Of Brown Beetles Beginning

What is this?

Twitch-jerk-pull.

It… it’s amazing.

I know I’ve never felt anything before—and I know somehow there has never been a before—but I know what feeling is. I know I’ve never smelled anything before, but I know what smelling is. And this appendage that twitches and jerks…

Well that’s an antenna of course.

“That’s right.” A voice speaks to me from somewhere.

Inside?

“Not quite.”

“Who’s there?” I ask, but I am not afraid. I know only evil has anything to fear from that voice. I also know I am not evil.

“I am the voice that speaks. The hand that makes.”

“Cryptic.” I say.

“The imagination that gave you wit.” The voice answers.

I feel the need to say: “Touché?” and though I understand the idea I’m trying to convey, the words origin and meaning evade me.

“That’s alright its narratively sound,” The voice says, but not only to me.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Breaking the fourth wall,” the voice says. “It really is originally my trick you know,” it sighs.

“What do you mean?” I am thoroughly confused by the conversation.

“Don’t worry, just thinking ahead, then the voice is closer and it speaks two words: “Russet Beetle.” I feel the warmth and the power and the magic—if it is permissible to use such a mundane word—wash over me as the breath of…

“What should I call you?” I ask.

“You may think of me as ‘The Hand.’ You will have no need of my true name, that is not for you.”

“And I am a russet beetle?” I do not know how I know this but I do.

“That’s right.”

I lift up my wing cases and stretch out my wings for the very first time.

Brrrrr-rrr-rrrr!

I lift off the ground and hover for a few seconds before I drop back to the ground with a thud.

“Wow!”

“That is not the best of you.”

I still do not see the source of the voice but I feel the warmth of its presence everywhere.

The Hand.

Why can I not see It?

“I’m not an ‘it.’”

“I’m sorry…” I say then, tentatively I ask him, “Are you reading my thoughts?”

“No, just hearing them loud and clear.” He sounds like he is smiling. Not patronising, just patronal.

“Who am I?” I ask still reeling from the idea that I can fly.

“You are a representative of my hand, of my design and my intention. I spoke you into being to represent me in the world of the invertebrates.”

Pictures fill my mind of fantastical creatures. Flying red cylindrical creatures with great big bulging eyes that glisten in rainbow colours. Hulking obsidian beasts with spiked legs and long curved horns. Crawling armies of red, or black, or striped cream and brown. Flying armies of yellow and black. Bright green hoppers. Jet black hoppers. All shapes. All varieties. All colours. All good…

“That is wonderful…” I say.

“It is.” He says but there is a hint of sadness in his voice. It distracts my thoughts enough to recollect what he said before.

“You said you spoke me into existence?” I ask.

“That’s right.”

“Excuse my impertinence, but then why should we call you The Hand?”

“Ah, because I am not named for my work with you—wonderful as you are. All you see, all that I have made was spoken into existence, but I used my hands to craft my masterpiece.” He says. “The crowning glory of my creation, made in my image—with a few modifications to distinguish between sexes of course.” He speaks with great fondness, but then a muted fierceness and deep sadness enters his words duelling for control, “Now they walk around the garden with leaves over their bodies and all that would’ve been good is going to ruin. And faster than they will ever comprehend.”

Even as he speaks my vision of earlier returns and now I see why there was sadness in his affirmation of its wonder. I see the distortion of so many creatures as nature attempts to cope with the betrayal. Evil creeps into stingers and proboscis and blood. death and disease crawls in and invades the beauty make the wonderful a touch more terrifying.

The indescribable twisting of nature brings a cry of anguish from me. “Who would betray you?” I ask with honest perplexity.

“Those who can, will.” He is calm. As if he knew all. No, not just knew… understood all. Like he could see the end and knew what I did not. “Only those who can betray me sincerely will ever be able to love me honestly. I could not make them in my image if I did not give them choice.”

“Then, what about me? Do I have no choice?” I ask, my stubbly antennae drooping over my head like two overweight inchworms.

“You have choice in this story.”

“It fits the narrative?” I ask, thinking I would love to see this supposed fourth wall he mentioned earlier.

“Yes, but not only that. Your choice is different. Its instinct, and its choices made by good creatures in a fallen creation. But there needs to be order. That, my dear little russet beetle, is where you come in.”

I still feel overwhelmed by the wrenched aborted nature of things. So much pain, so much destruction. I knew somehow that the betrayers would never grasp the fullness of what they have done. It was immense.

“That’s too much for me, how can I fix that?” I cried desperately.

“Fix? Did I say fix?” He sounded amused. “There is nothing to fix here, it will run its course. But some will think that course is different from what it is supposed to be. Some will have their instincts permeated by the thoughts of my folk. They will raise themselves unduly above others. Some will abuse the powers I granted them after the betrayal. It will be your calling to put a stop to that.”

“But how? I am so very small,” It made no sense, in my vision I had seen great big creatures that would be much better suited to the task.

“And what does size have to do with it? Is it not me that says you will do this?” The Hand asked, a little incredulous.

“True, but I was just born—”

“Breathed.” He corrects me with a touch of impatience.

“Oh, yes, how silly of me. Sorry… um… breathed…” I say. I have to pause to collect my thoughts, then I continue, “I just don’t think I am the one for the job.”

“You know, this conversation is reminiscent of one yet to come,” he says with another of those longsuffering sighs. “But you will do it.” And even as he says the words I know he is right. I do not know how, I do not know why.

“I will,” I say hesitantly, “but how?”

“I grant you power,” he says and again the words wash over me in that warm magical breath.

I feel the power bounce around inside my exoskeleton. My thoughts stray in all directions of possibility, and my antennae mimic the thoughts.

The things I could do—

“Would be limited to times of necessity,” he finishes the thought. “These powers will never let you down but I have given you an even greater gift to serve you at the times when power will not be available. You will have gilded words?”

“Gilded words?” I ask.

“Yes, a silver tongue?”

“But I do not have…”

“It’s a metaphor. You’ll have the gift of the gab.”

“Now that I understand,” I say. It was not like the others was that hard to understand, but “Gift of the gab” just sounded right.

I felt myself lift into the air and knew my time with The Hand, this up close and personal, was over.

“Wait!” I did not want this to be over and I feared what other twists were still happening out there… outside of him.

“Yes?” he sounded like he was smiling, like he understood how I felt.

“I…” what to say, what to say “I don’t know… I don’t want to go.”

“Silly Beetle,” not unkind, “You have work to do. But wait a moment yet I have two more things for you.”

I wait, anticipating more of that wonderous breath.

“First, a little something to remember. It’s easy to remember and it will guide you in a fallen world to judge all fairly,” he said. That breath again… my wing cases tingle with the sheer joy of it, and the words hit me with real substance:

“All with fangs will eat but not all will bite

All with stings will stab but not all will fight

All looks good but evil looks for all

None walks true without a single fall.”

The words envelope me and I feel the truth of them settle deep inside my antennae. I know they will help, and guide, and protect me from mistakes.

“And the second?” I ask not knowing how long I enjoyed the power of those words, but it feels like I’ve not spoken for some time.

“The second is your name, Berrilyn.”

“Berrilyn?” I ask, confused.

“Unless you prefer ‘Silly Beetle.’”

“No, no,” I say quickly, “I love it, but what does it mean?”

“What else? It means first little friend.”