The Journal of BubbleLand Studies
Scented onto the Internet by Mayor Reg through a Bee Scribe, using a BeeTenna 2.0 Scent Browser Hive, on this Twenty-Third day of TwasMire, in the year of our Hive, 15910.
End of Week Six:Mysterious Bee Stranger In Ear Of Ill Human Grub, Sara!
Mayor Reg's Seal Last Week:
The Bees and Wolves of the expedition went ahead to SeaPort Downs, leaving the slower humans to make their own pace, swampwalking along the edge of the Sweet Sea. Mayor Reg's daughter stepped on a thorn, and when it got infected, the Humans cried to any wolves or hive within hearing, for medical assistance. A listening wolf arrived, carrying a portable Hive on its back, one which could access the Internet. A websearch was conducted, and a link established between KinterSylvanian medical mosquitos and an earth accupuncturist.
Mayor Reg:
The world was flashing by much faster than at any time in my remembrance. We humans are often criticized by Beasts and Buzzers for lavishing so much love and attention upon our children. Denied ownership of lands and houses, perhaps instincts that could have gone there had landed upon our offspring. I'm not sure. I just know that the threat to Sara's life felt like a threat to everything, and would have to any human father.
I carried Sara through the swamp as if she were a feather, trying not to jostle the swollen foot that was such a threat, of both pain and of death. "Honey, there will be a doctor there," I told her. "He'll help you."
Sara curled into a tighter ball than before. "Will there be shots? I HATE 'squitos! You know I hate 'em!"
"Yes," I sighed. "There may have to be mosquitos."
"I hate 'em!" she said.
'Good,' I thought. 'Maybe it will keep her mind off of her foot.' A glow up ahead, not long later, told me that the strange hive-backed black wolf waited for us.
He was lying on a dry clearing. "Approach," he said. "The, Whoa!, grasses have been warned. No, Whoa!, insects will be squished." A circle of glowing fireflies rested in the air above his head. An occasional tiny flash of wings at the center of the circle told of another there, perhaps a Royal Bee of some rank.
I laid Sara in the grass, and she was reluctant to let go. "No 'squitos!" She said. The mosquito veterinarians were already in a cloud around her, ready to take blood samples for analysis. I expected that somewhere lurking in the shadows were several of the much bigger hybrids, drinking up Ant-biotics for injection once diagnosis was made.
The way Sara swung her arms about her head, though, I knew that the mosquitos would be prevented from making the examination. After a lengthy standoff, the circle of fireflies above the Wolf's head descended, and rested upon the Wolf's head.
The wolf spoke. "My, Whoa!, master wishes to speak with her, like in the old stories."
"It is unseemly, sir, and besides, it is forbidden!" I said. "You know the Queen's Law!"
"My master says, 'Queens who have lost the power to say 'Yes' prize greatly the power to say 'No!'"
I was intrigued. "It is law that humans serve Bees. I am your servant, Sir. Take what you will from us." I spat upon the ground. "It is only a faded old legend that such speech is possible!"
The Wolf looked me in the eye. "My master asks, 'Was that a protest, or a hope?'" I stood away as the circle of fireflies moved above Sara's head. I could see the gleam in her eyes, shining with the hope of magic. She was aware of what was happening, and of the old stories about secrets exchanged between bees and children . . . of Queens and Champions and Magic! I heard the 'Zoooob!' of tiny bee wings, and saw Sara clutch at her right ear.
"Daddy, it's in my . . . " Her eyes widened. "He's singing!"
Sara relaxed, then, and laid back down. I heard the buzzing of mosquitos, and watched them alight in strange patterns upon Sara's ear and face. She visibly quieted, and I watched the mosquitos land in lines upon her limbs, as she calmed even more.
I was spellbound, and can't remember how long a time the mosquitos treated Sara. I recalled her former visits to doctors, the painful blood draws, and the even more painful injections. This was unlike any medicine I had ever seen, the beautiful patterns the mosquitos wove themselves into, and the music of their soft fanning wings as they went about their business.
The Wolf sauntered up, quietly. "I will, Whoa!, speak for the doctor."
"You wish me to hold her down, when the big hybrids come?"
"They are, Whoa!, finished . . . a thousand doing the work of one. But, Whoa!, in places that heal, and restore, and set straight the fractured channels of healing. Look!"
I could see that Sara's foot had already reduced in swelling. The smile on her face was something I hadn't seen in a long time.
"Your, Master?" I asked. "Is he a Royal?"
"A, Whoa!, funny fellow! Spent, Whoa!, time among the human grubs on the ships." He hadn't answered my question.
Sara's lips began to move, and I could at last hear the song that had so tickled her.
"I'm a little stocking with a hole in the toe, Whenever I go walking, toenails show, When people's knees are knocking from the cold or snow, They will want their stocking with the hole in the toe."The Wolf continued, telling me that his mysterious master, a Bee head of his own hive, wished to accompany us to the ButterSnow Mountains. I thought nothing of it, so enchanted was I by the songs Sara had learned while the veterinarians treated her.
"I'm a wooly sweater with a spot RIGHT HERE, Came from cherry filling in a pie last year, When it's really freezy and your nose is feeling sneezy, People want their sweater with a spot RIGHT HERE."
At length, RoseMoths came to clutter the sky around the wolf, and he stirred, ready to move on. "The, Whoa!, RoseMoths have found the Hive again," he said. "But, Whoa!, You! You must, Whoa!, complete your journey to the ButterSnows. Look, Whoa!, for us where ice left its footprint. We will not be far."
The firefly escort dimmed their glows one by one, and the renewed darkness heard a rustling of brush as Wolf and Hive disappeared. We remained there for the night, ready to renew the journey in the morning.
Under my breath, I sang my self to sleep, with Sara in my arms. "I'm a little stocking with a hole in the toe . . . "
8 May, 1996 -- Expedition Report -- 23 Twasmire, 15910
