An Okanagan Messiah Cometh (Gilded Butterfly Book 1)

By Jack Teng

It’s the year 2050 and the 1% have won. Either you're a resource baron or you're a peasant worker slaving in the fields. However, hope for change still exists–and it will come from the most unlikely of places.

Maia is the pampered daughter of the most powerful vineyard baron in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. She, frankly, has no complaints about her quite comfortable situation. And yet, a series of unfortunate and exceedingly inconvenient events lead Maia to be mistaken for the Messiah of the much-awaited Revolution.

Now, much to Maia's irritation, instead of having her new Messiah-dom blow over like last week's nonsense, she's kidnapped, dragged across province and brought to Vancouver, where a titanic showdown between the haves and the have-nots is about happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Mar 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781618684912

Jack Teng

Born in Montreal, Canada, Jack later moved to the West Coast (Vancouver) to do a doctoral degree that involved collecting many thousand ticks in the Okanagan Valley. He wasn't thrilled about the ticks either. Later, he dabbled in small-scale organic farming for a few years, during which he simultaneously developed an aversion to kale and fancy salad mixes, as well as the realization that farming wasn't all that lucrative. He now lives with his wife in Victoria, BC.

Book preview

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-492-9

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-491-2

An Okanagan Messiah Cometh (Gilded Butterfly Book 1) copyright © 2015

by Jack Teng

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by David Walker

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

PART 2

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Part 1

So we’ll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

At gilded butterflies.

- Shakespeare, Lear in King Lear, Act 5, Sc. 3, l. 11-7.

The basis on which good repute in any highly organized industrial community ultimately rests is pecuniary strength; and the means of showing pecuniary strength, and so of gaining or retaining a good name, are leisure and a conspicuous consumption of goods.

- Thorstein Veblen, Theory of the Leisure Class

Chapter 1

The rhythmic chuffing of the bed was neatly counterpointed by a magpie’s lilting laugh—rapidly followed by a cacophony of startling trills and whistles. The distraction was welcome, as the thrusting and grimacing that heaved above Maia had become ever so predictable; it was with rather remarkable precision that her boyfriend never deviated from the scripted Olympian acrobatics that accompanied their intercourse. But, repetitive as it was, she tolerated his male needs: she was a proper girlfriend after all.

Maia patiently watched the dawn breathe into the wide expanse of her sheer white bamboo-fibre curtains, causing the sun’s dim, sleepy rays to splash around in a sea of shadows. Hers was, of course, the best room in the house, with generous arcs of floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the sun to stream in dawn to dusk. Spectacular views of the valley were visible from her bed, which was strategically positioned to keep the door into the room out of sight, as well as the preferably invisible ministrations of her maids—who were now waiting obediently to draw her bath once her morning calisthenics were done.

Perhaps after her soak, she mused, she’d have them set breakfast on the balcony. The weather had finally warmed enough for her to renew her habit of having sunny languorous breakfasts that stretched into the afternoon. She could spend hours on her balcony, lounging in the sun, watching her estate’s campesinos mill about the fields of vines splayed out from hill-bottom to hill-bottom, interrupted only by the coolly shimmering lake and river that split the valley in uneven halves. Small crews of seven or eight sun-worn workers would steadily make their way from one end of their vine-field to the next, tying branches to wires, tending to the grapes—though now, in early spring, they were freeing the vines from their protective carton boxes, allowing them to stretch their budding leaves.

Just before the sun broke over the hills, singing would start from some of the crews, some in Spanish, others in Punjabi or some Polynesian dialect, which would be picked up by a crew in another field and another, until the sun-filled valley hummed with a Babel of song. All the while, the intermittent choruses would be punctured by the revving of engines that caused bursts of dusty plumes to pick up and follow the paths of overseers on their ATVs, more often than not correcting clumsy movements or speeding up unnecessarily slow work. Yes, it would be rather pleasant to breakfast on the balcony for a while, before she faced the hurly-burly nonsense of the day. But first, her boyfriend was going to have to ejaculate already.

Still going. His eyes were fiercely closed, his face locked in an impenetrable rictus of painful concentration. Shouldn’t be too long now. She turned her head to watch them reflected in her full-length mirror. His tight thrusting buns were framed by the rumpled sheets of her lurching bed. Their clothes littered her mahogany floors, where she could distinctly pick out her fine, natural-fibered clothes from his cheap, synthetic ones. The boy obstinately continued wearing such crass clothes; as much as she trained him to correct his embarrassing habits, some things remained the same—like his redneck clothing, or, more apropos, his persistence in using condoms. The most recently discarded condom wrapper lay casually among her underwear, its pure plasticky whiteness emblazoned with the Catholic Church’s red branding, God’s Wrath Condoms: For the times you just never know, but God does.

