Funny Honey
What is a
weed? Just a flower that grows in the wrong place, or
something more useful? Many have roots capable of stabilising sand
dunes, yet undermine pavements; some have vicious spines, but hold the only
water in the baking desert; others light up immaculately manicured lawns with
their bright, yellow, shaggy petals before sending out clouds of gossamer seeds
to colonise neighbouring gardens.
Bernice's
dandelions were certainly the last culprits. Forget about dahlias, daffodils
and dicentra. Plants the neighbours tried to eliminate as weeds, she regarded
as meadow flowers. Her bees were not interested in the showy, double-petalled
hollyhocks that sneered down on her uncultivated plot from next door's garden.
Insects evolved side by side with the single petals of bindweed, buttercups and
bluebells; and surely the bluebell is a greater wonder of nature than a frilly,
pink petunia, whether native to Britain or Spain? Bernice's garden was a
wildlife haven and, much to the chagrin of her neighbours, full of nettles,
milkweed, stitchwort, knapweed, buttercups, soapwort, cow parsley, and oxeye
daisies.
The
other suburban gardeners resented that her pollinating insects did not
appreciate their salvias, double delphiniums or hanging baskets dripping with
begonias, petunias and fuchsias. When Bernice's first hive arrived they fully
expected their flowers to be the first they visited. Instead, they spent their
time pollinating the fragrant blossom of lime trees lining the street and the
buddleia in her freely flowering wildlife haven that seeded their immaculate
borders and lawns with dandelions. Eventually curiosity overcame alienation. If
Bernice's parents were prepared to allow the 14-year-old nature lover to handle
swarms of busy, stinging insects with such confidence, she perhaps deserved a
little respect.
And
Bernice talked to her bees. Every morning, as the sun rose, she would come out
and address the busy troops before going to school. It was not possible to tell
what this - slightly strange - teenager was saying to her hives, though one or
two neighbours did think it odd that the newest swarm ignored even her wild
flowers. Some wondered if these unusually large insects with a flash of flame red
on their furry backsides were actually bees. Every morning, after their pep
talk from Bernice, they would rise in a neatly formed, furiously buzzing swarm
over the local gardens, passing over allotments, and even farmers crops, before
disappearing from view. Then they would return just before sunset in exactly
the same formation and circle their hive several times before going inside
where their frenetic activity sounded like a factory assembly line. Surely
these insects couldn't have been making something so benign as honeycombs. The
other bees apparently couldn't stand this noisy activity either and left their
hives in swarms, which were promptly taken over by the red-bottomed insects.
It
wasn't until jars of honey began to appear that the neighbours became persuaded
that they were, after all, only bees. How Bernice managed to wrest the
honeycombs from the hives of her furious charges and spin it from the
honeycombs was a mystery - they must have resented it. It must have been done
at the dead of night when they were too exhausted to realise what was
happening.
When,
one late afternoon, a solemn faced Bernice delivered neatly labelled jars of
honey to her immediate neighbours they were accepted gratefully, and with a
degree of relief that it hadn't after all been produced by some exotic strain
of insect with a venomous sting.
Then
night fell and the lights went out. Only then did anyone coming downstairs for
an illicit midnight snack notice that the jars of honey were filling the
kitchen with a fluorescent glow.
The
neighbours, of course, were far too diplomatic to mention the fact and
discreetly disposed of the glowing substances down the drain.
As
soon as Bernice became aware of the honey's extraordinary properties even her
confidence was shaken. Not a young woman who mixed easily at school, she was
unable to resist mentioning it to three friends she regularly helped with
coursework because they spent more time on their mountain bikes than reading
books. Despite their devil-may-care, athletic prowess with two-wheeled
machines, Chanel, Denbigh and Robert had always been wary of what was going on
behind Bernice's thin-rimmed spectacles. With one blink of her odd coloured
eyes she could deal with problems it would have taken them days to solve. They
expected her to expound some complicated explanation for the fluorescing honey
that her bees had produced, only for her to shrug her shoulders at the mystery
instead. If Bernice was baffled by anything, it had to be really astounding.
