“Get off me, hag!” shouts the corn with a tart burst of aroma. “You are not welcome here! Lay your eggs elsewhere!”
The moth turns her abdomen to deposit her eggs.
Another scent from the corn assaults the moth. “Are you ignoring me? I know you sense my ire, moth. Begone! Foul pest!”
“No!” the moth answers finally, “I must lay my eggs and the rye grass is full. I have to provide for my children.”
A soft breeze rustles the corn stalk, as if punctuating its anger. “A pox on your progeny, bug! A curse on your children!”
“Please, calm yourself,” pleads the moth. “My children need food and shelter until they’re old enough to fend for themselves.”
“No!” the corn rebuffs. “I will not be the welfare of poor parents. Your children will suffer for your laziness. The rye grass was provided for you. All you had to do was be prompt in your parental planning. A pox on your progeny, moth! They will suffer for your choices!”
The moth finishes laying her eggs and mournfully leaves them to their fate. Several days later, the eggs hatch, and the moth’s larvae begin to feed on the cornstalk. As the larvae grow fat from its phloem, the cornstalk sends out a pheromone to attract a wasp and make good on its threat to the moth.
“Wasp! WASP! Come to me!” it beckons.
A wasp answers the corn’s chemical summons. It circles the cornstalk before landing near the moth larvae.
“My gracious,” the wasp remarks. “These will make good food for my children.”
“Yes, wasp! Kill them! Kill them all!” the corn commands.
“Hold on, my dear,” tuts the wasp as she trundles over to one of the larvae. She prods it with her leg. “Hmm…fat and healthy.” She stings the larva and begins injecting her eggs.
The cornstalk sways gently in the wind. “Good work, wasp. Make them suffer as I have. Make them pay for their mother’s foolishness.”
The wasp shuffles as she lays her first egg inside the larva. “Well, my dear,” she comments, “I wouldn’t call their mother ‘foolish’. I can see she picked a good spot to put her children. They’ve grown quite fat.”
“She put them in a hostile environment,” the corn retorts. “Your very presence is proof of this.”
“Yet her careful placement has provided an excess of food,” says the wasp, “so much, in fact, that I will not have enough eggs to infect this larva’s siblings.”
A disagreeable odor from the cornstalk strikes the wasp. “I can’t believe you’re on that hag’s side. You’re murdering her children. The Gardener provided rye grass for her and her ilk. She should’ve used it.”
“I saw the rye grass,” says the wasp. “It was full of insect eggs. As for your accusation of murder, my dear, a life must be taken for others to live. The Gardener provides for us and a mother provides for her children. This is the way of the world.”
The sun shines down on the cornstalk’s leaves and fresh air seeps out from the corn’s stomata. “Hmph…that cursed moth said something similar.”
Finished with her egg-laying, the wasp pets the cornstalk with her feet. “Do not be wroth. Take heart, my dear. If it’s vengeance you seek, I can guarantee that my children will make this young larva suffer more than you could possibly imagine.”
“Good,” says the corn, “I can’t wait to taste its agony on my leaves.”
The wasp shakes its insect head and flies off.
Days pass and the Gardener walks through her garden again. The earth yields to her weight and the plants bow to her touch. Today, the Gardener approaches a cornstalk. She pulls back a leaf and peers near the stem. Next to the stem is a fat little worm. It doesn’t run from her sight. It doesn’t feed on the flesh of the stalk. It stays in place, shuddering and writhing. The Gardener understands. This grub has been injected with wasp larvae. What puzzles the Gardener is the ignorance of scientists claiming that insects are incapable of feeling pain. Even the casual observer can see this grub is wracked with torment.