The Nest

By Crispin Hull

(This work is copyright. You may print out one copy for personal use otherwise it may not be reproduced without permission.)

Chapter One

The creek had not flowed for months. Its dry bed cut through the flat heat of the plain. Nearby, an isolated eucalypt struggled for water and life, shedding leaves and bark in a mess beneath. There was no wind in this semi-silent world, just the shimmer of heat. Another leaf dropped noiselessly to the ground and landed with its end turned upwards, stopping Thoran in his tracks. Thoran moved forward. He gripped the edge of the leaf and scrambled with desperation to climb over it, but the leaf fell back on him. He scrambled up again in vain and then gave up.

I hate these leaves, Thoran thought, they hide the path, block the view and are dangerously unstable.

He thought of the welcoming solid clay at the top of the nest and wondered how long it would take to return to it. If only he knew his way. By now he had lost the others; their scent had disappeared. He had been warned so often to stay in file and of the danger of getting lost, but how could he help a leaf falling in his way? Merewright would understand. He had defended and helped him so often in the past. One leaf was not his fault, and why had the others marched on without waiting? It was as much their fault as his. Who would care anyway if he got lost and never returned? Merewright might be sad for a day, but Bujax and the others would not care. Thoran cursed his luck and that one eucalypt leaf. Which way did the others go? Thoran walked on rehearsing the conversation he would have with Bujax. "Why didn't you wait, you bully Bujax?" No; he wouldn't call Bujax a bully. He would like to, but he was too small. "I'm sorry Bujax, a leaf fell in the path."

"A leaf, you idiot," Bujax would say. "Why don't you keep up?"

"I can't help it. Ask Merewright, I try I really try . . . ."

And Thoran trailed off into thoughts of justification of his own helplessness. He continued to walk. He climbed over another leaf; this one was easier because it lay flat. He came to a long piece of bark and clambered over it with difficulty. Which way did they turn? Why didn't they leave some markings, or some scent? He crossed spots of sunlight and spots of shade and now bigger patches of sun. The leaves and the bark were thinning out and he could see further. But he could not see the others. The sun was now in front of him, causing him great confusion. Had he been walking so long that it was afternoon, or had he just changed direction? The land was getting more unfamiliar. He stopped rehearsing the conversations with Bujax and Merewright about how he got lost. Instead he began to imagine them thankful and relieved at his return to the nest. How they would surround him to apologise for leaving him behind and to promise to look after him in the future. He would take some blame himself, of course, but they would deny it was his fault. He would be pampered and they would be sorry they lost him. Bujax wasn't such a bad ant after all. He had his good points. Tough, but fair, was the way to describe Bujax. Merewright was gentler; he could always be relied upon to see the other point of view. Thoran walked dreamily on, thinking of his reception back at the nest, not knowing that he was walking further and further away from his goal.

He came out into the sun again; a good sign, he thought. He should be at the nest quite soon. But was his timing out, or his direction? No; he had just walked in a circle. The ground was right, just hard clay and occasional stems of thin yellow grass. The yellow was richer on the shaded side and almost white where the sun struck it. Thoran marvelled at the stems and remembered how long ago they were soft, edible and green. Would they turn green again, he thought. He remembered them being green the first time he left the nest. It was one of his first memories. How the world had changed since then. Then he remembered how weeks ago Merewright said the stems would not turn green again. Rather new green ones would appear quickly after rain and then slowly turn yellow. Thoran had asked, "What's rain?", but Merewright had scoffed impatiently and said wisely, "I will tell you, Thoran, I will tell you." And Merewright told him about rain that night.

The sun made Thoran's small black-and-brown body gleam, and he walked faster. His staccato steps were rhythmically dancing over the clay. He must be getting closer to the nest; but perhaps he had come too far. He was getting hungry now; he had walked so long. The grass thinned further and Thoran came across large, red stones. Some were ten times the size of his body. He walked around them wondering at their smooth surface and the heat they reflected on to his body. This was now a strange land; but there was still hope. He came across a track and he thought he smelt the others. He was saved. All he had to do was follow the track and smell and he would reach the safety of the nest. It was odd, though, that he had never been on this track before. He had never seen such stones. The smell of the others was being overtaken by the much more pungent and welcoming odour of death and he followed it even though it took him off the path because the death odour meant food. He weaved in and out among the stones. This was a fabulous land. Thoran forgot he was lost as he walked along the flat clay with huge stones scattered to the left and right. The smell was getting stronger and Thoran's appetite grew. It smelt like a dead grasshopper. Perhaps he would find the others there and he could join them in a quick feed before taking the rest of the carcass back to the nest. The smell was getting overpowering and Thoran was approaching a frenzy of excitement. His legs went faster and his head moved up and down in eagerness to get food. He passed several more stones, rounded a corner and saw the dead grasshopper. Alas, the others were not in sight. That was strange because the grasshopper had been dead for hours and it was rare for a dead insect to last long within a day's forage from the nest. How sadly mistaken Thoran was. The ants of his nest foraged each day, walking at maximum half a day out and half a day back. That way they cleared only food within half a day's radius from the nest. Thoran by now had gone well beyond the half day radius. He had walked in almost a straight line and as the sun was low now, he had no chance of getting back to the nest before nightfall. The falling of one leaf in his path at the wrong time now threatened his very life, but he was blissfully unaware and about to tear into the grasshopper's dead flesh.

Thoran forgot his guilt as he fed handsomely on the flesh. Bujax usually allowed the ants only enough food to cut the edge of their hunger and give them strength to carry as much as possible back to the nest. No matter how big the find, he never allowed gorging. Food was to be conserved, he told Thoran. Enough had to be taken back to the nest for larvae and the young to make sure the nest was sustained. There was a delicate balance between food supply and ant numbers. One day it might be Thoran's task to lead foraging and he would be answerable to the soldiers for food supply. But these thoughts did not worry Thoran now. His mandibles tore into the grasshopper. He was desperately hungry and wondered where and when his next food supply would be. He ate his fill and moved away from the carcass carefully noting the shapes of nearby stones and the direction of the sun so he could find it again later. After a while he rested briefly to digest the food and then walked on, confident that it would not be long before he found the nest or the others so he could boast about his find. Well done, Bujax would say. Merewright would be pleased for him. Thoran held his head high and his step lightened as he walked further and further from the nest.

He hardly noticed the shadows from the red stones growing longer and that they no longer generated much heat. Surely he should find the others soon or come across the nest. He had never been out so long without returning to the nest, so it must be found soon, he reasoned. But Bujax was not navigating. Thoran was on his own. Nagging doubts came to him as the heat dropped and the self-satisfaction gained from his grasshopper meal slowly waned. Thoran was not only on his own, but he was lost and for the first time since the fateful leaf fell in his path he knew it. He knew there was no guarantee he would ever get back to the nest. He pictured Bujax and Merewright finding his dead body. Poor Thoran, they would say. We should have taken better care of him. Merewright would be sad, but Bujax would say, "He's just another worker."

Thoran was too tired to go on. He had never walked so long or so far. The day was almost done. Thoran had never been out in the dark before; the only dark he had ever known was inside the nest. What joy it was to step jauntily into the tunnel leading safely underground to hours of rest, free from fear. Would he ever feel it again? Thoran was alone in the dusk, exposed and endangered. He found a large stone with an overhang, scrapped some dirt toward him to form a wall, bent his six tired legs and fell to the ground asleep.

* * * *

The grotesque shapes of red desert stones haunted Thoran's dream. They rolled upon him, they bounced in front of him causing great craters in the clay. Bujax laughed a great cackling laugh: "Die, Thoran, die. You stupid ant." Merewright joined in: "Silly Thoran; silly Thoran; got lost; got lost; is going to die; is going die. I'm not your friend, Thoran. no one can save you." The torment went on and on and leaves fell on him and he tried to clamber over them but they collapsed under his weight and he fell, fell, fell into the blackness of the dead grasshopper. Tumbling with the red stones he fell. He fell through the entrance of the nest where dead grasshoppers laughed at him. Great shoots of rich green grass grew around him. He was lost in a sea of green. Then it turned into yellow spears which rained down upon him and pushed him back outside the nest. Thoran called out: "Merewright, Bujax, where are you?"

"We are lost Thoran, we are lost. Only you are found." And Merewright and Bujax laughed at him till they faded and fell through the entrance of the nest to safety while Thoran looked on. He walked faster and faster to the entrance of the nest, but it got further and further away until it disappeared.

* * * *

Thoran awoke to find a cold desert morning. He suddenly remembered the previous day and wondered if he could ever find his way back to the nest. What would the others think? He was hungry and his thoughts went back to the dead grasshopper. It reminded him of his nightmare with its obtuse meaning. Merewright and Bujax were selfish. They had made it to the nest while he had failed. They had left him alone and unprotected. Was the dream right, or was it the result of his being lost and scared?

I must stop asking myself questions, Thoran thought, I must find the grasshopper, eat and get back to the nest. Surely I will find a foraging party.

