The Triple Goddess (139 page)

Though it was winter, Humbert’s parents had to rouse themselves regularly from their drowsy state to tend to their son. They were determined not to neglect the boy, and kept getting up to give him his medicine, take his temperature, and mop his brow when he was feverish. They eked out their meagre rations carefully and went without themselves, in order to keep up their son’s strength until spring, when the weather would improve and the flowers come out again, and the hive’s fortunes, so everyone hoped, would take a turn for the better.

Getting the medicine that Humbert required hadn’t been easy either, because to make it, in the last days of summer it had been necessary for his parents to gather as ingredients, in the very little time off that they could beg from the hive Elders, the pollens from several special flowers. These plants were rare, and they had to cover many square miles to find enough of them, without falling behind in collecting nectar for the hive cooperative, to which everyone was expected to contribute a quota.

Humbert’s parents mixed the pollens and some nectar from these flowers with their feet, to make medicine for their son. The formula was a famous one that had been invented by one of the great Elders of the hive, Dame Amelia Sixfeet. In the great freeze of 1963, other of Amelia Sixfeet’s recipes and concoctions had kept fully half the hive alive when its reserves of honey ran out.

By order of the other Elders, when she died Amelia was stuffed, and now she stood in the entrance hall of the hive, where all the bees could look upon her and marvel at her achievement and how bushy her feelers were.

Humbert’s parents’ greatest fear was that their son would catch pneumonia, or influenza, which in his weakened state would surely be the end of him. So they insisted that he stay in bed where he could be as warm as possible, underneath the jersey formerly worn by an uncle on his mother’s side whose name was Buzz Forsythe.

Using Uncle Buzz’s striped jersey as a blanket was the only purpose it could be put to, because it was a strict rule of the hive that no one should wear that of another bee after he or she was dead. Each jersey represents a bee’s identity, and to steal that was the worst kind of disrespect, and a crime that was punishable by banishment from the hive. Being banished meant that a bee was sure to die in a very short time, because although they aren’t sociable creatures—there was no time for idleness—bees can only survive as part of a hive. The jerseys of the deceased are supposed to be washed, fanned dry by the wings of the bereaved family, and laid between sheets of tissue paper on top of each other in a chest of drawers, with the oldest jersey at the bottom of the bottom drawer and the most recent at the top of the top.

Humbert, therefore, remained in his room covered by, but not wearing, the jersey once worn by his dead Uncle Buzz; studying as much as he could to keep up with the others of his age who were in school; and taking the medicine, which though he would never be so ungrateful as to mention it, tasted as if it had Woundwort—
Prunella vulgaris…
most bees liked it, Humbert was not keen…otherwise known as all-heal, brunella, heart of the earth, blue curls, carpenter-weed, and sicklewort, and known for its
alterative, antibacterial, antipyretic, antiseptic, antispasmodic, astringent, carminative, diuretic, febrifuge, hypotensive, stomachic, styptic, tonic, vermifuge, and vulnerary properties;
and Sneezewort,
Achillea ptarmica
,
otherwise known as bastard pellitory, fair-maid-of-france, goose tongue, or white tansy—in it.

Which it did.

H
umans used Sneezewort leaves as insect repellent.

Twig learned about this sorry situation from one of Humbert’s sisters. They’d become friendly the year before, when with Twig’s permission she came to his green-apple tree to ask if she might collect a small amount of nectar from the blossom for her lunch. Of course he said Yes; Twig helped the bees as much as he could, and they were always welcome to visit him.

When he heard the details of his condition from Humbert’s sister, Twig had the idea that he would knit Humbert a jersey, by himself and not with magic, to save Humbert’s parents the expense of having to save up, against the day when he might be well, to buy one for him from the official hive outfitters. Despite the exorbitant price that the outfitters charged, in Twig’s opinion the quality of workmanship, though it was guaranteed, was not always what it should be, for a garment that a bee had to wear for the rest of its life.

