Samantha Honeycomb

by Scott Zarcinas

  Dazed, she immediately tried to stand, but the pain caused her to cry out again. She slumped into a heap and tried to get up again. It did no good. Even the slightest movement made the pain flare. In the end, she decided to just rest and assess the situation.

  The night was almost upon her, she saw. The stars were already twinkling and the moon had risen in the east. She figured she was safe where she was, high above the ground, and not too uncomfortable either, unless she moved. Despite the throbbing wing, she thought she’d be able to get through the night, maybe even sleep a little. Tomorrow, when the sun had risen, she would see what she could do about it.

  When sleep did finally come, it was fitful and dreamless. At one point she woke when something howled from the hills. It sounded far, but in the darkness it was difficult to tell. She then drifted back to sleep, stirring hours later to the twitter of a blackbird.

  “Get up! Get up! Get up!” the bird sang. “The day is new. The sky is blue. Get up! Get up! Get up!”

  A little confused as to where she was, she rolled over and was struck with a tearing stab of pain in her right wing. The flash of memory was just as sharp. She was in the Crazy Lands, and the queasy sensation of panic began to rise in her stomach once again; but unlike last evening, the pain helped to keep her emotions from bubbling out of control.

  Cautiously, Samantha now got to her feet. The broken wing stabbed with pain again, but it soon settled into a bearable ache. One thing was for certain: she wasn’t going to do much flying, not for a while, not until it mended. If she wanted to get to Beebylon and find the secret of turning stone into honey, she was going to have to start by walking. She looked around, wanting to get her bearings, to get orientated, as bees do when they rise. What she saw took her breath away.

  In the field, meandering like a golden river toward the lake, thousands of sunflowers bathed in the soft morning light, thrusting their faces up to the sun in heavenly bliss. For a while she just soaked in the sight, letting her mind float in the peacefulness of it all. The Crazy Lands were nothing like she’d been told at all. In fact, it was nowhere near as bad as she’d feared.

  Suddenly, from somewhere nearby, a booming holler shattered the dream. Samantha froze. It was undoubtedly one of the beasts that roamed these lands. If it saw her, she’d be turned to stone.

  Then it hollered again. From directly below.

  SAMANTHA DIDN’T KNOW what to do. She couldn’t fly away. She couldn’t run. Trapped on top of the sunflower, there was no place to hide.

  The beast again hollered, though this time it had sounded less like a savage creature and more like the Hive Crier just before the gates were shut for the night. “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!”

  Samantha decided to investigate, risking the very real danger of becoming a bee-statue for rest of eternity. She peered over the edge of the sunflower to where she thought the sound was coming from. Annoyingly, leaves and shadows blocked her view of the ground. She would have to get closer. Taking care with her broken wing, she climbed down the stem to the ground. To her surprise, she saw a small gnat near the base of another sunflower stem. He was rather plump, and he held a small stick like a walking cane. For some reason, he was standing on a soapbox on which was written one word:

  JOY

  He seemed delighted when Samantha stepped forward to hear him speak. “Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!” he hollered, although no one else except Samantha was in the vicinity. “Step right up! Step right up!” he said, and tapped his cane on the soapbox three times. “You don’t want to miss the show.”

  Stepping closer toward the soapbox, Samantha frowned and scratched her head, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

  “I’m a gnat, to be exact, an’ grammatical play is mar game,” he said. He had an outrageous accent and, if she wasn’t mistaken, his “I am” sounded a little like “arm.” “A rhetoric or two, from me to you, an’ never the noun the same.”

  Samantha smiled and waited for more. His words seemed to roll off his tongue in an amusing and jovial way. “I’m a will-o’-the-wisp, an’ elusive as light. To those who know, I’m Ignis Fatuus, a sprite!” He said this with a laugh and a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m here, I’m there, so catch me if you dare. Once bitten, twice shy, the writer’s bug am I.”

