by Robin Hawdon
The shock and the speed with which it happened were so great that for a moment no one moved. For Dreamer, ever afterwards, the incident had in retrospect a strange, unreal quality about it, as if it had occurred in one of his dreams. An ant's antennae are his most vital and sacred accoutrements. They are the instruments of his awareness, his chief means of self-expression, the insignia of his personality. That act of mutilation was the most coldblooded desecration of Snake's Tongue's identity that the imagination could conceive.
Snake's Tongue himself was so taken aback at the suddenness of the assault that he remained frozen to the spot for several seconds. Then he staggered and the motion seemed to free everyone else from the bonds of their inactivity. Dreamer and Joker simultaneously ran forward to his side to support him; the rest of the red ants around the plateau moved and shifted uneasily, turning away and continuing with their business.
The Spider himself wheeled away unconcernedly, growling, 'The tongue of the snake is perhaps not quite so effective when it has lost one of its forks,' and he stalked with a ponderous lack of haste back to his lair.
Snake's Tongue stared at Dreamer and Joker, a dazed expression in his eyes. Then the pain seemed to strike him, to clear his head, to shock him back to consciousness and he firmly regained his balance, tossing his head as if to shake his numbed senses back into place. The injured feeler, with perhaps a third of its length torn away, drooped pitifully, the exposed end moist and raw. Joker examined it.
'Not too bad,' he said. 'It's a clean break. It'll heal fairly quickly.' He turned towards the ant called Fleet. 'That is if you'll find us some balm for it,' he said in blunt tones. 'Wild thyme or dock will do. Or don't you believe in treating the prisoners you've injured either?'
'We will find you something,' answered the red ant, a hint of diffidence tempering his normal haughty tone. He signalled with his feelers to the two other soldiers behind them and then turned back. 'Follow me,' he said, 'and don't attempt to escape. The next wound will be a more serious one.'
He led the way to one side of the plateau. Joker and Dreamer looked to Snake's Tongue but he waved them on with his uninjured feeler. 'Go on,' he said. 'I'm all right.'
With one on either side of him he made his slow and painful way after Fleet. The other two red ants brought up the rear. The small party descended over the side of the plateau to the flank of the mound once more, dropped some way down and then entered one of the tunnel mouths. The darkness closed in and they found themselves within the great edifice that was the heart and centre of the red ants' existence.
13
In the secret recesses of the gorse clump, which stood alone between the mound and the stream, a scurry of surreptitious activity was taking place. Never-Rest, Wind-Blow and other older workerants were slipping in from the various corners of the clearing, mingling and muttering in the dry, secluded space at the centre of the clump and peering nervously through the spiky forest of gorse fronds towards the misshapen bulk of the damaged mound beyond. Word had been whispered around the trails and along the tunnels of the mound, secret messages had blown backwards and forwards through the community, and finally, in that mysterious, almost telepathic way that ants have, the consensus of all the discussion had brought the leaders of the workers' caste here to this agreed meeting place.
The sense of nervous expectation did not dissipate until the word went round: 'Here he comes! Five Legs is coming.' And into the group, with unhurried calm, came the old ant followed discreetly by Still One. The dozen or so ants there gathered round Five Legs and silence fell as they waited for him to speak.
He looked around the little gathering, studying the mood, noting the tense, apprehensive expressions. Then he said, 'I've brought the Story Teller with me. I hope no one objects. I thought he might have something of use to say.'
There was a general nodding of heads and murmuring of assent. Then Five Legs went on. 'I think you all know why we've met. There has been a real feeling of worry amongst all the worker-ants about the Council's views on the rebuilding of the mound. I have never encountered such a genuine spread of unhappiness throughout our kind in all my summers.'