Thoran retraced his steps. The direction of the sun and his memory of the stones did not fail him. He remembered each turn and each major stone. It is just round the corner, he thought. He came to a familiar stone and walked around it. Then he saw the remains of the grasshopper. But hardly anything was left, certainly nothing edible. Something had been at the carcass since he had left it the night before. Whatever it was had done a quick job. The sun was not long up and Thoran had not walked far. Unfed, Thoran's urgent task was to get back home. He reasoned he had walked in the wrong direction the previous day. He must retrace his steps to get back within foraging range of his nest to have any chance of finding the others. He walked awhile, thinking he recognised some stones, but they were all so similar.

Then he smelt what he thought were the others, but it was not quite right. He felt the familiar acidic smell in the air, but it had an alien element, a deeper harsher bite than the smell of his fellows. He moved quickly off the path on the upwind side, though there were only occasional tiny wafts of breeze. It was an instinctive move, which Thoran instantly regretted. His foraging parties rarely took live food, but if it were there and easy to take, they did so. This made Thoran think, "If instinct is always right then no creature would get caught and die. They could all follow their instinct and avoid capture. I have followed instinct by jumping this side of the path, and I could be wrong."

He reasoned further: what if instinct is always right, but creatures only get caught when they disobey instinct and think too much for themselves? Bujax would like that. He always said Thoran thought too much and it would get him into trouble one day. What would Merewright think? There it was again, "Think". In the past day and night, thinking, instinct and survival had replaced blind obedience and reliance on Bujax. What would Bujax do now if he were hidden behind a stone near a path with air filled with a strange but familiar smell?

Then Thoran heard them - a fast babble of clicks he could not understand. He had never heard such a sound; it was like the smell, strange but familiar. Thoran was locked in fear and wonderment. What creatures were creating this smell and noise? He peeped from behind his stone and saw them: ants, just like him but slightly smaller and purple all over, not black and brown like himself.

Thoran's immediate thought was that they could help him get back to his own nest. He was sure he could talk to them and ask them the way. After all, they were ants like him. They had nothing to fear from him; they might like to talk to a different sort of ant. He was about to rush forward when he remembered his thoughts about instinct. Was it instinctive to rush forward, or was it reason? How could he tell the difference? What would Bujax or Merewright do? The harsher element of the smell was stronger now and the familiar part receded. Their alien noise grew more threatening; Thoran could not make out a single word. He watched from behind his stone as the purple ants marched past in single file. The alien babble, though loud, came only from the first five ants; the rest marched in silence.

This was very different from Thoran's foraging parties: Merewright joking and helping, Bujax encouraging and the others helping. These ants were marching with fixed determination, and they kept marching, so many of them. The biggest foraging party from Thoran's nest was twenty; but at least thirty had already passed and they were still coming. Thoran started to count them. Another thirty had passed before the line ended. Not only was their colour different. Their legs were thicker and their mandibles much longer and wider. Oh what terrible damage they could do, thought Thoran. Their abdomens and heads were smaller, but they had a meanness and toughness about them that Thoran did not like. He was glad he had not rushed out to seek help from these purple workers. There was no help to be had among this determined army; they might have torn him to pieces. After the last ant passed, Thoran stepped gingerly on to the path. Should he follow them to see where they were going, or go in the other direction to find out where they came from? He was scared; he wanted to get home, but knew he should find out more about the purple ants and where they came from. Was that instinct, or reason? Thoran figured he would have enough warning if another party came along; there were so many of them that their smell would reach him before his reached them.

As he walked Thoran noticed the path was more well-worn and it got wider. It was unlike any path he had seen before. If only the paths from his own nest had been so grand he would not have got lost just because of a falling leaf. Many ants had walked over this path, he thought. He noticed also that the path no longer weaved in and out of the stones. The red stones, at which he had marvelled before, had been pushed out of the way, at least all but the very largest. Some large stones had been moved to create this path, he thought, much bigger than even Bujax could push. These purple ants must be very powerful. He expected to meet more ants on the path any minute, but none came. Instead he had an easy walk, though he was getting hungry. His thoughts drifted off to food and then to Bujax and Merewright. He almost forgot where he was going and why till the ground got steeper and he felt the strain of walking uphill. Each time he came to what he thought was the top, another rise stretched before him. There was nothing to do but keep going. Eventually he came to the last rise. He walked slowly to the top, wondering what might be on the other side. More stones and a wider path, he thought. Perhaps he might recognise something that might help him get back home, or find something to eat. He took the last few steps, unprepared for the sight that was to spread before him. His eyes peered over the horizon and his legs froze in fear and amazement.

Never in his short life had he seen or expected to see such a sight. He could see down into a valley which contained a mighty mound of hard-baked light pink clay covered with tiny pebbles of uniform size. Upon the mound fifty or sixty purple ants were patrolling. They were larger than the ants on the path; they must be soldiers. He could see at least eight entrances into the mound. Thoran had heard of such things in stories told at night in his own nest, but they were just stories. This was real. It must be, thought Thoran, the biggest nest in the world. And it had taken only one and a half days to walk here. Thoran dared walk no further. He stepped from the path and hid behind a stone. He had to think.

He could not just walk up to one of those soldiers and ask for help. She could do anything. She might sound the alarm and call other soldiers. Thoran would be carried deep inside that huge nest, never to be seen again. Besides, he could not speak their language. He could not understand the purple workers on the path; these soldiers would be no different. They probably did not know where his nest was anyway. The best he could hope for would be some food and to be sent on his way. More likely he would be put to death. Thoran shuddered, and he thought again of their strange but familiar smell and their weird language, more similar than a cricket's or a grasshopper's but just as incomprehensible. He must get back to his nest to tell Bujax and Merewright and all the others. But how? Which direction was his nest? And where could he get some food? If only Bujax had taught him about directions and getting food and getting back to the nest instead of always hurrying him along. If only Merewright had not spent all his time telling stories but taught him how to survive. Though, Thoran reflected, Merewright's stories were delightful. Would he ever hear another, he thought wistfully. Merewright's stories delighted the whole nest. He once told a fantastic tale of a nest in ancient times and Thoran remembered it as if Merewright were before him now.

* * * *

"It began with the rain," Merewright said. "I have seen rain only twice, but it was not as heavy as in these ancient times. It rained for three days non-stop. No ant from this ancient nest could go out for food, and eventually the water entered the nest, flowing slowly to the bottom chamber and rising up toward the entrance of the Queen's chamber."

The other ants gasped. How could such a thing be? The Queen was in the safest chamber. Water sometimes entered the bottom chamber, the Sump Chamber which was put there for that very purpose, but the Queen's chamber was always safe. It was deep in the nest so it could be well-guarded, but was always high enough to be away from water. And the mound at the top of the nest was designed to keep water out. For these desert ants, there had been no flood in living memory. Thoran had been told of the Sump Chamber and its purpose, but it seemed unnecessary to him.

"The Queen could not move," Merewright continued. "She was laden with eggs. Soldiers and workers widened the entrance to her chamber and widened a passage to a higher chamber. They worked frantically and with great purpose. The Queen was calm, knowing her workers and soldiers would save her. The water level rose and was about to reach the entrance to her chamber by the time the passage had been widened enough for her to squeeze through. Twenty workers and soldiers entered her chamber to lift her through the passage to safety. But they could not lift her and other workers were called. All the while the Queen continued to lay eggs which were carried from her chamber by the workers. Even soldiers helped lift eggs to safety. The heroic workers and soldiers continued to fight for their Queen. They moved her toward the entrance of her chamber but could not get her through. Finally, the water entered the chamber. The Queen and many workers and soldiers drowned."

At this a hush came over the nest and many ants silently cried. Merewright lowered his voice.

"With the Queen lost," he continued, "the nest was finished. There could be no more eggs, no more ants to replace those killed. The water slowly filled the rest of the nest, driving all the soldiers and workers to the surface. It was the time of the Great Flood. And still it rained. Many ants drowned. Others died for want of food. And then a miraculous thing happened: some of the soldiers grew wings and when the rain stopped and sun came out one early morning they flew away. They flew away from the flood, away from the danger, death and decay and some of the winged soldiers became Queens and built new nests just like ours."

And the ants of Thoran's nest rubbed their feelers in glee and talked among themselves in speculation over Merewright's story. What a wonderful story, they said. But how could it be true and who told Merewright about it? Why was Merewright so gifted with such knowledge among all the ants of the nest, and yet he was only a worker?

