A Rustle in the Grass

by Robin Hawdon

  'Gone shir. Told me, clean up honey-dew, an' then gone.'

  'Did they give you authority to eat it up as well?'

  'Not eat it, shir. Jus' clean iddup. Nothing lef' – jusha shticky mess.' Bug-Rump waved a feeler around the chamber, promptly overbalanced and sat down with a bump.

  'Well there's certainly nothing left now you've been here,' growled Dew-Lover, running his antennae around the walls. 'Where is it all? Don't tell me the supply was finished.'

  'All finish'. All gone – down to Royal Quarters. Lasht bit gone to exp . . . expedish . . . expedishion – an now clean plashe up.'

  'Expedition?'

  'Shnake's Tongue's expedishion – find red ants.'

  Dew-Lover paused thoughtfully. 'How did Snake's Tongue know there was some left here?'

  'Dunno, shir. Shtill One brought 'em.'

  'Still One?'

  'Yesh. Shtory Teller.'

  Dew-Lover's eyes glinted dangerously in the darkness. 'The Story Teller, eh? And did he tell you to stuff yourself silly with it?'

  'No shir. Royal Guard jus' said give 'em honeydew an' clean plashe up.'

  Dew-Lover was silent for a moment. He was deeply angry. He had managed to keep himself well supplied with his favourite form of nourishment for much of the winter, by the simple expedient of helping himself from the colony's main store whenever he felt the need. The guards there never dared to question his right to exceed the normal ration. Consequently he had been able to spend most of the Long Sleep in a very pleasant state of semi-intoxication. However, the supply there had run out some while ago, and his arousal had therefore been a cold, cheerless one in more ways than one. And now to discover this wretched little creature, so obviously under the influence of the bewitching substance that had been denied to himself for so long, put him in an evil fury, and Dew-Lover in that state was a very dangerous ant indeed.

  'You know the penalty for stealing from the Royal Stores?' he growled.

  'Not shtealing, shir. Jus' clean iddup,' whined Bug-Rump helplessly.

  Dew-Lover dropped his voice to an even more menacing level. 'Don't argue with me, you miserable specimen. I know when someone's been thieving honey-dew, and royal honey-dew at that. And the punishment is death.'

  Bug-Rump's voice took on an edge of real fear now as the extent of his predicament began to penetrate his befuddled senses. 'Not shtealing, shir. Not shtealing. Please. . . .'

  'Silence!' roared Dew-Lover. He turned to the two soldiers with him, who had been waiting throughout at the threshold of the chamber. 'We'll see what story the Story Teller has to tell about this. Bring this drunken little runt along.' And he marched up the passage, leaving the soldiers to half carry, half drag poor Bug-Rump after him.

  Outside amongst the grassy stretches of the clearing the springtime activity was gathering pace, busy groups of ants moving here and there in all directions; heaving, dragging, carrying, digging. To the eye of the casual observer there might have appeared little rhyme or reason to all the hectic motion, but in fact it was precisely ordered and organized, every ant knowing exactly what his task was and how he had to go about it.

  Up on the birch sapling Still One was absorbed in the tending of his little clusters of aphid-bug eggs, moving them around to the driest, warmest spots on the bark surface, cosseting the healthiest ones and picking out those that were undersized to be taken back and added to the food supplies. The adult bugs themselves wandered placidly about him, sturdy, easygoing little creatures, whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to eat and sleep, lay their eggs and recreate their honey-dew for the benefit of other species.

  If Still One was aware of the approach of Dew-Lover and his soldiers, the latter supporting the semi-inert body of Bug-Rump, he showed no sign of it.

  Dew-Lover stopped at the base of the tree and growled up at him, 'Come here, Story Teller.'

  Still One looked down without expression and then obeyed, descending unhurriedly. The huge soldier-ant confronted him at the base of the tree-trunk, towering over the slim figure.

  'Are you responsible for this?' He indicated the lolling body between the two soldiers.

  Still One studied the sight for a moment, then turned his eyes with their mild, seemingly unconcerned expression back to Dew-Lover. 'Responsible?' he asked.

  'For allowing this miserable creature to get himself into such a drunken state.'

  Again Still One looked at Bug-Rump. 'Oh, poor Bug-Rump,' he said quietly. 'Have you been weak-willed?'

