In the time of butterflies

Giacamo broke the surface of the water in a sparkling, crystalline fountain which rained back down around him. High above the surface the butterflies clustered, tiny fragile wings beating rapidly, forming a cloud that blocked the sunlight and chilled the lake. For a moment they hung in the air while Giacamo breathed deeply, flushing his lungs of carbon dioxide and refilling them with oxygen, and then they plunged downwards as one, a descending mass of insectile life attacking a man.
Giacamo dropped beneath the surface again, his toes pointing downwards, his legs kicking and fighting against his natural buoyancy, pushing downwards until the light started to change and the water became colder. Then he tilted, adjusting his stance to the horizontal, and touched a control on the belt on his swimming trunks.
There was a muffled crump somewhere beneath the lake, a damped roar, and then the waters of the lake exploded upwards engulfing the butterflies. Their wings were soaked through and lost their lift, the force of the water stunned many of the insects and the rush seized the rest. In the midst of the water was a body, the concussed form of Giacomo. Then gravity seized the escaping liquid and pulled it back, body and butterflies dragged in with all the rest, pulled beneath the water and tossed and mangled in the turbulance. Waves still bobbed across the lake five minutes later crashing in tiny white foamlets on the edges.
Strong hands lifted Giacamo out of the water, brushing a butterfly wing from his face, and a sunburned face turned to lay an ear to his chest.
"He still lives," said the face hearing a heartbeat. "He has survived again."
"He always survives," said another voice, this one belonging to the rower of the boat that was rescuing Giacamo. "I don't know how he does it, he has a charmed life."
"We must be grateful," said the sun-burned face. "In this time of butterflies, he is the only reason we survive here at all."
"And for how much longer? What do we do when he doesn't survive the butterfly trap?"
"It is not time to talk of such th–"
"And when will it be?"
"Next time," said the sun-burned face slowly. "Next time."
"It's always next time, even when you call it something else! When is the next time?"
"Three days. The weather forecast is not good."
They both looked at Giacamo, his pale chest barely lifting as he breathed.
"He will have to be ready," said the sun-burned face with sadness. "This is a time of butterflies."