Most importantly, Twig would make the jersey using a fairy yarn superior to that which the bees used. Because it was fairy wool, the jersey Twig knitted would make Humbert healthy and strong, so that he might take up a normal life, and leave the hive with the others on their nectar- and pollen-gathering excursions.

Also, not only would Twig’s jersey be much warmer in winter than those of the other bees, it would keep the wearer cool in summer. For were it not for the rule about never removing its stripy uniform in public, there wasn’t a bee in the hive who wouldn’t without a second thought have removed its jersey on hot days.

The Elders in the hive, thought Twig, as they coughed and sneezed in winter, and sweated in summer, would be sorry that they’d neglected Humbert when his family needed help in looking after him. In vain would they ask Twig to knit them their own fairy jerseys.

And Twig would tell the Elders that, in future, only members of Humbert’s family would be allowed to visit his tree to gather nectar. The Elders, Twig knew, would tie their antennae in knots when they heard this, because, as everyone knew, Twig’s green-apple blossoms produced more of the highest quality nectar than was obtainable anywhere else—except, so it was rumoured, from the little girl fairy’s red-apple tree.

Twig had never tried the red-apple fairy girl’s nectar, because he was too shy to go and ask her.

Although Twig had never knitted before, he was sure it must be easy. He’d watched his own mother do it for years. Knitting, said Twig’s mother, relaxed her; which it obviously did because it always put her to sleep, even when she was reading about jam-making, which was her favourite subject. When his mother nodded off, her needles kept on clickety-clack-clacking; which was why Twig was convinced that knitting was something he would quickly be able to master.

But Twig soon discovered that he was quite wrong in making this presumption. When he started trying to knit, the needles went in the wrong direction and the loops slipped off; and the twin yellow and black balls unrolled, so that the yarn got tangled and twisted around the branches of his tree, until it looked more like a bird’s nest than the ones that the birds built for themselves.

In fact, several birds dropped by to ask Twig if they might nest in his tree come the spring...they didn’t mind the unusual colours, they said...to save them the bother of constructing their own. The birds’ impertinence made Twig cross, because, as much as he welcomed visitors, he would never permit anyone to share his home; unless it were a certain little girl fairy who knew a thing or two about growing apples.

Other birds who came to perch in Twig’s tree scolded him, when their wings and legs caught in the wool. It took Twig a long time to release them, which made him as bad-tempered as they were; and he told the birds that in future they should go and sit in other, ordinary, trees to do their preening and gossiping, and leave him alone instead of wasting his time when he had more important things to do.

The knitting that Twig did manage to complete was very untidy, and so full of holes that anyone who put it on would be no warmer than before. He knitted stitches when he should have purled, and he purled when he should have knitted; and he cast off for no reason at all, which is why the holes were there.

After Twig had knitted and unravelled a dozen jerseys, one came out sort of partly all right, if a bee didn’t mind that only one arm was, mostly, covered; and wasn’t concerned about the back, or lack of it; and if that bee had a shorter than average body that curved to the left. But at least it was better than the previous twelve, Twig thought, and because he’d made it himself it looked better to him than it was.

He looked around for someone to show it off to, but because he’d told the birds off for bothering him, the tree was empty; which was a pity, for now that Twig had done what he’d set out to do, by his own hand and not with magic, he would have welcomed an appreciative comment or two.

When he was sure that no one was coming, Twig flew to Humbert’s hive to deliver his gift. Along the way he managed to convince himself that he had it in him to become an expert knitter: one who would be able to teach Humbert’s family to knit for themselves, so that they’d never be dependent on the hive again for their children’s jerseys, once the hive Elders had seen the quality of their work and agreed that it was superior to that of the official hive outfitters, in looks, and in its property of keeping a bee warmer in winter and cooler in summer. When the bees had acquired Twig’s skill, being the industrious creatures that they were with six legs apiece, they could knit three jerseys at once if they wanted to. Or was it one jersey three times as fast?