* * * *

Thoran knew now that Merewright's story was true. Having seen the nest of the purple ants, he would now believe all of Merewright's stories. It was then that he remembered how, in another of Merewright's stories, the first ants positioned their nests according to the sun and the shade. And how every nest opening was positioned in the same way: sun in the morning; shade in the evening. This could help him get home. The nest of the purple ants was so big its entrances could be in the sun or shade at any time, but his own nest entrance would now be in the sun; in the afternoon it would be in the shade. If he walked as fast and hard as yesterday he could reach it; he would walk with the sun in front of him until it was overhead and then he would walk with the sun behind him. Thoran set out with great confidence back down the path he had walked up. The sun was on his left, but this did not worry him because he would walk back to the dead grasshopper and then turn to walk into the sun. Thoran's confidence grew for such a young ant. He thought how he could lead foraging parties, guiding them to food and back to the nest. He thought about how the sun rose and set and how any ant could be guided by it. He imagined himself, older and wiser, teaching younger ants the art of navigation and telling them of the occasion when he saw the nest of the purple ants. His confidence was further boosted by his finding of the site of the dead grasshopper. Virtually nothing was left. He turned to walk into the sun, which by now was getting quite high in the sky. Of course, he would have to ask Bujax for more formal lessons in navigation, but by the time he got back to the nest, Bujax would be so impressed that he would see Thoran should be nurtured as a potential leader among the workers of the nest. He would one day take Bujax's place. After all, he deserved it for being so clever in discovering the nest of the purple ants and getting back home to tell the others. And as these thoughts of cleverness and invincibility flashed through Thoran's mind he became oblivious to his real plight, until a sound brought him rudely back to earth: it was the ominous babble of the purple ants. Thoran looked around for a place to hide. While day-dreaming of his future as a leader of foraging parties he had not noticed that the path had become less defined and the stones fewer and further between. He raced backwards as the babble got louder and the odour stronger. At last he found a leaf to hide behind and he watched and listened for the second time as the purple ants marched past.

This time he was closer - closer than he would like, but at least he had a better view than the first time he had seen these ants. The first time everything happened so suddenly he did not take much in. This time Thoran looked more carefully. Each ant was carrying a huge load, more than three times his own weight, which was about twice what Thoran could carry. Their loads varied from bits of insects to bits of flowers and leaves. Some carried a strange white fibrous material that Thoran had never seen before and others carried more familiar food. Thoran guessed they were the same party he had seen earlier, now returning with the fruits of their day's forage. What surprised him was every worker carried something. This was a very efficient foraging party, Thoran thought. It could feed all the ants of his nest for a year with just one day's forage. The first five soldiers carried nothing and were babbling their strange language the whole time. The other ants, perhaps sixty or more marched by in silence, their sullen heads bowed under the weight of their loads, their legs moving with staccato strength, chewing the ground from under them with each step. He peered closely at each ant as it passed. The gleaming purple bodies and grotesque mandibles fascinated Thoran, but he was more shocked by the eyes: not because they were smaller than his, but because they lacked expression, they lacked life. Each ant's lifeless eyes were focused on the ant in front, half-hypnotised by the syncopatic beat of three hundred staccato steps. Thoran never forgot that view of the purple ants' eyes.

Just as the last ten ants approached Thoran's hiding place, one stumbled and dropped his load. The one behind had no time to come out of his hypnotic trance before crashing into the first, dropping his load, too. Thoran stopped himself from laughing out loud. He thought how cross Bujax would be if he dropped his load and how the party would have to stop so he could be helped to get it back. For the purple ants, however, it was quite different. Two ants from the back, who were larger than the others, put down their loads and marched purposefully toward the first ant. His legs were spread wide and his body cowered close to the ground. Thoran looked aghast as one of the back ants opened his huge mandibles, twisted his head and pushed his head toward the middle of the cowering ant's body, and snapped it in two. Thoran was sickened with fear as he saw the two parts of the body twitch violently for thirty seconds or more before slowing to slight spasms then falling silently still. The two back ants, feelers twiddling excitedly, barked orders in their strange language. Eight ants ahead stopped and turned around. They dumped their loads near the two halves of the body. Two ants each picked up a half and marched on. The other six split up the eight loads plus the loads of the two fallen ants. The second fallen ant, meanwhile, had got away. He had run past Thoran's leaf, out of sight. The two rear ants gave chase, running either side of Thoran's leaf. They had very different eyes - burning with sadistic determination. Thoran crouched lower and waited. He knew what to expect and he pictured it in his mind's eye: they would inevitably catch the fleeing ant and on their return the two large purple ants would each be carrying half a twitching body. Thoran shuddered at his naivete: to think that earlier in the day he was going to ask these purple monsters for directions back to his nest. If they could snap one of the their own kind in two for merely stumbling with a load of food, what would they have done to a stranger like himself? Oh, where were Bujax and Merewright? Would he ever get back alive? He crouched lower in fear beneath his leaf and waited. He dared not move. He would have to wait until the rear ants returned and went on their way or stay out overnight again. He was getting desperately hungry.

As he crouched he lost all thought of being the clever navigator, the ant to replace Bujax as foraging leader. Instead, he thought how vulnerable he was, and worse, how vulnerable all the ants of his small nest were against these fearsome purple intruders. The sixty ants he saw today were not like an affable group of foraging ants from his nest, but a single machine designed for the carriage of food. It was now necessary to get home, not just to save himself but to save the whole nest and warn them of the dangers of the purple ants. It was his mission.

Just then the two purple ants returned. Thoran heard them first, coming closer and closer. Thoran began to gain at least some recognition of a rhythm in their language; it was no longer a senseless babble. As they walked past his leaf, one after the other, Thoran was relieved to see that they did not carry halves of the body of their quarry. He must have got away. Thoran felt pleased for him for a while, then his feeling was more confused: why should he feel pleased for one of these purple ants, no matter how victimised? Surely each of them was a threat to him. But the escaping ant was a fugitive from cruel masters who meted out grim punishment for trivial crime. He must sympathise with that. What would become of the escaping ant? He could not go back to his nest; those purple monsters would cut him in two. So Thoran had an idea. He would seek out the escaping ant, and coax him back to his own nest. Then Bujax and Merewright would believe his story and might find the escaping ant useful in finding out more about the purple ants. Thoran tossed the idea about in his head. The purple ant might not trust him. He might fight and injure him with his large mandibles. Thoran did not understand his language, nor he Thoran's and why would he return to Thoran's nest voluntarily (and Thoran certainly had no means of forcing him). But the escaping ant would be alone with nowhere to go. He faced certain death. Thoran felt that if he could approach visibly from a distance without surprise, he might get the purple ant to trust him. And what of those dead half-hypnotised eyes. Maybe this ant had no will to live anyway and would accept his fate. But he had the will to escape. It was all too confusing. What should he do? Thoran's hunger and loneliness returned as he felt a great onus to struggle on to save himself and his nest. He must act with care, intelligence and great inner strength. But did he have those qualties to call upon?

Chapter Two

"Where on earth did Thoran get to?" Bujax asked Merewright.

"He was here a moment ago," Merewright responded. "He can't be far away."

Bujax led the daily food foray as usual. Of his fifteen ants, Thoran was the youngest and most vulnerable. He had asked Merewright to keep an eye on him and so was angry at Merewright for allowing him to get lost.

"Spread out, everyone," Bujax ordered.

The fifteen ants spread out and walked in a row in search of Thoran. Stretched in a row like that it would be only a matter of time before they found him, if only they had walked in the right direction. But, obliviously, they went in the opposite direction under the command, or more like loose instruction, of Bujax. After an hour of walking in the wrong direction and not finding Thoran, Bujax turned to Merewright: "Not a trace of him; and we have covered every square node of territory."

"Perhaps a bird took him," Merewright offered.

"Oh, don't be silly, Merewright. When was the last time a bird took an ant?"

"Well, where else could he have gone?"

"We'll have to keep searching," Bujax said, ordering his ants to change direction.

They walked for two hours and still no trace. By this time of course, Thoran had walked more than a hour beyond them.

Merewright asked, "What if Thoran had been walking for two hours in one direction?"

"Oh, use your head," Bujax chided. "If Thoran got lost he would have walked in circles."

Merewright stood cheerfully rebuked. There was no point trying to persuade anyone they are wrong; they only get more convinced. They have to realise their mistake themselves; and even then they will rarely acknowledge it those who had been right all along.

So Merewright took the intelligent ant's retreat into a silent superciliousness, without a trace of guilt that his charge and young friend might be imperilled by his unwillingness to shake some sense into the obstinate Bujax.

"We haven't got anywhere near enough food," Bujax moaned. "When I find Thoran, he'll get a piece of my mind. What a stupid, brainless, idiotic, dumb, exasperating young ant he is. Let him spend a night out; he'll never do this again."

Merewright nodded agreement, but in his mind he knew Thoran did not get lost voluntarily; so he could not be blamed. In fact, Bujax was more to blame. He always strode off ahead assuming everyone would keep up. He was an arrogant foraging-party leader, Merewright thought, but who else was there? At least Bujax could navigate and provided everyone kept up, Bujax always got the party back to the nest.

The loss of Thoran was more than inconvenient; it was worrying. Merewright thought nest life comfortable, and though he knew from the stories passed to him that it was not always so, the ants lived a blissful existence. Food was sometimes hard to get, but it was never scarce. There was always enough to feed the Queen and the larvae, and enough eggs were laid to hatch enough ants to replace those who died or were lost. It was a small nest, and in its way a small paradise. The most any worker suffered was a rebuke from Bujax or one of the other foraging leaders. And the soldiers had it easy: only one entrance to guard and only forty chambers to tend to. Every ant knew nearly all the others, many of them closely. So Thoran's fate was important and Merewright hoped they would find him soon. He called to Bujax: "We must continue searching, Bujax."

But Bujax was not so sure: "He could not have come this far. He's probably got back to the nest by now. We can't risk the whole party just for Thoran. Besides, we have to build up food stocks."

Merewright knew Bujax was right. Though they were all fond of Thoran, he would have to be left to find his own way back. Others got lost and returned within a day or two. Merewright tried to justify his unwillingness to argue with Bujax more forcefully on Thoran's behalf. Thoran was an intelligent ant; he would find his way home.