Always, without fail, he would solemnly take out one of his Pope-certified condoms, pray for humanity’s sins over his encased member, and hurl himself at her. As a testament to his quaint religious fervour, quite incredibly, on the few times he didn’t have any condoms, it was impossible for her to tempt him to forget his silly, irrational faith and just screw her. It was the mindless, superstitious behaviour suited for the legions of stinking, servile plebs—not at all for the blessed privileged few, like herself, who knew better than to ape any of that silly nonsense, except with tongue firmly in cheek.

This was taking too long. He must have taken pills again—one of the many unnatural low class habits he had picked up from his perpetually medicated drag-racing friends. In spite of his many flaws though, he did, admittedly, have a nice ass. Certainly, she looked good with him, and he wasn’t bad to parade around. Besides, trading a little seminal fluid was all she needed to do to keep him in check. That said, this was enough: she had given him far more than his fair share of time this morning. Reaching around him, she grabbed him tightly and pulled him closer into her, all the while forcing out a few well-practiced moans, knowing full well it was all it took to make him lose whatever tantric-karma-sutra concentration he claimed to have—no matter how many pills he had taken. Sure enough, he broke out into a frenzy of incoherent, urgent motion, biting his lower lip as he held his breath, turning a slight pinkish hue, until, finally, he let out a violent cry, his body becoming a taught, rigid snapshot of an epileptic spasm, before crumpling into a spent heap upon her. How hilariously absurd he looked in those last few moments of ecstasy that deflated so suddenly and gracelessly. His breath wheezed in her ear as she absent-mindedly patted his back.

By the saints in Heaven, that was great, babe. I love you. He panted in her ear.

Yes, Lucas. It was wonderful. I love you, Maia replied. What shall she have for breakfast today? Perhaps some buckwheat pancakes. The family chef made such wonderfully light batters that had the perfect consistency to absorb phenomenal quantities of maple syrup. She winced as Lucas slid out of her and rolled off her bed to rummage for his clothes. Yawning and stretching, she felt around her bed’s headboard for the button that summoned her maids. Almost instantaneously, two shy, dark-handed Tuvaluan girls in matching prudish white dresses padded in. One of them began tidying up the turbulent mess on the floor, as the other drew her curtains open, causing the sun to spill upon her, momentarily drowning her in a sea of yellowish light.

Praise God for the bright morning, Miss, one of her maids greeted. Your bath will be ready in a few minutes

No rush, Maia replied. Lucas had disappeared into the other room to take his shower. She had a few moments to herself. Slowly, she inched out of bed, relishing its soft emptiness.

Your mother requests that you have breakfast with her today, Miss, continued the maid, quickly turning away as she saw a shadow cross Maia’s face.

What is it now? Maia had spoken, or rather, traded unsubtle barbs with her just a few days ago. She’d have to go or she’d never hear the end of it. Breakfast on the balcony would have to wait another day.

Whatever. Tell my mother I’ll be there after my bath. She stepped out onto the balcony, enjoying the sun embracing and caressing her bare skin. Breakfast with mother. It probably had something to do with the race today. She leaned on the banister, watching as the morning’s spring warmth spread across the valley, with the birds joyously returning. The campesinos were working furiously amidst jumbled songs to get the season started. None of them dared look up at her of course, though she knew that she was very much visible, and that they would very much desire to; but, should some brash worker dare set their gaze upon her naked figure lazing in the sun, the overseers would be quick to Taser them with a few thousand volts—somewhat old-fashioned, but effective. The sun had now settled upon the hill-tops, setting alight the spindly budding vines. Nothing like dawn in the Okanagan.

Chapter 2

Maia found her mother in the dining room, testily blinking away the morning news from her netset, as she perched over a sparsely pecked-at meal destined never to be finished. It was a large room, in which a finely polished Douglas-fir dining table for twenty easily fit, but still felt cramped with the multitude of decorative fabrics that hung from the walls and ceilings. Waves of naturally dyed cochineal-red, cornflower-blue, and orangey safflower-yellow floated amidst Tibetan prayer flags and silk screens depicting a smattering of Buddhist, Hindu, and Celtic symbols. A small, square bandhani tablecloth had been spread out at the far end of the dining table, its red patterns matching her mother’s hennaed hair and arms.

