Charlie glanced from face to face of the surrounding crowd, witnessing the town's people's blind ferocity. He'd been afraid of his new appearance as well: thick, crackled, and pale skin, an inverted nose, and gargantuan pale blue portals for eyes. Returning to the past was a onetime trip that turmoiled and wrecked one's body.

"Charles Ludsworth, you have diverged from the path," a booming voice exclaimed behind him. Charlie patiently turned around and set his unnatural eyes upon Foster Dimming, the head precept of the Seventh Council. Dimming continued, "You have let yourself be possessed by the people of the future, and they have desecrated your humanly form. You are not to remain here." Thunder clapped, and a hard rain began pouring down. Charlie stood motionless, brought his hands together, and started to run his thumbnails against each other.

"It's been a while since I've seen you, Mr. Dimming. I do hope Eliza is doing well," Charlie said.

"Charles Ludsworth, this is a destiny you have willfully chosen. You consorted with the far reaches of time, and now you have no home. We pity you but cannot accept you."

"I know where I have been, and I know where I'm going. I returned here merely for my umbrella, but I seemed to have misplaced it. Do you have one I can borrow?"

The question hung in the air.

Charlie then heard a hollow thud and felt something knock at his feet. A charcoal-colored umbrella lay there. He didn't know who threw it, and he stood momentarily, unable to discern whether this was an act of kindness or mockery. Either way, it was protection from the downpour. Squatting, Charlie grasped the umbrella, his knuckles scraping against the asphalt. He twirled once around and flung the umbrella open.

"Thank you for your kindness," he said to no one in particular, took a mild bow, and then looked directly at Dimming.

Dimming was about to reproach Charlie once again when he felt an unexpected tingle at the back of his throat. He let out a gagging noise and doubled over, heaving violently. Sandra Thomgood, the council's chief scribe, hustled over to Dimming and hurriedly pat his back. Dimming's hacking intensified as something tickled his tongue and prickled the roof of his mouth. Alarm took hold. He could feel something crawling out.

Slender black insect legs hooked over Dimming's lower lip as antennas bobbed forth. A faint blue fluorescence illuminated the interior of Dimming's mouth, and he jerked once more, grabbing his throat. And then a magnificent pair of butterfly wings emerged, emitting an aqueous glow that lit up the wrinkled contours of Dimming's lips. The butterfly pushed forth and took to the air, fluttering toward Charlie. After circling about, the butterfly gently landed on Charlie's extended hand, crawling across his gnarled knuckles. Dimming let lose a final cough.

Lightning splayed across the sky as the crowd stretched further back. Charlie slowly paced his way to Dimming, who now stood slightly hunched, taking deep breaths. Then, halting in front of him, Charlie said, "There is a trick to the future, and that trick is knowing the past."

"Why are you here, Charlie," Dimming sputtered.

"I am here because you sent me, Mr. Dimming."

"I would never consociate with the future."

"True, Mr. Dimming. But the future fraternized with you, so here I am, contorted and mauled, to send you the message."

"And what is the message?"

Charlie extended his hand to Dimming, the butterfly perched atop the tip of his index finger. Dimming observed the insect's jerking movement and positioned his open palm flush against Charlie's outreached finger. He then closed his grip around the finger, crushing the butterfly.

"You have failed, Charlie," Dimming said.

"The future has a way of being unknown, Mr. Dimming."

"And that's the way it will stay."

The rain subsided. "It's time to get going, Mr. Dimming." Charlie dropped the umbrella, the tinny thud snapping through the silence. He walked past Dimming and continued down the path through the village.

As Charlie's form finally disappeared into the horizon, Dimming's fist unclinched, and he pulled it eye level. He opened his hand, eyeing the broken remains of the butterfly. The wings' radiance had dimmed, but there was still light: a blue luminescence flowed through his hand's veins, illuminating the butterfly's crushed body from below. Dimming squeezed his hand shut, looked down the roadway, and closed his eyes.