And Merewright wondered what was right: to search until night fell risking their own lives and food supply, or was their duty to the whole nest much greater than their duty to their one friend? What would Thoran think, lonely and frightened and lost? Or was he waiting back at the nest by now anyway. He envied Bujax's certainty. Bujax was so self-assured and decisive, always knowing what he should do and that doing it was right. But in this crisis Bujax's exterior self-assurance deserted him. He came beside Merewright and said: "Merewright, I wonder if it is right to abandon Thoran so soon."

Merewright was relieved to find some self-doubt in his friend.

"Let's look for another hour," Merewright suggested.

Under Bujax's orders, the ants fanned out again, turning right and then left, but they found not a trace nor a smell of their small friend. They returned glumly to the nest with less than half the food they should have collected. Some were angry at Thoran's stupidity; others felt fearful for him and others still felt a little of each.

* * * *

At the nest entrance Bujax was greeted by Majorim, one of the soldiers. "How was your forage?" she asked. "It doesn't look too impressive."

"We lost Thoran," Bujax pleaded. "And we wasted three hours looking for him. Is he back here by any chance?"

"Afraid not."

"Shall we go back? How about some soldiers going out?"

"Look here, Bujax," Majorim chided, "if you can't look after your foraging party, you can't expect soldiers to go out chasing the stragglers. He'll turn up, don't you worry."

Bujax was worried. He had hoped to find Thoran back at the nest. Sure, he would have been very angry; but he would have been relieved. Now he was just worried and guilty. He sought some comfort from Merewright.

"Merewright, old friend," he said, "why don't you try to persuade Majorim to send out some soldiers to look for Thoran?"

Merewright hesitated. He did not want to confront Majorim, she was too abrupt and harboured grudges for a long time. If he persuaded her to send some soldiers out and something happened to them, he would never hear the end of it. "No, Bujax, you decided to stop the search. You thought Thoran would be back at the nest, so it's no good passing the blame to me or the soldiers. Thoran was your responsibility."

Bujax knew Merewright was correct. It was up to him.

"Majorim," Bujax said, "can I go out to find Thoran? I'll only take three workers with me."

One of the good things about the nest, Bujax thought, was that he could argue the point with the soldiers, just as he allowed workers to argue with him. Snapped orders would always be obeyed, and were necessary in an emergency, but better decisions were made when every ant at least had a chance to have a say.

Majorim thought for a while. "I don't know, Bujax. I understand your fears for Thoran, but you have only got half a day's food. Who will lead your foraging party tomorrow? What if you, too, get lost? No. Thoran will have to find his own way back."

"But think of Thoran, out there lonely and lost. He might not be far away. It would be sad if we found him dead just a short way from the nest."

Majorim relented. "There is no point going now, Bujax. You may go in the morning; but you must spend only half a day. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Majorim," Bujax said gratefully.

Bujax spent a restless night hoping Thoran was safe and perhaps would arrive home before he set out. He felt less guilty now, but still wished he had searched on during the afternoon. He would chose his three workers in the morning. Merewright would have to lead the food forage, under strict instructions not to go too far from the nest.

* * * *

Bujax set out early. Majorim told him he could not take any workers because Merewright would need all the help he could get to catch up with the food supply. She urged him not to go too far. "If Thoran is lost, there is no point in losing you, too," she said. "Do you understand, Bujax?"

Bujax agreed.

He walked quickly, arriving at the place where they discovered Thoran missing. Bujax thought Thoran must have walked in one direction to have missed him the day before. All smell of him had gone. "This is a hopeless and silly venture," Bujax muttered to himself. "I only did it because of guilt feelings and to please Merewright. Why didn't Merewright do it, if he felt so strongly about it? What is one ant anyway? Thoran would be missed for a short time and then he wouldn't matter. Which way did he go?"

Bujax guessed, quite rightly, that Thoran had walked directly away from the nest. Maybe he had turned around by now and he would meet him on his return. Bujax walked and walked wondering whether it was all in vain and asking himself at virtually every step whether he should turn around and give up. He walked well beyond Majorim's edict and had no hope of getting back to the nest within half a day. Doubts came upon him. The others would worry if he did not get back by midday. The soldiers would be cross. But he went on, telling himself he would get back, with Thoran, by nightfall. He would be a hero and his disobedience would be forgiven. By midday, unencumbered by a foraging party, he had walked further from the nest than ever before. Leaves and bark were sparser now and the ground became flat, hard clay with large stones scattered about. Bujax kept walking. He thought of Majorim and the other soldiers, wondering why, with their larger bodies and mandibles, they didn't just insist on their own way. Majorim could have insisted he leave Thoran to his fate. She could have told him to go foraging instead, and he would have had to obey. She was a good soldier, Majorim. She could be reasoned with. She was often right, but sometimes wrong. Bujax felt great respect for her strength of body and mind and then cursed himself for not obeying her word. She would have every right to be cross. Then Bujax realised that Majorim probably suspected he would go past her time limit. She had set a half-day limit so at least he would obey a one-day limit. If she had allowed him a full day he might have stayed out overnight - a great risk for a single ant.

Bujax was beginning to despair of ever finding Thoran alive. What a waste. And Merewright would be hopeless leading a foraging party. He imagined them stopping while Merewright told stories of ancient times. They would be excited and have a great time, but they would not get much food. Merewright was not a practical ant. He kept spirits up with his stories, but they were of no practical use; they didn't mean anything now.

Majorim would take it out on him. He must turn back soon. "These individual follies can get out of hand," he muttered. "One folly can compound another until the whole nest is threatened. Thoran's folly, my folly, Merewright's folly. Whatever next."

He dimly remembered a story Merewright told about a nest destroyed because individual ants did silly things, but he could not remember the details. But it did not matter because, after all, it was only a story. And he kept on walking.

Chapter Three

Thoran pondered. He might never find the purple ant; and every minute he spent looking would be precious time wasted. He must get back to his own nest. The purple ant was not his business. He carefully emerged from under his leaf and walked slowly to the path, intensely alert to any slight sound or smell. His feelers were up and his eyes darting in every direction as he stepped on to the path. He walked a few steps and came across a large piece of strange white fibrous material. The purple ants had left it behind. Thoran walked around it gingerly. He had never seen such a substance: all the same colour. He pushed at it suspiciously with his front legs; it was soft and light. He tasted it; it was virtually tasteless with none of the aromatic flavour of grasshopper, the tang of grass-seed or the sweetness of acacia sap. But it was filling so he ate it all and his hunger left him. As his abdomen filled his senses dulled and he wanted to rest. He walked back to his leaf, crawled under it and fell into a deep sleep.

* * * *

Bujax and Merewright, he dreamed, were looking over him.

"Ah, sweet Thoran is here," Merewright whispered. "Don't wake him up, Bujax. I shall make a story of his adventure with the purple ants. Poor Thoran has been dreaming of purple ants"

"Yes," replied Thoran in his dream. "I will save the nest from the purple ants."

"But they are our friends, Thoran," Bujax said. "They will teach us how to get food more quickly. We can have so much food that our nest can be twice as big. The purple ants will show me how to lead a foraging party of sixty or seventy ants. The purple ants know so much. We must make friends with them, Thoran."

"No, Bujax, no," Thoran protested. "They are cruel. And they have lifeless eyes."

And Thoran dreamt of the lifeless eyes. His feelers touched an eye and penetrated it. His whole head disappeared into the eye and he looked into the void.

The purple ant then spoke: "Your eyes are evil, Thoran. They see too much, they think too much."

Thoran jolted in his sleep. How can he understand what the purple ant is saying? He must be dreaming. Are the purple ants just a dream? I feel warm and I will wake up safe in the nest at home, Thoran thought.

* * * *

And he awoke with a start. A touch of breeze had blown the leaf away exposing him to the sun. He looked up and there less than two body-lengths away, staring at him with mandibles open was a purple ant. It must be the escaping ant, Thoran thought.

He called out and waved his feelers frantically. The purple ant backed away a little, but continued to move his mandibles threateningly. Thoran then stood motionless, thinking the purple ant was as scared as he was, though perhaps better equipped in a one-to-one fight. Thoran allowed the purple ant to thrash about with his mandibles and feelers for a long time. Finally, he became exhausted and stopped. The two stood there motionless, looking at each other with fear and curiosity, slowly realising each other's vulnerability and disinclination to fight.

Thoran wondered how he could tell the purple ant he meant no harm, but realised he had already done that by just standing passively. This was a rare time for both. For once each was alone, without the help of others in a foraging party and without the comfort and security of the nest. The purple ant, though stronger, was more vulnerable. He had lived a life of subjugation, always being told what to do and when to do it. He was now faced with making decisions for himself. Thoran had at least taken part in decisions.

Thoran spoke, "I mean no harm to you Purple Ant, I just want to get home to my nest."

The purple ant replied, but Thoran could not understand. He then tried the tortuous process of sign language and using single nouns. After much waving of feelers and repetition, Thoran made it clear that his name was Thoran and that the purple ant's name was something like "Minion-Minor".

