Bombyx mori (silk and the sky)

Bombyx mori (originally titled "Silk and the sky")

by R. Eric Swanepoel

Floating free.

My home was the sky. Well, OK - it was a clapboard shack seven miles
from Arabia. No, no camels. Arabia, Nebraska, USA. It's a hamlet.
There's a lot of space there - I guess you'd know if you've seen a
western, but they don't seem to show them these days. One person per
square mile. You can drive and drive and not see anyone. Valentine was
the big city - population 2,800. I guess it's lonely for a kid, but it
was all I knew. OK, that's not entirely true either - I knew
Edinburgh.

So, the sky... Everything's flat in Nebraska, or near enough. The
tallest things in our yard were the trees: the cottonwood and the
mulberry. I would watch the leaves in the wind and think about how
their movement related to that of the clouds. Out there you have big
weather. When it rains, it rains. When it's hot you can fry eggs on the
roof. When it snows it snows - sometimes we were snowed in. When the
clouds roll in, they roll in on a massive front - a huge wave of
cumulonimbus or a delicate canopy of altostratus.... If you watch the
horizons you can see what's going to happen. The sky was always a draw.
Especially I would dream of floating away on a cloud - escaping - over
the horizon to other lands where everything was possible. I would climb
the mulberry - it was better for climbing than the cottonwood - and
stare at that horizon. I loved the jets' vapour trails, pointing the
way.

Bombyx mori

The Domestic Silk Moth is one of a family of about 300 species. Adults
have heavy bodies and cannot feed because of undeveloped mouthparts.
The forewing has a hooked tip. They are flightless.

Escape - that's what brought my parents to Nebraska. Dad came from a
poor part of Glasgow, a Gorbals tenement. Dad's father was a communist
and a docker, imprisoned in the 30s for organising a strike. He was a
member of the Marxist Book Club. He encouraged Dad to read, but he was
often away from home and so was my grandmother - she ran a woman's
group. When Dad did see his parents they were talking about "The
Party". His first escape was the cinema and the window it opened - wide
horizons and manly deeds. Especially he loved westerns.

The larvae of Bombyx mori are called silkworms. They feed only on
mulberry plants. They molt four times before spinning cocoons of one
continuous fiber, the commercial source of silk. Bred in captivity for
thousands of years on trays of white mulberry (Morus alba), Bombyx mori
is fully domesticated.

Dad's parents were devastated by the news of Stalin's purges - the USSR
had been their beacon. Dad told me he was glad the old man died before
the final humiliation of the Soviet Union's collapse. His mother - my
grandmother - went senile and ended up in a nursing home... But way
before that, Dad knew he wouldn't be a communist. He had to get away
and start anew.

Mum's parents were different. I was a toddler when we left Edinburgh,
but we visited them when I was seven. They lived near Blackford Hill:
trees, proud privet hedges, lawns, floral borders, and greenhouses
smelling of tomatoes. Grandpa was a partner in an architecture firm -
Macdonald, Heath and Morris. He was Morris. Grandma was a bubbly woman.
She didn't work - in those days the wife of a professional man didn't.
Today she'd have been a successful artist. She was always painting and
sketching. She made wonderful birthday and Christmas cards, and all her
own clothes. She was one of the smartest women around, in both senses
of the word.

They met in 1945. Grandpa was in the Home Guard. He had a clubfoot so
he wasn't eligible to fight. Grandma told me how upset he had been. I
remember he was always proud of his fitness. Right until near the end
he went for a daily walk up Blackford Hill - him and his walking stick
- and he went swimming two or three times a week at Warrender Baths. I
believe he was highly thought of in the Guard. He didn't talk much
about this though. The only story he liked to tell about the war was
how he met Grandma.

If the moths were allowed to emerge, they would damage the silk. The
farmers kill the pupae by baking them in an oven. Then they soak the
cocoons in boiling water. The end of the thread is attached to a
bobbin. A machine winds the silk from five cocoons to make one silk
thread.

When we left for the States it must have been hard for the old folks.
Dad's parents would have felt doubly betrayed because he was going to
the arch-enemy of the Soviet Union and the invader of Vietnam. I
suppose they must have realised that they had taught him to think for
himself. Mum's parents were desperately sad to lose their daughter and
grandson. In a way, they were also responsible for her leaving. Their
relationship - of utter devotion to each other - was the model that she
was following: her husband was headed for the wide blue yonder and she
must follow.