  He laughed and tapped his cane three times on the soapbox again. “One man’s fish is another man’s poison, just be careful when cooking the two. Some say tomarto, I say tomayto, but how does it sound to you?” He paused briefly, smiling as he had, before going on. “A verb, I dictate, is a predicate, but the subject is full of nouns. And pray, take heed, watch the objective of an adjective, or it’ll run the show like a clown.” Samantha clapped and the grammatical gnat bowed in appreciation. Then he stood erect and continued. “A verb and a noun will a sentence construct, but silence the blurb of a silly adverb or you’ll begin to sound like a duck.” He really was full of surprises. “The passive tense you must avoid, but can you avoid a void?”

  Samantha stared back at him with a vacant expression. The gnat was grinning, still with a twinkle in his eyes. “A void is nothing, is it not?” he said, twirling his cane like a baton. “It exists because the opposite, something, does not. Nothing, therefore, is dependent on something. But is not the definition of nothing the non-existence of something?” Samantha scratched her head and the gnat chuckled. “It is quite logical, is it not, to declare that something is nothing and nothing is something?”

  Samantha felt her mind go suddenly topsy-turvy. It seemed as though she couldn’t avoid a void. “Oh, dear,” she said. “My head is starting to spin.”

  The gnat continued to smile and twirl the cane. “The proper position of your apposition will help you avoid a void.” He suddenly pointed to the heavens with his cane, and said, “Kite gliding!” Samantha looked up to the cloudless sky, but could see no gliding kite. “Do you see, mar dear? With the proper position of your apposition, you will always avoid a void.”

  Samantha nodded, though if she were totally honest with herself she really didn’t have a clue as to what he meant.

  “And what is your name, mar pretty gal?” (“Mar purdy gaaaal” was actually what he said.)

  “Samantha B. Honeycomb,” she said.

  “Ah, Samantha, ‘tis a beautiful name: a rose for a rose.” He beamed a smile as wide as the golden river of sunflowers she had seen earlier from above. Magically, he reached behind her left antennae and conjured a miniature crimson rose on a long stem, then handed it to her.

  Samantha accepted the tiny replica with delight. It was perfect in every detail, from the thorns to the petals to the leaves. She asked his name.

  The gnat threw back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed, holding his plentiful belly. “Mar name, by fortune and fame, is none other than Gerald The Great. I am deeee-lighted to be at your service, ma-dam.” He bowed extravagantly. “I used to be Gerald The Gorgeous,” he said, now standing erect, “but mar wife has gone an’ lef’ me for another more gorgeous than I. I thought it was time a-proper to change mar name.”

  Samantha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but because he was smiling, so did she. Gerald tapped his cane three more times and said, “Now, mar purdy gal, what brings you into this untamed land?”

  Samantha told him of her banishment from the hive after spending a year in prison for breaking the ancient laws forbidding worker bees to enter the sacred heart of a rose. She also told him that the queen had offered her the chance to earn a pardon for her crimes, but that she was distraught because she feared she would never find the fabled hive of Beebylon, and that she would never be able to see her mother and father again. She had also broken her wing. It was a disaster. She didn’t know what to do.

  Gerald nodded thoughtfully and slowly twirled his cane. “Mar li’l honeybee,” he said, finally, “if I may be so bold as to say, it seems that your destiny is dependent upon one simple fact: whether or not you discover the true egg-zistence of a fable.”

  Saman
tha thought about it for a moment, a little confused. “What do you mean by destiny?”

  “Your destiny is your Bee Dream. It is that point at which you can be the best you can ever bee,” Gerald said, chuckling. “In your case, mar dear, Beebylon is your destiny, whether you find it or not.”

  To bee or not to bee, the old actress had said in her dream. Perhaps, Samantha thought, she had meant for her to seek out her destiny and be the best that she could bee. It sounded credible, though it was the first time she’d ever been told she was in possession of her own destiny, or Bee Dream, as Gerald The Great called it. In the hive, everyone’s destiny was the same, pretty much, except now he was telling her otherwise. She believed that things happened for a reason, but did that actually mean things happened to help her fulfil her Bee Dream, her destiny?

