Revenge of the Beetle Queen

by M. G. Leonard

  “Why don’t you come up into the front room?” Uncle Max said, beckoning to him.

  Darkus slid off his backpack and coat and dropped them on the floor by the door.

  “Oh, Darkus, how many times do I have to tell you to hang your coat on the hook? You’ve got a memory like a fruit bat.” Uncle Max chuckled and went back into the living room.

  Darkus picked up his coat, hanging it on the wall, and followed his uncle upstairs. He pushed the living-room door open. Uncle Max was standing in the middle of the room, his arms spread wide.

  “Ta-da!” he sang.

  Darkus stared.

  All the furniture had been moved. The sofa and armchairs were in a line under the window, and the coffee table was pushed up against the fireplace. Above the carriage clock and below the row of African masks hung a corkboard, pinned with soiled and crumpled scraps of paper. Darkus stepped closer. It was all the clues from the back of the wardrobe in Base Camp: Novak’s card, and Virginia’s list of facts about beetles. Behind him, at the far end of the room, was a sky-blue paddling pool, its bottom lined with oakwood mulch. On one side of the paddling pool, part buried and piled up in a mound, was a miniature mountain of mugs, and on the other side were chopped-up bits of melon, cucumber, and banana. The surviving beetles from the mountain were busily burrowing, munching, and generally making themselves at home. Against the left wall of the room, where the sofa had previously lived, was Bertolt’s workbench, and lined up on top of the ironing board were his tools from Base Camp. Draped about the workbench, attached to four hooks screwed into the ceiling, was the square of tarpaulin that Bertolt had stitched all the chandelier crystals to, and nestled at base of each crystal was a sleeping clump of fireflies.

  “So? What do you think?” Uncle Max asked.

  “What? I—it’s—it’s amazing!” Darkus whispered, stunned.

  Uncle Max nodded as he surveyed the room proudly.

  “Not a bad bit of redecorating, if I do say so myself! Cleaning the chandelier crystals took an age, and of course it’s not a patch on your Base Camp, but …”

  Darkus threw himself at his uncle, hurling his arms around him and burying the side of his face in his safari shirt.

  “OEUFFF! Steady on, lad!”

  “It’s great.” Darkus’s voice was hoarse. “It’s really great.” And then suddenly he was crying. Silent, body-racking sobs, brought on by his uncle’s kindness. Tears of grief for the beetles, tears of anger at his father, tears at the injustice and hopelessness of everything.

  “There, there. Let it all out.” Uncle Max patted his head. “A good cry helps you think clearly, and it’s good for the soul.”

  Uncle Max carefully shuffled backward to the sofa and sat the two of them down. He stroked Darkus’s hair as he gulped air and sobbed into his uncle’s belly. Eventually he was all cried out, and his breathing calmed. He lay for a bit, slumped over Uncle Max, listening to his belly gurgle.

  “How are we doing?” Uncle Max asked gently.

  Darkus sat up. He wiped his sleeve across his face. His eyes felt sore.

  “Better.”

  “Good—then, if it would be all right by you, I’d like to put on a new shirt.” Uncle Max looked down at his stomach and made a face.

  Darkus laughed. Uncle Max’s shirt was wet through, and Darkus had left a couple of unpleasant snot trails across his chest. “Sorry.”

  “Not a bit. We’ll have a nice cup of tea with heaps of sugar—that makes everyone feel better.” Uncle Max climbed to his feet. “To be honest, I would’ve been worried if you hadn’t had a good cry. It’s not healthy to hold it all inside. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Darkus looked around the room. Uncle Max must have worked all day to bring this upstairs. He walked over to Bertolt’s workbench and ran his hand along the soldering iron, thinking how happy Bertolt would be to see it again. He lifted his fingers to his face; they smelled of bonfires.

  He thought about Bertolt and Virginia, and felt bad for ignoring them all afternoon. His head ached. The past twenty-four hours seemed to have gone on forever, yet at the same time they seemed to have sped past. Everything had utterly changed.

  A familiar weight pressing on his shoulder told him Baxter was landing. He sighed and turned his head.

  “Hello, Baxter.” He stroked the rhinoceros beetle’s elytra. Baxter’s face was downcast. “It’s time we mourned for our lost friends. We’re going to give them a proper funeral.”

