“SCIENCE IS GOD! SCIENCE IS GOD!” the ants chanted. Like a drop of icy water, a chill slid down Samantha’s wings all the way to her stinger. “HAIL THE PROPHET PROCRUSTE! LONG LIVE THE PROPHET PROCRUSTE!”
The ants stamped their feet and punched the air, spraying perfume and screaming wildly. Several minutes later, and several more arrests, the hall settled and the ants took their seats. Then the courses were served, gastronomic delicacies from the four corners of the known world. Samantha stared at the food, ravenous. It had been many, many months since she had feasted on such a meal.
“Why don’t you try some of this fruit pudding? It’s delicious,” she said to Lizzie, who had asked the waiters simply for a cabbage leaf and a stalk of asparagus.
“No, I simply couldn’t,” Lizzie said, staring at the pile of food on the plate. “Too many calories.”
Samantha wondered why she was so afraid of putting on weight. To her limited but serviceable knowledge, caterpillars needed to get fat to survive the period of fasting during pupation. Samantha let it be, and began tucking into her delightful meal.
The celebrations continued on. The ants drank copious amounts of an intoxicating beverage they called antwine, and to raucous delight a six-piece jazz band began to play. The volume in the hall increased to the levels only previously matched by the maddening chants of “Science is God!” But it was a disorderly din. Hither and thither fights broke out around the hall. At one point, on the far side, fifty or more ants became involved in a brawl that had to be cordoned off by the guards to prevent it from spilling into the rest of the crowd. The guards simply waited until most had beaten themselves senseless and then dragged them out of the hall, to where Samantha didn’t know. Procruste ate at the royal table with his wives, watching the events with a muted expression, and the band played on.
The wildness soon spread to Dr. 1754325Z and the other ants sitting nearby. A drunken ant vomited on the tomato salad and tortilla dips, and someone threw a bagel at his head. Within seconds a food fight erupted, during which the drunken ant passed out into his vegetable soup, then slumped to the floor. No one bothered to offer any assistance, and the band played on.
“Isn’t this fun?” Dr. 1754325Z shouted above the hubbub. “I just love the Silly Season!” She swayed over to another drunken ant (another doctor whom Samantha and Lizzie had been introduced to as Dr. 5689214G) and sat in his lap, giggling like a little grub. After a while, arm in arm, they staggered out of the Great Hall, leaving Samantha and Lizzie to enjoy the festivities.
Less than five minutes later, with food flying past her antennae and green antwine sloshing on her overalls, Samantha stood up and told Lizzie that she’d seen enough of the Silly Season. She wanted to return to their lodgings. Lizzie agreed.
Their two guards met them at the entrance and escorted them away. As they went, the drunken revelry and tuneless jazz songs followed them almost every step of the way to their room (all nine hundred and sixty four of them, according to Lizzie).
Neither wished to see such a sight again.
WHEN LIZZIE STIRRED the next morning, Samantha was already up and dressed in a clean pair of overalls, pacing the floor.
“What’s the matter?” Lizzie asked, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve never seen you so worried.”
Samantha stopped pacing. Through the door she could hear the muffled chants of more sewing songs. They had continued without pause through the whole night and even woke her up on one occasion.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter?” she said. “Our door is still locked and the guards are still outside. We’re being kept in here against our will. I know you know something. Don’t tell me you don’t.”
Lizzie eyed one of her bandaged legs and began fiddling with a loose strand of cotton. “You’re right. I should have told you from the start,” she said. “They brought us here because we don’t have the right documentation for passing through their territory. They think we’re working for the enemy.”
Samantha just stared at her, taking a moment to absorb what she’d heard.
“I told them we were only travellers on our way to Beebylon and didn’t know that documentation was required,” Lizzie continued. “I also told them that we didn’t even know who the enemy was, but they didn’t believe me. They said that Beebylon was a fable. It didn’t exist.”
Samantha paced around some more. “Are you saying that we’re prisoners of war?”
“Not exactly. The ants are at war, but it isn’t what you think.”