Either way, the results would be impressive.

It was a good thing that there were no other bees in the little flat occupied by Humbert’s family to witness the scene, as Twig presented the jersey to his parents, for if there had been they would have laughed at it. Humbert himself knew nothing of what was going on, because as usual he was upstairs in bed; today he was studying for his Waggle Dance orienteering exams, boning up on the geometry theory that enables bees to communicate the direction of new sources of nectar and pollen to other bees.

Humbert’s mother and father accepted the jersey from Twig to give to their son. Although they didn’t notice that anything was amiss with it, even if they had they were too polite to reveal it. They were touched by the fairy’s generosity, and thanked him profusely, saying that they were sorry he didn’t have time to stay to tea.

The reason that Twig was in a hurry was that, in his newfound confidence, he had it in mind to go and call on the little girl fairy who lived in the red-apple tree, and give her a demonstration of his acquired skill. If she weren’t already proficient in the craft of knitting, Twig thought that perhaps she might be impressed enough by his handiwork to ask him to give her lessons.

Which, having conquered his shyness of her, he would be happy to do.

After Twig had left, and Humbert’s parents looked at the jersey more closely, they were dismayed. It wasn’t the untidiness that bothered them—though the Elders were sure to object as soon as it was inspected—but that the jersey’s yellow and black stripes were going in the wrong direction: instead of running crossways like rings around their bodies, Twig had knitted the stripes up and down.

Now this wouldn’t have mattered particularly, if bees had not been bees; but the awful thing was that to wear such a jersey would make Humbert look like—oh, calamity!—instead of an
Apis mellifera
, or bee: a wasp,
Vespula vulgaris…
with the emphasis upon
vulgaris
. Or worse,
Vespa crabro
, a hornet.

This was because, whereas on bees’ woolly jerseys the stripes circle their bodies, on wasps and hornets the stripes are vertical, and are painted on in waterproof paint; which is why if wasps and hornets are caught in the rain it doesn’t affect them—except that they hate baths and showers on principle. They don’t mind getting dirty, avoiding puddles and always keeping a weather eye on the sky.

Bees, on the other hand, dislike having to go out when it’s wet, because the wool of their jerseys absorbs the water and weighs them down, and that makes it difficult to fly. Also, a bedraggled bee does not waggle-dance well. Although bees are frequent groomers, they are modest creatures who clean themselves in the privacy of their apartments at the hive, where they can remove their jerseys and hang them up.

Also, the last thing a bee wants to be mistaken for is a wasp or hornet, because whereas bees are polite, peace-loving creatures who would never hurt a fly, wasps and hornets are irascible and unpleasant. While bees hum contentedly as they zoom around, wasps and hornets make a nasty high-pitched whine. But there’s a much more important reason: because a wasp or hornet can retract its sting, it can use it as many times as it wants, which is often; whereas a bee, which will only sting if it is attacked, can do so only once, and when it does its sting is left behind and the bee dies.

Fortunately this doesn’t happen very often. Bees are industrious creatures, and want nothing more than to be left alone to go about the business of making honey. They keep to themselves and avoid trouble, while wasps and hornets go in search of it. Bees are essential to the environment: as they fly from flower to flower they perform a vital service by cross-pollinating the anthers of those they settle upon, enabling the species to thrive and become more numerous. And whereas flowers depend upon the bees, and supply them with refreshing nectar in return for their services, they have no use for wasps and hornets because they are selfish creatures who offer no mutual benefit.

What concerned Humbert’s parents even more than the prospect of their son flying around looking like a wasp or hornet, or the wrath of the Elders that they would incur for tarnishing rather than varnishing the reputation of the hive, was that they didn’t want to appear ungrateful to Twig. Twig would be sure to be looking for Humbert flying around, and if he didn’t see him he’d be offended, thinking that Humbert’s parents did not like the jersey or were embarrassed by it.