Now
all of them were curious to know where her bees were collecting their nectar.
It
would have been impossible to pursue the tightly knit swarm in a car, even if
one of her parents had agreed to attempt it, but there were few places a
mountain bike could not go.
So,
early the next Saturday morning, Chanel, Denbigh and Robert waited on their
mountain bikes in the alley at the back of Bernice's garden.
With
their customary, businesslike drone, at seven o'clock sharp, the swarm
ascended, circled, and then zoomed off towards the countryside. Bernice was
right to assume that no car could have followed them. The pursuing mountain
bikes bounced over deeply rutted tracks, through gaps in hedgerows, and across
uncultivated farmland.
Bernice
could not keep up on her ancient bicycle so Chanel phoned to tell her that the
bees had descended into a large garden concealed at the bottom of a deep,
disused quarry. Bernice pedalled furiously to the location along the lanes and
tracks indicated on her smartphone.
Chanel,
Denbigh and Robert were tempted to go down and investigate, but had no idea how
to handle a swarm of bees that might be annoyed at having three kids on BMXs
following them.
When
Bernice arrived, she looked down at the large, verdant plot below. It was
obvious where the swarm had found its rich source of nectar, so rich they had
no need to forage anywhere else. She took out her binoculars from the bicycle's
basket. The garden was bursting with foliage and flowers so dense they
virtually concealed the non-descript, single-storeyed building at its centre.
None of this appeared on Google Earth when Bernice checked, possibly because
there was no nearby road for the camera vans to access. The mysterious plot
bursting with flower-filled bushes and towering borders should have at least
been detected by a surveillance satellite.
There
was something very odd going on here and even Chanel, Robert and Denbigh looked
apprehensive. Skateboard parks were their natural element, not Kew Gardens.
Bernice
did not attempt to offer an explanation. She had the suspicion that this garden
glowed in the dark, like her honey. If so, any satellite image might have
identified it as a large, illuminated greenhouse.
"What
do you want us to do then Bernie?"
Bernice
was so engrossed in thought she was barely aware Chanel had spoken.
"Do
we go down then?" Robert sounded more enthusiastic.
"It's
a research place of some sort," Bernice eventually decided. "You
interested in that sort of thing?"
No,
none of her adventurous companions had an affinity with science on any level,
especially botany, and she could tell that they would rather be testing their
skills on the slopes of the ancient quarry.
"I'll
go down and let you know what I find."
Chanel,
Robert and Denbigh needed no second bidding and were off on their mountain
bikes, bouncing over rubble and attempting somersaults into piles of sandy
spoil. Bernice paused to wonder if their stunts hadn't already caused brain
damage which doctors had not yet detected. Their boisterous, dangerous activity
was a mystery to the beekeeper.
She
switched off her smartphone to save the battery, just in case it was necessary
to phone for a paramedic when one of them inevitably crashed attempting
wheelies down the dangerous slopes on the other side of the quarry. It was just
as well that her friends were so far away. None of them had learnt the subtle
art of keeping secrets and would have been bound to blurt out that Bernice had
discovered the portal to another dimension or combustible flowers.
She
left her bike to descend on foot to this strange plot in the middle of nowhere
and, after pushing through a thick boundary of hazel, was greeted by that
familiar buzzing. The bees had recognised Bernice and formed a tightly knit
swarm in greeting.
She
waved self-consciously. "Hi. So this is where you end up all day."
A
sudden, rasping voice came from a thicket of ceanothus. "So they are your
bees, then?"
Bernice
spun round to see a tiny, elderly woman in a lab coat step out to greet her.
"Is
this your... garden... then?"
"Oh
yes. I thought it was a very secret garden until now."
"Sorry,
but I had to know where they were getting their nectar." Bernice indicated
her three companions bouncing about the quarry in the far distance. "Don't
worry about them. They don't understand where honey comes from - they're still
getting to grips with the birds and bees."
