//------------------------------// // The First Theft // Story: Insecta Non Grata // by Impossible Numbers //------------------------------// There was a scent of fresh apple in the air, as though some kitchen windows were wide open and pulped pomace was wafting its perfume all over the place. Honeysuckle’s ballerina legs stretched to embrace the leaf, and her landing made it quiver up and down in irritation. She pressed her thorax and abdomen onto the veins and, with twitching antennae, peered over the green rim. She could hear a voice booming through the trunks of the trees. Even though it still made her ears throb, she could tell it was too high pitched to belong to an adult. A couple of barks met it, and she ducked out of sight as something gigantic crashed through the vegetation below her. There was some shouting, and then the crashing and the barking vanished as quickly as they had come. Honeysuckle tried to keep herself from vomiting. Mouldy dog breath and the stench of sweaty hair stung her antennae, making them coil up and wilt. Dogs were worse than dead apples. Up ahead came the grunts of a small pony, and the sound of hooves smacking wood. A thunder of apples was all she needed to guess which way to fly. With a spurt of her quivering wings, she darted across the gap and took refuge behind another leaf. Another thud of hooves hitting bark made her glance over her green shield. The red pony braced his front hooves and lashed out with his back ones. The resulting strike knocked several apples off their stalks, but with his front legs braced too far forwards, the youth’s stiff limbs had gotten him stuck between the baked earth and the tree. Gingerly, he tried to remove his hooves from the trunk without falling onto his stomach. He reeked of sweaty fur – lighter in its stings than the dog’s had been – and had a faint whiff of something smothered in fermented apple juice. “Weren’t there supposed to be two of them?” Honeysuckle whispered to herself. She almost saw Rosedust hiding next to her, clearing her throat to answer. Rosedust had always been the one to keep an eye focused on the farm. She’d known better than anyone else what there was to see, and hadn’t been modest in sharing the stream of news. As the pony settled onto all fours, his hat slipped over his eyes, and he hastily pushed them up like a pair of glasses. Look at him, she thought, and then gave a slightly guilty laugh. Big, clumsy beast. When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen the whole species… Beasts were all the same to her. Oh, they could come in all colours and all shapes and all heights and weights and lengths, but they were all, once you’d glimpsed them, big, four-legged bulldozers. It was a wonder they survived, especially when she’d seen – on one memorable occasion involving Rosedust, Waxwing, and a picnic – the amount they had to shovel in just to stay standing. Pony, donkey, cow, and sheep: they were just name after name for different kinds of beast. Honeysuckle glanced along the aisle, her eyes zipping from branch to branch. The scent of fresher flesh cooed after her, and she could make out the sheen of the bulging red blobs all around her. Either side of her, the slopes of two hills rose up, exposing their fruit to fiercer sunlight. To her surprise, she shivered. A tiny breeze snaked between the criss-crossing thatching that was the canopy, and it tickled her leg joints. The pony on the ground sat down and stared at the soil, panting softly. His barrel of a chest heaved and quaked. He had an utterly defeated look about him, and even his glance at the piles of fruits in the wooden buckets beside him did little to ease his mood. Despite the queue of insults gathering in her mind to pep her up, Honeysuckle couldn’t bring herself to mutter one. The red pony’s skin was crying under the sun. Big, clumsy, and hideously short of appendages and wings though he was, his face sagged with weariness like timber slowly collapsing in a heap, occasionally flickering with frowns and glares as though defiant that the spark would not go out. A bird’s screech broke the silence. Honeysuckle gave a quick look over at the harvested stock, but gave an equally quick dismissal of it and turned her attention to the many hiding places overhead. There were better prospects to be had without exposing herself to danger. In any case, many of the harvested apples stank like a chemical factory. It amazed her how the beasts could bear the stench, or if they even noticed it. Spoiled for choice here, she thought. Good. Spoiled for choice means pick whatever the heck you want and go. There were plenty of fruits around her. Buzzing loudly was not high on her list of priorities, so she simply spread her wings and let herself fall into a swooping glide. She knew gliding was risky for a creature lighter than cotton, but with barely a breeze to ensnare her, she needed no further excuse. Barking met her ears, and a bird whooshed past overhead, squawking with alarm. Honeysuckle closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. All six legs met the bark, and she quickly folded her wings and scampered up the trunk. When she guessed she was near the crown of boughs, Honeysuckle froze and opened her eyes. Had they noticed? