by Manai, Yamen
DISCORD
5
The month of October, which would culminate with the nation’s first truly democratic elections, didn’t merely bring the forager bees’ beloved rosemary plants into bloom. The folds of its autumn coat were hiding strange birds that formed a new kind of convoy.
Contrary to the last caravan, primarily composed of young men and women waving the national flag, this one contained bearded men waving a black flag with a white pigeon in the center. Their appearance and way of talking stood out too. The previous canvassers had spoken the local dialect—an imperfect language stigmatized by history—and dressed like city folk, while these new canvassers were decked out in tunics, like the Bedouins of medieval Arabia, though, granted, very few things have evolved in Arabia since the Middle Ages. The nods to that bygone era didn’t stop with beards and clothing; these ornaments were enhanced by classical language, full of sacred words, echoing a rigorist rhetoric that the Nawis would soon discover.
These weren’t the only differences. Whereas the first convoy’s speaker system had broadcast bland, unconvincing patriotic chants, and their car trunks had been packed with pamphlets promising the moon, the loudspeakers of the second caravan emitted decibels of religious chants for the glory of God and the Last Prophet, and the beds of their pickup trucks were filled with crates of food, blankets, and clothes.
The bearded men parked next to the voting booth. Some began to unload the goods while others bellowed into megaphones, reminding their audience of God’s greatness, scattering Selim the shepherd’s sheep to the four corners of the valley, and attracting another flock composed of Nawis.
“God is great! God is great!”
The Nawis repeated after them, for how could they do otherwise. “God is great! God is great!”
“Come closer, my sisters, come closer, my brothers! Help yourselves! This is for you.”
“For us?”
“Yes! Help yourselves.”
Blankets, shoes, bags of clothes, bags of rice, boxes of canned food, cartons of soap, crates of meat, crates of vegetables, packets of cookies, and more. Never in their lives had the Nawis been the object of such solicitude; it was as if for one moment Heaven had opened its gates to them. The rush lasted at most half an hour, and then there was nothing left. By the end, on average, each Nawi had made three round trips between the distribution site and their shack, and had collected forty or so pounds of various foodstuffs.
When the villagers returned to the square to thank their bearded benefactors, the latter denied being the source of any charity whatsoever. “My brothers, we are servants of God. We are only doing our duty. It is our duty to come to your aid.”
The Nawis were confused. True, the country as a whole called itself a land of believers, some even going as far as to call it a land of saints, but nobody before these visitors had used that as a reason to save his fellow man.
The most heavily bearded member of the assembly, who appeared to be the leader, continued the speech. His head of hair and belly were equally impressive. What’s more, the green mark above his eyes left little doubt about the incalculable number of hours he spent in prayer, forehead against the ground. His walleyed gaze, one motionless orb fixed on the horizon, lent him a mystical air, and his melodious voice resonated with emotions, from shrillest to deepest. After having exalted the All-Powerful countless times, and praising His Prophet, the Last Prophet, he said:
“My brothers and sisters, it is I who must thank you from the bottom of my heart. Because of you, today, my day is beautiful, and I have gained a plot in Heaven. What better could befall a man than to prepare his eternal home by following the path of the Eternal in his earthly life? That is the reason I am here among you, with my hand stretched out. God is my choice. His word, my law. So, when the time comes, do as I did, choose God! When the time comes to vote, vote for the Party of God!”
Then the tone of his voice became more instructive and authoritative as he unfolded a paper ballot with multiple boxes next to multiple emblems.
“Once you’re in the voting booth, you check here, check the pigeon,” he explained.
The pigeon was the emblem of the Party of God.
The week between this visit and the elections was pleasant in the village. At night, the Nawis slept with their bellies full, beneath warm blankets, and when they woke, they dressed in their new tunics. The day of, those who were old enough to vote showed up early and checked the pigeon. All the Nawis. Well, with one exception.