Thoran and Minion-Minor slowly learnt more of each other's language, and Thoran found it less alien than when he first saw the purple ants. He lead Minion-Minor back along the path, hoping to find more food. And Minion-Minor followed obediently. Thoran was pleased at his ability to take leadership over a stronger ant. The others at the nest would marvel at his ability. They would ask how did he take control, how did he learn to talk with this ant, and why did the ant follow? But Bujax and Merewright had not seen the ghastly execution of the stumbling ant; they did not know of the lifeless eyes and how Minion-Minor, with his stronger legs and bigger mandibles, had lived all his life so bowed that he assumed his natural position as underling at the slightest sign of another's leadership. Thoran thought how clever he was to subdue this ant and make him follow. How clearly he had communicated to this stranger from another nest; how naturally it had come to him to take control. When he got back to his nest, the soldiers would inevitably make him leader of a foraging party. He led Minion-Minor back to the path, oblivious of any possibility that he might, perhaps, attack from behind or somehow summon other purple ants to help kill Thoran. Imbued with a sense of power over Minion-Minor he was blinded to any danger, and he began to treat Minion-Minor as one of his own, as if he were on a foraging party from his own nest and had never seen the purple ants.

"Food. We get food," Thoran explained in painful simplicity. Minion-Minor's understandable inability to understand the full complexities of Thoran's language in a few hours had led Thoran to treat him as a newly hatched ant, as a less intelligent creature.

But Thoran was dangerously wrong. Minion-Minor had picked up more of Thoran's language than Thoran had of the purple ant's language. Their search for food was not very successful. But after a long walk they came across a tiny piece of the strange white food. Thoran divided it and ate his half and signalled Minion-Minor to do the same thing. Thoran looked at him, and signalled again, but still the purple ant would not eat. He stood silently and motionless and Thoran saw his eyes had changed; the frightening lifeless eyes had returned and then the purple ant turned his head slowly and peered at Thoran: his eyes transformed from lifelessness, to a painful incomprehension and then to a burning fear. Thoran pitied Minion-Minor as he shook his head slowly and moved deliberately backwards from the tiny white speck of food.

This is strange, indeed, Thoran thought, why won't he eat?

"Eat, eat," Thoran ordered, shaking his head and pointing his feelers toward the white crumb, but his order went unheeded. He moved slowly toward Minion-Minor, who shook his head in silence. In instinctive pity Thoran reached out with his feeler to comfort the other ant. Before he had known it, he had touched him, and then shrank back in sudden realisation that this was a different ant. He would never have dared to touch the purple body deliberately, but what was done impulsively could not be undone. His feeler did not burn, the purple surface was not repulsive, or slimy or abrasive. It felt, it felt, it felt . . . dare he admit it, even to himself . . . just like his own.

* * * *

Thoran pointed to the food speck and then to himself. He tried to make Minion-Minor realise that it was good food, if somewhat tasteless, and no harm had come to him. Thoran wondered why Minion-Minor was so adamant at not eating it. A slight shudder came over him as he thought it might have some longer term ill-effect. Would he be poisoned later, like the time Bujax led them to bad food and the whole nest was sick for days? He remembered those awful days with dread and then thought how foolish he had been to eat the white food. Why did he rush in to eat the white food? Oh why didn't he take precautions? Bujax was always careful about new foods. They were to be tasted in tiny pieces by one ant. Thoran remembered he had gorged himself on quite a large piece before his sleep. And now he had just eaten another piece. He would surely die. Oh why hadn't he met Minion-Minor before eating so much? He felt grateful to him for warning him, but the warning had come too late. Then his gratefulness turned to suspicion. Had the sly purple ant watched him eat the poison deliberately and then cunningly disobeyed his suggestion to eat?

What an ungrateful ant, Thoran thought, never trust a purple ant. I'll never trust a purple ant again.

He looked spitefully toward Minion-Minor.

"Why didn't you warn me this food is no good?" Thoran demanded. "You could have warned me."

But the meaning was lost on Minion-Minor, who stood confused and fearful.

Well, thought Thoran, it is too late. If I get sick, I get sick. If I die, I die.

And he took some comfort from the knowledge that if his body was laced with poison, this purple ant would not be tempted to kill and eat him. Whatever Minion-Minor's fear of the white food, it must now pass to him. Thoran felt smugly, though ironically, safe. He wondered whether he should eat the piece that Minion-Minor was refusing. If it were poison, it would make no difference; if not, he would have extra food in his body to sustain him on the difficult journey home.

He pushed the speck gradually toward Minion-Minor, who backed away, but not so fearfully as before. He looked around inquiringly at Thoran, and his eyes became more lively. Thoran wondered what troubled thoughts were going through this ant's head. Perhaps he was waiting for Thoran to fall over and die.

Unbeknown to Thoran, Minion-Minor's fear was justified. He and all the other workers of his nest were under orders never to eat on foraging parties and that the white food was for soldiers only. A purple worker ant only disobeyed once. The white food contained a death sentence, but not because it was poisonous to Thoran or indeed any ant, but because it was so nutritious that the purple ants had reserved it for soldiers and the Queen only, forbidding workers to eat it at their peril. And now Minion-Minor had seen a worker, albeit a brown-and-black one with spindly legs and tiny mandibles, eat the white food with impunity. He thought Thoran was either a very brave or very foolish ant; that Thoran was merely ignorant didn't enter Minion-Minor's head.

Minion-Minor wondered whether he, too, should now eat the forbidden white food. What had he got to lose? If the soldiers found him he would be killed anyway for stumbling on the foraging party, for running away and now for talking to this alien ant. Adding one more crime would make no difference. Besides, if he were to escape the soldiers altogether he must eat.

Minion-Minor thought he must be a very special ant. How many times had he seen soldiers execute workers; how many times had he seen the condemned workers submit with no fight? Yet he alone had the courage (or was it the fear?) to run away. He alone of all the purple workers had broken free. And what extra danger was there in eating the white food; he was dead in any event. So, now, living on borrowed time, Minion-Minor thought the borrowed time might as well be as comfortable and as free from hunger as possible. He had been well-rewarded for his courage: despite the danger, for the first time in his life he felt he could choose. He could decide whether or not to eat the white food. There was no word in his language to describe this abstract concept of being able to choose. He decided to eat.

When he had finished, he thought he was doubly, trebly rewarded: he could choose to eat or not; having chosen he found the food better than anything he had been given before; and he had been given something even rarer, something he was sure that no purple ant had ever had before: he had met and befriended a strange black-and-brown ant. He looked at Thoran with great gratitude and thought he should follow this rogue ant; it was his best chance for life and besides he was enjoying himself. More importantly he knew that he could change his mind any time: his mandibles were bigger and his legs stronger than Thoran's.

* * * *

Thoran and Minion-Minor walked for a long time. Eventually they came into the shade, a merciful release from the afternoon sun. Crackling-dry eucalypt leaves and dried twigs covered much of the ground. Long shreds of bark blocked their way. Dead leaves, dead twigs, dead bark and dead stalks of yellow grass. But there was life: the eggs of tiny parasites clung with glue to the leaves; tiny black ants walked precariously along the dead twigs; mites crawled within the bark and larger creatures, too, inhabited the land. But it did not teem with life; there was not the bright green of young shoots or succulent leaves of a well-watered land, just the grey-green leaves of sparse trees in a sparse land. In this grey-brown, dry land creatures lived and died depending on the fine balance between food supply and famine and upon the skills of their predators to catch them or upon their skills to elude their predators. In this land, death and life were dependent upon the luck or fate of place and time: and how vastly different events would be if luck, fate, place and time were in the tiniest way changed.

The timing of a leaf fall could mean so much. It was one link in a great chain of fate. Without that link, would events be so markedly different, or was fate more like a rope, requiring many strands to support an outcome, the presence or absence of one strand not making much difference in the great scheme of things, but rather requiring a collation of a large number of similar strands before a general direction of fate could be determined? Who bound this rope of fate; or did it bind itself? Was it possible that one act of self-will by a purple ant from a nest of organised automatons could make so much difference? Was it possible that a predetermined fall of a leaf upon a black-and-brown ant could divert the channel of history? And if predetermined, could it be a diversion at all; how can one divert from the pre-determined? Under a huge blue sky in an arid, large land, two ants, Thoran and Minion-Minor, were but two creatures in the wider drama of life. Neither knew it, but their chance meeting was to change the fate of each of their nests. Thoran and Minion-Minor walked onwards. Minion-Minor newly possessed of a power unknown to worker ants of his kind, and Thoran thrown by a fallen leaf into an adventure undreamt of by even Merewright, the greatest story-teller of his nest.

* * * *

Minion-Minor wondered where Thoran was leading him. Would this small ant be able to find them food? He wanted to tell him about his nest, the drudgery, the work and the cruelty of the soldiers; but language forbade it. Instead they walked in silence. Minion-Minor felt sure they were now further from his nest than he had ever been before. And the further they got, the safer he felt. He knew the soldiers would come chasing him. He would not be allowed to escape so easily because if he could do it, any worker could do it and the cohesion of the nest would be lost. Soldiers could walk very quickly, almost twice as fast as he could. At this thought, he signalled to Thoran suggesting they should walk faster. Minion-Minor figured that even by the time the rest of the workers got back to his nest and the alarm raised, it would not be long before the soldiers arrived.