  It was certainly a lot to think about; and if it were true, there was just one small problem: she didn’t know where to begin. She didn’t even know in which direction to head. North, south, east or west, Beebylon could be anywhere. She now felt like one of the many dragonflies she had seen hovering over the goldfish pond near the hive, drifting this way and that, hither and thither, not knowing which way to go to next.

  “Fortunately, the Great Mother will always help you in your search to bee your best,” Gerald The Great said, somehow knowing what Samantha was thinking. “She speaks to every one of us in the Universal Language all creatures understand, and She gives us signs to follow so that we can fulfil our individual Bee Dream.”

  Samantha hadn’t paid it much consideration till now, but wasn’t it odd how she, a honeybee, could understand what gnats and blackbirds were saying, and vice versa? Though they were all different, they were somehow able to communicate with each another, as if every living creature spoke a common language. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she would bet a vat of honey that it had something to do with the Universal Language Gerald The Great was talking about.

  She also had a hunch she knew what he meant about signs from the Great Mother. Omens, her godmother had called them. She again recalled the river of golden sunflowers she’d seen when she’d woken. Bees adored flowers. Everyone knew that. Was the Great Mother using them to give direction, a sign to follow?

  “I believe I’m meant to follow the sunflowers to the lake,” she now said to Gerald The Great. “That’s where I’ll find my Bee Dream.”

  “And indeed you shall. Indeed you shall,” Gerald The Great said, laughing and tapping his cane on the soapbox, “as long as you follow the simple rule a wise old ladybird once taught me.” He cleared his throat, like an opera singer about to perform, and in a fine tenor voice, with his claw on his heart, began to sing.

  Follow your joy

  And you will know

  The way the ri-ver floh-ows.

  Follow your joy

  And you will see

  The best that you can be-e.

  Follow your joy

  And you will show

  The light the rest can fol-low

  Follow your joy

  Follow you joy

  Follow your joy-oy-oy

  He sang this once more, then said with a kindly chuckle, “‘Tis a noble quest to follow your path and be the best that you can bee. I wish you well.”

  To Samantha’s sudden disappointment, Gerald The Great stepped off his soapbox on which was written JOY and made ready to leave. She pleaded with him to stay.

  “I must go to wherever I’m called, mar li’l rose,” he said, smiling. He put his claw to his ear, listening to the faint sound of something carried on the wind. “Ah, can you hear? Someone is calling mar name.”

  Samantha couldn’t hear anything except the breeze through sunflower leaves and the grumble of her tummy.

  “You’ve been a most attentive audience and I thank you.” Gerald The Great took a bow and bade her farewell, but just as he was about to disappear from view he turned around and said, “Remember two things, Samantha. Firstly, the Great Mother is always trying to help you to bee your best. And secondly, if you don’t know to which flower you wish to fly, then no wind is helpful.” Then he turned and vanished behind a sunflower stem.

  Samantha began to hum the tune that he had just taught her. She now had direction, a purpose: she needed to get to the lake and find Beebylon. She felt a deep joy at the thought of it, a feeling that welled up from deep down inside her. She cocked her head and held her claw to her ear like Gerald The Great. “Samantha! Come hither!” she heard on the westerly wind, ever so softly. “Samantha!”

  It worked! It was as though the Great Mother was calling her from the lake! She laughed and clapped excitedly. The miniature crimson rose, she suddenly noticed, had vanished into thin air, like Gerald The Great. Perhaps it was another sign. If she didn’t follow the omens, her Bee Dream would vanish too.

  She began heading toward the lake, wondering if, just maybe, Beebylon was as wonderful and magical as it sounded.

  SAMANTHA WAS KIND of glad to be walking in the cool shade of the sunflowers instead of flying above them in the direct heat of the sun. Not that she had a choice; it would be weeks before her wing was healed.