That first trip back to Edinburgh was one of the highlights of my life.
Grandpa met us at the airport in his Jaguar. He wasn't materialistic,
but he did love this retirement present to himself. He drove it with
such gentleness. It smelt of aftershave and leather. As a treat, and
because I tended to be carsick, I sat in the front. Edinburgh was
amazing - all the people and the grey stone buildings and the small
green gardens and the bright red pillar boxes and the windy roads and
the castle high up there and all the people and the grey stone
buildings...

Mum had just qualified as a teacher when she met Dad. She had one pupil
- me. Occasionally she drove me to Valentine where she tried to find
some children's group, so that I wouldn't grow up completely asocial,
but I hated teamsports and once got into a fight at a summer camp over
my accent. At last she found a kids' band. I played the bugle.

Books - that's what I remember most. When I wasn't dreaming in or under
the trees, I had my nose in a book. Sometimes I would read up in the
mulberry tree. Grandpa and Grandma sent books at birthdays and
Christmases, and every week the Dandy and the Beano were slipped in
with the Sunday paper, rolled up and marked "REDUCED RATE. PRINTED
PAPERS ONLY" and posted to us. Posted, not mailed - I kind of grew up
Scottish in the heart of America. Oor Wullie was more familiar than
Superman. When I was older they sent novels - The Famous Five, Swallows
and Amazons, The Hobbit, The Wind in the Willows - and science books.
My favourites were the Explorer Books.

For this experiment you will need a sheet of foolscap paper, sticky
tape, two tall drinking glasses and a teacup&;#8230;

&;#8230;Now roll the paper into a tube and use some sticky tape to
fasten (Diagram 3.3). Pass the tube of paper through the handle of the
teacup and place the tube across the two glasses as before (Diagram
3.4). Unless your tube is too thick or too thin, you will find that the
paper easily carries the weight of the cup.

What the hell? The building's shaking! An earth tremor? My mobile's
ringing! 'Yes, I'm fine! What? Hallo?' Sh_t!

Grandpa was good with his hands. Like Grandma he could draw anything.
When he was dying he drew this diary. You half want to cry when you see
it, but it's too funny - his observations of people, postures betraying
their agenda: the bossy ward sister intimidating the intern, the bored
kids forced to visit a distant uncle, the young lovers tragically
separated by infirmity... Pitiful and hilarious. Drawing wasn't the
only thing he could do with his hands. He would cup them together and
make a squeaky sound. He teased me about the little mouse he was
holding - when he opened his hands it was gone! I'm told I would laugh
and laugh and ask him to do it again. He was a good man, a "pillar of
the community" - and a church elder - but he had a streak of
mischief.

The most wonderful thing was his silk handkerchief. During our holiday
in Edinburgh if I were very good one day then Grandma would make my
favourite dessert and Grandpa would bring out his handkerchief. The
adults would be sipping a postprandial whisky ("a dram a
day&;#8230;"), I would have cocoa and he would say, 'Well then,
Andrew. I believe that you've been a good boy and helped Grandma with
her shopping. Something very special wants to thank you. Do you know
what this is?' He would wave his handkerchief. In accordance with the
ritual I would answer, 'It's a handkerchief, Grandpa!' He would reply,
'But it's not just a handkerchief is it?'

'No, it's a magic handkerchief!'

'That's right!' With that he would turn his back, mumbling, 'Abracadra,
allakazarm, let this be magic and work like a charm!' Then he would
turn round again. 'Now, lay-deeeeez and jennilmin, what you see before
you is just an ordinary silk handkerchief.' It was big and white with a
colourful pattern on one corner. Although everyone had seen his act
many times there was laughter and clapping and heckling. Coins and
baubles, and the handkerchief itself, would materialize and
de-materialize and move in strange ways. I loved it.