In fact, ten soldiers were only a thousand body lengths behind. They marched with sadistic determination, knowing one worker had no chance against ten soldiers - it was only a matter of time.

"Minion-Minor must be taken alive back to the nest," the leading soldier said. "We have to make an example of him. If others think one can get away; we will lose workers every day. We will not have enough to eat. Our Queen will go hungry and not lay any more eggs. Our nest will stop growing. And we will lose our power."

At this they marched faster.

"I think I can smell him," the leader said with relish. The leader was called Gohunt. It was the name always taken by the soldier who led the fourth soldiers' group in the purple ants' nest. Gohunt got her position by luck when the previous Gohunt did not return from a scouting party. The mystery was never solved, but the new Gohunt proved capable and, when necessary, ruthless in pursuit of her ambition to be the leading soldier of the first group with much more important tasks. She would work on it once this troublesome Minion-Minor was put to his richly deserved slow death.

"But the smell is not quite right," Gohunt said to her nearest soldier. "I cannot work it out. We must tread cautiously."

She ordered the ten to spread out, and they fanned across two hundred body lengths. Each large purple soldier gleamed as she walked through sunny spots, the lustre fading as they walked in the shade. Each moved with forceful elegance. The two at the edge of the row, moving almost twice as fast as those at the centre. It was a fairly rare exercise to hunt such a quarry, but they all knew what to do. Once the leader had smelled Minion-Minor, she knew it was all over. He would be caught very soon and she would march him back to the nest. She had never led a tracking party before, but she knew what to do when her quarry was caught and taken back to the nest. Other soldiers had done it when a worker had escaped. She would place him at the highest point on the entrance mound and cut off his legs. He would be left overnight and in the morning every worker in every foraging party would be led past the legless body before going out for food. In the evening the body would no longer be there. It was quite simple. And effective. If these measures were not adopted, she thought, her position and the position of all the soldiers would be imperilled. They would no longer have workers to get their food, wash their bodies, tend to the Queen or tend to the eggs. The quiet good order of the nest would break down if individual ants were allowed to do what Minion-Minor had done and get away with it. There would be plenty more where he came from. He was expendable for the good of the nest. She felt no pity or sadness, just a self-justified desire to ensure good order prevailed and some satisfaction that that was precisely what was going to happen.

The smell grew fainter as the soldiers had wasted time by fanning out. But it was only a question of time before they would march quickly forward and overtake Minion-Minor. Gohunt stopped again. She was troubled by the impurity of the smell.

"There is another creature with him," she said to the others. "Be careful."

She ordered them into a pincer movement. No other creature could be a match for ten purple soldiers, especially if surrounded. Who could run faster? Who could fight better, the leader thought. She would take a quiet satisfaction in meeting this challenge.

As they moved forward, the smell got stronger. There could be no doubt now; there were two distinct smells: one was that of a purple worker, the other unknown. It was similar to that of a purple worker, but different. For the first time in her life Gohunt was frightened. She passed an order along both sides of the pincer for her soldiers to stop. She would like to see this creature that gave off the ant-like smell, before it saw her or any of her soldiers. Had some large strong ant captured Minion-Minor? If so it would suit her purposes much better than dragging him back to the nest to make an example of him. The fear of a large creature would keep the workers in line. Better the known death from the purple soldiers than the hideous fate of falling captive to a strange creature. Her other soldiers had also smelt the other ant. That alone would be enough to conjure up a frightening story. Moreover, an outside threat would be of great use to her own position among the soldiers, especially if she were the only one to know of it.

She passed a message to her stationary soldiers: "You are to spread out wider. Two hundred body lengths between you and we will move forward. I fear our little Minion-Minor has been captured alive by some creature. You can smell it, can't you? I do not want to risk any of your lives. We must see this creature first before deciding whether we can kill it and take Minion-Minor alive. It might be too big for us. In which case, we will retreat."

The other soldiers were amazed. Retreat was unheard of. Purple soldiers always conquered. Nothing stood in their way.

"It is better to be safe than killed," Gohunt said. "I have your interests at heart. You must trust me."

This was even more unusual.

What did we matter? thought Longfeel, one of the soldiers. Why does she want to protect us? The nest must come first. The creature must be killed and Minion-Minor brought back alive no matter what the cost.

Longfeel was confused, and Gohunt sensed it.

"I know best, Longfeel," Gohunt said with some affection. "I know you think the nest must come first and I agree, but the interests of the nest are best served if all my soldiers are kept alive, even if I were to be killed first. Remember this when you serve with me, and you will be rewarded. You are a good soldier."

Longfeel warmed to Gohunt. She looked to her now with awe. She was a different leader from the others. Her appeal was to command loyalty to herself, not to instil general loyalty to the nest. At an earlier time Longfeel would have reported this conversation to another leader sure in the knowledge that Gohunt was transgressing the nest-first code, but now she thought Gohunt knew how to put the interests of the nest and her soldiers together. Gohunt was right, thought Longfeel, and she must be followed. Her doubts evaporated.

"You see, Longfeel," said Gohunt, "I have served the nest like you, and we have profited well. We have an exciting life and an easy one. Imagine being a worker: every day going out under the command of a leading worker. Those workers' leaders are more brutal than us, you know. We are only violent for the good of the nest, Longfeel. This Minion-Minor will have to die; you see that don't you? We may have to kill the creature he is with, if we can. I do it for the good of the nest. But I feel responsible for my soldiers, and you are one of my soldiers, Longfeel. I feel responsible for you and I will protect. Aren't you lucky you are not a worker? Every day the same. No white food. No comforts. Have you seen their eyes, when they get back to the nest: they are lifeless eyes. I pity them, you know, Longfeel, I pity them, but I realise we must have them to make our lives better."

"Oh, you mustn't pity them, Gohunt," Longfeel said. "They enjoy it. They like being like that. The leader of Number Five Group told me. She said not to worry about them; they liked being miserable and doing the drudge work, or if they didn't, they didn't know any better so it didn't matter."

"Did she tell you that? Well, she doesn't know much. Why did this Minion-Minor escape? He must know we are after him. He must be scared."

"Well why are we chasing him. Why don't we let him go? He will probably die anyway."

"No, the workers dream, Longfeel. They think they can escape and live away from a nest where food is easy. They think they can be like the soldiers. That is why we must not let any escape. We cannot let them move from the nest using up food we need for our Queen, our eggs and, of course, us. And who would provide our food, if we allowed workers to escape?"

Longfeel worried awhile, but Gohunt's conversation comforted her. If workers did think, and did long for an easier life then they had to be subdued. If they were just automaton then it did not matter if they were kept subjugated. Either way what they were doing was right. Longfeel felt very pleased with her reasoning and told Gohunt about it.

"You are a very intelligent soldier, Longfeel, I'm so glad you are with me," Gohunt said aloud. But to herself she thought, this one could be a valuable ally or a dangerous foe. She must be watched carefully.

"Longfeel," Gohunt said smilingly, "it would be best not to mention our conversation to the others; they are not as understanding and intelligent as you, and they might look at things the wrong way."

Longfeel was overwhelmed with conspiratorial pride. How could she share the secrets of Leader Gohunt with any ordinary soldier.

"And now," said Gohunt, "we must find this insolent worker and assess the power of the creature he is with."

Despite her bravado Gohunt was still scared. This second smell was a worry. She must refine her plan so it worked to her advantage no matter what. She must find the creature and Minion-Minor first. If the creature were too big for the ten of them to overwhelm, she would ensure the others saw it too and they would retreat. If, however, the creature's size was inconsequential, she would move away quickly, round up her nine soldiers without letting them see the creature, tell them an exaggerated story of the creature's size and retreat to the nest where she would be the centre of attention and feted for her leadership. The nest's interest would be served by having the workers fearful of a marauding creature and her interests would be served certainly in the short term and no doubt in the long term she could gain great advantage from the bogey of a fearsome creature that only she knew to be a myth.

How could anything go wrong?

Chapter Four

Merewright was troubled. Every morning before the foraging parties set out Merewright supervised the milking of the aphids. He had done this for as long as he could remember. It was an easy and routine task which gave him time to think. In his time of reflection he rehearsed the telling of stories. Now he sensed he would soon become part of making a story, not just telling it: the loss of Thoran, brave worker ant. Why or how he knew was impossible to say, but he sensed this was no ordinary case of a lost worker.

Merewright, though only a worker, was entrusted with knowledge from every significant ant in the nest. Changes within and without the nest were told to him and he interpreted them and advised action for the whole nest. His specialities were advising on herding aphids and farming fungus.

Merewright herded perhaps a hundred aphids for the nest. He milked one fifth of them every morning, so each was milked every five days. That morning he called the aphids in as usual, with the help of twenty workers. Twenty tiny green insects came down from the grasses and walked obediently to the nest, their abdomens bursting with fluid. Only the ants could give relief to the aphids from this accursed side-effect of eating enough leaf to survive. The twenty workers gently stroked the aphids, massaging the fluid out of their bodies. Workers and soldiers formed queues to drink from the massaged aphids. The languid aphids energised as the fluid was milked and then left the nest slimmer, ready for another five days' eating.

