The Sound of Bees

The old man and the dog picked their way through the late summer field. This path wasn’t their usual evening route, the dog had picked up a scent. Grateful for this rare, energetic enthusiasm, the gray man followed his aging dog up the hill. They both panted heavily from the effort, as the dog followed an erratic trace with increasing agitation. They found their destination in a still-shaded fold of the hill. The man squinted into the setting sun, then down to the dark green crease. For a moment he was blind to the setting. So far removed from his expectation, the scene that splayed out at his feet stopped his pounding heart for a moment. He leaned into his cane and called his dog to heel. Just there, within sight of this small animal trail, a dead man lay face up in the grass. His taut shiny skin mottled with hundreds of small circles, each one marked with a tiny wire-like center. The young man’s face, neck and hands were swollen grotesquely, only the cut of his jeans suggested youth. Surrounding his body, stretching outward like a halo in the trampled grass, lay hundreds of dead and dying bees. The aged man caught his breath, reaching out to a near by shrub to catch his balance. The dog thumped to the ground pressing his pounding heart to the earth. Even the Robins stood quiet in the long shadows of sunset.

Forcing himself to remove his eyes from the figure, the field came back into focus. Near the dead man and caught up by the thorny brambles, hung a faded, pink striped pillowcase. The soft fragile fabric had ripped apart from the rake across the thorns. The contents were spilled out there onto the ground. The old man stepped closer, cautiously moving the wallet and the silver spoon with his boot. In spite of the incongruity of their surroundings, he felt an increasing sense of familiarity with these objects. He heard his heart pounding in his ears, a freight train of spent adrenalin sent his mind reeling into fearful anger, his hand clenched his cane as if to combat what had already occurred.

It was a timeless moment later when a crow called the old man’s attention further up the hill. Something there reflected the setting sun, catching his eye. He climbed to the shiny thing slowly, painfully. He found it there, cradled in a hammock of grass and vetch. It was a small golden figure gleaming in a shaft of late afternoon light. The female form was still intact despite its impromptu journey over the hill. Well-worn as if frequently held, the figure felt warm from the sun. He closed his large hand around the seated woman, savoring the sensation of her perfect fit into his leathery palm.

He knew he needed to call someone, but despite the gruesome body in the grass, he lingered. He took it all in; the dying bees, more than he could count, the now still body in the grass, and the warm golden woman figure in his hand. He stood silently, there was something else, something…a sound. A sound so integrated into the breath of this place that he missed it at first.  Beneath the breeze in the leaves, the blackbirds, the dog’s heavy breath, the man felt it before he heard it. A vibration really, a barely audible sound came to him on the wind.  It was the sound of Bees. He slipped the golden figure into his pocket and made his way down the hill.

The woman was old now.  Not very old. but old by anyone’s standards. She was sometimes startled by her reflection in the mirror. Was that her face? Or was it her mother, or grandmother that stared back at her now. This gentle face had seen too much sadness, and too much sun to be smiling and smooth again.

Standing in front of the mirror that crowned the fieldstone fireplace, she placed a smooth stone from her morning walk. Three frames with chipped gold gild shared the narrow mantle. A small golden figure sat at the center, flanked by a snail shell and pinecone for company. She picked up the small golden figure and held her between the palms of her hands. One by one she spoke to the images in the frames as if they were there in the old wing chair, at the kitchen table or playing in the yard. Her somber eyes opened, she polished the figure against the cotton on her shirt and returned it to the mantel.

The house was quiet. The eerie scrape of a too close pine branch on the kitchen window echoed the loneliness she was feeling today. Many days she would spend the afternoon near the hives, settled into the ancient wicker chair with saffron cushion, shaded by the graceful weeping willow. She watched as the bees worked the last pockets of late summer flowers; yellow Rudbeckia , purple Asters, swaying Goldenrod. The Hives stood as buttresses to a fallow hillside, a hay field given over to the seed travelers sent by the wind. Closing her eyes, she listened to the voices of her extended family that inhabited this patch of green turf and trees.

Today, like most days, she fell asleep out there by the hives. She dreamed that all those she loved in this life, came back to her in death, as bees. Bees die, but the hive remains. She visited that ethereal hive often these days.

The old woman awakened in the field, her feet still perched on the galvanized bucket ottoman. Bees walked casually across her chest and up her arms confirming she was part of their universe. That observation reminded her to check in on a single hive separated from the rest. She had moved this hive up the hill, away from the house. The workers had started to follow her recently, a minor transgression, but one that suggested a growing aggressive attitude.

Alarmed guard bees can change a hive’s agenda instantly, changing a placid “worker” into an “armed protector.” They call in the Militia and the Militia appears. These “following” Bees were taking their task past the necessary, moving from vigilance into bullying.

Smoking the hive slowly, she carefully opened the box. Slowly, gently she scraped the propolis and wax that sealed the edge. Being careful not to crush any workers, she was surprised and dismayed when a bee slipped beneath her glove and stung her. She was saddened deeply when a bee was forced to sting by calamity of proximity, accidents of feet, and fly swatters. Scraping off the stinger with her hive tool, she said a prayer of apology. She gathered a small amount of broken comb and honey in her old blue Ball jar and headed back across the yard to her side porch.

The old woman’s return was announced by the slamming of the sagging wood screen door. Stepping into her kitchen, her eyes noted the pinecone there in the low doorway to the front room. With one more step, she felt him there, even before she saw the man in her house. Without reaction she noted his reflection in the mantel mirrors and the empty place by the framed pictures. For a moment she thought the man was an illusion. Maybe this too was a dream, could she be still napping, still out with the bees? He stood in the low doorway. Their eyes met in shared surprise as the ball jar shattered against the edge of the table, the honey dripped thickly to the floor.

The sound of Bees was comforting and familiar. A vibration, a barely audible sound that came on the wind.  It was the sound of Bees. In a heartbeat, they were there, in a breath there was only the hive.

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The gray man and the old retriever stood surveying the scene. The grass still lay flat where the police cars stood. It had been a ruckus, but it had rained last night, signaling purification, it was time for renewal. They followed the narrow track over the hill to the Willow tree. Three hives had been ransacked by a bear, skunk or fox. The wooden boxes were torn open, their harmony shattered by a predator’s hunger. The remaining bees were quietly preparing to swarm, waiting for their Queen to move on to a safer location. He stood silently, eyelids nearly closed, letting the stillness come over him.

He heard his instructions. Opening his eyes, he felt his attention drawn to the distant hive. Telling the dog to stay, he walked soundlessly to the isolated box. He kneeled and dug a small, deep hole with his hands. Pulling the golden goddess figure from his pocket, he placed her there, covering her carefully with dirt and rocks.

Standing, he whistled for the dog. They picked their way down the hill. The man smiled. A vibration, a barely audible sound came on the wind.

It was the sound of Bees.

Images:

Clover and bees:  https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/7b/1d/77/7b1d77f88c4b966decf5c364599fbae8.jpg

Owl:  https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/93/1e/65/931e65ec26628feccab121ff10bd2fde.jpg