One Sunday over breakfast he told me he was going to show me a new
trick - on Blackford Hill. I was desperate to go, but the usual routine
was observed. After church there was a magnificent lunch - roast beef
with horseradish, potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, carrots with nutmeg and
coriander, peas with butter and mint, tomatoes from the greenhouse
followed by Queen's pudding - and then the siesta. I was allowed to
watch TV, provided the sound was turned down. I couldn't concentrate,
and explored the sitting room, looking at the books (the Encyclopaedia
Britannica, the collected works of Shakespeare, Dickens and Jane
Austen), the ornaments on the mantelpiece (vases, China dogs and brass
sphinxes) and the photographs (Mum and Dad's wedding, me at various
ages...). At last it was half past three and time to go. I heard
stirrings and, sure enough, Grandpa appeared. 'Sssh!' he said,
'Grandma's still sleeping and I think your Mum and Dad are too!' I was
thrilled by the clandestine air of our mission, and tugged his hand all
the way, pestering him to tell me what the magic trick would be. 'Well,
it's not exactly a trick,' he said, 'but I don't think you'll be
disappointed!' He was an expert tease. Our first port of call was the
duckpond. He took out his handkerchief - it was full of breadcrumbs and
crusts.

'Is that all?'

'Patience, my boy. Here now, feed the ducks. And this is a clue.' I
temporarily forgot what we'd come for in the fun of the moment.

'Now, what are those things you are feeding?'

'Ducks!'

'Yes. What makes them special - different from dogs and us, say?'

'They're in the water!'

'Yes, but if I threw you in the water what would happen?'

'I'd get wet!'

'Yes, but what would the ducks do?'

'They'd fly away!'

'Exactly.' Crumbs finished, we climbed the hill. I raced ahead. He
tarried behind a clump of gorse, emerging with his handkerchief bunched
in his hand.

'Show me the trick, Grandpa! Plee-ease!'

'Patience! We'll go to the top first.'

Blackford Hill is magic. Even the lower slopes are a wonderland. There
are succulent brambles amongst the gorse. If you take a flattened
cardboard box you can slide down the grassy patches, tumbling off
amongst rabbit droppings and lying sprawled, crushing the clover
between your fingers and smelling the sweetness. Higher up, you can see
for miles - just like in Nebraska, only the view is better. You can see
most of Edinburgh. You can see across the Firth of Forth to Fife. You
can see North Berwick Law, the Bass Rock white with seabirds, the
Pentland Hills... You can see the most important part of the world,
everything clear and exposed. Above it, the clouds - always changing,
always glorious. Grandpa never tired of pointing out landmarks. By that
day we must have been there a dozen times, and he pointed to some of
the features and asked me to name them. Several times he made as if to
prepare his hankie for action and then "changed his mind": 'Well now,
Andrew...' (clasping the folded silk at chest level between his two
hands) 'No, I think you should tell me what that hill is...' (lowering
it to his side in one hand and pointing with the other).

'Arthur's Seat, Grandpa! But show me the trick, plee-ease!'

'OK, OK, Andrew. The time has come, but first I want to tell you a wee
story about this handkerchief. Do you know where it comes from?'

'Grandma gave it to you!'

'Yes, but where did she get it?'

'A shop?'

'No. She made it. Grandma worked in a parachute factory during the war
- do you know what a parachute is?'

'Of course, Grandpa!'

'Well, this little piece of silk was going to be part of a big
parachute, but the war ended so it never got a chance to fly. Today we
are going to give it that chance.' I was dancing up and down. Grandpa
laid a hand on my shoulder, 'Sssh. There's one thing we need to know
first. Can you guess what it is?' He blew theatrically, raised his
eyebrows and followed the clouds with his eyes.

'The wind? The way the wind is blowing?'

'Yes, exactly! And how can you tell that?'

'By watching the clouds?'

'Well, ye-es...'

'The smoke from chimneys?' I pulled up some grass blades and cast them
into the air. 'This grass?'

'Yes, those all work, but I'll show you another wee trick.' He licked
and raised a forefinger. 'Now then, the coldest side is where the wind
is coming from. OK, so it's safe, because it'll go that way and there's
no gorse...'

I was unconvinced but bursting with impatience. 'Throw it, Grandpa,
throw it!'

'Righty ho!' He swung his arm. 'And a-one, and a-two, and a-three!' The
little white bundle arc-ed upwards and opened just as it was starting
to descend. Suspended from the four corners of the billowed
handkerchief was a lollipop. The breeze carried it about ten
yards.