  'Stealing from the royal stores is not weak-willed, my friend. It's treason.' Dew-Lover's voice had sunk once again to its dangerous low rasp.

  Still One regarded him impassively. After a moment he said, 'He can't have been stealing. I saw the last of the honey-dew being taken down to the Royal Quarters.'

  'Then how do you suggest he got himself into this condition?' demanded Dew-Lover.

  'He must have absorbed some of the residue in the soil while cleaning out the chamber. It's almost impossible not to on that job.'

  'Absorbed?' sneered Dew-Lover. 'Absorbed? He's stuffed himself with it! He's half unconscious on the stuff! Look at him.' And, grasping the unfortunate little ant under the head with his great mandibles, Dew-Lover held him, half dangling, in front of Still One. Then he let go and Bug-Rump collapsed in a quivering, pathetic heap at Still One's feet.

  The latter stroked him gently with his feelers and murmured, 'Poor Bug-Rump.'

  'Poor Bug-Rump!' repeated Dew-Lover scathingly. 'Do I take that to mean you sympathize with him?'

  Still One replied, 'He is unused to the effects of honey-dew. He won't feel very well when they have worn off.'

  'They won't get the chance to wear off,' growled Dew-Lover. 'The penalty for what he's done is immediate death.'

  There was silence. Still One regarded the enormous soldier in his imperturbable way. The other stared back with menace, daring him to offer a challenge. Then Dew-Lover said, 'Were you responsible for removing the last of the honey-dew?'

  'I am not in charge of the supplies,' replied Still One. 'I only help to produce them. I was acting on orders from Snake's Tongue.'

  'I know where the orders came from.' Dew-Lover thrust his massive head down to Still One's. 'But you told me a while ago that the honey-dew was all finished.'

  'That's true. The ordinary supplies were finished,' answered Still One. 'There was only just enough in the royal store to last the winter.'

  'Then how was it there was enough left for Snake's Tongue? And how was it there was enough left for this creature to cram himself with?' He kicked the semi-inert body at his feet. Still One said nothing. 'Well?' roared Dew-Lover.

  'I'm sorry there was none left for you,' said Still One in his quiet voice.

  Dew-Lover drew back his head angrily. 'Me! I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about him.' Again he kicked the body. A thin whimper broke from Bug-Rump. 'He's had enough for six!' He lowered his head once more. 'And you . . . you told me it was all finished.' His voice was a vicious whisper.

  Not a muscle stirred in Still One's body, not a flicker of this thoughts showed on his features as he stared back at the huge head looming barely a feeler's length from his own.

  'Well?' grunted Dew-Lover, 'What have you to say?'

  'Nothing,' answered Still One. 'There is nothing to say.'

  'What? You mean you haven't even a story for the occasion? I thought you always had a story.' Dew-Lover straightened up. 'Well then, let's see if we can give you something more to build a story on.' He turned to the two soldier-ants. 'Pick him up.' He nodded down at Bug-Rump. The soldiers obeyed, supporting the frail figure once more between them. 'Hold him in front of me.' They did so. Dew-Lover straightened his forelegs, towering over the semi-inert body, and curled his thick, heavy sting forward towards the worker's underbelly. He looked at Still One and said, 'It is the law of the colony that he should die for what he has done. I shall now carry out that sentence. Unless . . .'he added with malicious amusement, 'you can find a st
ory to dissuade me. Well? Have you such a magical tale, friend Story Teller?'

  'I will tell you a story,' answered Still One softly.

  Dew-Lover hesitated, taken aback. He stared at the other suspiciously for a moment, then relaxed his rigid stance. 'Are you playing games with me?' he growled.

  'You asked me for a story,' said Still One. 'If you will listen then I will tell you one.'

  'It had better be a good one,' replied Dew-Lover threateningly, 'or I might just transfer the sentence to you.'

  'That is for you to decide,' said Still One. He paused a moment, then began.