Without the ants, many aphids would die and all would suffer great discomfort, their bodies bloated with too much fluid. The ants could survive without the aphids, but their life would be deprived of one of its luxuries. For most ants, the aphid milk was just a pleasant addition to their diet. Merewright and a couple of the soldiers alone knew how it could be a vital supplement in times of shortage. The aphids were Merewright's exclusive province. He and he alone appeared to have the ability to control them. He knew where to find them and where to take them after they were milked. They responded to his directions, ignoring the calls of other ants. Merewright enjoyed his power which gave him a status equivalent to the highest soldier.

"We should herd and milk the aphids more often," one worker said suddenly to Merewright.

This was unheard of insolence. It added to Merewright's unease. The soldiers trusted him implicitly to herd exactly enough aphids. No ant had ever questioned him, let alone a humble aphid-milking worker ant. Here was the lowest ant questioning what had been done for as long as Merewright could remember. It would come to no good. In all the myths and stories of the past stored in his great memory, trouble began with questioning and change. They always went together. Merewright wondered whether the questioning caused the change which then caused the trouble, or whether they were all part of a simultaneous process. And now Merewright had a deep sense of foreboding. It could not be shaken by any thought that he was exaggerating the significance of one worker merely asking one question. Bujax had questioned Majorim, and changed her mind, probably for the worse. Thoran was missing. The combination of these unusual events troubled Merewright, minor as they were. Merewright, the repository of history and knowledge of the nest, thought only bad could come of them and wondered if he could do anything to stop it.

"Get on with your work," he snapped. And then regretted it. He must be more patient. He must find out why this ant dared to question things.

"Why do you ask?" Merewright said.

"Well," said the worker timidly, "If we herded more aphids more often, we would not have to forage so much for food. We could have more aphid milk in the nest. Maybe Thoran would not have gone missing if we had more aphids; there must be plenty more out there. We could even have a bigger nest with more ants if we farmed more aphids."

Some soldiers overheard the small worker. None said anything, but they looked toward Merewright for his reply.

"Look here, young worker," Merewright said. "You know nothing of the nest and the world outside. You know nothing of food supply and the needs of eggs and larvae. Just remember the soldiers have entrusted me with the task of herding aphids, not you. I know what is best for the nest. What you say makes no sense; I know from my stories and knowledge of the past."

It was not an impressive reply, the soldiers thought. Some more aphids might be a good thing.

Merewright knew what he said was correct. He did not know why; it just was.

"And what about the fungus?" once of the soldiers asked. "Why don't we farm more fungus?"

"For the same reason," Merewright said.

Merewright left the workers to finish milking the aphids and went below to his fungus farm.

Here Merewright was at peace. He surveyed his small farm. He had collected exactly enough spores to grow exactly enough fungus for the nest. There was exactly enough aphid milk, too. Why were they clamouring for more? Didn't they know that ants and larvae need more than milk and fungus? That ignorant worker got sympathy from the soldiers, too. They should know better, but they rarely went on foraging parties and did nothing to hatch the eggs and raise the larvae. He must talk to Majorim and convince her. And Merewright wondered what was the point of being wise and correct if nobody listened.

Merewright walked over his globules of fungus, feeling the puffy flesh. His legs sensed the delicacy as he walked. He walked around the edge of its growth and then over the top, gauging its depth at the centre. Merewright knew his job: he balanced the growth of the fungus with the needs of the nest, harvesting fungus each day and planting more spores only when necessary. If he allowed too much to grow, it could take over the nest, or, just as bad, the ants would eat the excess growth. Workers would become indolent and soldiers would be off their guard. The Queen would be fed too much and lay too many eggs. A small amount of fungus was good for each ant. Too much would lead to a nest out of control. That was why Merewright worried about soldiers' demands to grow more fungus. They did not understand. He must resist their desires. He walked again over his fungus, with no purpose but pleasure. He bounced on it, felt it and allowed its smell to over-power him.

"I am Merewright, the keeper of the nest's fungus," he said to himself. "The fate of the whole nest depends on me."

He knew that power was not in the control of those who had only physical strength, like the soldiers. Nor did power reside in those with formal positions. Bujax, after all, was the leader of the foraging party he was in, but Merewright knew who had the power. He thought it fortunate for the nest that the power was his, because he was intelligent enough and knowledgeable enough to use it for the benefit of the whole nest. But on further thought, this reasoning troubled Merewright.

Ants with power got it from intelligence and knowledge, he thought, so all those with power should have the intelligence and knowledge to use it well. But this does not happen, as I know from the stories passed to me about the past."

He was interrupted by Majorim.

"What are you muttering to yourself about, Merewright?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing."

"Your fungus feels good. Some soldiers have told me you want to grow much more of it, and to herd more aphids."

"No, no," Merewright replied. "They are mischievous soldiers if they said that. It is the soldiers who want me to grow more and herd so they can have more food. You must persuade them that it cannot be so, Majorim."

"And why not?" she asked. "More fungus and aphid milk would make us a stronger nest. We would not have to forage as much."

What was the use, thought Merewright. It was so hard to explain to ants who would think only for the present. He would not argue, but just continue the way he had always done.

Majorim left, and Merewright returned to his beloved fungus, drinking in its luscious smell and dancing on its delicate surface. The fungus gave him more joy than the aphids. Because the aphids were creatures like ants, with legs and feelers, and he knew they had an independent existence, so the milk he got from them was more their creation than his. The fungus was different. He created the fungus himself from the spores. It was his planting of the spores that caused the fungus. The fungus was his creation: it had no existence of its own. It could not walk like the aphids. It could not leave the nest. It was his.

But the comfort he got from the fungus was short-lived. He remembered the lost Thoran and wondered whether Bujax would find him or whether, more likely, they would both perish in the harsh environment outside the nest.

* * * *

Bujax walked fast and in one direction. He was well beyond the foraging range of the nest and entered the stone country, like Thoran before him. He, too, marvelled at the smooth, red stones, their elegance and beauty. But it was harsh country, he thought. There was no food. It was as if he had come to an abrupt line, beyond which every scrap of food had been taken; nothing had been left. Bujax shuddered as he surveyed the lifeless scene: just a flat bed of clay and smooth red stones. Not a dead insect or the remains of leaf, not even a blade of grass broke the eerie lifelessness. It was a silent, oppressively hot world. No breeze stirred to create noise or take away the radiated heat from the red stones. As Bujax walked further into this world he was entranced by its beauty and danger. He almost felt guilty at allowing his mind to wander to the extent of marvelling at the stark beauty around him when it should have been concentrating solely on rescuing Thoran. Getting Thoran back from such a desolate place would be bravery indeed; the whole nest would acknowledge it and he would be excused from Majorim's wrath for staying out beyond her curfew.

Having come thus far, it would be silly to return without finding Thoran. He must walk on. Perhaps he should change direction. He was intently alert, looking at the ground and from side to side for any sign of Thoran. His smell, the best in the nest, was primed. Soon he came across a path and started to walk along it. He had never seen such a path before and he began to wonder who had made it. Unlike Thoran whose naivete had almost cost him his life, Bujax was a more wary ant. As leader of a foraging party he was ever alert to danger. He began to feel uneasy, and then quite scared.

His fear was the greater because he was alone. A companion would have laughed off his worst imaginings. Alone, they were magnified. A companion would have distracted him, or they would have talked of other things, so the fear might never have arisen. More likely, he and a companion would have pretended to each other that they were not scared. Bujax had almost convinced himself to turn back and run as fast as he could - away from the unknown peril. Then the smell came. It was faint at first and only slowly entered Bujax's consciousness. As it did it momentarily shut out his desire to flee. He stopped to absorb the smell and its familiarity overcame him. The smell was unmistakable. It had taken a fraction of a second for him to recognise it: it was Thoran. Instinctively he ran in the direction of the smell. He must be quite close. But as he ran, he detected another smell. What was this, he wondered. Some other creature must be with Thoran. His curiosity was mixed with fear. Now came a true test of Bujax's courage: would his friendship with Thoran, his fellowship with him as another worker ant and his duty to him as an ant in his nest overcome his fear? Bujax knew he must run to Thoran's aid. He did so, but with caution, knowing he would be of no use to Thoran if he rushed stupidly into the same peril from which he was supposed to be rescuing him.

Chapter Five

Gohunt was delighted at her cunning. The more she thought about her plan, the more elegant she thought its simplicity. In a nest where little changed it would be an easy task to take the position as leading soldier. One great act of bravery would be enough. It would not matter whether she actually committed it, provided she was thought to have committed it. The nest was so organised and so steeped in routine that it would not be able to resist one soldier - her - acting with daring initiative to take over leadership. All she needed was to establish one great act of bravery in the face of a danger that threatened the nest, and the leadership would be hers. Now was a great opportunity. She would seize it and succeed.

