Geometry - KA Short

In the circular, human-built clay homes of the Lamarcks, there were three shapes of varying importance.

First was the hexagon, building block of all beekind and form of the Great Queen Hexa.

Second was the circle, which was a less efficient, less beautiful form. A hexagon with her edges chopped off. Still, the circle had use, as it formed the foundation on which hexes were applied and was often the shape of a novice waxworker’s comb. Such imperfect creations were not simply thrown aside, after all, but used as bases for something better. It was also a flower’s delectable center, where the pollen and nectar was stored. As such, the circle was the form of Lesser Queen Circe.

And then there was the triangle.

This was the hexagon sheared into six. The triangle was the form of Trith, a frightful, untamable beast which was harmful more often than helpful, rending the bee’s noble constructions at the tips of beast-paws, crushing bee bodies in predator jaws.

Yet, she was in the bee’s stinger, defending from predators. She was in the bee’s mandibles, helping to shape wax and chew food. And, most curious of all, a triangle forms the hexagon. It is Trith that formed Hexa. Or perhaps Hexa is six Triths joined in conviction to do good.

Curious indeed is the triangle.

Pyrus considered herself a circular sort of bee. Not so beautiful and hardworking as a hex but not so unpredictable as a triangle.

While many strived for the top, to be the most hex of all their sisters, Pyrus was “lazy” and worked about as hard as she needed to, sometimes less. But never did she slip into triangular territory.

Never.

Not until today.

The flower had seemed perfectly healthy. It had tasted delicious, too, until a bitter taste chased it down and she found her brain full of fog.

The nectar was fermented, and to bring such a poor crop back would be a death sentence.

Pyrus had thrown up what she could, but in the end had little choice but to find a safe spot to sit and wait for her condition to improve. She would then need water and a thorough cleaning.

It wasn’t a crime to return to the hive with a fermented stench on your fur necessarily, but there would be a thousand self-proclaimed hexabees ready to insult and snicker at you for the rest of the season.

Circle she may have been, Pyrus wanted her dignity as intact as she could get it.

She had just thought it safe enough to doze when a horrible, cacophonic buzzing shook her whole body.

A thousand flies shot through the air over her head, fluttering upwards in a whirling, black tornado against the orange-blue sky.

Pyrus watched in awe. She hadn’t known flies to swarm like this. There seemed to be a few at the very front of the pile, fluttering this way and that. The swarm undulated behind them like a massive snake. As the few isolated flies began to move away towards the horizon, the swarm fell into line behind them.

Such hexagonal arrangement, not in shape but in organization, had Pyrus intrigued. Before she could think better of it, aided by her muddled brain, she flew after them.

She caught up to the flies at the back and picked one, “Sir?”

“Ma’am, to you,” the fly said, “You ought to be careful, I thought you were a wasp.”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Pyrus said, “I just wanted to know where you’re going.”

“Do you plan to join us?” the fly joked, then her voice became grim, “But maybe you should. We are fleeing. There is a drought coming, and if we are to raise a healthy brood we must leave.”

“Lamarcks don’t have to worry about droughts,” Pyrus said, “The humans always have water. And we always have flowers.”

“Well, that’s good for you. But we must be off. You’ll get lost if you stay.”

“You’re right. Goodbye, and good luck.” Then Pyrus peeled away from the fly swarm and returned to earth. The light had grown dim and it was difficult to see.

Now, with a clear mind, she realized she was chilly as well.

As she returned to the flower fields to find shelter again, she began to have doubts. Maybe it was the dark stoking her fear (so many enemies potentially shrouded in pitch-black would fray the biggest lion’s nerves), but she started to wonder about the flies’ migration.

How could a fly know a drought was coming?

How could anyone know something like that?

It was a guess, plain and simple. But what if it wasn’t? What if there was a drought?

Pyrus rubbed her head. What was she thinking? They were flies. Animals like her. They couldn’t know anything.

I’m not going to make a fool of myself, talking about fly visions. I’ll be called triangular for the rest of my life.

She was just going to survive the night and go home. No need to bother the hive with it.