The 99 Sorrows
No-one saw it start. It was just there, hanging above the edge of the cliff in Folkestone. Because it was Folkestone, people initially thought it was an installation for the local Triennial art exhibition, one of those anonymous expressions of virtuosity like the spray-painted stencils often seen in the town. “But it’s alive,” the Triennial director said. “How could anyone put it there?” This was certainly true. It was a huge teardrop-shaped cloud of butterflies, deep, bruised purple and black in colour, fluttering but remaining as a cohesive whole. She reached out, but the cloud stayed out of range. The feeling around it was of incredible sadness. She moved away. The ache was just too terrible to be borne. The local TV news channel sent a crew, with Jayne, on her first assignment as a trainee reporter. She interviewed a wildlife expert. “Could you tell us about this species, Dr Ellerby? Is it normal for them to mass in this way?” she asked. “I’ve not seen this species of butterfly b