The other nine purple soldiers spread out in a wider pincer movement, each getting further and further from Minion-Minor and the creature with him. All were under Gohunt's orders to stay low: less for their own protection than to ensure success for Gohunt's plan. As the pincer moved forward, she at its base would meet them first. The smell got stronger. Excitement tingled in her brain. She wanted to move quickly, to run, to dance, to call out. The excitement of uncertainty almost overcame her. The joyous anticipation of a swiftly and triumphantly executed plan was better than its actual doing. Oh sweet and intensely gleeful plan, she thought. She was almost swept up and carried away with the racing of her thoughts, until she slowed herself. This was the difference between the merely cunning and the great strategist, she thought: self-control. She must now be calm, stolid, thoughtful and deliberate. She slowed her march, knowing the forward arms of the pincer would go beyond their quarry and she alone would face this creature and Minion-Minor. Alone, she could control the outcome.

As the smell strengthened, it slowly altered. Gohunt's intense concentration made her alert to the slightest change. The smell of the alien creature was getting stronger far more quickly than that of Minion-Minor. Gohunt raised her head again. The smell of the creature was nearly double the strength of Minion-Minor's smell. What did this mean? Was the creature twice as big? She thought for a while. No; many small creatures had intense smells. Why did the creature's smell get stronger at a faster rate. Had it perhaps sensed her soldiers surrounding it and was it putting out an extra-threatening smell? If so, thought Gohunt, the plan is even better. Big threatening smells are a substitute for bodily strength in many creatures, she thought. But the other soldiers do not know that. If they sense a big smell, my story of a big creature will work better.

She surmised she was dealing with a small, weak creature (but not so weak that Minion-Minor could have killed it). She would execute her plan, seeing the creature and Minion-Minor without them seeing her, then ordering a retreat. She enjoyed the uncertainty. She liked to cover every possibility, to plot and plan so she could come out best, and indirectly so the nest would benefit, too.

The ten purple soldiers marched on, all but the two either side of Gohunt, were now past Minion-Minor and Thoran, but only Gohunt was walking in a direct line to them. A gradual awareness came over Gohunt that not all was what it seemed. As the smells got stronger she became puzzled and then the truth dawned upon her. There were three distinct smells: Minion-Minor's and TWO very similar but quite distinct other creatures. No matter what the risk, she must climb on to a large stone to see these creatures.

* * * *

Bujax was so far from the nest now that he wondered if he could ever get back by nightfall. But he could not desert Thoran now. One smell was clearly Thoran's; the other hovered on familiarity, but he had never experienced it before, and it appeared to be stronger than Thoran's. He was intently alert now. It seemed that the second smell had changed slightly. He continued to approach slowly, then stopped. He must see the source of the second smell before it saw him. He looked quickly round for a large stone to climb. He pulled himself up with dexterity, aware that he might expose himself, but knowing there was no other way.

What is it about fear, he thought, that sometimes causes us to freeze and other times to spring into action to flee or fight?

He was responsible for Thoran and he was his friend, so he could not flee or freeze. He knew he must help. If he faced only the uncertainty of this creature with the half-familiar smell it would be different: he might freeze or he might flee. Untainted with thoughts of others, instinct would take over. There would be no thought; he would react instantaneously to preserve himself, and that could be his downfall. Rather, he was thinking fast and carefully about how to save his friend. Was he doing this for Thoran's sake, or his own? If for himself, was it to be welcomed as a hero back at the nest, or was it to regain his reputation as a worthy leader of foraging parties who looked after his charges no matter what? These were dangerous questions. The distracting thoughts of heroism could cloud his judgment and send him to catastrophe. No; he must do his best to help Thoran, but not at any price, nor at any risk. This was the best way for Thoran, himself and his nest. His nest needed him.

Bujax's head edged over the top of the stone, as his back legs pushed the rest of his body upwards. He was concentrating so much on getting to the top of the stone that he was distracted from the reason for climbing there in the first place. His head was so close to the smooth surface of the red stone that he was seen before he could see who was watching him. He finally reached the top of the stone and looked around.

The sight was a blessed relief. The first living creature he saw was Thoran. He looked down at his friend in great joy. Thoran was just thirty bodylengths away. He would reach him in no time and escort him home, his responsibility to his charge and friend fulfilled. His guilt at allowing Thoran to get lost in the first place was now expunged and he vowed to be more careful during future foraging parties. As he looked down he felt his great affection for Thoran and realised not all the ants of his nest were the same. It was not just a matter of waiting for a new egg to hatch to replace an ant who was lost, killed or died. The well-being of the nest now and in the future relied upon the bond between all the ants to look after each other. What was the point of having a nest otherwise? Atop the red stone he realised this was a great moment in his life when he could see things so clearly. He had risked much to find Thoran - perhaps his own life because even now there was no guarantee of getting back alive. He had risked the wrath of Majorim, who would condemn him for not following orders. But what value were orders? Majorim did not know when she gave them the circumstances that would arise as Bujax continued his search. Besides, he was justified in disobeying orders because he had found his friend. He was right; Majorim was wrong. She would surely realise that. But maybe not. These soldiers do not understand, thought Bujax. they think orders are self-justifying, because without them the nest cannot function. If one ant broke orders and got away with it, no matter to what successful end, others would be able to justify breaking orders, too, and the nest would break down." But they were wrong, the exhausted Bujax thought, looking down affectionately at his friend.

He was so intent on looking at Thoran, that he failed to take in the wider scene. The stones went without break to the distant horizon. In the foreground their outlines were sharp and clear against the flat orange clay, each stone defined and isolated from those near it. No stone touched another. A mighty force must have showered those stones across the claypan, but it was a delicate and meticulous force that arranged them afterward. Millions of stones stretched to the horizon, but not one touched another. In the mid-ground the colour of the stones and clay melded to a single orange which brightened as it panned to the horizon - a distinct flat line where rich orange met dark blue. Only a dry, pure air produces an horizon with such stark clarity. In the other direction the monotony of the stones was broken by undulations through which ran a dry creek bed. At the side of the creek bed stood a lone, gnarled eucalypt, dying in the dry heat. Its huge dark-grey trunk and lower limbs supported a disproportionately small amount of foliage. Dead leaves and bark were scattered on the ground around it. Its roots spread wide into the barren soil searching for any drop of moisture in the creek bed. The tree was engaged in a silent struggle of time: would it die before there was rain? Its size and solitude gave it a passive dignity in the still, desert air. Yet beneath its bark it supported a frenzy of activity: insects, grubs and mites each absorbed in their miniature arena within the web of life. Were this tree to die, it would not be long before the desert would claim another living patch to be replaced by the encroachment of the smooth red stones standing on lifeless clay.

Physically, Bujax could see a long way, but chose not to. He was looking at the close ground where Thoran stood. Metaphysically, he could not see very far at all, but he thought he could. Indeed, Bujax thought that at this moment in his life he could see his future purpose more clearly than ever before, but events would quickly overtake that. The irony was lost on him now; it could only be found much later, after his experience with the purple ants.

At last Bujax looked up and gazed at the horizon, and as his eyes moved back toward Thoran he saw for the first time in his life a striking purple ant - Minion-Minor next to Thoran. He was intrigued and fearful and stood in silent amazement and he scrutinised this new creature in his universe. He gazed at the purple ant's large mandibles and thick legs. This was a powerful ant, perhaps a soldier, he thought. Confusing questions bounced through Bujax's mind. Did other purple ants lurk about, ready to kill and eat him? Where was its nest? Or was it a lone ant, or a rogue ant? Such an ant could not live on its own, Bujax thought. How could it get enough food on its own? He was about to rush down and help Thoran escape from the clutches of the creature when he saw that Thoran seemed to be talking to it. He seemed to be leading it. What did this mean? Control and purpose left him. Seconds ago he was the proud protector filled with goodness and selfless devotion to the good of the nest and his charge Thoran. Now the entry of the alien purple ant into the domain of his mind changed all that. He was suspicious of the ant. And that suspicion infected his good feeling to Thoran. Was Thoran merely a fool talking to this ant, or was there something deeper? Was Thoran conspiring with these purple ants, betraying his nest? Was that why he got "lost" so easily? He wasn't lost at all. He had deliberately left the foraging party to meet this ant. It all fitted. How else could he be talking to such a creature? It could not have been a chance meeting while Thoran was lost or this purple ant would have killed Thoran. She (she was obviously a soldier) would have torn him apart with her large mandibles. No; Thoran must be in league with this purple ant. "Is that how my loyalty is to be repaid? I have risked my life for Thoran and here he is betraying the whole nest. What a fickle ant."

Bujax thought he should go down now and kill them both, before his beloved nest could be taken over. But what hope would he have? He could be torn apart, too. Perhaps he could go down as Thoran's friend and pretend to join the conspiracy. That way at least he would have some chance of warning his nest later, or perhaps tricking the purple ant into a trap. That is what he would do. But they still had not seen him so perhaps he could sneak up to hear what they were saying.

His plan was not to be so easily executed. As he turned to climb off his red stone, he was overpowered by a strong smell and he raised his head. There, not ten body lengths away, his eyes met the fierce purple head of Gohunt, leader of the fourth group of soldiers of the nest of the purple ants.

* * * *

All thoughts drained from Bujax's jumbled mind. A day ago his life was one of routine joys and hardships: foraging, working with aphids and fungus, tending larvae and the Queen, listening to Merewright's stories and teaching other ants how to look for food and navigating to and from the nest. These things happened every day, day after day. Now in a single day he had the trauma of losing one of his c