  'There was a tiny seedling in the ground on the side of a mountain. And in the spring it began to grow. But close beside it on the mountain stood a rye-grass stem. And it saw the seedling growing and it said, "Who are you to grow in my space? That I will not allow." And it spread its blades and cut off the sun from the seedling, and the seedling withered and died. But beside the grass stem stood a fern. And the fern saw the grass stem spread its blades and it said, "Who are you to spread your leaves in my space? That I will not allow." And it spread its fronds, and cut off the sun from the grass stem, and the grass stem withered and died. But beside the fern stood a hawthorn bush, and beside the hawthorn bush stood an ash tree, and beside the ash stood a huge elm. And each one spread its branches to cut off the sun from the one beneath so that all below the elm withered and died. But then the mountain on whose side all these had grown saw the elm spread its branches and said, "Who are you to kill all the plants which grow on my slopes? That I will not allow." And the mountain cast its shadow and cut off the sun from the elm, and it sent down its waters to tear at the roots of the elm, and it hurled down its rocks to beat at the trunk of the elm, and the elm tumbled and perished. And then the sun looked down and saw that there was nothing left growing on the mountain on which to cast its warmth. And so it departed the heavens, and there was darkness everywhere.'

  He stopped speaking and in the silence that followed it seemed indeed as if the warmth had gone from the sun although in fact it was still shining. Dew-Lover stood staring at Still One as if the power had gone from his limbs, a strange expression of bewilderment on his face. Then that expression was replaced by a look of absolute fury – whether because he could not understand the implications of the story or whether because he understood all too well, it was impossible to say – but with a roar of rage he stepped up to Still One and struck him a blow with his huge clawed forefoot, which sent the other tumbling head over heels in the dust. He lay there, half stunned, an evil gash on the side of his head, as Dew-Lover came up and stood over him.

  'Try and make a fool of me with your stories, would you?' he bellowed. 'We'll see about that. There are no mountains hereabouts to do your fighting for you!' And he kicked the prostrate body forcing a gasp of pain from Still One.

  'What is the trouble here?' The voice momentarily diverted Dew-Lover and he turned in its direction. Old Five Legs had approached, unnoticed in the commotion, with Never-Rest at his side.

  'I'll tell you what the trouble is, old one,' growled Dew-Lover viciously. 'Rebellion, that's what it is. Your workers thieving at the royal supplies. And this one trying to make fools of his leaders with stupid stories. It's rebellion, my friend, and I wonder where it started from.' He lowered his head characteristically in Five Legs' direction. 'Could it be that they get their example from their spokesman, who makes seditious speeches on the floor of the Council chamber?'

  Five Legs stared at the half conscious bodies of the two worker-ants. 'If it's these two you mean,' he said calmly, 'I think you've probably chosen the two ants least capable of rebellion in the entire colony.'

  The fury kindled once more in Dew-Lover's eyes. 'Indeed?' he replied dangerously. 'And how do you know what is in the hearts of each worker? You have direct access to their innermost thoughts perhaps.'

  'Only the Lord of the Stars has that,' replied Five Legs. 'But I think I know many of them fairly well.'

  'Then you and the Lord of the Stars had better do some very fast explaining,' said Dew-Lover, 'because all I see is rebellion. And you know what my answer to that is.' And he turned once more to Still One, lifted the inert body by the head with his great mandibles and held it aloft. 'Well?' he demanded and curled his sting forward ready to strike.

  At that moment, when Still One's life apparently hung in the balance, it seemed as if the Lord of the Stars did indeed take a hand in the proceedings, but with an event that eclipsed in drama anything that was happening in that little group. A sudden series of panic-stricken shouts and scuttlings from the edge of the forest nearby made everyone turn their heads. Ants were fleeing in all directions out of the low line of undergrowth bordering the clearing and their cries could be clearly heard: 'The Tawny Killer-Bird! The Tawny Killer-Bird!' Then, before anyone in the group could move from their frozen postures, there came a great rustling and shaking amongst the trees, and bursting into the clearing, with its yellow eyes glinting and its red-gold plumage flaming in the sunshine, hurtled the forest dweller that ants fear perhaps more than any other.

  The Tawny Killer-Bird is one of the few bird species who have an appetite for ants and are not afraid to attack their nests in order to find the juicy larvae buried deep inside. This was a cock bird, lean and vicious after the winter and quite undiscriminating in its hunger. Its gigantic golden shape, with its dark, shining green neck and head and its splendid arch of streaked tail feathers, sped this way and that around the clearing with enormous strides of its long taloned legs, the curved beak snapping with the speed and ferocity of lightning at the ants fleeing from its path. Then, following the general direction taken by the frantic insects, it suddenly saw the base mound itself. It checked its pace for a moment, cocked a fearsome eye at the teeming hordes upon the hillock, and launched itself in a gleeful assault, sprinting at full pace to the summit, scratching at the grassy surface and pecking dementedly at the scrabbling, struggling mass of insect life exposed upon it.