As her mother leaned into the table, her eyes unfocussed, and disconcertingly set on Maia, she seemed to grow out of the decor, not unlike a domesticated, yet fashionable dryad. She was a chiselled woman, with a wispy figure that barely had any flesh for her ever-present yoga wear to cling to. Today, her fancy hempen-weave outfit had been trotted out, accessorized with a demure wooden cross lying over her spandexed breasts and reddish-brown spaghetti-strap tank.

Going for Christian-yoga-hooker chic, mother? Maia said, as she sat down and reached for a banana that hung limply over the edge of one of the hand-crafted ceramic bowls littering the table.

Her mother kept her well-tended facial features steady under gnashing jaws, clearly still intently reading the newssite’s gossip columns she carefully studied every morning. Your friend Jamie Ellis was caught socializing with the campesinos again. So sad. She’s from such a good family. Yet another from that family to stray from God’s glorious path, her mother said with positively exultant relish.

At least she wasn’t fornicating with them, Maia replied, her mouth bulging with chunks of mushy banana, and she’s not my friend. I stopped talking to her after high school, and I’ve never had anything to do with her in university, and even less with her ridiculous protests. Socializing was her mother’s euphemism for union-organizing and all the nonsense about other people’s whining that no one had any right to foist on her. Maia looked regretfully at an empty, greasy plate systematically picked and mopped clean: the remains of Lucas’ morning meal he had devoured before rushing off to prepare for the race. This would have been easier with him here; he was so much better at deflecting her mother than she was. His charming smile and earnestly-nodding head could get her rambling about some genuine-this or authentic-that hunk of crap she had found for her antique store, or about the new foul-tasting herbs her naturopath had brewed into her grimy cappuccino.

In that case, you’ll have no problem remembering not to make us lose face. Heavens bless us, we have a reputation to maintain, her mother started, abruptly tossing her netset onto the table, and stared at her daughter through alabaster features that, despite the constant efforts of dedicated beauticians and cosmeticians, was never without a twinging tenseness at the edge of her eyes and lips.

Mother... Maia groaned. Is this what her mother called her for?

Everyone will be there: the Casaros, the Willams, and even the Jaipurs. And is that what you’ll be wearing? Don’t forget to... her mother droned on, intermittently pursing her lips to accentuate the seriousness of the matter. Everyone would indeed be at the race today. Even the campesinos had been given a special half day off to attend. It was the single most important social event of spring, being the first of the new year, when everyone who mattered had returned from their skiing hiatuses in the few remote resorts with any real snow left, or from their yacht-cruises around the floating, highly exclusive Pacific hotels that were tethered to the sunken remains of long-forgotten islands. Sure, there was the racing, and many of the estates had heavily invested in their own drivers and cars; but really, the drag racing was the side-show, its brevity being ideally suited for the lurid gossiping and wily deal-making that was the main event.

Maia tuned her mother out. She was getting hungry. Where were her pancakes? Jean-François, could you check on my pancakes, please?

Oui, mademoiselle, said a slim, grizzled man with a slight Québecois accent, as he emerged from a corner, his dark, close-fitting Mao-suit having made him an extension of the shadows. As their estate manager, he was responsible for the mundane workings of the estate, and was thus well trained to be conveniently out of sight except when needed. He left, giving Maia a playful wink.

...and this Lucas business. He’s a fine boy and all, but he’s just a driver. Why can’t you date someone from one of the estate families? Someone else whose stars are better aligned? There’s plenty of eligible boys... Back to this again. She didn’t see what the big deal was. It wasn’t like she was going to marry Lucas. Granted, he was just a driver, but at least he wasn’t their driver; even Maia couldn’t imagine herself dating the labour. Besides, he wasn’t just any driver; he was the reigning champion of the track for the last five years—as clearly illustrated by his slip-shod bumpkin grin, featured prominently on the front page of all the Valley newssites.

A quick browse of the race-day edition article titles offered a plethora of ludicrously detailed statistics and articles on all the drivers’ strengths, weaknesses, habits, pre-game habits, cars, estate sponsors, mental states, as well as the psychological impact of their being raised by an abusive family, the benefits of being exposed to toy cars as a child, etc. Will Lucas Finkle Win a Stunning 6-Time Consecutive Win??!!! an article ardently asked, along with a related article—Maia was amused to observe on her own netset, and was likely the origin of her mother’s current diatribe—that queried, Lucas’ New Squeeze: Asset or Handicap? complete with a long discussion on drivers’ performances in relation to their women and sexual habits.

The attention was a little crass, but it did provide some amusement before Lucas’ novelty completely wore off. In any case, there was no way she would even be seen with some estate family man-child: vapid, fatuous twits, who had little to say expect to boast about their sleek über-feather-light triathlon bike or some other highly specialized, highly technological athletic gear. Maia strained to keep from saying anything, lest her mother launch into a paroxysm of righteous indignation.