More nods and murmurs of agreement. Five Legs continued: 'This is a terrible time for us all. We have had a hard winter. Many of us have not awakened from the Long Sleep and those that have are in a weak and undernourished condition. With Thunderer gone, our colony is in a leaderless and uncertain state and the threat of the red ants hangs over us like a storm cloud. And now, to add to our troubles, there has been the terrible tragedy of the Tawny Killer-Bird's attack, which has damaged our home and killed many more of our kind. Such a disaster has not happened since the time, many summers ago, when it is said that the waters of the stream rose and flooded the mound, killing half its inhabitants. The fact that this time we have survived at all, that the mound was not completely destroyed and Our Great Mother and all her brood slaughtered, we owe to the sheer bravery and brilliant thinking of one single ant – Black Sting. On that we are all agreed and are eternally grateful.' Again there was a murmur of agreement.
'And of course,' he went on, 'it is now our responsibility to repair the mound and bring the colony's life back to normal as quickly as possible. It will be a big task, that we recognize. However the Council has decreed that it be undertaken under conditions which give us grave cause for concern. They have set a time schedule which means that, even were our numbers at full strength and in peak condition, we would have virtually to double each worker's labour qouta; and yet at the same time they have agreed, in the light of the red ants' threat, to request Our Great Mother to select the major part of the new brood of larvae for development as soldier-ants rather than workers, and to delay their hatching for that reason.'
Five Legs paused and looked round the gathering. The faces were solemn and attentive. No one seemed to want to interrupt him, so he continued. 'Now, as you know, the feeling has been slowly growing throughout the last two summers that perhaps we worker-ants should have a little more say in the ordering of our affairs; more influence in the life of the community. We don't wish to challenge the existing order or to pose a threat to the Council's authority, but the general opinion seems to be that there should be more recognition of our worth, more acceptance of the fact that the part we play in the colony's life is as important as anyone else's.' Further mutterings of accord. 'And now, in this time of crisis when we have such a vital role to play, the rumblings of dissatisfaction appear to be coming to a head. I wonder whether anyone else would like to say something on the subject.'
The ants broke into a general murmur of discussion. Inevitably it was Wind-Blow who first spoke aloud, addressing the group in his compulsive, excitable fashion: 'We simply can't repair the mound in the time the Council has demanded. Not in our present state and with our present numbers. It's just not possible! We'd lose half our force through sheer strain and exhaustion.'
'I agree,' spoke up another. 'It's a very dangerous job. It's going to need proper planning and preparation. If we rush at it there are going to be more catastrophes.'
'That's right,' said someone else. 'What we need is consultation between all parties. Not just orders.'
'Absolutely.' 'Quite so.' 'Just what I think.' The sound of agreement was unanimous. Then Never-Rest spoke up in his thoughtful, reasoned tone.
'I don't quite understand the need for the urgency in any case. Of course we want to put the mound back to order, but as far as the red ants are concerned, I don't see that it makes any difference what state it's in. It won't make it any easier to defend when it's repaired.'
'That's true.' 'Quite right,' went the murmur.
'In fact,' went on Never-Rest, 'we might wear ourselves out putting it back together again, just in time for the red ants to march in and take it over without so much as a thank you.'
'It seems to me,' said another, 'that everyone is in this together. If the red ants attack, then we're going to have to fight alongside the soldiers and die alongside them
too. And in that case, if they want the mound repaired, then they ought to be prepared to work alongside us.'
There was a tremendous outburst of approval at this – so much so that Five Legs had hastily to urge restraint – with an apprehensive look towards the mound.
Wind-Blow followed up the clamour, gabbling in his urgency. 'That's right. This isn't the time for orders and injunctions. This is a time for consultation and teamwork. We all face the crisis together. We should have a say in the decisions. We've said it before, we should have a voice in the Council!'
'That's it!' 'That's right!' 'A voice in the Council!' The agreement was emphatic, the mood suddenly determined and positive. The uncertainty had crystallized into a decision. Five Legs nodded and looked round to where Still One was standing quietly in the background.
