by Ruskin Bond
“Stop!” Boo called out. “Don’t hurt anybody!”
Warning sirens cut through the clamor as the tide of bodies surged on and on through the spotless corridors. Boo grasped Jan’s hand and led her toward the control room.
They saw the forward crew fleeing; the officers’ weak, skeletal bodies stood no chance against the stocky aft crew. Families huddled together, protecting their children as best they could.
Then, ahead of them, came the sound of weapons firing.
“Wait!” Boo pushed through the mob converging on the control room, where officers blocked the entrance. As the scared defenders raised their weapons, Boo shielded Jan’s body.
“Enough!” The captain’s amplified voice filled the corridor. “Hold fire, sergeant. Let the boy in.”
The men hesitated before standing aside to let Boo and Jan in; Boo felt Jan’s hand tighten as the air-lock doors opened to reveal the captain.
Jan stifled a gasp, but the captain didn’t look in her direction. He gazed at Boo with sad, weary eyes, and Boo stared back, waiting for the captain to speak.
“We never intended this,” the captain finally whispered. “We were all supposed to work together on a new planet.”
“What happened?” Boo asked.
The captain’s body seemed no bigger than a child’s. “After the trouble on our old planet, they sent us into the void on a journey that would last centuries so our children’s children could build new lives on distant worlds. It was a good plan.”
Boo stared at the captain and tried to calculate how old he must be.
“Fifty years into our journey, space debris ripped the hydroponics deck open, and we lost most of our food. I put everyone on half rations, then quarter — everyone except the officers. They convinced me they were essential to the mission.”
Boo and Jan waited.
“The food had almost run out when the scientists created synthetic proteins: they could manufacture basic foods, but only in small amounts. Enough for the higher ranks, but not the crew. What could I do?”
“You cut us off,” Boo said. “You sealed us behind the bulkheads.”
“I had to choose between some of my crew surviving or none at all. It was the most difficult decision I have ever made.”
“You left us to starve?” Jan asked. “No food? No supplies?”
“There wasn’t enough food,” the captain said. “We barely survived. I am amazed that you did.”
Boo looked at the captain’s crew, at bodies gaunt from years of synthetic foods. He remembered the hydroponics vats and the jagged scars in the outer walls, next to the etched names of heroic aft crew members. “They must have repaired the damage and gotten the tanks working again. We had plenty of food: we would have shared it.”
“We thought we were alone and, truthfully, we tried to forget what had happened.”
“Why did you stop our power and oxygen just now, when you knew there were so many of us alive?”
The captain glanced at the sergeant. “Some of my men took things into their own hands when you were missing this morning.”
Jan asked, “What happens now?”
The captain considered. “I will speak to the crew in the auditorium.”
The sergeant began, “But, sir —”
“It must be the crew’s decision.”
An announcement went out over the ship’s speakers.
With Boo, Jan, the mayor, and the sergeant leading them, a crowd began to assemble in the auditorium. Boo saw Susan waiting for him.
“You scared me. I was worried about you!” She embraced Boo.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to warn my friends and family.”
The fore and aft crews stayed separate and stared at each other, unsure and suspicious. The mayor addressed the aft crew, explaining what Boo had learned, until the captain appeared in the viewscreen. A hush came over the crowd.
“A new world awaits us,” the captain said, using Boo’s language. “The scout probes tell us that the planet is more than we hoped for.”
“You left us to die!” someone from the aft crew yelled.
“I was wrong,” the captain said. “But we have a second chance. We can choose to build new lives together, or we can fight and destroy everything we have. The decision is ours.”
“Why should we trust you!” The shouts of the aft crew filled the auditorium.
Boo stepped in front of the viewscreen. “Quiet!” yelled the mayor.
Boo waited for the crews to settle down, then said, “We should at least listen to what the captain has to say. We all worked together, once. Maybe it can be that way again. Show them the planet, Captain.”
The captain’s face faded, and the image of the new world filled the screen. The crew looked up at the revolving sphere and the white clouds that masked deep, blue oceans.
“This is for all of us,” Boo told them, “if we want it.”
The crew, suddenly silent, stared with longing at the green, vibrant world.
“We need to talk,” the mayor said.
The aft crew gathered around the mayor while the fore crew surrounded the sergeant. Boo heard low, urgent voices and disagreements, the harsh snap of arguments. After what seemed like hours, the mayor relayed the aft crew’s decision: “Captain, we’ll try to work with you.”
The sergeant nodded as well. “We are in agreement.”
While the two crews approached each other cautiously, swapping names and histories, Jan and Boo stared at the image of their new world. Jan said, “It’s very, very beautiful. What shall we call it?”
Boo smiled. “Home.”
Ahimsa
by Josie Tagliente
Illustrated by Michael Chesworth
Once when I was four, Mom attacked a keyhole with a paper towel, wiping a spider clear out of existence.
“Stop!” I yelled. “She’s somebody’s mother!”
Mom told everyone. I don’t think it stopped anybody from killing spiders. She, however, began to cup paper towels around the intruders and whisk them outdoors to freedom.
