Butterfly Winter Read Online Free
Author: W.P. Kinsella
famous, which I am told is still in print, titled
The Evangelist and the Ball
. In it is recounted how, when he stepped off the train in San Barnabas, the capital of Courteguay, he was met by two hyenas. They had been washed and perfumed and dressed in formal porter’s uniforms. They walked upright and spoke enough Spanish to conduct their business.
“May we carry your bags, sir?” the tallest hyena said, bowing slightly. Sandor Boatly, stared around. The station was bustling. No one seemed upset by the domesticated, talking hyenas.
“Certainly,” he replied. One hyena carried his suitcases, the second managed a trunk and his mysterious bag full of bats, balls, and magic.
“You will have to help us with the station door,” the tallest hyena said, “while we have evolved considerably we still have not mastered the doorknob.”
As a famous missing person Sandor Boatly was a favorite subject for journalists. His followers organized expeditions to Hispaniola, though for some reason they concentrated on Haiti, where, one persistent rumor had it, he was buried under two baseball bats joined in the shape of a cross, while a dozen vanda orchids danced in a circle on his grave.
But as you must know, in Haiti they do not play baseball. They speak French in Haiti, a language not conducive to baseball. Therethey play soccer. I spit! Soccer is slower than watching stagnant water find its own level. A game for those totally devoid of imagination. Next to Ambrose Bierce and Amelia Earhart, Sandor Boatly is America’s most popular and mysterious folk hero.
How do I know so much about him? I am Courteguayan. That is a sufficient answer.
LATER THAT DAY , more of the interview finished, if not satisfactorily (at least the Gringo Journalist had extracted enough information to continue to pique his curiosity and was alternately amazed, baffled, and annoyed with the elderly and capricious Wizard), something happened that made the Gringo Journalist a believer. After being given a drink from the hospital water glass with its crimped straw, the Wizard raised his head from the pillow and sniffed like an animal, a scavenger testing the air for carrion.
“I need your help,” croaked the Wizard, reaching for the Gringo Journalist with a skeletal hand. “Help me out of bed.” The Gringo Journalist aided the old man, who was light as a kite, from the bed, assisted him into a threadbare hospital robe and terrycloth slippers. The Wizard’s talon hands fastened like intravenous needles to the young reporter’s arm as he led the way down the hall of the hospital to the emergency ward.
There, even the reporter could smell blood, the coppery, electric odor of liquid death. Doctors were just turning away from, drawing a sheet over the face of an auto accident victim they had been unable to save. The Wizard detached himself from the young reporter, slipped both hands under the sheet and gripped the still warm chest of the deceased. The Wizard stood stock still in that position for several minutes. The reporter expected to be rousted by doctors or nurses or orderlies, but it was as if he and the Wizard were invisible.
Eventually, the Wizard produced his hands from under the sheet, and as he turned toward him the Gringo Journalist could see an amazing change had taken place. For one thing the Wizard had gained probably ten pounds, his hands that had been the claws of the very old,were younger, healthier looking, as was the Wizard in general. On the way back to his room he walked unaided, keeping up a steady one-sided conversation.
“A delightful twenty-two years,” said the Wizard, smiling with both warmth and cunning, as he climbed, with a good deal of agility, back into his bed. “I expect I’ll leave this hospital in a day or two. We’ll continue this interview at my home.”
FOUR
THE WIZARD
“Y ou ask too many questions,” says the Wizard to the Gringo Journalist. “Make up your mind. Do you want to hear about the old days
The Evangelist and the Ball
. In it is recounted how, when he stepped off the train in San Barnabas, the capital of Courteguay, he was met by two hyenas. They had been washed and perfumed and dressed in formal porter’s uniforms. They walked upright and spoke enough Spanish to conduct their business.
“May we carry your bags, sir?” the tallest hyena said, bowing slightly. Sandor Boatly, stared around. The station was bustling. No one seemed upset by the domesticated, talking hyenas.
“Certainly,” he replied. One hyena carried his suitcases, the second managed a trunk and his mysterious bag full of bats, balls, and magic.
“You will have to help us with the station door,” the tallest hyena said, “while we have evolved considerably we still have not mastered the doorknob.”
As a famous missing person Sandor Boatly was a favorite subject for journalists. His followers organized expeditions to Hispaniola, though for some reason they concentrated on Haiti, where, one persistent rumor had it, he was buried under two baseball bats joined in the shape of a cross, while a dozen vanda orchids danced in a circle on his grave.
But as you must know, in Haiti they do not play baseball. They speak French in Haiti, a language not conducive to baseball. Therethey play soccer. I spit! Soccer is slower than watching stagnant water find its own level. A game for those totally devoid of imagination. Next to Ambrose Bierce and Amelia Earhart, Sandor Boatly is America’s most popular and mysterious folk hero.
How do I know so much about him? I am Courteguayan. That is a sufficient answer.
LATER THAT DAY , more of the interview finished, if not satisfactorily (at least the Gringo Journalist had extracted enough information to continue to pique his curiosity and was alternately amazed, baffled, and annoyed with the elderly and capricious Wizard), something happened that made the Gringo Journalist a believer. After being given a drink from the hospital water glass with its crimped straw, the Wizard raised his head from the pillow and sniffed like an animal, a scavenger testing the air for carrion.
“I need your help,” croaked the Wizard, reaching for the Gringo Journalist with a skeletal hand. “Help me out of bed.” The Gringo Journalist aided the old man, who was light as a kite, from the bed, assisted him into a threadbare hospital robe and terrycloth slippers. The Wizard’s talon hands fastened like intravenous needles to the young reporter’s arm as he led the way down the hall of the hospital to the emergency ward.
There, even the reporter could smell blood, the coppery, electric odor of liquid death. Doctors were just turning away from, drawing a sheet over the face of an auto accident victim they had been unable to save. The Wizard detached himself from the young reporter, slipped both hands under the sheet and gripped the still warm chest of the deceased. The Wizard stood stock still in that position for several minutes. The reporter expected to be rousted by doctors or nurses or orderlies, but it was as if he and the Wizard were invisible.
Eventually, the Wizard produced his hands from under the sheet, and as he turned toward him the Gringo Journalist could see an amazing change had taken place. For one thing the Wizard had gained probably ten pounds, his hands that had been the claws of the very old,were younger, healthier looking, as was the Wizard in general. On the way back to his room he walked unaided, keeping up a steady one-sided conversation.
“A delightful twenty-two years,” said the Wizard, smiling with both warmth and cunning, as he climbed, with a good deal of agility, back into his bed. “I expect I’ll leave this hospital in a day or two. We’ll continue this interview at my home.”
FOUR
THE WIZARD
“Y ou ask too many questions,” says the Wizard to the Gringo Journalist. “Make up your mind. Do you want to hear about the old days
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