LIKE HER TIME in prison, the weeks passed like an ageing snail. Samantha knew escape wasn’t going to be possible until her wings had healed, so she kept spinning cotton and dreaming up escape plans. When the doctors finally did remove the plaster, Samantha was disappointed to see that her wings had withered and stiffened due to inactivity. She told herself that it was just a minor setback, and resolved to make them even stronger than they’d been before they were broken. She adhered to a strict regime of flapping exercises before and after she had finished her work. She even started doing push-ups and sit-ups and lots of other ‘up’ things that drove Lizzie crazy.
“Do you have to do that?” Lizzie asked one morning, lifting her head off her pillow. Her eyes were heavy and full of sleep.
Samantha was buzzing up and down on the spot, up to the ceiling and back to the floor, up and down, up and down, over and over again. Lizzie watched in disgust, then pulled the pillow over her head and went back to sleep. Samantha didn’t stop. She was determined to be ready for any opportunity to escape.
As the days passed, Lizzie began to complain of a peculiar itch all over her body. The ant doctors simply put it down to nerves and told her not to worry so much. It wasn’t the first time that she’d had it, she told them, but they just reiterated what they’d said. Her appetite too, had increased, as had, Samantha noticed, her waistline. The bowl of honeydew candy now had a permanent place next to Lizzie’s spinning wheel and required constant refilling. Samantha wondered why she’d given up on her diet, but didn’t ask.
“What do they want with all this thread?” Lizzie said one day while seated at her machine. She was sucking on candy from the bowl and scratching her arm.
“Beats me,” Samantha said, also seated at her machine. She was doing some low-impact wing exercises while she worked. “They must need it for the war. Perhaps they use it to make more overalls or trade it for honey.” She eyed the boxes stacked against the wall. There were dozens of them, each containing twenty spools of thread. She returned to her work and low-impact wing exercises. She had other things to worry about, like escape.
On the seventh Antday of their capture, Sector Manager 8473991B arrived with an order from the Venerable Leader, the magnificent Procruste Ant. Samantha and Lizzie’s efficiency rating had soared to 2.1 and news of their incredible feats had spun its way to the very top.
“In recognition of the contribution to the war effort,” the sector manager said, reading from an official scroll, “it is hereby granted, by decree of His Excellency, the Most Splendid Procruste Ant, to Miss Samantha B. Honeycomb and Miss Lizzie McCoon, the rank of Special Citizen Second Class, effective immediately on this the 53rd day in the year of our Leader, 49.”
Samantha desperately hoped that this signified something good, like an end to their imprisonment. She gave Lizzie, who was looking ever so impressed with their new title, an optimistic smile.
Sector Manager 8473991B began rolling up the scroll. She explained that Special Citizen Second Class was the highest possible rank allowable in the constitution for any non-ant. It entitled them to certain privileges, like one half day off every month for educational purposes, a choice of three herbal teas with their meals, and a thirty-minute recreation break on the surface every day.
“So we’re not actually free to leave then,” said Samantha. “We’re just prisoners with a fancy title.”
The 3-star sector manager seemed irritated. “I know a lot of POWs who would kill to have that title and the advantages that come with it. If you want, I can relay the message to the fabulous Procruste Ant that you reject his honourable gift.”
Samantha lowered her head in disappointment. “No, don’t do that. Tell him we accept the honour with gratitude and bid him thanks.”
“That’s better. I’ll arrange for the guards to escort you to the surface for your rec-break at 1700 hours. Till then, keep spinning. Time is ticking, and time is honey.”
Samantha waited for the door to close and the lock to turn before she spoke. “Reet Bee-teet! This might be our chance to escape,” she said to Lizzie, who had already taken her seat at the spinning wheel. “When the guards take us to the surface, we’ll make a break for it. If we get separated, we’ll rendezvous at the giant teapot where we met, okay?”
Lizzie stopped treadling and the flywheel slowly came to a halt. “Are you sure that’s such a wise thing, Samantha? What if they recapture us? We’ll lose all the privileges and entitlements we’ve worked so hard for. They’ll even rescind our status as Special Citizens Second Class.”
Samantha crossed her antennae and stared at Lizzie in disbelief. “Are you saying you don’t even want to take the chance?”
“All I’m saying is that I don’t want to risk everything we’ve gained.”
“And what about gaining back what was taken from us, our freedom?”
Lizzie began treadling the wheel, silently fuming with anger. Then she stopped. “Do you really want to risk everything for freedom, even your life?” she asked. “Because I’m not sure I do.”
Now Samantha felt angry. Her face flushed, her heart thumped, and her wings flapped erratically. “Do you call this a life?” she said, spreading her arms. What little floor space was not filled with boxes of spun and unspun cotton was occupied by the large spinning wheels. “There’s barely enough space to breathe in here. It makes me claustrophobic.”
“Then we’ll just have to ask Sector Manager 8473991B for a bigger room.” Lizzie’s machine was now in full flight again. “I’m sure she’d arrange it if she thought our efficiency rating would improve. It wouldn’t be difficult.”
Samantha couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m beginning to think you actually like it here,” she said.
