The guardian had prepared for everything except this guest.
Name, Please
“Your name, please,” said Bram.
The butterfly had already landed.
It stood on the broad black tip of his nose, opening its wings as though he had asked to inspect them.
Bram brought his eyes carefully towards the middle of his face.
Every morning, he took his place beside the palace garden gate. Visitors gave their names, explained their business, and waited while he entered both in the large book on his desk.
He knew how to receive a gardener, a royal cousin, and a delivery of six orange trees.
This visitor had arrived with nothing to declare except a considerable amount of wing.
“Are you expected?”
His upper lip moved. The butterfly shifted its feet.
Bram stopped.
A Delicate Interview
The garden path lay empty beyond the bars. Somewhere inside, a wheelbarrow rattled over the paving stones.
Bram kept his head level.
The butterfly closed its wings. A fine line of light showed along their edges. One tiny foot rested so near a whisker that he could feel each adjustment without quite knowing where it began.
He tried a smaller question.
“Business?”
The breath stirred its wings.
They opened at once, and the butterfly leaned away from him.
Bram closed his mouth.
For a moment, they remained like that: the guardian with a question still behind his teeth, the visitor apparently deciding whether the premises were steady.
Then the wings folded again.
Beside Bram’s paw, the book lay open at the next empty line. He could reach the pen. He could not look down at the page without tilting his nose.
He left it where it was.
A breeze passed through his mane. He watched the path with the edges of his vision and waited.
Above the Gate
The butterfly took several small steps.
Bram felt them travel towards the far edge of his nose. He resisted the urge to turn his head and see where it meant to go.
Its wings spread.
This time, he had said nothing.
It lifted away, passed before his eyes, and rose above the iron gate. Bram followed it with his gaze until it drifted down towards the flowers beside the fountain.
There it settled.
He let out the breath he had been holding.
From the garden came the soft scrape of the wheelbarrow stopping.
“Someone at the gate?” called the gardener.
“Yes.”
“Coming in?”
“Already has.”
The gardener looked along the empty path.
“Who?”
Bram glanced at the butterfly among the flowers.
“I didn’t get a name.”
The wheelbarrow began to move again.
Bram watched until it had passed the fountain. Then he drew his chair towards the desk and picked up his pen.
The Next Empty Line
The paper felt rough beneath his paw. He had ruled the columns himself that morning, with enough room for the longest names.
Under Business, he began to write Visiting the flowers.
He stopped after the first word.
The butterfly was near the flowers. That was all he knew.
He crossed out Visiting and wrote, Rested briefly. Continued into garden.
Under Route of entry, he put, Over gate.
That part had been perfectly clear.
The next column was First received at. Most entries said Main gate. Once, during a delivery in heavy rain, he had written Side porch.
Bram looked towards the fountain.
The butterfly opened its wings again. He could just see them between two tall stems.
He dipped his pen.
In the column marked Name, the space remained empty.
Under First received at, he wrote, in his best official handwriting:
My nose.
Leave a Reply