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the black and white blur rushing across the rows of trees towards the pony. To her surprise, the dog slowed down just underneath her. Her blood went cold. Ponies might have atrocious noses, but dogs were a different matter. Every flutter pony knew they could sniff out even the fabled scentless silkworm. A half-starved flutter pony would be easy pickings. Honeysuckle’s legs broke into a frantic sprint. It was hard to get six legs to cooperate, and more than once she had to flail with her wings when one or two of her tiny claws lost their grip. Honeysuckle felt the blood rush through her chitin and wings, making them actually pulse. All of her joints creaked as she scuttled over the bark and out on an arching limb. Once, she paused and almost checked to see if the joints really were being stung by needles, such was the pain. The dog whined. Before Honeysuckle could turn around and check, leaves rustled and she heard a slower, lighter patter of paws. “So you thought you’d run off, did you?” said a deep, booming voice. Honeysuckle’s whole body vibrated with it. “Some help you are, Winona.” Near the top of the limb’s arch, she flexed her wings and made a running leap for one of the dangling apples. It quivered, and she almost lost two claws off its skin before she regained her grip. It was a good apple. Each bit of flesh was springy but firm under her probing legs. A fruit this size could feed a good third of the nest. She wondered if this would be worth pointing out at the next summit of the sisters, but decided not to. Or would she? Without Rosedust around to restrain her, Gall Sting could start getting above herself, and that was a bad thing to see in an "acting" queen. It was hard enough assuring everyone at the hive that the true one would return one day. Everyone just kept asking when. Honeysuckle peered down at the pair, the pony and the dog. He – the voice left little doubt as to what gender it belonged to – was watching in silence as the dog whined further. Then the dog – Winona, she guessed – nuzzled his chest and curled up next to him. He didn’t resist. Indeed, after a while he idly began stroking Winona along the scalp with a hoof. “Bet you’re tired from all that running around, huh, Winona?” he said. Even with her body twanging at each syllable, Honeysuckle could tell he was trying to be gentle. She clambered over the fruit towards the stalk, and braced her legs tightly against the bulging flesh. Her lips were pressing against the thin thread of woody fibre that kept several pounds of ripe and juicy banquet near the column of rock-like wood, and the tree stood like a sentinel. With one eye on the pair below, Honeysuckle bared her teeth. Winona whined again. “Ah know, girl. Ah miss Ma and Pa too.” There was a long pause. Both blades in Honeysuckle’s mouth slid across the stem and she gnawed back and forth. Once or twice, she adjusted her mouth's grip. “They’d know what to do on the farm, wouldn’t they, Winona?” The pony sighed and rubbed his forehead. “They’re wastin’ their time in Manehattan, don’t you think? Aunt Orange went to Manehattan, an’ Ah ain’t never seen her since. Folks say it’s nice and s’phisticated there.” They talk so often about so much. What’s Manehattan even supposed to be? Some kind of hive, or a beast queen? Honeysuckle had nearly cut through the entire stem, and had stopped to examine the thread. A few more cuts should do it. “Granny Smith says they’re comin’ back.” There was a slight choke in his voice when he said this. “D’you think they’re comin’ back, Winona?” Honeysuckle paused in the act of biting the stem. Still, she thought, it paid sometimes to notice what the beasts garbled on about. Rosedust would have said as much, if she’d come back. The pony below began idly rubbing Winona behind the ears. She stood up and licked him on the chin, and then barked happily at a thought that had struck her canine mind. “Ah know what you mean,” the pony said, rising to his hooves. He pushed his hat back, and peered at a distant red mountain that was the Sweet Apple Acres house. “If AJ were jus’ a bit older, then maybe it’d be OK. Ma and Pa and Granny Smith wouldn’t have to worry then. Why, Ah bet we’d have every tree on the farm harvested before sundown if us two were together, an’ she were older, Ah mean.” The last thread was almost out. Honeysuckle groaned. If only Rosedust had been around, then taking this thing would’ve been easy. One of us would cut the stalk, and the other would carry it. She glanced up through the canopy of leaves, and tried to see shapes in the endless haze. If only Rosedust had been around, I’d have some kind of clue how this is done. Heck, Rosedust could’ve done both jobs all by herself. The first breeze of the day washed through the orchard, making the trees whisper and shiver over the pony and the dog, and over the flutter pony as nostalgia came back in