; Chlosyne Harrisii (Harris’ Checkerspot), August 1893; Celastrina argiolus (Spring Azure), July, 1894; Colias philodice (Clouded Sulphur), July 1895; Nymphalis antiopa (Mourning Cloak), August 1891. Wherever he has travelled this treasure has gone with him – an everlasting tribute to the wonder of God’s creation. Only, in this desolate place, it’s turned into a bitter reminder of the sacrifice he suffers to perform The Almighty’s work. Butterflies are so difficult to locate in the bush, and many of them are so ordinary looking, the pale Cabbage Whites, plain Brown Elfins, the ghostly Northern Cloudy Wing. He once came across a magnificent Vanessa atalanta rubria but such finds were rare. His heart broke when he realized that his passion was leaking away.
    He returns the butterfly collection to its place next to the photograph of his parents. Both are gone now – his mother killed when she stepped in front of a tram as she was on her way to a meeting of the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement, his father dead after suffering a massive heart attack during a ferocious argument with Sam Hughes, the Minister of Militia. Lifetime friends and debating partners – they were at university together – the two quarrelled over whether the Lee-Enfield should replace the Ross Rifle in the trenches of the Great War. Wentworth was for it, Hughes against it.
    Ernst has never grieved much for the senior Wentworths. After all, they had hardly bothered with him. But today he feels a certain nostalgia. Maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on them. The old man thought butterfly collecting an effete pastime, better left to fat ladies in large hats, but he always handed over the necessary funds for a deluxe net or the best kind of forceps. And his mother actually took the time to attend a presentation put on by the Toronto Lepidopterist Guild, during which he was named first place winner in the Young Collectors category. The trophy was even given a place of honour on the mantel in the living room.
    In another, smaller, photo in place near the back of his desk, his young self stares up at him. Taken the day he was ordained an Anglican minister, he’s smiling broadly, his teeth gleaming as white as his brand new clerical collar. It was his parents who had decided that God was calling him to His service. Ernst hadn’t uttered a peep of protest. Now he wonders why.

Chapter Fifteen

    Ernst jumps up from his desk. What is he doing daydreaming like this? Important decisions are about to be made concerning the fate of sick Anglicans. He must be in attendance.
    He is in such a hurry that he hardly notices what a gorgeous day it is, hot, sunny with only a few clouds in the sky. Laughter bubbles up from the beach but he pays no attention. He heads eastward along the trail that winds past Arthur Jan’s storehouse, where the previous night the boys had been caught playing billiards. He notices that the door is open and thinks maybe Arthur is inside. That man makes Ernst nervous, he has such a confident, blasé air about him. But he is a loyal member of St. Bartholomew’s congregation – if he’s not away on business, he attends services regularly, he’ll even read the scripture if asked. Perhaps he can be prevailed upon to join Ernst this afternoon. Arthur is a persuasive man, a man with influence. Surely he can convince those in authority to do the right thing.
    Ernst walks up the pathway and peeks through the doorway. It’s a dank, cavernous place with boxes scattered everywhere. Arthur and Bibiane Ratt are standing at the rear with their backs towards him. Arthur bends over and, with his left hand, pulls out from one of the containers a round, yellowish object. Laughing aloud, he begins to shake it as though it’s a maraca. Bibiane yells out Olay! while his hips sway to a rhumba beat. Ernst stands stock still, mesmerized, until it dawns on him that Arthur’s musical instrument is a human skull.
    Arthur