  Deep inside the mound, where he was holding a conference with some of his officers, Black Sting felt the sudden tremors shaking the earth around him and fell silent, his antennae quivering to pick up a clue as to what was happening. Then he whipped into action.

  'Racer, collect every soldier available and get them to the surface! One Eye, warn Noble and the Royal Guard to protect the Royal Quarters if they're not already on their way. The rest of you, follow me!' And he was away, speeding up the tunnel towards the surface.

  As Black Sting and his band of officers climbed above the outside ground level and into the mound itself, they could feel the reverberating earth tremors even more clearly and now the passages were filled with a terrified mass of fleeing ants through which they had to fight their way. From the shouts around him Black Sting soon learned the nature of the catastrophe and he felt a cold chill of despair that was utterly unfamiliar to him. He knew that there was scarcely any way in which he and his soldiers, however brave or numerous, could challenge such an assailant.

  However, the thought did not cause him to hesitate, merely to redouble his efforts to fight his way upwards, roaring, 'Out of the way! Clear the way!' over the frightened yelling of the crowd.

  The vibrations and clawing sounds from above grew ever more violent and showers of earth and small stones were now falling from the passage roof and walls upon the ants beneath, adding to the general pandemonium. It seemed for a moment as if Black Sting's way would be barred completely by a solid wall of ants and earth, but then suddenly this barrier appeared to explode and disappear from his astonished gaze, to be replaced by a dazzling flood of daylight as a huge, taloned claw simply ripped away that whole section of the mound's surface. As the rumble of earth and the screams of terrified ants faded down the hillslope Black Sting shouted to the officers behind him to follow and raced for the great gaping hole now open in front of him. Again the talon struck, a little lower this time, and another large section of the tunnel's floor crumbled down the slope. Blac
k Sting found himself rolling and tumbling down in its wake, other bodies falling alongside. Scrabbling and clawing at the loose earth, he fought his way to one side until his feet miraculously came into contact with firm, rooted grass stems and he was able to hang on and pull himself on to a relatively stable surface. He took a firm foothold and looked about him.

  It was a stupefying sight. The gigantic bird was perched on the very summit of the hillock, above and to one side of Black Sting's position. Its looming shape, taller than the height of the mound itself, blotted out the sun, and its nearest talon – the one which had done the damage to Black Sting's tunnel – was now tearing with fearful results at an area of hillside some twenty ant-lengths up from where he was standing. Showers of earth, mingled with the crushed bodies of unfortunate ants caught under the beast's claw, were flying down the slope and already a massive part of the hillock's upper section had been destroyed. The bird evidently knew what it was seeking, because now it was ignoring the fleeing mass of ants and every so often its long neck would stretch down and it would bury its great hooked beak into the exposed earth, rooting around for more succulent prey. Black Sting knew that the brood chambers, with their packed ranks of soft, vulnerable larvae, were set deep in the earth far below the ground level but even so, if the bird was determined enough, it was quite capable of destroying the entire mound and digging right down to the brood chambers and the Royal Quarters themselves in its ravenous search.

  It was now that Black Sting proved what a superb fighting ant he was. It was not a conscious act of bravery that prompted him nor the automatic call to duty of a being who knew no fear. It was rather the instinctive reaction of one who understood no other way to respond to danger than to meet it head on with all the faculties at his command and to entrust the outcome to fate. With only a vague idea of what he was going to do he began to climb the slope directly above him. Fighting his way up through the grass, loose soil and stones and the still fleeing, scattered waves of ants, he reached the summit, perhaps a quarter of the way round its circumference from where the Tawny Killer-Bird was causing so much damage. He could see now that many of his own soldiers were milling around the feet of the monster, clinging to its talons, scrabbling up its legs, spearing ineffectively again and again the hard yellow, scaly skin with their stings. He was aware too, out of the corner of his eye, of the big form of Dew-Lover lumbering towards the bird from further round the mound; but he did not wait for his lieutenant to catch up. He knew that the other's strength would be of little help in this instance.