Excerpt of Mostly Magic by Donna June Cooper

""You seem to really know Italy well. Do you come over
here
a lot on business?"

"My grandfather was Italian. We traveled over here when we could to visit la famiglia, and I picked up the language. So, when there's a story where Italian comes in handy?" She raised her hand. "What can I say? I love the ancient bones of this place."

Daniel watched the forested slopes speed past. "The
culture
is ancient, but these mountains not so much. I think my
mountains are older."

"Since there are volcanoes still belching down south,
you're probably right. I don't think volcanoes are a
problem
in the Appalachians, right?" Mel said.

"No. Our mountaintops are being blown off by mining
corporations," Daniel replied.

"Speaking of corporations, how many times did Meyer come
at
you?"

He groaned and laid his head back. "Your middle name. Let
me guess again. Is it 'Persistent'?"

"I'm the one doing the interview," she chided.

Daniel muttered something about a bulldog and a bone,
then
said, "They tried two more times. The last one was at the
conference. They sent a couple of their high-level
drones…"
He frowned. "Erase that. I meant 'executives', down here
on
Friday."

"An even better offer?"

"To which I said no."

"You don't see all this largesse of theirs as legal
bribery?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. What matters is the end
result. The public doesn't know which scientists to
believe,
the ones paid by generous private donors, which is most
of
them these days, or the ones struggling along on a public
salary. It's not like we wear sponsor labels on our
foreheads."

"Exactly," Mel said. And that was a priceless quote, Dr.
Woodruff. "But, if you don't mind telling me, why didn't
you want to call them drones?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Pops taught me that
when you are reduced to name-calling, you lack a good,
logical argument. Besides, calling them drones gives
drones
a bad name."

Mel smiled at that. "I know a drone is some kind of bee,
but beyond that…" She shrugged. "What are they, mindless
workers?"

"Not really."

"So what did your grandfather teach you about drones?"
she
prodded.

"Pops didn't teach as such. He told stories," he replied.

"Stories are meant to be shared."

He smirked. "I can see why you're a journalist. Is that a
natural gift, or were you taught how to do that?"

Mel smirked back at him and tucked her wrist under her
chin,
wiggling her fingers. "I told you before. It's mostly
magic. Now, spill, Dr. Woodruff."

He sighed in defeat, but with a smile. "One of the first
things I learned about bees when I was six was that the
honeybee lives out its life without damaging so much as a
petal on a flower, much less another creature, unless
forced
to," Daniel began. "In fact, the honeybee is one of the
few beings in this world that actually improves almost
anything it touches, instead of using it up or destroying
it. One day I was watching a hive and saw some of these
gentle creatures shoving some other bees out of the
entrance, basically tossing them to the ground. I asked
Pops
about it since it seemed a bit out of character."

Mel noticed the serene look on his face as he told the
story.

"Pops told me those doing the tossing were the worker
bees,
and those being tossed were the drones. So I asked why
the
drones were being treated like that. He told me those
drones
were like this fellow named Bobby Farrell who lived up in
a
hollow in the mountains. Old Bobby had sired a passel—a
lot—
of girl children and spent most days sitting on the
porch,
eating and watching his girls work. That was when he
wasn't
off giving Mrs. Bobby some kind of mysterious, but very
minimal, assistance in producing even more girl
children."

Mel gave a soft chuckle.

"But then a real bad winter was forecast, and while Mrs.
Bobby felt like she had plenty enough girl-workers around
the place, she also thought she had one too many lazy-
assed,
beer-swilling, girl-producing nonworkers on the porch,
so…"
He paused for effect. "The girls all united to toss Bobby
off the porch and into the dirt to starve because, of
course, Bobby had no idea how to get food and drink for
himself."

Mel laughed out loud.

"It isn't a perfect analogy, because any drones who
manage
to impregnate the queen bee on her mating flight die in
the
process. The ones who get tossed out are the ones who
didn't
fly high enough or fast enough to catch her. But it was
close enough for a six-year-old to figure out that drones
were pretty much the lazy do-nothings of the bee world,
and
that girls ruled it." He finished with a flourish of his
hand. "Of course, this was not exactly a happy discovery
for someone with two sisters."

"I had no idea!" Mel exclaimed, still laughing. "The bees
who do all the pollen gathering and make the honey and
build
all those cells are—"

"All girls. The drones—the males—only exist for one
purpose." He smiled.

"Making baby bees?" Mel offered. "Perfect!"

Daniel's whole demeanor was relaxed now. The stress in
his
face was gone. This was the Dr. Daniel Woodruff she had
seen
in the lecture hall. The strong, untarnished spirit she
had
sensed before he had shaken hands with the young Italian
woman.

Mel wondered about that moment. He had been standing
there,
smiling, although obviously tired. Then he had shaken
Francesca's hand, and Mel had felt that burst of fear.

Then he had gone out on the portico and grasped
Francesca's
wrist again, on purpose, and the same thing had seemed to
happen, leaving him sightless and carrying around the
remnants of someone else's fear.

She shook her head. Her talento d'empatia had never read anything like this before.

Picking up the voice recorder, she thumbed it off and
thought about the noninterview she had recorded on it
yesterday and the strange coincidence of Dr. Drachan's
origami bees. Her mom had taught her there was no such
thing. "Coincidence is the universe pointing out
something
important. Pay attention."

"That's the interview then?" Daniel asked hopefully.

"The on-the-record part." She looked over at him.
"Perfect timing too, because we are approaching the
outskirts of Firenze and I need to practice my Italian
driving persona. Pedestrians are worth twenty points.
Scooters are fifty. Keep score."