  Baxter nuzzled the side of his head against Darkus’s neck.

  “I know, Baxter. I feel it, too.”

  Uncle Max came into the room backward, carrying a tray of sugary tea and a plate of custard creams. After gulping down a cup of tea, Darkus felt stronger, and it seemed that Uncle Max had been right about the crying. It had made things clearer. Right now the only thing that was important was saying a proper good-bye to his beetles.

  He went upstairs and changed into black jeans, sneakers, and a black sweater. When he came down, Uncle Max was wearing his funeral suit.

  “You can’t go into the Emporium anymore,” Uncle Max said. “The fire has made the building unsafe. But I paid a visit to Claire, the woman who runs the shop downstairs. She has a manhole in her stockroom. It leads down to a chamber next door to Beetle Mountain. I went down there this afternoon.” He took a deep breath. “I have to warn you, Darkus, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  “You’ve been in there?”

  “I had to,” Uncle Max replied. “I knew you’d want to go down there, and I needed to make sure it was safe.”

  “If you can look at it, then I can look at it.” Darkus gritted his teeth. He felt his nostrils flare as emotion welled up inside him again, but he managed to control it this time. “I have to look at it. They were my friends.”

  “Very well, then.” Uncle Max nodded.

  Darkus leaned his head back and mimicked the sound that Baxter made when he rubbed his back leg against his elytra by sucking his teeth. All the beetles in the room responded to his call. Those that flew formed a flotilla, and those that crawled formed an orderly procession, marching soberly below their flying brothers. The fireflies kept their lamps dark.

  Uncle Max, Darkus, with Baxter on his shoulder, and the beetles soberly made their way out of the flat and down into the street. When Uncle Max opened the door, Darkus saw Virginia and Bertolt standing there, dressed in black. Virginia was biting her lip and looked like she was about to cry.

  Darkus had never seen her look upset before. He smiled at her as she and Bertolt fell in step behind Uncle Max, who led them all into the Mother Earth store and down into the sewers.

  They gathered together in the main tunnel outside the chamber that held Beetle Mountain, making sure they had all the beetles with them.

  “I thought, if you want, we could begin with a bit of music?” Uncle Max raised his eyebrows, looking at Darkus questioningly.

  Darkus felt lost. He wanted to give the beetles a proper send-off, but he hadn’t thought about the way to do it.

  “And then, I thought, we could make a ceremony, a beetle ceremony,” Virginia said, taking a piece of paper from her pocket. “Marvin and I came up with something, if you’re happy for us to do it?”

  “Obviously, you and Baxter should give the eulogy,” Bertolt said, “so Newton and I thought we would take care of closing the ceremony.”

  “That sounds good.” Darkus nodded.

  Uncle Max pulled a miniature set of panpipes out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He blew a long haunting note, which wavered as his breath ran out, then led into a melancholy tune as he walked solemnly into the chamber that held the ashes of their coleopteran friends.

  Darkus felt Bertolt take his hand, and together they walked into the chamber. Virginia followed them, the beetles swarming around and over their feet.

  The smell shocked Darkus. The room stank of gasoline; the fumes were so strong it made his head spin. Beetle Mountain was barely a third of its original size. Some cups
had shattered in the intense heat of the fire, but plenty of the thicker mugs were still in one piece. The black skeleton of the buddleia tree reached out from what was left of the mountain like a desperate hand grasping for help. The upturned bodies of larger species of beetle were clearly visible—the Goliath, the Atlas, the Hercules—but Darkus knew that there were thousands of tiny beetles deep in the black pile, invisible in the darkness. He reached up and stroked Baxter. This couldn’t be an easy thing for the beetle to see. He needed to be strong for him.

  Uncle Max’s haunting tune came to an end and he stepped respectfully to one side. Virginia walked forward, standing at the foot of the monstrous mountain of ash and death. She licked her lips and swallowed. Reaching into her coat pocket, she took out a small box and lifted the lid. She held it out, offering it to the mountain, and then bowed her head. Kneeling down, she placed the box in front of her. “What happened here was”—her voice wavered—“a cruel thing, a murder, a stopping of the cycle of life. And it happened to our dear friends, our special beetles.” She bit her lip. “But”—she reached into her box and pulled out a tiny blue sparrow’s egg—“the cycle of life is more powerful than cruel humans.”