'Yippee!' I rushed to collect it. I hurled it into the air. It
plummeted.

'No, no, Andrew. If it's going to open you have to fold it carefully.
Here, let me show you...'

Quiet for once, I sucked the lollipop as we walked home
hand-in-hand.

Back in Nebraska I went through a parachute craze. I used an old cotton
hankie and plastic bags. I discovered that the strings had to be quite
long or the 'chute didn't open properly. And Grandpa was right - the
way you folded it was crucial. I would climb the mulberry tree and
throw my creations as high as I could. When Dad had to bring a ladder
to retrieve my parachute from an upper branch he forbade me to play
near the trees. I jumped off the roof, umbrella in hand. I was a bit
bruised but the umbrella was ruined. Dad walloped me, but the next day
he showed me how to make a kite. This was great, but it was calm for
endless days of frustration. When the wind came Dad showed me how to
send messages to the clouds, threading the line through a hole punched
in a piece of paper and then letting the paper whoosh up to the kite.
Up and away.

Blackford Hill wasn't all fun. In those days myxomatosis was rife and
rabbits with eyes oozing pus loitered, waiting for death. Grandpa's
lips would tighten. 'Now you go over there, Andrew, good lad, and see
if you can spot our house. I'll just put this wee chap out of his
misery.' He told me that the germs had been spread deliberately because
there were too many rabbits. He said he thought it was cruel. 'But you
know, Andrew, I'm sure that this won't last forever and the rabbits
will be back. There are millions, so I think there will be some that
will survive, and they won't get sick again&;#8230; Good always wins
in the end. Good always wins over evil, even if sometimes it's
difficult to believe. And love always wins over hate. Remember that.
Love always wins.'

Elevator? Oh God! Fire escape? Smoke - fire! No way am I going down
there!

Three years later, Grandma died suddenly - a stroke - and Mum went over
to comfort Grandpa and help with the funeral arrangements. Dad was too
busy on the farm to go, and I stayed with him, helping as best as I
could. When Mum came back, she brought Grandpa. He seemed smaller and
older, but he was very pleased to see me. A routine was established.
Mum would give me my lessons in the morning and Grandpa would take the
afternoons. He was so enthusiastic and inventive. One afternoon it was
hot and he was sitting on the porch when I emerged from the lounge. He
was staring into nowhere, tapping the fingers of one hand on the arm of
the rocking chair, all slumped and defeated-looking. His other hand was
clasping his handkerchief, the thumb running over the embroidery on the
corner.

'Grandpa?'

He started and straightened up, looking almost guilty. 'Well now, young
man, fancy sneaking up like that! Well, well, what shall we learn about
today? Shall we have a look around? Get your hat, will you?'

In a trice I had retrieved my Stetson, of which I was hugely
proud.

'Okey dokey, jiggery pokey. Pass me my stick would you, my good man?
Thank you. That's fine. I'll manage now.'

I jumped onto the lawn. He edged himself down the stairs and looked
around. 'What have we here, then... fields, trees, grass, flowers...
Mmm...' He looked at me sideways, with that delicious spark in his
eyes. 'Mmm... Do you know what that tree is? It looks like a
poplar...'

'It's a cottonwood, Grandpa!'

'Mmm... It looks a thirsty sort to me... I see it's growing near the
edge of the garden, where there's a drainage ditch...'

'It's the state tree, Grandpa! It's the tree of Nebraska.'

'What - this particular one?'

'No-o! Sillybilly! I mean that type of tree...'

'Aha. Well now, I've got a very strange question for you.' He pulled
out his handkerchief. 'Where did this come from?'

'From Grandma - a parachute factory?'

'Yes, but before that?'

'Don't know... A silk factory?'

'Yes, but where does silk come from?'

'I don't know.'

'I'll give you a clue: another tree in this garden.'

'The mulberry!'

'Yes, that's right. Have a close look and tell me where exactly the
silk comes from.'

I hesitated, squishing a berry and shredding a leaf before patting the
bark uncertainly. 'Here?'

'No, you were warmer before. It comes from the leaves.'