Just then the lock turned and an ant entered carrying a clipboard. A pencil was slotted behind her antenna, and at first glance Samantha thought it was the doctor. “Why are you detaining us like prisoners?” Samantha asked.
The ant held up her claw in a gesture of silence and sprayed a perfume that smelled of ginger. She didn’t bother to rub antennae with Lizzie or Samantha. “I am not Dr. 1754325Z,” she said abruptly. “My name is Sector Manager 8473991B. We look identical because we share the same genes. We’re both from the same Clone Mother.”
Samantha cocked her antennae. Clones? Now she understood why it was so difficult to tell them apart, and why they spoke with the same melodic tone of voice.
“All the ants in the nest are clones of either the Clone Father or the Clone Mother,” Sector Manager 8473991B continued. “We are all genetically perfect and identical. Our fabulous leader, the magnificent Procruste Ant, invented the cloning technique after receiving a vision in his dream. We praise him for our perfect lives.”
“What happened to Dr. 1754325Z? Why is she not attending us?” Samantha asked.
“Dr. 1754325Z has been reassigned,” the sector manager said with a noncommittal smirk. “I am now responsible for your integration.” Then she faced the door and said, “Bring it in!”
Two ants dragged in a large hemp sack and dumped it at the foot of the mysterious wooden machine. Sector Manager 8473991B looked at her watch. “It is now 0900 hours precisely,” she said, removing the pencil from behind her antenna and recording the time on the clipboard. “You have until 0900 hours tomorrow to complete your task. We will then assess your entitlement for further privileges.”
“Just wait one minute,” Samantha said. “You’ve got no right to hold us prisoners. We’re not involved in your war.”
Sector Manager 8473991B held up her claw for silence, and sprayed some more ginger perfume. “I suggest you hold your tongue, Miss Honeycomb. Time is ticking, and time is honey.”
With that, she left.
IT WAS A while before Lizzie stopped crying and Samantha could get a sentence out of her without a flood of tears. “I’m so sorry,” Lizzie said, wiping her eyes with the back of her claw. “It’s all my fault. I should never have come with you on this journey.”
“That’s just plain nonsense, Lizzie McCoon,” Samantha said. She sat on the bed and put her arms around Lizzie’s shoulder. “You’ve been ever so brave.”
“I just feel so bad.”
Lizzie’s comment reminded Samantha of something Gerald The Great had said. It seemed such a long time ago, but in fact was only days. “Kite gliding!” she said, and pointed to the whitewashed ceiling.
Lizzie followed her gaze, then turned back to Samantha. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, “just something I learned on my travels. Anyway, you mustn’t blame yourself for what’s happened. Things happen for a reason.”
Lizzie sniffled twice and said, “I wish I had your faith. Then things would be so much easier.”
Samantha wasn’t so sure. Lizzie had forgotten she’d spent a year in prison and was exiled to the Crazy Lands for her beliefs. Just because she had faith didn’t mean that her life was easier. In fact, the stronger her faith had become, the more she’d had to endure. She told Lizzie as such. “Take our situation now, for instance,” she said.
“What about it? We’re prisoners of war,” Lizzie said, scratching an arm. “We’re going to be here until we die of o
ld age or get executed as spies.” She burst into tears again.
The very same thought had passed through Samantha’s mind not so long ago. She was reminded of an old parable. A wise master and her disciple were sitting on a water lily in the middle of a pond discussing the nature of life and the mysteries of the Great Mother. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a wild storm blew across the pond. It was too dangerous for them to buzz away, so they decided to ride it out clinging to the lily. The disciple began to fret as the waves became bigger and bigger.
She then yelled out, “Why has the Great Mother made me suffer this storm? Why has she done this to me?” The disciple then let go of the lily to buzz away, but was swept into the pond by a large wave, where she drowned.
The wise master, on the other hand, never once asked why she was made to suffer. All she did was pray that the Great Mother help her through the troubles. Soon after, the storm abated and the wise master buzzed back to the hive. Along the way, she saw the bodies of hundreds of wasps floating in the pond. If it hadn’t been for the storm, she and the hive would have been attacked and many would have died. Without asking, she had learnt the reason why.