Jean-François finally walked in with her plate of buckwheat pancakes and a carafe brimming with maple syrup. Mademoiselle’s pancakes, he said, as he set them down in front of her with flourish. I had them give you the good syrup from my special stash

From Québec of course, Maia laughed, clapping her hands.

Of course! he replied, in mock horror he might do anything else. Jean-François had taken care of her for as long as she could remember.

...just don’t embarrass us today. Don’t disappoint me or your father, her mother finished, just as Maia started ramming sweet, gooey pancake into her mouth. Maia sighed amidst her chewing, relieved that her mother appeared to have returned to her newssite.

There was nothing she despised more than her mother’s constant politicking and angling for social prominence among the local upper-crusts who specialized in manticore smiles, two-faced gushing, and backhanded praise. Her father was far more tolerant of Maia’s improper, embarrassing behaviour, as he too hated the gaggle of socialites her mother flocked in; he’d admonish her in front of her mother, naturally, but, so long as she didn’t go too far with her antics, he’d just grunt noncommittally and send her off.

Pushing away her half-eaten pancakes, Maia mulled over what she could wear today, mentally tossing around her wardrobe for what would most clash against a backdrop of form-fitted thighs and gratuitous displays of tanned flesh. It was such a shame she couldn’t spend the day on her balcony.

Chapter 3

The drag track imposed itself above the valley, bearing down upon the hillscape it had been carved into. A large structure bounded by tall rammed-earth walls, entwined in glistening aluminum and glass jutted out at one end, under which a long, festering-black tongue of asphalt rolled out. Cheap, rickety bleachers were squeezed into the narrow strip between the track and the hills, the seats creaking dangerously from the horde of campesinos who had come to watch the race and make merry. Their noisy chattering suffused the air, along with the lively smells of grilling sausages and burning cigarettes. Flushed with a torrent of cheap wine and baking under the afternoon sun that was unbearably hot in spite of the cool spring air, it was remarkable that none had passed out from the stale odours of sweaty, unwashed bodies.

Maia and her mother were, of course, indoors, where the temperature was kept pleasant and comfortable by cleverly hidden misters that emitted bursts of vaporized fragrances and essential oils. They had arrived last, just as her mother had hoped, into the shaded viewing room built into the archway straddling the track. Cackling, affected laughter rejoined by clinking wine glasses filled the room, as a remarkably high density of yoga wear ambled about, flaunting the tight bodies they barely sheathed, and displaying the logos of their various brands across shapely buns and voluptuous breasts: there were the stylized alphas of MiMiCitron™; the contorted dog images of the much lesser DownWardDog™; and, inevitably, the cheeky My Zen Ass motto from last year’s Enlighten-YA!™ craze that was at one point stamped on nearly everyone’s buttocks. Her mother wore none of those brands, having instead opted for the limited-edition Aum™ that not only based each set of clothes on full-body moulds of each individual, but, as the company press-sheets assured, was woven with bleeding-edge material that meshed genuine organic cotton with pliable nano-fibers that changed shape to maximize perspiration and emitted micro-vibrations that massaged sore limbs in exactly the right areas. Her mother was in her element.

Crystal Hubbert-Lam! How blasphemously divine you look! a tall, sun-bleached blonde woman greeted her mother, marching towards them in powerful steps. Like all of her mother’s friends, the woman was highly toned, every movement setting off ripples of muscle fibres underneath taut, immaculate skin. Legions of personal fitness trainers and regular nano-rejuvenation treatments had decisively prevented their aging, sixtyish bodies from sliding into decaying masses of flesh, preserving them instead as prancing, nubile twenty-year olds, all swaddled in bolts upon bolts of natural fibres hacked from the forests from whence they came. The woman gave Maia a careful head-to-toe once over, slightly twitching the rigidity of her smile, as she inspected the brightly coloured sari that Maia had chosen to wear: Doesn’t your daughter look adorable?

Janice! You look wonderful today! Jezebel’s very incarnation, bless my soul! her mother replied, leaning to give the woman a flutter of air-kisses. My daughter insists on looking original, as usual. How is your girl, Jamie? People say that she was with the labour again, but I can’t possibly believe it. You raised her so well, her mother threw back at Janice, following it with a trilling, inhuman laugh that sent chills up Maia’s spine. With astonishing speed, a murder of cawing women descended upon them, degenerating the conversation into snide comments and lurid innuendos. Maia grabbed a cup of wine off the tray of a Philipina girl and made her escape.

Screw those crones, Maia thought, resisting the urge to readjust the sari now