a rush. There was the faintest music as though a player, on some distant hilltop, was blowing through a row of reeds, whistling both for grief and for the comfort that grief gave to a heart that felt it, and knew what it meant. “Sure hope you’re hating it up there,” Honeysuckle said, and smiled as though at a private joke. The pony bucked the apple tree next to hers. Honeysuckle shook herself down and seemed to see the bare thread of woody fibre before her for the first time. Gall Sting’s disapproving look bore into the back of her head and almost through Honeysuckle’s own eyes at the pathetic strip of bark. She stretched her wings, took a few deep breaths, and paused. So... did you do it like this? “Well, Winona,” said the pony. “Till then, Ah’ve gotta keep the business goin’. Imagine Granny Smith’s watchin' me now. Ah reckon she'd say that Ah gotta try mah best, like at school. You know, Miss Stapler at the school said Ah was a natural at numbers...” Only one way to find out. Ignoring her own frantic breathing, Honeysuckle tensed her jaw until she thought it would lock into place, and then snapped at the stalk. The apple fell clean out of her grip. Honeysuckle swore and buzzed straight down, and at that instant she heard Winona yelping and howling at the sound. All six claws latched onto the fruit, but she still plummeted helplessly in its wake. Before she could even hear the crashing bushes, she was thrown off, and her face smacked into the soil. There was barking nearby. Everything seemed to rush in at her. “What is it, Winona?” cried a voice some distance away. The words pounded in Honeysuckle's head. Then she got back to her senses. Good thing I'm so tiny and feather-light, she thought dazedly. A fall like that would have barely fazed Rosedust. Thank goodness I lost a bit of weight last season. “Winona, where’re you goin’? Wait for – What the hay’s that?” The apple was right next to her. She could already feel tremors through the ground. Quickly, she leaped up and seized the fruit in all six legs just as the lights went out and she hit a wall of felt. Honeysuckle dropped the apple and buzzed frantically in all directions, but wherever she went, the wall of felt had her completely covered. “Darn wasps – stand back, Winona! You ain’t getting’ a thing!” WhattheheckdoIdoWhattheheckdoIdo? Wings, legs, teeth, even battering the wall with her entire frame did nothing to shift it. Part of the hat collapsed. Honeysuckle screamed as several square inches of impenetrable fabric lunged down and smothered almost all the space. She shot to one side, thanking Hive Heaven that the beasts were so slow. “Ah got it, Winona. Ah got it!” The mass eased off, and the hat oozed back into shape. Bits of apple juice and golden flesh smothered the underside. Honeysuckle wished she hadn’t looked at it. “All-Mother, I beseech you…” she breathed, and then caught herself in time. “Darn!” The barking continued. She got up and tried ramming the side of the hat as hard as her wings could force her. She thought she heard a slight, shocked whisper above her: “It talks?” Gall Sting, Honeysuckle thought, managing to suppress a snarl as she did so. If I get out of this, then I swear by the All-Mother I’m going to challenge you to a Queen’s Duel, and I’m not going to play by Queen Filly’s Rules. I’m going to make a maggot’s nightmare out of what I’ll do to you! You think you can get away with sending me – The barks stopped suddenly, but were replaced by a prolonged growl. Even Honeysuckle’s thoughts shut up at the sound. Her thorax – her easily impaled thorax – tingled with the imagined bite. She hovered over shadowed grass under shadowed felt. The beasts were still. “You can hear me in there?” said the booming voice of the pony. It was as if the entirety of the little world within the hat had spoken. She swallowed. There was no rule against contact with large beasts, as such. Seeking out a large, blundering animal was deemed its own punishment. “Hello?” said the voice. “Ah heard you say somethin’ earlier. Ah could swear it – Winona! Stay!” The growling, which had arched it back to pounce, lowered itself again. Honeysuckle tried to think, but everything was black. Another stamp of the pony’s hoof could crush this little world with ease. The little world itself just threw a blank look at her. She could almost feel her heart ramming itself against her back like a trapped animal in a panic. “What were you doin’? Stealin’ some apples?” Has he got his hoof poised over the hat? Honeysuckle nearly clawed her own eyes out while the seconds closed in. Her heart, giving up on the back, made a dash for her windpipe, and forced the cowering and surprised word out of her mouth. “Yes,” she said. Winona stopped growling. No sound met her ears, but she could feel the silent heat of his fuming stare through the Stetson. “You got no right,” he said suddenly, and the ground trembled as he spoke. “That’s Apple family stock.” Honeysuckle landed on the soil. There was no point wasting energy on the wing. “Sir?” she said. If Gall Sting could be kept at bay by the right