Lizzie sniffled again, then said, “What do we do in the meantime?”
Samantha glanced around the room. “Why don’t we see what’s inside the sack?”
She loosened the thread tying the sack’s upper ends. Immediately, white fluffy stuff spilled onto the floor. “Cotton,” Lizzie said, picking it up and teasing the fibres.
“Are you sure?” Samantha asked.
“Of course. I’m a caterpillar. Trust me.” She gave Samantha a coy wink. “And I’m pretty sure I know what we’re supposed to do with it, too.”
Lizzie sat down on the strange machine’s inbuilt stool. “This is called a spinning wheel,” she said. “My family runs a silk factory in the Old Country, where I’m from. Have you heard of McCoon Silk Industries? That’s ours. Anyway, we have hundreds of these machines to spin silk for export all around the world. I’m sure spinning cotton is very similar.”
Samantha said, “Really, Lizzie, you are full of surprises. How do we do it? I’ve never seen such a bizarre contraption.”
Lizzie gave Samantha a crash course in the use of a spinning wheel. There were lots of parts and names she had to remember, things like flywheel, footman, drive band, spindle, and pedal (which Lizzie called a treadle). There was more. “This U-shaped piece of wood is called the flyer,” Lizzie said, and pointed to it. “The flyer has hooks to store the yarn evenly on the bobbin when we spin it. It’s what gives the twist to the fibre. I’ll give you a demonstration of how the whole thing works.”
Lizzie grabbed the cord that had tied the sack together. “We’ll need this for our leader thread,” she said, and tied one end to the centre of the bobbin. “You’ll see in a minute what it’s for.”
She threaded the rest of the leader through the hooks on one side of the flyer, then stuck the free end through an opening in the spindle she called the orifice. “I prefer to tie a loop on the end of my leader so that the fibre holds firm,” she said, gently teasing some cotton and threading it into the loop. Then she looked up at Samantha. “Now we’re ready to start spinning.”
Samantha watched Lizzie depress the treadle. The footman plunged and the flywheel turned. The whole contraption was soon a blur of spinning parts, the whirring flyer pulling the cotton into the orifice, twisting its fibres and spooling the yarn onto the bobbin. After a minute or two, Lizzie stopped pedalling (or treadling, as she called it) and inspected the result. The machine slowed to a halt.
“That’s amazing,” Samantha said. “So this is how they make thread for sewing.”
“One way,” Lizzie said. “Would you like to give it a go?”
Samantha traded places with Lizzie and began spinning the cotton. It wasn’t as easy as it first appeared. Sometimes the cotton broke because she was treadling too fast, which then had to be mended. Sometimes the yarn slipped on the bobbin and the wheel brake had to be tightened.
“Soon you’ll be a master,” Lizzie said. “We’ll have this whole sack spun before dinner time.”
Throughout the day they took shifts at sitting at the wheel, and although Lizzie’s prediction was a slight underestimation of the time required to finish the work, the last of the cotton spun onto the bobbin around midnight. Samantha collapsed onto her bed, exhausted but a little proud of their achievement, and slept a dreamless sleep.
SECTOR MANAGER 8473991B was full of praise the next morning. Smiling widely, she eyed the spun cotton and the empty hemp sack. “This is simply wonderful,” she said, recording data onto her clipboard and spraying a fabulous perfume of concentrated vanilla from her belt. Samantha was excited just smelling it, kind of how lavender made her feel, almost kind of drunk.
“You have an efficiency rating of 0.98,” said the sector manager. “This is simply incredible. I have never seen such feat. Wait until our eminent leader hears of this. Your privilege entitlements will surely increase.”
“Does that mean we can go for a walk outside?” Samantha asked, hoping to catch the sector manager in a generous mood. She was also thinking of escape. “Bees and caterpillars need sunshine to keep working.”
Sector Manager 8473991B scratched the top of her head with the pencil. “I’m not sure if that can be arranged,” she said. “You need to have at least one hundred efficiency points before you can mingle with the other POWs outside. But I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I want you to spin some more cotton.”