6
The reason Sidi had missed this memorable display of civic engagement was that he was far from humankind, exploring, in pine treetops and mountainside burrows, the territory of those bees labeled wild and whom he called free.
These secret spots harbored precious swarms that he would gather to breed new queens, which he then introduced into his colonies. Wild queens are more resistant and more vivacious than their domesticated cousins, and the generations they beget strengthen hives against scourge and disease.
On several occasions, he had used this method to fight parasites, notably the Varroa destructor. Their fierce battle had been going on for decades.
A formidable menace, this nonnative acarid, which resembled a crab but was as small as the head of a pin, had overrun hives at the end of the Old One’s reign. Like many other scourges that flourished hand in hand with lucrative trades, the Varroa took advantage of the commerce in bees, now just another commodity, to legally cross borders. This leech passed through customs astride domesticated European bees, the Apis mellifera, which were imported into the country en masse because they were more docile and better producers than the North African intermissa, their bad-tempered local cousins, who had never encountered the parasite.
The newly introduced acarids found themselves ferried to wherever flowers bloomed, easily jumping from one forager bee to another, contaminating the intermissa; it only took two decades for the Varroa to strike every hive in the country. As with every curse, the victim was also the vehicle for conquest and expansion.
Though it had arrived in the time of the Old One, the Varroa prospered in the era of the Handsome One, like many of its kin. There wasn’t one worker bee in a field without this parasite on its back, hooks planted in its flesh. Not only did the leech suck the bee dry, it also infected its host with contagious and deadly diseases, which would eventually destroy the entire hive.
In their fight against the Varroa, many beekeepers converted to pesticides to save their colonies, preserving life with the right dose of poison. Except that with poison, there is no right dose.
Sidi’s hives, which had also been infected, survived on their own. Bolstered by the introduction of wild queens, they hadn’t succumbed. His bees knew how to defend themselves against the Varroa at every stage of their development, and, to do so, showed their savage side. They had inherited a sense of smell once lost through servile domestication and could recognize the odor of parasitic nymphs, which they would then tear apart before expelling the contaminated alveoli. And if they detected an enemy astride an adult bee, they immediately set to get rid of it. Joining forces, the bees would rip the intruder off like plucking a flea off a head, then expel it quick as can be.
But when Sidi set out on that much-vaunted election day to explore pine treetops and mountainside burrows, it wasn’t to refortify his hives against parasites. This time, the signs of weakness shown by his bees were entirely endogenous. For a while now, when the sun was at its peak and its light at full strength, his girls had been in distress. Disoriented, they would hesitate on the landing pad, launch into unusual dances, and on multiple occasions, a handful would enter a hive other than their own. As soon as the sun went down, the light faded in intensity, and some shade returned, the flock returned to normal.
It was the first time in his life as a beekeeper that he had seen such a phenomenon.
Seeking the answer in nature, he noticed on his walks that wild bees didn’t fear direct sunlight. On the contrary, it wa
s at noon that their dances were the most beautiful and the most perfect.
Had the shade of their artificial hives affected his girls’ vision, gradually rendering them photosensitive? This was the only explanation he could find. If he introduced wild queens into the brood, his bees should regain their full capacity to situate themselves in space and time.
Whenever he set out to find wild queens, or simply to get water from the spring, Staka was Sidi’s preferred companion. He had purchased the gray donkey several winters ago, at the livestock market in Walou. Sidi had noticed him among the others of his species because his eyes contained a gentleness absent in the gazes of many men, starting with the one who sold him the donkey. Staka never balked at his tasks, though he went at his own rhythm, which worked out well, since Sidi was never in a hurry. And when, after a hard day of service, Sidi placed a sugar cube in the palm of his hand to reward him, Staka would inhale it instantly. His nostrils would quiver, and his thick lips would shake as if he were laughing.