  Virginia held the egg up above her head. “This egg represents the beetle’s egg.” With her other hand she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a palm-shaped, rubbery green leaf, taken from her mother’s potted plant. “This leaf is for the habitat.” She placed the leaf down like a blanket on the ashes and carefully laid the egg on the leaf. “From the egg hatches the larva.” From her box she lifted a lump of stone and held it high. Darkus could see it had a spiral of marks on it. “This fossil, that lay in the earth for hundreds of years, represents the larva.” She placed the larva beside the egg on the leaf and reached into the box again, lifting out a purple crystal. “The larva becomes a pupa; this crystal is the pupa.” She placed it beside the larva. “And from the pupa comes the beetle.” Her voice was thick with emotion as Marvin dropped down from her hair onto the green leaf, standing beside the crystal.

  Virginia spread her arms wide, as if she wanted to embrace the whole mountain. “These beetles will lay no more eggs,” she said. Her shoulders were shaking, but she held her voice steady. “Dearest beetles,” she continued, “your ashes will go into the ground and become food for larvae, where you will rejoin the cycle of life. Nothing ever really dies,” she said, bowing her head.

  Darkus gritted his teeth together, holding back the grief that was threatening to overwhelm him.

  After a moment of silence Virginia gathered Marvin in her hands, got up, and moved back to stand beside Bertolt. Darkus nodded at her, reassuring her she’d performed a good ceremony, and then stepped forward. “My friends.” He coughed to clear his throat and took a deep breath, fixing his eyes on the charred rims of teacups and the black exoskeletons scattered across the funeral pyre. “We are sorry. Sorry that we could not do more to protect you. Sorry that we couldn’t save you. Sorry that it was humans who did this to you.” His head dropped, and he felt Baxter nuzzle his horn against his neck.

  He pulled himself up straight. “But we will never forget you, and we will never forget what was done to you.” He raised his hand. “I swear, whenever I feel I haven’t got the strength to fight, I will think of you, and I will be stronger. I swear that I will dedicate my life to understanding the natural world and protecting it. I do this in your name, for the beetles of Beetle Mountain: my saviors, my teachers, my friends.” And then in a voice like stone, he added. “But first, I swear, I will find Lucretia Cutter and I will stop her.”

  Virginia stepped up beside him, tears flowing freely down her face, and raised her hand. “I swear, I will stop her.”

  Bertolt silently joined them, his hand raised. “I will stop her, too.”

  Uncle Max stepped up beside Virginia and raised his hand. “And me,” he whispered in a voice thick with emotion.

  Newton rose up into the air, flying to the mountain, followed by his family of fireflies. And the mourning fireflies danced in the air, a slow, graceful, flickering waltz of tiny lanterns, dipping and rising as they encircled what was left of their friends. The surviving beetles, half-hidden by the shadows in the chamber, made a strange high-pitched chirping sound as they rubbed their back legs against their elytra, an otherworldly accompaniment to the dance of the fireflies.

  Bertolt wiped tears away from beneath his glasses, and Darkus noticed that even Uncle Max’s eyes were glistening—but he himself had cried his eyes dry and what remained was a steely resolve, a driving purpose that he understood for the first time in his life.

  He was the Beetle Boy. He was going to protect his beetles and destroy Lucretia Cutter.

  Now then, who wants a piece of chocolate cake?” Uncle Max asked as they trooped back through the door of the flat. “I’ve got ice cream, brightly colored fizzy drinks, and a whole heap of sweets.” He hung his safari hat on a hook beside the door. “Not having had a beetle funeral before, I wasn’t quite sure what would be required.”

  “This isn’t a party!” Bertolt exclaimed, aghast.

  “Have you ever been to a funeral, Bertolt?”

  “No.” Bertolt looked down. “This was my first.”

  “Well, after the funeral ceremony there’s always a wake. The wake is a celebration of the life of the person—or, in this case, the beetles—who have passed away. It’s important that we remember just how wonderful and brave and clever the beetles were. To do that, we need treats and high spirits. Can’t celebrate life by being somber.”