This time, not one, but two sacks were heaved into the room. Despondent, Samantha just stared at them.
“Come now,” the sector manager said, spraying a perfume that smelled of sweetened coconut, “don’t look so glum. You have both been so efficient it’s only logical to increase your workload. The war effort depends on it.” Then she went to the door. “I’ll be back at precisely 0900 hours tomorrow. Now, chop, chop! Get to work. Time is ticking, and time is honey.”
For all that day and all that night, Samantha and Lizzie worked, stopping only to change shifts. They ate on the job, and improved their efficiency rating from the previous day. While one sat at the wheel and treadled, the other teased and readied the cotton, fixing any snags and urging the other on when she tired. By the time they could hear the changing of the morning guard outside their door at six o’clock, the last of the cotton was spun. They barely had three hours sleep before they were woken.
“This is just un-be-lievable,” the sector manager said, scribbling on the clipboard. “Simply un-be-lievable. Together you have an efficiency rating of 3.04, which equates to 1.52 each.” Spraying some vanilla perfume, she looked up at Samantha and Lizzie, who were barely able to keep their eyes open. “That means you’re able to perform one and a half times the work of our most efficient ant. You’ve set a new benchmark, something to be proud of.”
“Does that mean we can have a day off?” asked Samantha, her voice as weary as her eyes.
Sector Manager 8473991B was again scribbling on the clipboard. “What? Yes, of course. Today is Cloneday, the day of rest. On the old calendar it used to be called Sunday. Enjoy it while you can.”
They spent the day sleeping. Then the work was piled on the floor again. That week, they spun yards and yards of cotton thread, working long into the nights and waking early before the worms every day – Workday, Sewday, Spinday, Songday, Antday, Procrusteday – until finally Cloneday arrived once again and Samantha could rest her weary body and Lizzie could take the weight off her many feet. The sector manager informed them that their efficiency rating had improved even more and that she had received a promotion, to a 3-star Sector Manager. She proudly displayed the new stars sewn to the strap of her overalls and told them she was hoping to make it to 5-star rating within four years. Then she would be eligible for a regional managership, maybe even an entire anthill, who could tell, the world was at her feet. She presented Samantha and Lizzie with a reward for setting a new efficiency record.
“Honeydew,” the sector manager said, handing a bowl of little green candy to Samantha. “Go on, try one. The aphids in the lower basement make them.” She shook her head, her mind somewhere else. “Irritating things, those aphids. Always getting the unions involved and going on strike. Not very efficient at all.” Then she looked up, smiling. “Make damn good honeydew, though. It’s not quite the real thing, it isn’t honey, but it’s an adequate substitute, especially in times of war.” Samantha tasted one and agreed it wasn’t too bad at all. Lizzie politely declined. “I bet you didn’t know that antwine is made from fermented honeydew, either,” said the sector manager, and paused, as if remembering something important. “Oh, I nearly forgot the main thing.”
Samantha and Lizzie shared inquisitive glances as six ants carried in a large cardboard box and set about removing its contents. “What do you think of your new spinning wheel?” she asked.
Samantha and Lizzie eyed the recent addition to the room. It was identical to the old wheel in every detail. Samantha said nothing. Lizzie just scratched the side of her face.
“With two machines your efficiency rating will get even better,” Sector Manager 8473991B said. She looked very pleased with herself, like someone who had just done them a big favour. “Consequently, I have ordered three sacks of cotton to be delivered. They should be arriving shortly.”
Samantha felt her heart sink into her belly. Her antennae sagged and her wings flopped to her sides. Not even the bowl of honeydew candy could cheer her up.
The sector manager then left, claiming she was late for a very important meeting. She was expecting to receive a framed certificate for Manager of the Month.
The three sacks of cotton were duly delivered and Samantha and Lizzie set to work. Samantha took the new machine, Lizzie the old, and by two o’clock the next morning they were finally able to slip between the stiff, starched sheets and rest their heads on the hard pillows. Every muscle in Samantha’s body ached, but she was soon asleep and dreaming of a magical hive where honey dripped from the walls and nobody got sick.
Samantha Honeycomb Page 7