'Oh.' I must have looked at him disbelievingly as I tore another leaf,
trying to find fibres.

'There's something I haven't told you. The leaves have to be
eaten...'

'Is it a type of animal, like a sheep, that eats the leaves and then
grows silk instead of wool?'

Patiently, forcing me to think for myself, Grandpa told me the story of
silk. We went indoors and found my junior encyclopaedia.

'But what happens to the caterpillars inside, Grandpa?'

'Well at that point they're no longer caterpillars. They're called
pupae - see this picture here? In order to unwind the silk they have to
unstick the cocoons. They put them in boiling water...'

I looked at Grandpa's handkerchief in horror, and ran to my bedroom,
imagining the little creatures dreaming of becoming moths, when
suddenly the dreams were interrupted as it got hotter and hotter and
they couldn't escape... Desperate and in agony, they died.

'I hate you and your stupid handkerchief!'

Grandpa had let me be for a few minutes, sobbing into my pillow. Then
he had knocked on my door and come in and rested a hand on my shoulder.
'Listen my boy, there's something you should hear.'

'I hate you! Go away!'

'Silkworms don't live in the wild. They can't. And the moths can't fly,
and they can't eat. All they do is come together, lay eggs and die.
That's not much of a life. The best part's over by the time they spin
the cocoons... And because men look after them, millions of silkworms
have a chance to live. Just think of that. And they are looked after
very well. People bring them fresh mulberry leaves, so they don't even
have to find food. They just eat and grow fat and spin cocoons. And
when they are killed, they die very quickly. They're alive one moment
and dead the next, and there's no suffering.'

I sniffed. 'Like Grandma?'

He cleared his throat. 'Yes, I hope like Grandma... You know
something?'

I had stopped sobbing but didn't want to give him any satisfaction by
being too responsive.

'I really think that if you explained to a baby silkworm that it was
going to be given all the food and care possible, and then it would be
allowed to spin a nice cosy little bed for itself and then, when death
came, that it would be instant and painless, and that it would never be
forgotten because its silk would live forever in beautiful things that
gave pleasure... I think if you explained all that, it would be happy.
I really believe that. Now, Andrew, how about getting your own
silkworms!'

I looked up from the pillow.

The heat is terrible. Something plastic must be burning - that foul
black smoke! Must it end like this?

It was four years before I saw Grandpa again. I was 14. The previous
Christmas I had bought a silk dressing gown with my Christmas money. I
had had to order it from a catalogue. Dad was rather surprised -
alarmed even - but Mum had smiled. I often slept with it on and nothing
else. I loved the sensation of silk. I imagined it was how a woman's
skin would feel.

I was glad to get away from Nebraska and return to Edinburgh with Mum,
even if the purpose of our visit was to say goodbye to Grandpa. I hated
my boarding college in Lincoln, Lancaster County, and weekends at the
farm were insufferable - Dad was always pestering me to help and I just
wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere over the horizon. Somewhere big
and exciting. Somewhere with girls.

Grandpa was in a hospice, in the terminal stages of disseminated bowel
cancer. He was a wizened little bird of a man but he still had that
spark in him, or at least seemed to when he saw me. 'Goodness gracious,
Andrew! You're quite the man, now! It's good to see again! How are
you?'

We visited him most days. As far as those kinds of places go, this must
have been one of the best - flowers and as much sunshine as Auld Reekie
allowed. One day Mum said she had some business to attend to and that I
should visit him on my own. I felt important and grown-up as I nodded
at the pretty nurse at the reception, blushing a little. Grandpa was
propped on his pillows, sketchbook open. 'Andrew. Good. I'm glad you're
here on your own, because there's a little man-to-man talk I'd like us
to have.' He closed his book and put it on his table next to the radio.
'Do you know what this is?' He pulled the old handkerchief from the
breast pocket of his pyjamas.

'It's your silk handkerchief, Grandpa.' Was he was losing his
marbles?

'It's much more than that, Andrew. It's magic. Do you know why it's
magic?'

I shifted my weight and looked out the window.

'Go on, Andrew...'

I cleared my throat. 'Because you can do magic with it?' Jesus! Did he
think I was still a little kid?

'Yes and no. What's this?' He was pointing to the multicoloured
corner.

