by Tony Bradman
“Jess, it’s Dad.”
The door squeaked open.
“Jess, please listen to me.”
She stared into the white blurry pillowcase, imagining white-blue ice floes, the milky bodies of the belugas.
Dad pulled the pillow away.
“Your mother and I thought you’d like it here,” he said.
“I do,” Jess noticed how tight his brow was. “It’s great.”
“I know you think your mother goes on at you, and maybe she does a bit – sometimes. But we both want what’s best for you. Everything is so expensive nowadays. A steady, well-paid career is more important than ever.”
“So it’s got nothing to do with you both wanting to live through me?”
Dad sighed. “Your mum believes becoming a marine biologist isn’t the safest bet, and I happen to agree. But all we really want is for you to be happy.”
“Well, I’m not happy.” As soon as Jess said it, she knew it was true. But I would be if I could make you see how important this is to me. Now she’d seen the whales and learned about them, something had filled a gap in her life that she hadn’t even realised had been there. If only she could help the whales and please her parents.
“Oh, Jess.” Dad took a deep breath. “I believe mankind will find an answer to this climate change business. That the damage we’ve done can be sorted. I have great faith in that.”
“You really believe if you sit back and do nothing, then it will be OK?”
“There’s nothing one person can do.” He rose from the bed, indicating the conversation was over. Soon enough, she heard him leave.
Jess burrowed back underneath her pillow. When they came up, much later, she pretended to be asleep. She stared into the darkness under the covers, felt the cold patches with her feet like the belugas must in the ocean with their fins, and whilst the doomed animals uttered music she uttered the muffled human noise of tears.
Hank soared their tiny raft out of the river and into the open waters of Hudson Bay. Jess shifted a little and accidentally elbowed Mum.
“Watch it, Jess.” Mum was as pale as the belugas; she had never liked swimming in open water and was nervous about the snorkelling. It was making her foul mood worse.
“Liz, please,” Dad said. “Not in public.”
Jess’s anger faded to irritation. If she wanted them both to see how important climate change was, she had to show them on this holiday. If she waited until they caught the train to Toronto later in the week, they’d have forgotten all about this.
“OK, we’re here,” Hank anchored the raft in place. “Listen carefully to the boring safety talk, please.”
Hank explained the final part of their whale-watching experience – entering the water one-by-one to experience a close encounter with the belugas. He held up the long rope that trailed from their raft and explained that the currents were strong and they must hold on to it the whole time they were underwater. The belugas were inquisitive, like cats, and would come very close to them but would not attack. Yes, they could touch them.
When he asked who would like to go first, Jess jumped at the chance. She slid on her snorkel, gripped the rope tightly and dropped into the water.
Submerged, she opened her eyes and through the greenish glow she heard the sea canaries singing. Their lilting sounds filled the ocean in a complex orchestra. As her eyes grew accustomed to the murky water, she saw them – four white cylindrical shapes that glowed eerily in the dim light.
She pulled out her snorkel and whispered her own cooing noises to them. Soon, a beluga swam closer, until it was staring into her goggles with its black eyes. She reached out to touch it, but it was gone. She blinked and stared into the suddenly empty space in front of her, and pushed to the surface of the water.
“You were down there for over two minutes!” Hank said.
“She was born with gills,” Dad joked. “How was it, Jess?”
“Amazing,” Jess breathed, as they helped her back into the raft.
“OK,” Hank said. “Who’s next?”
“My wife,” Dad said, with a wicked grin.
“No!” Mum waved her hands. “I’ll go last. I’m not really sure it’s such a good idea, after all. I might pass altogether.”
“You’ll be fine.” Jess patted Mum’s shoulder. Maybe if she could make her see how beautiful the whales are, she might be more sympathetic to their predicament. “Go on, you’ll enjoy it.”
Mum slid towards the edge of the raft, hesitantly. “Not if I’ve got to put my head under the water.”
“That’s the whole idea. Don’t be such a wimp!” Jess said.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” Mum gripped the rope tightly and pushed herself over the edge and into the sea. She bobbed there for what seemed like ages.
“Go on, Mum! Other people want their turn, too.”
Mum ducked her head under and, to Jess’s surprise, stayed there for a good few seconds. She briefly emerged, smiling, before ducking down again. Jess watched the white shapes of the belugas under the surface of the water, her mum’s snorkel at the top of the ocean all the time. She watched as Mum reached out and touched the smooth face of a whale. Everyone gasped. Mum’s head sprung out of the water. She was grinning widely.
“I actually touched one!” she cried. “It was amazing. It felt so smooth. It was brilliant! Absolutely amazing! Did you get a photo?”
“Yes,” Dad said, patting his camera.
Dad and Hank helped her back into the boat.
Mum turned to Jess slowly. “The belugas here, they will be OK, won’t they?”
“If they stick close to the estuary they will. If they wander further out into Hudson Bay, they might not be, because there’s less food and less foraging space. In other parts of Canada, and the world, belugas are in serious trouble.”
“That’s really awful, the poor things.” Mum squeezed water from her hair and glanced at Jess. “Sorry I’ve been a bit off with you. I didn’t mean to be.”
