Accidental queen
When Alfons stretches as tall as he can, he reaches a proud five and a half millimeters. “Five and a half!” he likes to stress – not counting the antennae, of course. Alfons is a Lasius brunneus, brown tree ant, a tiny resident of rotting wood, born in a dead branch, nestled among ivy tendrils and the scent of fallen leaves. He’s a bit bigger than the other males, noticeably bigger than the workers – and yet usually invisible. Heroic deeds? None. His daily routine: tending aphids, harvesting honeydew, smoothing tunnels. Alfons was never the loud one, never the flashy one. And then came the day when – without meaning to – he stood out more than was good for him.
It starts on a summer morning. The sun is high, the branch creaks in the heat, and Alfons stretches for a brunch of honeydew. Perhaps a bit too far. Because suddenly, his body catches the light – yellowish-brown, almost like polished amber. His dark head, his delicate legs: a living jewel. “Look at that!” calls another ant. “What a shine!” Within minutes, Alfons is surrounded. Workers whisper. Veteran sentinels raise their antennae in greeting. Even Irma, the eldest overseer, comes by – she who otherwise shows interest only in true queens. “Well, well,” says Irma. “Our new hope!” Alfons blinks in confusion. Hope? Why? He just wants another sip of honeydew. But Irma is already placing the crown of expectation on his head. “A new queen,” she whispers. “At last!”
And before Alfons can chirp, “Hold on a minute,” he’s lifted on six legs and carried into the deepest chamber of the branch. A chamber long left empty. Reserved for special guests. Or: queens. Alfons knows little about queens. Only that they’re large. Broad. Unmistakably fragrant. And that they can lay eggs without getting dizzy. He himself? Maybe a bit taller than the other males, but slim, and he’s certainly never laid an egg. “But… I’m not a queen,” Alfons protests quietly. “Nonsense,” barks Irma. “Shine is destiny!”
In the world of ants, everything seems clearly defined: workers build, care, defend. Queens found colonies, lay eggs, exude majesty. Males? They swarm, mate, and disappear – quickly, discreetly, efficiently. Black and white. Female and male. No room for in-between. No space for maybe. But sometimes, yes sometimes, nature goes off-script. Even a quiet ant can suddenly raise expectations much larger than itself. Because nature was never meant to be a rigid system. It adores exceptions. Loves its in-betweens. There are birds that carry both sexes. Fish that change sex midlife. Beetles that dazzle without fitting into human categories. And: shine can deceive. Posture can mislead.
Days pass. Alfons – now called “Alfine” – is fed, fussed over, serenaded. Someone even crafts a miniature sceptre out of spruce needle. But no eggs appear. The murmuring begins. “Still no brood?” asks a worker. “Maybe she needs more aphid milk?” suggests another. “Maybe… she’s a late bloomer,” mutters Irma, increasingly nervous. Alfons sits in his chamber and looks at himself. He doesn’t feel female. Doesn’t feel royal. Just… like himself. A small, slightly shiny ant who stretches to seem a bit taller, but knows full well: it’s hard to compete with the image others have of you.
As the first leaves wilt and the honeydew runs low, the mood turns. In an ant colony, performance counts. Not hope. And certainly not a pretty shimmer. A meeting is called. The entire colony gathers in the main tunnel, carved long ago through a branch fork with painstaking effort. “Alfine…,” begins Irma solemnly, “you’ve won our hearts, but… in terms of brood, you’re a great disappointment.” Alfons steps forward. 5.5 millimeters of courage. Maybe even 5.6, because he’s stretching especially hard. “I’m not what you’re looking for,” he says. “I just wanted a quiet day. A little aphid-tapping, nothing more. But you saw something in me I never was. I’m just Alfons. With a hint of shimmer – which maybe says more about your wishes than about me.”
Silence. Then, slowly, the first heads bow. Not in awe. But in respect. Alfons returns to the regular tunnels. No more honeydew served on leaves. No more hymns in his honor. But: a genuine smile here, a friendly tap there. He’s one of many again. Just: himself. And when the sunlight breaks through the bark, his body still shimmers now and then. And some say: “Look, there! Our little miracle.” And Alfons? Just twitches his antennae and thinks: You don’t have to be a queen to shine.