'Do you have anything to say, Still One?' he asked. The noise of the meeting subsided. Everyone looked, waiting expectantly for Still One's response. As always it did not come immediately. When it did, it was in his usual still, soft voice, from his position on the outskirts of the group.
'I think a voice in the Council would be a very reasonable thing to ask for.'
Nods and murmurings of accord. Then he added. 'But what do you do when the request is refused?'
The ants looked at one another. They muttered and whispered to each other. Never-Rest spoke up: 'It's true, they most certainly will refuse. Five Legs has already made the suggestion at the first general meeting and none of them liked it at all.'
Five Legs looked to Still One again. 'What do you say, Still One?' he asked.
Still One stared up through the spiky mass of the gorse bush to the distant light of the sky beyond. 'It is their right to refuse,' he said.
There was a ripple of puzzlement and consternation.
'Right? Why is it their right?' demanded Wind-Blow. 'We have a right to insist!'
'Absolutely.' 'Quite so.' 'We must insist,' ran the mutter.
'There is no such thing as the right to insist,' said Still One.
They stared at him, perplexed.
'No such thing?' queried Never-Rest.
'They have the right to their opinion. We have the right to ours. No one has the right to insist that their opinion prevails, only to state it and let persuasion decide the issue.'
'Persuasion?' queried Never-Rest. 'How can we use persuasion? We have no influence, no voice, no representation. It is the right of persuasion that we are seeking.'
'Exactly.' 'That's it.' 'That's the point!'
Still One stood motionless, in his eyes a distant, secret intimation. Then he said, 'A great rock stood on a hillside. Hard, grey and solid, it had stood there since the dawn of time, firmly embedded in the earth, covered with moss and lichen, so that it looked part of the hillside itself. And the moss and the lichen that clung to its surface protected it from the frost and wind in winter and the sun's heat in summer, so that the longer the rock rested there the more secure it felt in its permanence. And under and around the rock lay a myriad much smaller stones and pebbles. They were also part of the hillside but they had not the solidity and permanence of the rock, nor were they protected by moss and lichen from the elements. So they said to the rock, "Please, mighty rock, could you spread your moss, and send down your lichen to us so that we too may be protected and last like you till the end of time?" And the rock replied, "No, indeed I shall not – for you are mere pebbles, lowly stones – whereas I am a splendid rock. What right have you to permanence?"
'So the smaller stones discussed the matter amongst themselves and decided that they would move to other parts, for they could not be worse off elsewhere. And they allowed the wind to blow them and the rain to wash them, until they rolled down the hillside to more protected regions. And suddenly the rock found that the hillside was crumbling beneath it, that its foundations were no longer as firm as it had believed and that its weight was now too great for the weakened soil to bear. And with a roar like thunder it toppled from its ancient resting place and went rolling down the hill, faster and faster, until it smashed into countless pieces at the bottom. And the pieces were scattered across the ground, as small, and as humble, and as exposed as any pebble.'
He stopped talking and as always his words were followed by a silence of contemplation.
Then Five Legs said, 'But we are not stones. We don't wish to leave the mound. We love our colony.'
There was a ripple of nodding heads. Still One answered.
'Of course. The story is only to show that the great are as dependent on the humble as are the humble on the great.'
Further thoughtful pause.
'But how does one make the great see that?' asked Never-Rest.
'The ways are there,' replied Still One. 'But it is not for me to advocate them. I may only speak for myself.'
'But who will advocate them?' demanded Wind-Blow. 'How will we know the ways?'
'When the feelings are strong enough,' answered Still One, 'when enough minds are thinking the same, then the ways will become clear,' and he turned away and went out of the shadowed place into the daylight, a lone, fragile figure.
The rest of the worker-ants' leaders looked at one another uncertainly. 'What do we do meanwhile?' asked one.
'I think we should send a deputation to the elders,' said Wind-Blow. 'We can at least put our case as forcibly as possible.'
'Yes, yes, a deputation, a deputation,' ran the murmur.