  She pondered the reason why it had broken. She knew how it had happened, but the how and the why of things were two completely different vats of honey. It was quite easy to get the two mixed up. Breaking her wing was a simple case of cause and effect: she had collided with the sunflower (the cause), and her wing had snapped (the effect). That wasn’t why she had broken it, though. Only the Great Mother knew that at this particular moment, and although she didn’t know the reason herself, Samantha was content to let it be. One day she would understand the why of it.

  She plodded on for most of the morning, following the sunflowers toward the lake. She whiled away the time humming the Song of Joy, or just watching the blackbirds fly high overhead, or simply enjoying the freedom of walking. Since the encounter with Gerald The Great, her fear had greatly diminished. She more than suspected that the tales of the Crazy Lands were greatly exaggerated; she had seen no evidence to support the frightening accounts, no beast tracks in the dirt, no ravaged carcasses or flesh-picked exoskeletons. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a lot of anything out here except sunflowers, and she began to wonder whether she would walk all day without meeting anyone else.

  As the sun approached its peak, she began to tire, though decided to carry on a little bit further before looking for a place to rest. At that moment, she heard someone talking loudly to themselves up ahead, behind one of the sunflower stems. “One step, two steps, three steps, four, five steps, six steps, seven steps more.”

  Samantha hurried into a small clearing and saw an orange caterpillar running (or walking very quickly, Samantha couldn’t tell) around and around a large white teapot with purple polka dots, counting her steps as she went. A ring of flattened grass encircled the pot, and, as with the soapbox on which Gerald The Great had delivered his fabulous sermon, something was inscribed on it:

  SECURITY

  Furthermore, not too far from the teapot was a colourless tube-like thing that Samantha hadn’t a clue as to what it was. It was about the same size as the caterpillar, and wrinkly, very wrinkly, like some of the old drones her father knew. It was also extremely thin, as thin as the membrane of a bee wing.

  “One step, two steps, three steps, four, five steps, six steps, seven steps more,” the caterpillar said, over and over.

  Samantha was dizzy just watching her. The caterpillar had so many feet and they moved so fast, she wasn’t sure how she could keep count. Samantha wandered closer, watching and waiting to see if she could grab a moment to talk to her. The caterpillar completed another lap, and still Samantha waited. After another five minutes, it was becoming obvious she wouldn’t get the opportunity she wanted; the caterpillar hadn’t slowed, nor even looked as if she were going to.

  “One step, two steps, three steps, four,” said the caterpillar at the beginning of each lap, “five steps, six steps, seven steps mor
e.”

  The caterpillar was so busy she probably didn’t have the time to eat. “Excuse me, miss,” Samantha said, but there was no response, not even a twitch of an antenna. She repeated herself, this time a little louder. Again there was no response. “Excuse me!” she shouted at the top of her voice.

  The caterpillar stopped in her tracks, none too happy at having her routine interrupted. Scrutinising Samantha up and down, unsure as what to make of her, she said, “Who and what might you be?”

  Slightly embarrassed at the question, Samantha introduced herself, then added, “I’m a honeybee.”

  “I see,” said the caterpillar, coming to examine Samantha a little closer. She was quite thorough too, feeling her all over like a nursery maid would inspect a newborn grub. Samantha stood still, thinking it rude not to let the caterpillar touch her. Maybe it was the way caterpillars communicated.

  “We may look different, but I wouldn’t say we’re that dissimilar,” the caterpillar said in a thoughtful tone, feeling Samantha’s left antennae. Then she felt Samantha’s head. “We both have exoskeletons to protect us, though mine isn’t as hard as yours, and we both have antennae to detect vibrations and eyes to see,” she said, speaking more to herself than to Samantha. “We also have limbs to move about and to pick things up with, except I have fourteen and you have six.” She then moved around to examine Samantha’s back. “Do all honeybees have these?” she asked, and grabbed Samantha’s broken wing.