Doyle After Death by John Shirley

Author:John Shirley [Shirley, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Goodreads: 17860220
Publisher: Witness Impulse
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

After I finished my pie and coffee I went out to the square, pausing for a minute to absorb some sunlight. It tasted like excellent buckwheat pancakes with maple syrup and peaches. And then it tasted like fresh orange juice and the melt water from a glacier.

Feeling refreshed, I went to the beach and walked around, gazing at the Concord-­grape-­colored sea, till it felt like time to head to Doyle’s. I was disappointed when I didn’t run into Fiona out there. I was thinking of asking her for a date.

As I headed for Doyle’s, I peered at the sky, wondering what Major Brummigen had seen that told him a storm was coming. I saw some skirling, restless clouds, but they didn’t seem black or stormy.

I did hear something different, though. It sounded like a warped, off-­key choir, singing from the sky . . .

I got to Doyle’s, let myself in through the gate, and paused to look at that big stone monument behind the rosebushes.

It was a large tombstone, neatly etched with

STEEL TRUE

BLADE STRAIGHT

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

~KNIGHT~

PATRIOT, PHYSICIAN & MAN OF LETTERS

“Ha ha, what do you think of my gravestone?” Doyle asked, as he opened the front door. “Saw you through the window. Jolly old thing, ain’t it?”

“Lot of ­people around here have their own gravestones in their yards?” I asked, walking up to the front door.

“There are a few in Garden Rest—­some ­people enjoy gazing at their own tombstones in a kind of triumph. A ‘You couldn’t keep me down, you lump of granite’ sort of thing, don’t you know. But do you not think this one is splendidly etched? It’s my pride and joy! My old friend Barrie arranged it for me, when he lived here. That’s the exact inscription that was placed on my tombstone after I died in 1930! I do miss Barrie, but the lucky fellow got the Summons and went on walkabout. Haven’t heard much from him since. Pity.”

“Barrie?” I remembered reading in his biography about his friendship with the author of Peter Pan. “James Barrie? The Neverland guy?”

“Yes. Fine fellow, though peculiar. And peculiarly fine! But come in and meet Touie. Oh . . .” He suddenly pointed at something behind me. “Is that a black butterfly?”

I turned, and saw that, in fact, a black butterfly was settling on the top of his tombstone. It was a little bigger than a monarch butterfly, wings and body jet-­black.

“Excuse me, old chap,” Doyle said, slipping past me to hurry to the butterfly. He approached it carefully, as if unwilling to frighten the creature away.

Licking his lips in concentration, Doyle bent near the tombstone, and held out his hand. The black butterfly fluttered onto his finger.

“Ah!” Doyle said. “It is for me, then!”

I went over to have a look. “For you?”

He held it up to the light. “You see? Someone’s used a delicate touch, just the tip of a little finger, to write on its wings! The black butterflies get quite annoyed and deliberately disintegrate if you’re not gentle in putting the message on their wings.

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