“It’s OK.”
“No, it was wrong.”
“We’re both sorry.” Dad glanced away and watched another member of their group descend the rope into the ocean.
There was never going to be a better time to push her point forward. “Swimming with the whales has been the best part of our holiday so far. It wouldn’t have been the same without them.”
“You can say that again. It was just the most incredible experience.” Mum regarded Jess steadily. “OK, sweetie, you win. You taught your father and me something. We’ll switch off the heating in the evenings. We’ll try to cut down on how often we use the car. Satisfied?”
Jess couldn’t help it. “Not quite.”
“We’ll make a donation to a marine charity of your choice,” Dad said in the joking and relaxed tone he always used when they were coming to the end of an argument.
“Giving money to a charity only helps for a little while.” Jess refused to be swayed away from the seriousness of it all yet. “It doesn’t help in the long term. That’s why I want to become a marine biologist when I’m older – so I can really make a difference to the future of all marine animals. You won’t change my mind.”
Mum took a deep breath and Jess hugged herself, anticipating a new row. She was relieved when Mum shrugged. “OK, if that’s what you want. I suppose it’s not a bad life being a scientist nowadays. You can even get on the TV; there’s always an environment programme on. And you’ll become the first person ever in our family to get a PhD. Imagine that! Dr Jessica Emily Watson!”
Jess rolled her eyes. Mum was off again. But at least this time, she wasn’t going all dreamy about her being stuffed inside a boring courtroom all day long. At least this time, she was right behind the cause, and what Jess wanted.
Jess closed her eyes against the sharp wind and let her mind wander back to her time in the water with the sea canaries, until all she heard was the complex music of their chatter under the heavy sheets of water.
As Busy As...
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by Francis McCrickard
Britain; Zambia; the USA: the story takes place in all three. The effects of climate change are not confined to one country. It affects us all. Perhaps the three children in this story will grow to understand that we need to take more care of our world including its bees.
When I was a child, there were meadows close to my home. We spent all the long summer days in them. There was loud music played by thousands of bees. Flowers of many colours danced to this music. Recently, I stood in a wildflower meadow and listened and heard only faint music.
Flat on his stomach in the long grass, Joseph pulled himself forward using his elbows. He was a special agent on a secret mission deep in enemy territory. Many people’s lives depended on him. Failure was not an option.
“That’s far enough, class. Now stay as still as you can and watch closely.”
They were sending in Apache Attack helicopters. The aircraft flew fast and low, then hovered, seeking Joseph out. One of them was landing.
“It’s collecting nectar from the flower. That’s a harebell.”
Joseph watched the Apache Attack helicopter almost disappear into the harebell.
The whole of Year Six and Miss Sanderson were lying on their stomachs at the edge of the school wildflower garden they had sown the autumn before.
“What’s nectar, Miss?”
“A sugary liquid that the bee makes honey from. Look, can you see that little stick-thing on its head?”
Joseph loved honey. He watched the long-barrelled gun of the Apache Attack helicopter going into another flower.
“That’s its proboscis; its tongue. It’s a thin tube that the bee uses to collect the nectar. Then it carries the nectar back to the hive in its stomach and puts it in the honeycomb. It’s food for the bee and its young and it’s food for us.”
“What are the little yellow sacks I can see on its legs?”
“Ah, well spotted. On its back legs. The bee collects pollen in those sacks.”
Miss Sanderson bent the stem of one of the flowers that hadn’t got a bee on it and pointed inside its petals.
“See these bits?”
She touched the anthers with her little finger and showed them the fine yellow dust.
“That’s pollen. The anthers are the male bit of the flower and when the bee goes to other harebells, some of the pollen is wiped off its legs and on to this bit of the flower.” She pointed inside the flower again. “That’s the female bit, the stigma. And that’s how seeds and fruits and vegetables are made. It’s called pollination and it’s very important. A lot of our food comes from pollination. If the bees and other insects and birds and the wind didn’t spread the pollen, we wouldn’t have much to eat.”
Joseph aimed his high velocity finger at one of the bees that had settled on a tall ox-eye daisy. He squeezed the trigger. The bee flew off and the flower shuddered. Joseph edged backwards slowly through the grass – mission accomplished.
All the class enjoyed watching the DVD again. Miss Sanderson had said they could because it was such a cold and dull February day and everyone needed to be reminded that soon the weather would change, the wildflower garden would start to show its beautiful colours once more and the bees would be busy again.
The following morning at breakfast, Joseph held the spoon high above the plate and tried to draw patterns with the dripping honey on his toast. He wanted to make a capital J but the honey was so runny that it trickled everywhere and the J was more like an A when he finished. With the back of the spoon, Joseph spread the honey to all the four edges of the bread. He always did this before taking his first bite.
Joseph loved honey and loved the fact that Apache Attack helicopters make it. He had eaten lavender honey from Yorkshire; orchard honey from Herefordshire; clover honey from West Wales; heather honey from Scotland; orange blossom honey from Mexico and eucalyptus honey from Argentina. The honey was still dripping from his spoon but missed his toast and his plate and the table and dribbled down the front of his school shirt. It was almond blossom honey that his Auntie Helen brought him from California.