Mom’s friend said that I was practicing ahimsa, the belief that people shouldn’t harm other living things. She told me that Hindus and Buddhists believe that the lives of even the tiniest creatures are precious and must be honored, and we should never do them harm.
One summer day, Mom and I were at the local greenhouse. A tall, bushy vine with bright green leaves caught my attention. A grapevine! I begged Mom to buy one.
“Gosh, Lily,” she exclaimed, “where would we plant it? In our apartment everything we grow has to be in pots.”
“Oh, Mom, we can find something big enough.” I pulled out my allowance money, which I’d planned to spend on Rollerblades.
“You want it that badly?” Mom asked in disbelief.
“Yeah! Wouldn’t it be fun to have grapes from our own vine?”
Mom sighed, giving in. “All right,” she said. “But you’ll have to take good care of it yourself.”
When we got home, we cut away the container with heavy garden snips and planted the vine outside in the turtle bin. It would receive nourishment from the soil, and the roots would have room to grow. I gently tied the lanky branches to the trellis against the stone wall with brightly colored yarn.
By the end of the summer, the longest branches had spread over the wall. The vine was beautiful, the first thing people noticed as they walked toward our apartment.
In the fall, Mom and I clipped the branches back at the advice of the greenhouse man. “Not too far back the first year,” he’d said. “Give the vine a chance to grow.” I missed the trailing leaves on the stone wall. It now looked as bare as a sheared lamb.
In March of the following spring, I noticed tiny shoots of bright green bursting through the dry wood of the vine. Every day more glossy baby buds popped their fringed heads out. They grew faster than we could have imagined.
As the weeks melted into summer, the vine provided shade for the turtles in the
bin. By July the leaves had started to peek over the wall to our neighbor’s patio as well. I could measure the buds one day, and the next they would be almost twice the size, with new ones appearing overnight. Tiny clusters of grapes no bigger than a ladybug’s coat began to form near the leaves. The greenhouse man told us if they ripened into real grapes the first year, they would be very small.
One day, as I was watering, the most magical thing happened. A beautiful midnight blue bug landed on my white T-shirt just below the shoulder.
“Hello, pretty one,” I whispered. She didn’t move. Delicate translucent wings fluttered into a Y shape, hanging just behind her body and remaining slightly open. Her antennae had tiny feathery hairs on the edges, as did the tips of her wings — a tiny, elegant princess.
I kept talking to her as I walked slowly around. She clung to my shirt, making no motion to fly away. When she left, I was overwhelmed.
That evening, I told Mom what had happened.
“I’ve never seen what you describe, Lily. Sounds like a spiritual experience,” she said.
“It was amazing, Mom.”
One morning, weeks later, I stepped onto the patio to feed my early rising turtles. In the purple light of dawn, the grape leaves appeared brown and lacy. Something was wrong with my vine!
I felt the throb of tears swelling under my eyelids. I ran in to wake Mom, who stumbled out clutching her robe.
“Oh my,” she said. “What is that?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t notice it yesterday.”
I held up a branch and suddenly felt a burning pinch. Part of my arm itched badly, and welts swelled on my skin.
I called the man at the nursery to describe what had happened. He called the culprit Harrisina brillians, the Western grapeleaf skeletonizer moth, who feeds on the leaves in her caterpillar stage. He recommended a chemical with a long name.
“No, sir,” I said. “No chemicals.”
Later that day I looked up skeletonizers on the Internet, hoping for information that would keep the bugs away. Scrolling down, I saw a photograph of the caterpillars, black and yellow stripes chewing away. I kept scrolling.
Suddenly, there appeared, in full midnight blue, my elegant princess. A skeletonizer moth! How could this be?
The photograph showed her dark, thin wings spread back — the same glorious creature, laying eggs on a grapevine.
I was stunned. My moth had laid the eggs. Her babies were destroying my vine!
I read some more. The hairs on the caterpillar are the parts that burn. They break off when disturbed, stinging whoever touches them. This is how the bugs protect themselves. Harrisina brillians are found in the Southwest, where we lived.
A major problem for vineyards, the article said. An organic substance called Bacillus thuringiensis, a product used widely by California grape growers, was recommended for exterminating the moths.
Back to the nursery for Bacillus. The man smiled. He said we had made the right choice.
I had intended to use the liquid abundantly, until I read the label. It was organic, all right. However, it needed to be mixed. After using it, the bottle could not be stored, nor could you use the rest of the stuff for another spraying. Recommendations were to start all over again, after throwing away the previous liquid. The warning label had elaborate instructions for disposing of the original container.
Mom agreed to help me. We sat covered from head to toe, each with a spray bottle in our gloved hands. Mom stared into space, and I was hysterical.
“Mom, we can’t do this. The poor bugs and turtles!”
She nodded and sighed, thinking the same thing.
