Wildwood Whispers

by Willa Reece

  The bees themselves had originally come from overseas. Honeybees weren’t indigenous to North America. Good hardy stock from the Old Country had been sealed into woven skep hives with protective coats of dried manure. The queens and drones had lain dormant for the crossing. Then, the wildwood had welcomed them when they were released. The bees Sadie kept were descendants of those first bees, fed on mountain fields and flowers long before the orchard was cultivated.

  “Home,” Sadie said as she rubbed the balm over her forearms once she had finished with her palms.

  She and her friends decided where the golden jars filled from each honey extraction would be shared. Needs let themselves be known. And she, Kara and Joyce—her trio—generally listened if Granny suggested a recipient or if the oldest wisewoman asked for a jar. Honey had antimicrobial properties. It could help heal wounds and ease gastric complaints. It was rich in antioxidants and could also help build immunity to pollen allergies.

  Wildwood honey had deeper and less-scientifically-measurable benefits than those, of course.

  Sadie was already whispering words long forgotten by most folks in Morgan’s Gap. The bees that came and went from her arm carried the words with them to the hive. Prayer. Song. Hymn. Spell. All one and the same when invoking a blessing on a new queen.

  “Was a time when there wasn’t such a distinction between believing this or that. I believe in the bees and the blossoms. I believe in the grass I twist and the twigs I weave,” Sadie’s mother had said often enough it had become almost a mantra for the young daughter learning to make baskets at her knee. “And I believe in the wildwood that gives us those things.”

  Sadie was forty-nine. Times had changed a lot in her almost fifty years in Morgan’s Gap. Either that, or a person could see clearer as they got older. See the things that had always been there—quiet and creeping—until you were old enough to understand.

  Her mother hadn’t talked much about the Sect. They just were. Sadie learned over time that they were at odds with the wisewomen. The Sect was austerity. Wisewomen were abundance.

  The Sect was like a disease. Hurting its members by disconnecting them from everything beyond what Reverend Moon allowed… and he didn’t allow much.

  “I believe in the bees and the blossoms,” Sadie whispered as she picked up the old wall phone that was still connected to town by miles of wire strung across tarred wooden poles. “I believe in the grass I twist and the twigs I weave.”

  Granny was the opposite of Moon. It was as simple as working to heal rather than promoting weakness. Granny didn’t fear the power of her people. And, suddenly, she was leading the wisewomen into action. They were extracting, brewing and stirring up more than they had in a generation.

  Knowing of the existence of evil and doing something about it should go hand in hand. But it was easier to weave and keep than it was to reach out and stir up trouble.

  Sadie was nervous and the bees could tell. They danced worrisome warnings against her waxed skin as she pressed in Granny’s number on the old butternut-yellow telephone with “Bell” stamped on its face. Melody Ross had been the most powerful wisewoman Sadie had ever known. Melody’s powerful connection to the wildwood hadn’t saved her. Or her daughter. But Sadie had promised Granny she would help her with her new apprentice anyway. The Halls had a little Ross blood from one marriage a century ago. Joyce and Kara had a bit in their heritage too. And they’d always been proud of it. Sadie couldn’t turn her back on that now.

  “I believe in the wildwood that gives us those things.”

  Elsewhere in Morgan’s Gap, two of her dearest friends sensed her fear. She could tell when Joyce and Kara dropped whatever they were doing to send her support through the connection they shared. It was like that sometimes in Morgan’s Gap. Always three. From birth. As if tendrils of the wildwood itself weaved and wafted through their souls, binding them together. Danger was to be triply feared then. But the battle and the triumph could be triply shared as well.

  They had grown up together. Taking their conjoining for granted until they saw other trios fall to sickness or disinterest or outside interference. People grew up and moved away. People died. People became so involved with the modern world they couldn’t hear the wildwood anymore. Invisible ties could be tenuous if they weren’t purposely nurtured and kept. Over the years, their trio had grown into caring about maintaining their ties, their strength, their purpose.

  They were the last surviving trio in town. They might have only a smidge of Ross blood to share between them, but Granny needed them. So all together, it would have to be enough.

  “The bees are swarming and Sadie needs help luring the young queens into new hives,” Granny said. I’d heard the phone ring and her quiet voice in hushed conversation through the open kitchen window. I had been pinching the small shoots off the joints in the tomato vines to prevent the plants from becoming too sprawling to be productive. When Granny came to the back door to speak, I straightened with my hands at the small of my back. The sun had risen, but dawn shadows still lingered under the trees.

  I had been up and working as the birds began to sing.

  Granny gave me dozens of daily tasks and errands. I was so busy I often collapsed into bed much earlier in the evening than I would have back in Richmond. I was also recharging. Idleness would have driven me mad. It was better to keep my hands and mind occupied. The daily time in the sun warmed me. My hands and feet in the earth calmed me. I ate and drank what we grew. Constantly sipping and nibbling as I learned about flavors, potency and properties.

  Focusing small—on leaves, roots, stems and petals—helped me to acknowledge my own smallness in the scheme of things. And yet, the interconnectedness of all permeated my consciousness in a way it never had before.

  I weeded and watered all while being nurtured myself. Working for Granny felt more like a cottagecore vacation than it should at times. But, whenever I caught a glimpse of a Sect woman shadowing me, I was reminded of the danger lurking around the edges of my new life. It had been two weeks since I’d seen Moon himself. But I hadn’t forgotten how the women had eerily echoed his words. In what other ways had they been programmed to obey? Would their interest in me ever go beyond creeping around?