  “I would like some chocolate cake and ice cream in the same bowl with sweets on top,” Virginia said, embracing the idea. “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” Darkus nodded.

  “Okay,” Bertolt agreed reluctantly. “I’ll have the same.”

  “Ha! That’s more like it. You go into the front room. I’ll bring it up.” And Uncle Max disappeared into the kitchen.

  Darkus smiled sheepishly at Bertolt and Virginia. “Sorry for shouting at you at school. I mean, I …”

  “It’s all right.” Bertolt pushed his glasses up his nose. “I would have shouted at us, too. We were horrible. We’re sorry, aren’t we, Virginia?”

  Virginia nodded, but looked the opposite of apologetic.

  “I’m glad you came for the funeral. It wouldn’t have been proper without you,” Darkus said. “Virginia, your ceremony was really good.”

  “Did you think so?” Virginia’s eyes widened with relief.

  Darkus nodded.

  “Oh, I am glad. I wanted it to be about the beetles, you know? Relevant to their lives. All the usual stuff about heaven and angels didn’t seem right.”

  “It was brilliant.” Bertolt nodded.

  Darkus pushed open the living-room door and walked over to the paddling pool, carefully placing one foot into the mulch, so that all the beetles who had hitched a ride out of the sewer could crawl off into their new home.

  “My workbench!” Bertolt exclaimed. “Oh, and my chandelier crystals! I don’t believe it!”

  “No way!” Virginia shouted, rushing over to the fireplace and gripping the mantel as she studied all the clues and fragments of information that Uncle Max had salvaged from Base Camp and pinned to the board. “It’s all here! Look! It’s the Fabre Project picture. I thought we’d lost that in the fire.” She wrinkled her nose. “It smells of barbecues.” She spun around. “When did you do all this?”

  Darkus shook his head. “Not me. Uncle Max.”

  “Really?” Bertolt looked up at the tarpaulin. “That was kind of him.”

  “We can’t go back into Furniture Forest. It’s too dangerous,” Darkus said.

  “Base Camp is gone for good?” Bertolt asked, crestfallen.

  Darkus nodded. “Uncle Max rescued what he could and carried it up here. The rest is ruined.”

  “And the paddling pool?” Virginia asked.

  “I was improvising,” Uncle Max replied, coming through the door with a
large tray of goodies. “The beetles were searching out dark corners and soft wood. I thought I’d better find them a more appealing habitat before they reduced my furniture to sawdust. This beauty”—he pointed to the paddling pool—“is the biggest container I could find in Mr. Patel’s newsstand. I’m rather pleased with it.”

  “It’s perfect,” Darkus said.

  “Thank you, Professor,” Bertolt said, pointing at the tarpaulin, hanging low with the weight of the chandelier crystals and fireflies. “Especially for bringing our roof. It took me ages to stitch on all those crystals, and the fireflies love it.”

  “My pleasure.” Uncle Max bowed to Bertolt. “I know this is no Base Camp, but I was hoping perhaps it might make do as our headquarters.”

  “Headquarters?” Darkus asked.

  “Sit down, all of you,” Uncle Max said, shooing them to the sofa and handing each of them a large bowl heaped with chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. “This is the way I see things. Barty’s disappeared, we’re not sure exactly where to. Lucretia Cutter’s set fire to the house next door, killing thousands of poor, innocent creatures. Your wonderful den has been destroyed, and I don’t want to think about poor Andrew in the hospital. I’m not one for conflict, but that woman has gone too far. How she can have the audacity to flit off to America to have a party at these Film Awards I don’t know!”

  “Oh!” Bertolt’s hands flew up to his cheeks. “I’ve remembered something I was thinking about before the fire!”

  “What?” Virginia asked.

  “I was looking at that newspaper article, and thinking it’s odd that Lucretia Cutter is going to the Film Awards. She’s never cared about awards before—in fact, she hates them. She’s refused even to let actresses wear her dresses to the ceremonies in the past.”

  “Maybe it’s for Novak.” Virginia shrugged, looking at Darkus. “You said Lucretia Cutter paid for the film that Novak’s in?”

  Darkus shook his head. “She doesn’t care about her daughter one bit.”

  Virginia frowned. “Then why … ?”