The next afternoon, wearing long sleeves and gloves to avoid touching anything, I clipped the vine as much as I could. It was being destroyed, anyway. And I cried. What a mess! The cuttings left a pile of lacy leaves and wilting branches on the patio floor. I stuffed it all into garbage bags and hauled them to the Dumpster. Maybe the caterpillars would just continue eating on their voyage to the dump. Hopefully they wouldn’t be crushed.
Within the week, bright green leaf babies began to pop up again on the desolate twigs, just as they had in the spring. But the leaves continued to be devoured, and I just kept clipping.
One day, as I was misting the vine, something flittered into my vision. There she was! My midnight moth. She circled the vine slowly, deliberately, landing in a whisper. Repeating this ritual several times, she finally chose the right spot for her eggs, oblivious to me watching her. Her velvet body steady, shimmering wings fluttering, she leaned in toward the shiny leaf directly above me.
I moved silently into the house to get a jar from the cupboard. I pounded several tiny nail holes into the lid and quietly went back to the patio. I carefully cupped the jar over my moth, pinching off the grape leaf she had attached herself to, and slid the lid into place. I added a few more leaves to make her comfortable.
My heart fluttered. How could such a thing of beauty cause so much destruction?
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught another moth slipping into the tangle of vines, just as the first one had. Again I slid the jar over her, careful not to release the other one. I caught three that day and sprinkled plenty of water and leaves into the container for them. Sitting very still, I held the jar, thinking.
“I know where I’ll take you,” I whispered.
That night Mom and I gazed at the lovely ladies in confinement. They accepted their captivity. They didn’t even try to escape. It occurred to me that they might be at the end of their life cycles. It made me sad. I had made a decision that I was not totally sure of. Perhaps I was interrupting the natural order.
I announced my plan.
Mom nodded and said, “Ahimsa.”
The next morning I rode the bus to the desert. I placed the jar near some bushes and released the lid.
The moths wouldn’t fly immediately. The moisture in the jar seemed to restrict the movement of their wings. I waited with them until they were all free.
“Be safe,” I whispered. It was my prayer for them.
Back home, the caterpillars continued their work. I cut off the leaves and placed them in bags. They went to the desert as well.
Was I doing the right thing? I wondered. Could the desert handle them? Would I have to continue this for the rest of my life?
The grapes grew sweet. They were the size of miniature marbles. I sat under the umbrella shade of the vine, my beautiful vine. I thought of the first time I’d seen my midnight blue princess moth. Of the way she’d landed on my shoulder and stayed. And I hoped with all my heart that she liked living in the desert.
The Pride
by Paul Sullivan
Illustrated by Elizabeth Biesiot
There had been six lions. Now there were five. The old male had been killed that morning by a hunter’s bullet. That left three cubs and two adult females. They had no leader now — no old lion with a great flowing mane to protect them from prowling hyenas or defend their territory from other, roving lions. The pride, the family of lions, was not helpless, but it was much weaker.
That morning the hunters had also killed a Cape buffalo. The buffalo had lived by the river in the shade under the trees. He had been too old to run with the herd, and his legs were bad. The hunters had taken his head with its large horns and left the carcass in the grass for the vultures to feed on. But the pride had watched as the hunters carried all of the big lion back to their camp, hung on a long pole between the shoulders of two strong men. These were not meat hunters. They hunted for the horns, heads, and skins of other creatures. They killed for trophies.
The three cubs could see the smoke from the safari camp and the large white tents and people moving about. They watched from the rocks as the smoke twisted up to blot out the evening sun. The old female had warned her cubs to stay away from the camp, and they had heeded her warning. But they mourned the loss of the big male.
He had seemed to know days before, when the men first came and
put up their tents under the trees. It was already in his eyes. These men hadn’t come for just any lion: they had come for him, because he was one of the great lions of Africa.
The men had come early on the first day, scouting the area, watching from far away. And the lion had gone out to meet them, warning them to stay away, putting himself between the hunters and the pride as he had always done. The hunters had backed away that first time and gone back to their camp. But the male knew that they had marked him and would return. He’d warned the cubs to stay close to the females when that time came, and it came quickly — the very next morning. The hunters returned, and just as before, the big lion had placed himself between them and the pride. He’d shown no fear as he’d moved through the high grass, placing one paw evenly before another, his powerful shoulders flexing under his thick fur. But the hunters also appeared to have no fear now. They were ready. When he’d challenged, they’d stood their ground. And when he’d neared, a rifle cracked. Then he went down, as if he had hit something terribly solid, his big body rolling into the grass. He lay still. The hunters waited several moments before they approached him. Then one of the trackers nudged him cautiously with a long spear to make certain he was dead.
The older female knew the pride would need to leave that area before darkness brought the hyenas. The buffalo carcass under the trees would surely draw them. Vultures were already feeding. The hyenas would follow. First one, then two, then five or six prowling in the night. It was just at the end of the rainy season that a group of hyenas had killed off a member of the pride, a young male that might have one day replaced the old one. Now, without the old male, the females could not, with any certainty, protect the cubs. The big male’s reputation would have kept the hyenas away. Now there was nothing. And soon the hyenas would know.