Lizzie glanced up from the spinning wheel. “Is it really so bad? We have a roof over our head, we get three full meals a day, now with a choice of three herbal teas, and we’re valued citizens, albeit second-class. Everybody raves about how efficient we are and what a good contribution we’re making to the war effort. We have purpose here. You’re always saying everything happens for a reason. Well, maybe we’ve found our reason.” She went back to work.
Samantha crossed her antennae again, glaring at Lizzie, thinking what to say, or more to the point, what not to say. “We are here for a reason,” she said, “but this is only one step along the road to our ultimate destination, that is all.”
“Have you thought that this might be my Bee Dream?” Lizzie said, not looking up. She began scratching furiously at an itch on one of her legs. “All things considered, I could have a very comfortable life here.”
Samantha sat down at her wheel and began spinning, her jaw clenched, thinking that only a blind bee would choose a flowerpot in preference to a meadow.
For the rest of the day they said not a word to each other. The only sound in the room was the whir of the spinning wheels and the chants of ants singing praises of sewing somewhere down the corridor.
AT PRECISELY 1700 hours, two guards entered the room. At spear point, Samantha and Lizzie were escorted through the twisting maze of whitewashed corridors, up and up and up, until finally they reached the uppermost level of the anthill. Lizzie whispered to Samantha that they had just climbed fourteen floors; their room was deep underground.
At the bottom of the last flight of stairs, Samantha looked directly above. The opening to the upper surface was an exposed ring of daylight, like the mouth of a cave, beckoning her to the outside world and freedom.
“I know what you’re thinking,” one of the guards said, “and as a precaution we have a little deterrent for you.”
The guards then tied the base of her wings together with thick cotton rope. Several of Lizzie’s legs were also tied, making it difficult to walk and impossible to run. They weren’t going to get very far with these, Samantha mused. She would just have to be patient and assess the situation as it came.
With one guard leading, and one behind, Samantha and Lizzie climbed the steps in
to the open air. Samantha closed her eyes atop the anthill and inhaled deeply. After the sterility of the corridors, the fresh air was divine. Before the guards marched them down the western face, she quickly surveyed the scene, hoping to establish a future route of escape. She was totally unprepared for what she saw.
All this time spent captive inside the anthill, she had assumed she was still somewhere in the field of golden sunflowers. She was mistaken. There were no sunflowers within sight. Indeed, there were no flowers of any kind. Large, forbidding pine trees blocked out all but a few scattered rays of the sun, casting cool, dark shadows upon the forest floor. Dozens of anthills the colour of dark caramel, or burnt honey, dominated the immediate landscape, like a range of miniature volcanoes. Beyond them meandered a steady moving stream. She scanned the western horizon, hopeful of catching a glimpse of the forested hills and the lake. There was nothing other than the sun topping the pine trees. She felt such a surge of despair that tears began falling down her cheeks. Even if she managed to escape one day, there was nowhere for her to go. She was completely and utterly lost.
“Isn’t it wonderful to be in the open air?” she heard Lizzie say. “Sometimes you don’t know what you have until its gone.”
“Like freedom,” Samantha mumbled.
The rear guard prodded her in the back with his spear and she began descending the face of the anthill. She saw endless columns of ants marching along well-worn tracks to and from the anthills, many laden with assorted items – pieces of wood, scraps of metal, strips of material – and as they disappeared into the anthills, more ants emerged to trek off into the woods and gather whatever booty they could find.
“It must be for the war effort,” Lizzie said, following Samantha’s gaze.
At the bottom of the anthill, the guards ordered them to head for the stream. It was actually more like a river, and Samantha’s heart lifted; it probably flowed into the lake. As they approached the clear waters, her mind was so full with ideas of escape she wasn’t paying attention to where she was walking. Lizzie’s abrupt warning to “Look out!” jerked her back.
She lowered her eyes and saw a gaping hole. One more step and she would have fallen straight into it. “That was close,” she said with her claw over her racing heart.
The guards laughed and prodded them with their spears. “That’s the work of Mad Jack Hammer,” one said. “Next time you’d better watch your step!”
Mad Jack Hammer, it seemed, had dug dozens and dozens of holes in and around the riverbank, but he was nowhere to be seen. Samantha and Lizzie plotted a course through the minefield and eventually made it to water’s edge. Downstream, about halfway to the first bend, a chain gang of red ants in blue- and white-striped overalls were filling sandbags with the dirt Mad Jack had excavated. Other ants then piled the sandbags against eroded sections of the riverbank.
Oblivious to them, a white figure was swimming in the river. Pointing to the unknown bug, Samantha asked the guards who it was.
“That’s Mad Jack,” the rear guard said, snorting. “He swims and digs holes for himself. That’s all he does, every day.”
Samantha and Lizzie watched Mad Jack swim against the current. He swam and swam and swam, getting nowhere. After a while, he seemed to tire. The current was clawing him backward, but he still kept trying. Then, seemingly defeated, he swam to the shore and waded wearily onto the bank.
“He’s a termite,” Samantha said.
“How grotesque,” Lizzie said, with a shudder.