Five Legs nodded. 'Very well,' he said. 'Who wishes to come with me to talk to the elders?'
And so it was that a party of half a dozen or so of the senior worker-ants, headed by Old Five Legs, met half a dozen or so of the senior Council members, headed by Great Head, in one of the smaller Council chambers deep inside the mound. And the elders of the Council listened politely and attentively to what the workers' leaders had to say, and because they were versed in the ways of diplomacy and skilled in methods of negotiation, they did not show the rage they felt at this challenge to the time-honoured traditions; they displayed no sign of their sense of outrage that the accepted order should be questioned at such a moment of desperate crisis. They merely set their jaws, nodded their heads and stared at the floor, promising to give the matter their consideration. And the workers' leaders went away uncertain, but feeling that perhaps something might come of their approach.
It was not until they saw the look of anger and disapproval on Black Sting's face as he went about the clearing, still limping stiffly from the effects of his fall – deploying his soldiers, doubling the guard on the various work parties, issuing directives for the work to begin on the mound – that they knew their petition had been to no avail.
As it happened, it came about as Still One had predicted sooner than anyone could have foreseen. The way did become clear, not through argument or any specific decision, but through a natural unanimous response to an event which occurred early on in the rebuilding of the mound. At first the worker-ants went to work obediently – with sullen, unwilling grace, it is true – but they went. For the first few days they worked, steadily and exhaustively – heaving vast masses of earth back up the hillside, digging, shaping, under the watchful, suspicious eyes of the soldiers. Then – whether it happened through faulty design or through general carelessness under the strain of the circumstances, no one ever discovered – suddenly, on the afternoon of the third day, the major part of the section that was being rebuilt broke away from the main structure. With a deafening roar, it went tumbling back down the hillside once more, carrying perhaps two dozen worker-ants with it.
When the terrible sound had ceased, the dust had cleared and the shock abated, the work of rescue began immediately; and after the unfortunate victims had been dug out of the great landslide, it was discovered that half of them had perished and the rest were all injured or scarred in some way or another. These latter were carried off to be cared for, while Black Sting and the elders surveyed this new extent of damage, muttering and shaking their heads between them. Then the com
mand went out for work to begin once again.
And it was now that the revolt occurred, quietly, spontaneously, without any pre-consideration. The worker-ants simply looked at each other, the unspoken message flashed around the work parties, all minds reached the same simultaneous decision and, ignoring the shouts and commands of the soldiers, they began to gather in a great silent crowd, out in the open at the foot of the mound.
Black Sting, Dew-Lover, Great Head and the other leaders surveyed the gathering mass from a vantage point outside one of the tunnel mouths about a third of the way up the mound. The worker-ants stared back at them, grim, sullen, defiantly determined. They made no move to communicate, no gesture of intention, merely stood their ground, challenging their leaders to do their worst.
Great Head shook his huge old skull helplessly. 'What has happened to us? What has happened to us?' he muttered in despair. 'Never in all my summers have I known such a thing. Open revolt! And at such a time of crisis. Where is loyalty? Where is honour? Our Great Mother will die of sadness when she hears.'
Dew-Lover looked at Black Sting. 'Let me go down there with some soldiers,' he growled. 'I'll soon get them back to work.'
Black Sting shook his head. 'We have to handle this cautiously. It could get out of control if we aren't careful.' He turned to Great Head. 'If I may make a suggestion, leader,' he said, 'I think the best thing to do is to play the waiting game. I think we should retire into the mound, leave a guard at all the entrances and just see what effect time, and hunger and cold will have. I don't imagine they'll resist for long.'
The old ant looked at him, worried. 'Perhaps you're right. I hope you are. We may not have very long. The red ants could be here at any time.' He stared out towards the forest. 'I wish Snake's Tongue would return.'
'They'll be back soon, I'm sure of it,' Black Sting reassured him. 'I can trust Snake's Tongue. Meanwhile, let's see what effect discomfort and the night will have on these foolish ants.'