Daisy Brenkle climbed out of the pick-up and scanned the orchard that covered one side of the gently sloping Californian valley. She followed her father, running to keep up with his long, confident stride, as he zigzagged among the almond trees. Daisy wanted him to stop. She had something important to tell him. This was one of the best days in the year, the day the first almond flowers opened on the thousands of trees on their California farm. She loved this day, especially the beauty of the blossom, but this year it was different. The blossom was early and something was missing.
“Pop, please ... slow down!” She gripped his belt with both hands and dug her heels into the dirt, “Whoah!”
Frank Brenkle pulled his daughter for a few more steps and then stopped and turned. “Daisy, I have work to do. What is it?”
“Listen, Pop. Listen.”
Frank stood still for a moment. They looked down the rows of trees. The branches were the usual blizzard of white, but it was quiet, too quiet.
“Where are the bees, Pop?”
It was as if she had hit her father with a hammer. Now he listened, listened hard. There should be wild bees around; there always were before they brought in the hives. Frank had heard of this problem but had ignored it. That was his nature. Everything would turn out OK in the end. His stride was different now. He walked on quickly, but with short, stuttering steps, almost stumbling at times. Daisy sat against the trunk of one of the trees. She heard her father talking to himself at the top of his voice.
“Can’t hear a thing! Not one of them! Never thought to listen before! Stupid! Not a buzz ... can’t be ... not one.”
Fifteen minutes later, he returned to where Daisy was. She stood up and shielded her eyes from the sun.
“When are the hives coming, Pop?”
“Bill Campbell’s on his way, Daisy, but he’s got problems too.” Frank Brenkle sat down beside his daughter. “I’ve been burying my head in the sand, Daisy. Something’s happening. Something’s changing.”
Emmanuel Chinunda walked slowly to school in the middle of the riverbed. There was only a trickle of water. At the start of the rainy season, things had looked good with regular, steady rain each day. Then, the drought had come and it had been a terrible growing season. If rain didn’t fall soon, there would be very little to harvest. The crops, especially maize, were already wasting. Emmanuel’s family still had food but supplies were getting low. There had been bad years before in their village in Zambia, years when the family went hungry for weeks, but his father said that this year was the worst.
“I can’t read the sky any more.”
Emmanuel’s mother had given him a nickname: nkulumushi, the blue lizard. She called him this because the lizard runs in straight lines quickly and so it was with her son. He made up his mind quickly and did things without too much thought. After school, Emmanuel ran home. Something sweet would cheer everyone up. An uncle had told him stories of bee-hunters who went deep into the forest to find hives and came back with buckets full of honey. He knew it was no good to simply search. You could hunt all day and lose your way without finding the precious treasure. Some people followed a bird, the honey-guide, but Emmanuel didn’t know that bird. There was another way.
Emmanuel took the small, wooden box with the hinged door that he and his sisters used to keep mice in. Then, he found a large, empty milk powder tin, punched two holes just below the rim and fastened a string handle through the holes. There was one more thing to do and then he was ready to hunt.
Emmanuel put sugar on the tin lid and added a little hot water. He put the box on its side so that the door was on top, placed the lid inside and carried them to his parents’ garden. The bees were busiest among the squashes and pumpkins and that’s where he placed the box. Very quickly they swarmed over the sugar syrup on the lid. When Emmanuel saw that plenty of them were inside, he closed the lid and trapped the bees.
He took a deep breath and, carefully, opened the lid a fraction and allowed one bee to get out. He watched closely as it rose, made a circle and then flew east along the river towards Emmanuel’s school. Emmanuel ran after it carrying the box of angry, buzzing bees. He quickly lost sight of that first bee but he knew it had gone just beyond the school at the back of Mr. Pikiti’s store. Emmanuel released another bee and did the same, running and watching until it was out of sight and then walking to the last point he had seen it. He was so excited and so keen to find honey, that he didn’t realise how long the hunt was taking and how low the sun was getting. He followed the bees past St Charles Lwanga church, two miles along the bank of the river and then away from the river, past Masongola village. Emmanuel was off the forest paths now. Thorn bushes pulled at his clothes and scratched his skin. The bees led him up Isubilo Hill where long ago a battle had been fought between his tribe and people from the south. He released another bee at the top and it led him down the slope to meet the river again after it wound slowly around the foot of the hill.
When Emmanuel had released seventeen bees, he found the hive. He was in a part of the forest that he had never seen before, and he felt a little anxious. His parents might be looking for him. His father would be angry. He should have helped them in the garden that afternoon. He looked at the sun; there was perhaps an hour and a half before the dark drew its curtain quickly over the land.
Emmanuel released the rest of the bees and they disappeared inside a hole high in a baobab, the tree that God had thrown out of his garden. It had landed upside down, its roots in the air, but still grew. There were no branches close to the ground that Emmanuel could pull himself up by. He sharpened short sticks with his knife and pushed them into the soft bark making footholds to get him up into the branches. When he had enough footholds, he climbed back down, picked clumps of dry grass, twisted them into several tight bundles along with some green vegetation, pushed them inside the belt that held up his shorts and climbed back up with his milk powder tin.