'It's some embroidery.'

'Here. Take it and look at it closely.'

'Well, there's the letter A. Your initial? Very fine work.'

'Yes, it's beautiful, isn't it? Your grandmother did that. You know the
story of the parachute factory. But what you don't know is the full
significance of this embroidery. Your grandmother started that not long
after we met. She said she knew the moment she saw me that I would be
her husband. She was poor, but she wanted to give me something special.
She spent four months on it - every evening. She used the finest
thread. Have a close look.'

I did as I was told.

'Here, take this.' Grandpa passed me his reading magnifier.

'It's amazing!' The delicate threads were interwoven so
intricately.

'She gave it to me the day I asked her to marry me. She said she'd put
all her love into it, and it would last forever - that it was a symbol
of the fact that she would always be with me. But I think it's more
than that. I think that this handkerchief is not just a symbol of our
love. I think it's a symbol of the power of love in all circumstances.
It's a talisman... A reminder that love will always find a way.'

I was still fingering the vibrant colours.

'Your Mum says you're going through a difficult stage, Andrew. Well,
believe it or not, I know what it's like.'

I looked up.

'Lots of people will give you advice, some of it good and some of it
not. I'm going to give you some advice too: whatever you do, Andrew,
always follow your heart.' He coughed, his face briefly betraying his
pain. 'It may take you a long time to learn this, because we all have
to learn it for ourselves, but I have a feeling that this handkerchief
will save you. Take it. Shake my hand and we'll say goodbye. I don't
want you to visit me again and see me die. Have a good life. Go and
find love.'

The magnitude of the moment yawning beneath my feet, I shook his hand.
'Goodbye, Grandpa. Thank you.'

Before I got to the door he called me again. 'One more thing, Andrew.
Love only works if you are prepared to give, and pass it on. That goes
for the handkerchief too. Good luck. Find someone worthy.'

The light was incredibly bright, and the birdsong very loud. I
collapsed onto a bench and cried, wiping the tears with his
handkerchief.

I grew up, went to business school. No way was I going to sweat my butt
off on a two-bit farm in the ass end of nowhere! I moved to New York -
buildings and people and excitement. Sure, I missed the horizons but I
could fix that. I worked long hours. I figured to be a millionaire by
35. The penthouse first - and living with the sky again. Then the
furniture - especially an enormous bed with silk sheets - and then ease
off a bit when the money side was sorted, and go out and find that
woman. Only it wasn't so easy. Hell, I love my work, and I'm good at
it, so why stop? It's all a game. Big bucks. My beautiful Honda S2000!
People would tell me that I was a parasite, buying and selling lives. I
didn't think of it that way. OK, basically I didn't give a flying f___,
but where was the woman? They were all taken, and the few that weren't
were gold diggers, and then there was Aim?e. She said I was immoral,
materialistic and superficial, and I didn't have a hope in hell of
finding love. Silly cow, I thought. Only I guess I didn't really. Yeah,
OK, she hurt me, and that's when I bought myself the car. Trouble with
cars is that they have passenger seats, and this one's was empty, and
so all I had was living in the sky and trading shares which were
supposedly killing people in Colombia or Nigeria or wherever, and,
yeah, I was empty and I wanted to escape again. And then the bomb, and
now I'm trapped. F___ing trapped like a rat!

Stay close to the floor. I need a mask. Handkerchief? Grandpa's
handkerchief! God, it doesn't make much difference! Useless piece of
sh_t! If they don't come soon... A gonner, I'm going to be roasted.
Where did I go wrong? My childhood&;#8230; Green days on Blackford
Hill... The lollipop parachute... Oh, my God - that's it! The silk
sheets! Scissors - kitchen drawer. Cut one into long strips. Tie.
Cough! What if it doesn't open? Sh_t, it's hot! Need to prop it open.
Just paper on my desk... How...? Tubes - roll it up. Should just hold
it open enough for the air to catch it. In place with sticky tape -
where's that, where's that? Yes. Quickly. Window. Will this work? No
time. Jump!

A new start - Edinburgh? This time I'll be good. This time I'll deserve
her. This time she won't get away. This time - love! Thank you, God!
Thank you, Grandpa! Thank you, Grandma!

Floating free. At last.