In the quiet of the breaking dawn, Sidi stretched his stiff legs and took a deep breath. Dew was dripping down the leaves, and in the distance, the mountain was starting to take on muted colors as its slopes and scarps slowly emerged from shadow. This was where the most beautiful forager bees in the region could be found. The ones that didn’t shy from the light and on which the Varroa had no hold.
It would take Sidi half a day to reach his destination, and if he was able to find a large swarm quickly, he could get back before nightfall.
He filled his water gourd, wrapped some bread and olives in a cloth, attached the cart to Staka’s back, tightened the buckles around his flanks, and loaded him with a double ladder, his toolbox, and an empty hive. They took the road heading west, where the towering mountain reached its peak.
After an hour, as the end of the steppe came into view, he heard the sound of tires and engines coming up the road. It’s not time for the patrol, he rightly noted. Usually, the guards made their rounds at nightfall: that was the moment awaited by wolves and vampires, primed on both sides of the border, to jump out of the darkness. Sidi didn’t know that now the guards also patrolled in the morning since, as of late, wolves had begun to circulate in broad daylight, and vampires could tolerate sun and light.
The sound came closer and three jeeps of border guards approached. The convoy slowed down. The first jeep matched its speed to the donkey’s. A guard called to him through an open window, “Salam, Haj!”
Sidi tipped up his straw hat and looked at the guard out of the corner of his eye. He could make out four young men, boys really, in the vehicle wearing military fatigues. He had a bad feeling. These uniforms made him think of war, death, and blood. He responded, “You call me haj even though I’ve never seen the Kaaba?”
The young soldier was surprised. Ordinarily, old men were flattered by the distinction, claimed if the pilgrimage had been made, or considered a good omen if not. He responded, embarrassed, “One day, inshallah!” God willing.
Sidi lowered his hat and said in a tone that left no room for discussion, “When hens have teeth.”
The soldier looked even more surprised. He glanced at his comrades, as if seeking backup, and they all burst into laughter.
“You hear that? When hens have teeth! Is that what he just said?”
He turned back to Sidi and tossed out, “Have a nice day all the same!”
The beekeeper waved. The convoy picked up speed and passed him, voices echoing behind. “Crazy old man!”
Staka brayed but Sidi reassured him. “Don’t get upset, Staka. They might be right.”
They began to climb the first slope. There was brush everywhere. For an interloper, it was a trap of climbing plants and thorns, but Staka and Sidi knew every recess. Budding rosemary carpeted the ground, and the entire mountain exhaled its invigorating scent into the air. Birdsong mixed with the cracking of trees and a chorus of insects that included Sidi’s girls, who were playing their notes to perfection. They were capable of venturing far in their sacred quest, and he often encountered them a two-hour walk away.
Staka tugged, making Sidi sway in his cart, more satisfied than a maharajah on his elephant. Although there had been several dry seasons in a row, the scrubland hadn’t lost its coat, and its undemanding vegetation offered a sumptuous landscape painted in the colors of autumn.
The expedition advanced over a bed of clover in the shade of oak and pine trees.
Sidi couldn’t see his girls anymore. They were now out of their pollen-gathering range. This was their wild sisters’ territory.
“If we don’t find them in a tree trunk, we’ll have to go looking in the caves.”
Staka nodded his head as if to indicate that he knew what to expect. The man and his animal were no longer in the prime of youth, and finding a swarm among the rocks was not a risk-free undertaking.
The morning passed in this way, a peaceful hike, senses on alert, alternating between expert scrutiny and enthralled contemplation.
After a quick lunch and a fifteen-minute nap, Sidi resumed his quest.
“Veer left, friend,” he said. “Let’s head toward the rocks.”
On the path, Sidi sat up straight and Staka stopped abruptly.
“You hear that, Staka? Do you hear that buzzing?”
Staka pricked up his long ears and wriggled his thick lips. Sidi got off the cart and advanced on foot, inspecting the flora as his servitor followed.