Mad Jack headed to a pile of clothes at the base of an upright spade, dried himself off, then picked up a pair of dirt-stained overalls and slipped them on. Grabbing his spade in one motion, he started to dig. Dirt flew over his shoulder at a rapid rate. The guards laughed and taunted him to dig faster. Before long he was standing knee-deep in a hole.
Samantha wandered over and offered him some honeydew candy she was keeping in her overall pocket. “What are you digging for?” she asked.
Mad Jack took the candy, but didn’t say a word. He wiped the sweat off his brow and kept digging. Dirt flew over his shoulder, piling around the rim of the hole, dirt the chain gang would later use to reinforce the riverbank. After who knows how many more minutes of silent digging, Samantha gave up and returned to Lizzie and the guards. The half hour rec-break was almost over.
Later that evening, as she spun the last thread of cotton and got ready for bed, Samantha pondered the strangeness of Mad Jack. She was perplexed at his determination to dig holes for himself and swim against the current. Just who was crazier, though, Mad Jack or the ants?
She glanced at Lizzie, already tucked in bed and asleep, and wondered if this, as she had said, really was her Bee Dream.
LIKE AN ANT song, the days came and went. The journey to the lake was barely mentioned anymore, and for Samantha spinning cotton helped to pass the time. Though outwardly satisfied with three good meals and a choice of herbal teas every day, there was a void as deep as one of Mad Jack’s holes in her life. Sure, she had the security of a roof over her head and a job that offered promotion. Sure, she had the acceptance of her peers (wasn’t she a Special Citizen Second Class?); but there was something missing, and its very absence was getting her down – joy.
Lizzie, though, wasn’t as put out with her new life. “I have to admit,” she said one evening before rec-break, scratching an itch on her face, “it’s far more than I ever expected. My father always said I never had a purpose in my life.”
Lizzie’s remarks were beginning to annoy Samantha, more so when she waved off the injustice of their captivity with a tired, mechanical reply, “Really, Samantha, you think that freedom’s the only thing worth living for.” Or when she said, “Who really is free, anyway? The honeybees and the caterpillars starving to death in the outside world, or us, who at least have food in our bellies and a bed to sleep in?”
It was pointless arguing. Unlike Lizzie, she would never be happy with these whitewashed walls and bags of cotton. Her destiny was elsewhere.
Early one morning (although living underground had distorted her sense of time, she thought it might be the month of August, or Honeymoon, as the ants called it), Samantha was woken with a start. Lizzie was sitting on the end of her bed, rocking back and forth and muttering something about it happening again. She didn’t seem to notice Samantha. Her antennae were rigid and she was hugging her chest, almost crushing herself.
Samantha had also spotted something else. Something that was lying on the ground between the beds that wasn’t there last night. It was thin and wrinkly, like a crumpled sheet, and long and hollow, at least as long as Lizzie. She had seen something similar when she met Lizzie at the giant teapot.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“It’s happened again,” Lizzie moaned, hugging her chest and rocking back and forth as she had. “I’ve moulted! Do you know what that means?”
Samantha shook her head. Bees didn’t moult.
Lizzie threw her head back and moaned, long and loud, drowning out the background sewing chants. “I’m going to shed my skin three more times and then I’m going to go through metamorphosis.” Lizzie now began to sob uncontrollably. “I’m scared, Samantha,” she said. “I’m afraid something terrible will happen when I pupate. I don’t want to die.”
Samantha sat next to Lizzie and gave her a hug, telling her not to worry, that it wasn’t so bad, that the change was a necessary part of a caterpillar’s life. Besides, if something went wrong, which it surely wouldn’t, as Special Citizens Second Class they were entitled to the best healthcare honey could buy. Metamorphosis was nothing to worry about. It was a doddle. She could say that because she’d been through it herself.
Lizzie shook her head, snivelling a bit. “I’m still frightened, Samantha,” she said, staring blankly at the wrinkled skin at her feet. “I know all caterpillars have to go through it, but that still doesn’t mean I want to do it. I like being a caterpillar. I like being me. Why do I have to change?”
Her words seemed to be of some comfort. Lizzie stopped rocking and moaning, at least.
The background chanting didn’t, however, abate one bit.
LATER THAT WEEK they were transferred to a much larger room, one of the minor halls requisitioned from an overall factory that had fallen well below sustainable efficiency quotas. The sector manager who’d been in charge was sent for reconditioning, and was later seen filling sandbags with the red ants at the riverbank.
“How do you like your new accommodations?” Sector Manager 8473991B asked, ushering them into the now empty chamber. She sprayed a tangy perfume with peppermint and lemon and a touch of basil.
“It’s fantastic,” Lizzie said. She began to point and speak fast. “We can store the unspun cotton in that corner. We can put the spinning wheels in the middle over here. And we can store the spun cotton near the door, where it can be collected. We can do so much to this place. Our efficiency rating is going to improve even more. I just know it.”
The sector manager smiled knowingly. “I want to show you something,” she said, “something very few non-ants have ever seen. I hope it will inspire you to greater and greater feats.”
Samantha and Lizzie followed her to a part of the anthill they had never been. As they meandered down the corridor, the chanting became noticeably louder.
This is my needle!
This is my thread!
Samantha Honeycomb Page 8
