"It was two o'clock in the world."
The child’s eyes widened in curiosity. "What time is it now, Grandpa?"
The old man’s eyes twinkled through his curtain of white hair, his wrinkles forming a slow, knowing smile.
"It is November, my child! Now, don’t interrupt me again." He gazed into the space beyond the room.
"The world was fresh and young; no one and nothing knew its purpose yet. The trees were stretching their arms toward the sky, pushing their roots deep into the ground, sharing wisdom and greetings.
Birds hadn’t learned to fly; they didn’t know their useless, fingerless stumps were wings that would soon grant them freedom and dominance over the sky.
Animals sat side by side: cats with hares, deer with bears. Mice gazed up unblinkingly at their neighbors, their beady black eyes absorbing the wonder of it all. Mice, as you know, carry the knowledge of the universe in their heads, passing it down through generations. That’s why their eyes are completely black – they reflect the world they saw before that first dawn.
Man moved silently among the crowd. He looked at the lion’s mane, the giraffe’s tall legs, and the hands of monkeys scratching their bottoms with thick nails. Finally, he admired the stark beauty of tree branches against the sky.
Quietly, he sat down next to a sloth, but his big brain was whirring, pondering, taking it all in. What was he thinking?
In the afternoon, the animals began their work. There were too many to speak to individually, so the creator gave them roles:
‘You fish will swim in the sea and rivers, keeping them clean for the earth.
‘You birds will fly in the sky and clouds, keeping the sky clean.
‘You worms, beetles, and insects will rid the earth of waste, keeping the ground clean.
‘You animals will live and run, churning the ground with your feet and cycling the air with your lungs. You will warm the earth and turn it with your feet so all parts can face the sky.
‘None of you will be without purpose. The earth is your home, and you are for the earth.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. He breathed in the cold, new air and let his hand rest on the tender soil, swirling the dirt in circles and patterns he saw around him.
‘I am an animal,’ he thought. ‘I’m here to warm the earth with my breath and churn the ground with my feet.’
It was evening on the first day. The creator gathered all the mice – did there seem to be twice as many now? – and settled them into their nests.
The creator hushed the trees, whose chatter had lasted all day. Something would be done about that.
The creator found the man curled up on the ground.
‘You did well today, man. You ran and created warmth with your breath.’
The man’s eyes sparkled through his thick, black hair, and his face brightened into a slow smile that lit up the night. Wherever his smile landed, brightness sprang from the ground.
In the morning, flowers covered the land. The world had become a garden.
The creator was content.
The animals rolled in the flowers after taking turns churning the earth. Giraffes became covered in big brown spots, frogs were squashed into the ground by giant feet and tall legs, and even birds swooped down, taking flowers high into the air, creating a bright arc across the sky.
Only the bees were not satisfied. Why should man be the champion of the flowers? Man had cut nearly all of them, covering his home and making a beautiful headdress. The man was using up all the flowers!
The bees mumbled and hummed, their tiny brains whirring and pondering. You know what they were thinking!
The bees broke branches from trees and sharpened them. They surrounded the man. The other animals were too frightened to help, as the bees’ mumbling had turned into a venomous buzzing.
The creator heard the sound, and all contentment turned into terrible anger.
On the second day of the earth, the bees were rumbling and fuming. The man was hiding. What would happen?
The creator's anger became a ball of plasma floating high into the sky. Only once more would the creator’s feelings form into a blue ice ball, but that story is for another day.
The creator looked at the bees with anger, and they shrank, losing their legs and arms.
‘You will not see the flowers again,’ the creator said to the bees. ‘You will not run or warm the earth with your breath. Without purpose, you will wither away.’
The shrunken bees waggled on the ground in confusion.
‘No!’ cried the man. ‘Your majesty, please! The flowers should be for everyone. Please don’t punish them!’
The creator marveled at the man’s compassion.
‘Alright. They will see flowers, but not their full beauty. They will have a different kind of sight. They will not wither.’
The creator thought for a long time.
‘I cannot return the bees to their former state, but I can have mercy. I will give them wings. But hear me, bees! If you act in violence again, it will be your final act. Each time you sting, you will die.’
The bees had thought this was the end. The man they tried to harm had saved them.
Each bee went to a flower and brought out the tiniest drop of the sweetest juice imaginable. They brought it to the man. From that day on, even though no bee remembers why they buzz or how they can fly with their fat, hairy bodies and gossamer wings, they know they owe man honey.
That is the story of how flowers came to be."
The old man licked the last bits of sweet, warm honey from his bowl.
"Come now, bedtime is long past. There will be another story for another day."