language, this oaf could. “Mister Pony?” “You can talk!” To her surprise, the pony sounded delighted. “Ah heard you clear as a brook. Now look, Ah don’t wanna hurt you or nothin’ –” “What are you going to do?” There was a long silence. Honeysuckle didn’t trust long silences; Gall Sting had been far too fond of them. “Please, sir?” she added. “That’s Big Macintosh to you,” said the foal, but his voice wasn’t harsh now. It was more like the tight squeeze of her antennae by a larger flutter pony, and she could almost hear him puff out his chest as he spoke. “Folks sometimes call me Big Mac. Ah’m in charge of the farm now. It’s a big responsibility.” “Yes,” she said, as though reminding him as often as possible that she could talk. “Now why were you stealing our food?” Big Mac said. Winona began growling again. Honeysuckle tried not to look at the hat around her. “You’ve got lots of apples.” “But we can’t jus’ give 'em away! We gotta sell 'em!” Big Mac’s voice drowned out Winona’s growling, and made it stop altogether. “We barely got enough as it is. Granny Smith says the pegasus ponies were gettin’ fed up of somethin’ an’ went on a strike, an’ there’s no rain or clouds, an’ we got ourselves one of them hot seasons like the ones Granny had when she was a foal. We’ve lost the south field as it is, an’ what if we don’t have enough to live on when harvest's over? Granny Smith says Ah gotta look after the farm, an’ Pa gave me his hat, an’ Ah gotta look after the family most of all, an’ don’t you care about any of that?” Honeysuckle wished her stomach would rumble, or that her hunger would just reach over to him and strangle his juvenile brain. Make him really feel it. How could she convey, to a complete stranger, what it was like to see dozens of emaciated faces every day, all over the shrivelling ball she called a paper nest, and knowing she was one of them? Was there anything that would make him understand? “Well?” Big Mac asked loudly. “What do you think I want?” she said just as loudly and even more fiercely. "I'm starving! You can’t be this slow, even for a beast." She thought she heard the wipe of fur against fur, and the sound of someone breathing into their sleeve. Winona yipped, and there was a question mark at the end of it. Oh All-Mother and All-Father to Hive Heaven! Did I just say… Oh Hive Heaven, tell me I did not just… “Ah, uh, beg pardon, ma’am.” It might have been a new pony speaking. Given how harried and tremulous the voice was, she almost fancied she’d spoken them herself. Oh sweet summertime, I’m going up there now. Rosedust, you know I’d never be so stupid! You knew the beasts better than anyone else! You know I’d never be so stupid… so… To her surprise, the hat rose and a blast of light hit her in the eyes. When they cleared, she could see the pulsating and wet nose of the dog swelling to fill her eyes. Two angry beetles blinked and stared at her from a mass of dark fur beyond the nose, and its wilting breath washed over her like a heat haze. She turned and faced the pony instead. Four columns of red fur loomed over her, one of the columns moving across to rest a hoof on the dog’s shoulder. His neck seemed to be decorated with a block of wood that he’d probably torn straight from a trunk and punched a hole through, and up from the centre towered a massive neck. What looked like straw hung low over his foalish face, and two brilliant eyes glared at her with all the intensity of two apples made of marble. Only the Stetson hat looked too childish to take seriously, hanging limply from an ear like a dead fish on a god’s statue. Honeysuckle wanted to crawl into the dirt and die as she turned to face him. She opened her mouth to speak, and felt the words turn tail and flee down her throat. “Now listen, Ah’ll let you go this one time,” he said brusquely, “but if Ah ever see you or anythin’ like you on this farm again, Ah ain’t gonna go so easy. Ah gotta look after mah family. You understand, right?” She dared herself to look up. “What about mine?” she whispered. For a moment, Big Mac looked surprised. “Ah’m sorry, ma'am. What was that you said?” “I gotta feed my kin, too,” she said. The expression on his face was hard to describe, but it was the most penetrating and complicated look she'd ever seen on anything bigger than Gall Sting. It struck her that behind that oversized face was a gigantic brain, and that somewhere behind the sweaty fur and the red bluster, it was taking notes, mulling things over, and watching the world with intelligent eyes. Bizarrely, she could almost feel his big, booming heart beating at the air around her. Honeysuckle felt the last of her spirit die away. She shook her head and spread her wings. Winona made a start as though to leap, but Big Mac pressed his hoof harder on her, and the flutter pony darted out of sight just as Winona managed to break free and scamper along the aisles in noisy and enthusiastic pursuit. Big Mac waited for the barking to die away before he let out a sigh he’d been holding in for a while. He stared up at the sun overhead, and then flinched and shielded his eyes.