“Glorious buzzing”—he lifted his head and looked around—“that’s what I hear. Glorious buzzing!”
As he advanced, his gaze flickered in multiple directions, following golden dots in the sky.
“Do you see them, flying everywhere?”
Staka confirmed by flicking his ears.
“Old friend, I think what we have here are bees looking for a home!”
That’s what happens when a bee kingdom is overpopulated. Some of the inhabitants leave to establish a new one. This small swarm temporarily settles in a high branch while scouts are sent to nearby areas to find a new home. When one finds an ideal spot, it returns and performs a vibrating dance. Beating its wings and wiggling its stomach, the scout communicates the location and its characteristics to the entire swarm. The bees then migrate in a cloud to their new dwelling—generally a narrow cavity or the inaccessible interior of a tree trunk.
At the base of an Aleppo pine, Sidi delighted at what he saw. “There you are, my darlings!”
The bees were massed together on a single branch, one atop the other, quivering in unison. They were indeed in transit, searching for a home, and the vibrating swarm they formed, naked and exposed, gave the impression of a heart beating in nature’s open chest.
Without bothering with tools or a suit, Sidi took the ladder from the cart, opened it, and set it against the tree. This swarm was a gift from nature. No need to clear a way through the woods or navigate the rocks. He wasn’t going to drive out the bees, but he would offer them a habitat. And so they would be less aggressive with him.
“Stay there, Staka.”
He climbed up, the hollow hive hanging around his neck like a vendor’s tray. For a long time he had been capable of carrying out the work of three men alone. Today, he remained convinced that was true and conceded nothing to time, even if he surprised himself by taking more precautions than before.
“What you lose in strength, you gain in clear-sightedness. The trick is to reach the age of wisdom while you’re still strong enough to do things.”
Once level with the swarm, he took the time to admire it.
“Hello, my beauties. Looking for a new house, huh? That works out nicely—I have one all ready for you.”
Facing the bees, hive extended below them, Sidi yanked on the branch. The swarm fell, landing with a thud in the gaping hive. The cluster disintegrated into little bees weaving in and out of the honeycomb frames. A few minutes later, they had taken possession of their new quarters.
Meanwhile, Sidi, perched on his lad
der, was performing a balancing act. The weight of the hive had now doubled, but his deep breathing was helping him keep it upright. Under Staka’s attentive gaze, he carefully descended. Once on the ground, he set down his load and began stretching to revive his stiff joints. Then he settled on the grass, drank a few sips of water, and took out the bread and olives.
“We’re going to give them some time to get used to their new home. We’ll go back once they’ve fallen asleep.”
Staka was grazing and didn’t appear to disagree.
On the way back, light and happy as a sparrow, Sidi whispered his gratitude to the star-filled sky.
7
The art of breeding queens lies in making the worker bees think that their empress has disappeared. Panic-stricken upon sensing her absence from the hive, they rapidly breed new queens. They feed a dozen larvae royal jelly, the ultimate honey, a rare substance created solely for this grand occasion. Though a worker bee will make an entire spoonful of honey in her lifetime, she will produce no more than a bead of royal jelly, and that only when necessary.
Any larva fed on royal jelly becomes a queen. When several contenders emerge from their opercula, they fight for supremacy of the colony until one remains. As soon as the new monarch is crowned, she roams the frames, making her way among her subjects and releasing calming scents to restore harmony in the hive. Later, she’ll unfurl her wings for the nuptial flight. She will be followed by a cloud of drones, the hive’s only males, wanting to fertilize her. The winners of this contest are few and pay for their glory with their lives. Once the queen returns to the colony, she will lay as many as two thousand eggs a day, thereby ensuring her legacy.
Standing before the hive of wild bees that he recovered two weeks earlier, the artist began.
Sidi filled his smoker with wet leaves and added some embers. He attached the nozzle and then pumped the bellows several times. Blast after blast, the smoke came out dense, cold, and odorless.