The
scientist chuckled. "My name's Batista."
"Er... Dr... Professor? "
"Professor,
but you can call me Juanita."
"I'm
Bernice."
There
was an embarrassed silence, which the bees obligingly
filled with their chainsaw buzzing.
Bernice
suspected that this scientist was using her swarm to help modify plants to glow
in the dark. The project was probably unregulated at best,
and downright illegal at worst. The uses such a development could be put to
were not immediately apparent but, by the renegade attitude of the older woman,
it probably wasn't for the benefit of a supermarket chain.
Whatever
the reason, the botanical achievement fascinated the beekeeper. "The
plants here are luminous, aren't they?"
"Well
you're a sharp one and no mistake."
"How
did you manage to incorporate the gene into them?"
"I
modified ostracod DNA and spliced it in at the reproduction stages. Took half a lifetime."
"It's
brilliant... But why?"
Professor
Batista gave an enigmatic smile. "Only ecologists and other scientists
seem bothered that the planet's survival depends on plants. The rest of
humanity needs reminding that they aren't a finite resource. Like your bees,
once they have gone - so are we. If plants glowed like those in Avatar, loggers
might hesitate before felling a tree and farmers be
less likely to slash and burn away the planet's lungs. If forests no longer
exist, we cease to breathe."
The
idea was so extraordinary, yet plausible, Bernice could think of no immediate
argument against it.
All the Professor needed was for swarms of
insects to carry the pollen from her plants across the country.
"How
many varieties have you altered so far?"
"Quite a few. Lime was first, but trees take a long
while to grow."
"Isn't
there a way to directly alter a plant without it having to set seed?"
"I
don't know - Is there?"
Bernice
hesitated. Her knowledge of botany came from an interest in bees.
The
14-year-old remained quiet for a moment. Professor Batista's experiment was
brilliant for the sake of it. It was hardly surprising that it had taken her
half a lifetime to manipulate the DNA in the pollen of so many different
plants.
"I
won't say anything to anyone - promise," Bernice eventually told her.
The
scientist smiled. Her young visitor belonged to the generation that would have
to deal with the consequences of climate change. "I'm sure you
won't."
"How
long before your plan starts to have an effect?" asked Bernice.
"It
might be working on a modest scale, but how many people would admit to seeing
the verges glow in the dark on their way home from the pub?"
"So
you think it's already happening?"
"Not
too noticeably, I hope. I don't want to be shut down by the protesters against
modified crops before I'm ready. If they're prepared to destroy fields of food
with the potential to prevent starvation, just think what they might do to this
place."
"I
don't know about other insects, but my bees seem too happy here to spread your
pollen very far."
"They're
the ideal pollinators for my present purposes. Once enough plant varieties have
been treated, then I'll need hives of more adventurous bees."
The
thought of fields of wheat and hedgerows glowing in the night filled Bernice
with the sort of euphoria she hadn't experienced since receiving her first book
on beekeeping. Though what the wildlife would think of it might be different
matter. They wouldn't know whether it was night or day; as if they didn't
already have enough to contend with in pesticides. That was something which
apparently hadn't occurred to the Professor. Now Bernice knew her path in life.
It was bizarre, exciting and had already consumed most of another person's
lifetime, though explaining that to a jobseeker interviewer might not be such a
good idea.
"Got
any vacancies?"
"When
can you start?"
"Weekends
all right? Got GCEs coming up."
"Good
idea. Get qualified. Never know from day to day whether I could get closed
down."
Bernice
watched her bees busy in the fluorescent flowers. Professor Batista needed a
realist like her to help put things into perspective before she managed to
illuminate the whole world, from the Siberian tundra to Brazilian rainforest.
"You
know, there are quite a few ways of making your research even more
useful."
"Like?"
"Your
glowing lime trees could eliminate the use for street lights and, if only the
pollen of certain species could be targeted, so many societies without access
to electricity could carry on being active after sunset."
"Yes,"
Prof Batista admitted, "you really are a very bright kid, aren't
you."