  “You aren’t allergic to honeybees, are you?” Granny asked. I noticed she didn’t look nearly as alert as I felt. The early morning showed in the shadows under her eyes, oddly like the ones under the trees in her yard.

  In the last few days, she’d been moving more slowly and occasionally her joints would pop and creak. I’d seen her sigh and massage her elbows or knees when she thought no one was looking.

  “No. I’ve had a few stings in my life. Never much swelling,” I replied. I dusted my hands together as if the chlorophyll stain from the tomato vines could be merely wiped off. The tips of my fingers would be green until I scrubbed them with a nailbrush and soap.

  “You’ll need to take the bike and wagon. Sadie’s got some honey for us from a recent extraction. The apiary isn’t far outside of town,” Granny continued. “Wear good sturdy shoes. No sandals. She’ll have the rest of what you’ll need.”

  I’d taken the large three-wheeled contraption Granny referred to as her “bike” a couple of times. Long ago, it had been a bright red and white, but those colors had faded to an almost uniform color that was more rust than paint. It rattled and shook beneath the rider’s body. I usually ended up hovering above the cracked vinyl seat to save my bones from jarring. It had no gears and pushing the pedals was a Herculean task even without a loaded wagon. “Not far outside of town” didn’t really sound promising. Neither did “luring” bees.

  But even as I thought about not relishing the chore, I noticed the dark circles under Granny’s eyes again. She had eccentric notions about what my job should entail, but she’d given me a place to stay. I still wasn’t sure about how long I was going to accept her hospitality, but I definitely didn’t want her to decide to go after the honey herself.

  “I’ve n
ever seen honey outside of a jar,” I said. “This should be interesting.”

  “Sadie has been keeping the bees all by herself since her mother had a stroke. She’ll be glad for some extra hands today,” Granny replied. “But that’s not the only reason I want you to go. You can learn a lot from the bees. Listen. Watch. Do as Sadie tells you to do and don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid of a sting,” I assured Granny as I wiped my feet on the mat and climbed up the back stoop. I would need to wash up and change before I headed out.

  Granny smiled until the sparkle in her eyes almost negated the shadows under them.

  “Stings happen. But I wasn’t talking about that,” she said.

  “Stings happen” repeated in my brain all the way down the multiple roads that led to the apiary. Granny had given me the directions as if I regularly navigated winding country lanes made up of more dirt than asphalt and gravel. Once I left the town limits, I was struck again by the wilderness around me and the quiet isolation. The only noise was the sound of the bike’s protesting squeaks and groans… except for my own groans as “not far” proved to be hell and gone from the fitness level that could have tackled the distance with ease.

  And the wagon I towed behind me was empty.

  How much did honey weigh?

  By the time I reached the apple orchard that marked the place I was supposed to look for Sadie’s driveway, I was already dreading the trip back to Granny’s house.

  The trees were heavy with blossoms. On the mountain, their blooming came later than in the valleys below. A welcome breeze stirred and a flurry of pinkish-white petals were swept from the branches to swirl through the air like blushing snow. A sudden downward slope allowed me to relax and I lifted my face to the falling flowers. In spite of my exhaustion or maybe because of it, I was charmed by the butterfly kisses on my forehead and cheeks. Their scent was mild. Barely a sweet suggestion in the air. But I inhaled deeply anyway. I was winded. I caught my breath and allowed my eyes to drift shut, but for only a few seconds. The sound of an approaching car jerked me to attention.

  I gripped the handlebars tightly and maneuvered as far to the side of the road as I could to allow the car to pass. Then, when it didn’t, I risked a look behind me. A dark sedan—faded black or covered in dust, I couldn’t tell which—followed behind my wagon far closer than it should. It was a huge old car. The kind whose hood stretched in front of it forever so that the person behind the steering wheel was a distant silhouette hidden by glare on smudged glass. All I saw before I had to turn my attention back to the front was a hulking shadow in the driver’s seat. Tall grass grew on the sides of the road. The vegetation covered the ditches, making them a mysterious threat—could be inches, could be a bottomless chasm. It wasn’t safe for me to pull over much more than I already had.

  The car accident hadn’t been that long ago. My heart raced with memories of squealing tires and Sarah’s scream. It wasn’t raining today. The sun illuminated the world with a cheerful midmorning light. But the sedan’s engine was loud. Did I feel the heat of its engine on the backs of my legs? Impossible, but I tried to pedal faster. Apple blossoms still blew around me, but now their kisses fell against numbed cheeks.

  I was all alone in the middle of nowhere.

  When the car began to go around me, my sudden push for speed had diminished, but the sedan crept even slower than I did. Inch by inch, the hood came into focus beside me, and the bulk of the car was a looming threat of rubber and steal. I turned to look because I had to see who would drive so closely and so slowly beside a cyclist. But I barely saw a flash of white (more grimace than smile) before the car suddenly accelerated. I jerked the handlebars in reflexive defense and ended up bouncing with protesting rattles into the overgrown grass. It was the weeds that saved me from a crash. They tangled in the rusty spokes so my lurch was halted inches before solid ground ran out.

  I hadn’t worn a helmet, but if the driver had decided to run me down, skull protection wouldn’t have been enough to save me.

  My thrill of relief was short-lived. As I climbed off the bike onto shaky legs, the sedan skidded to a stop. Its taillights gleamed red in the shade of the trees that hung over the road at the bend. Maybe the driver realized what he’d done? Maybe he was checking to see if I was okay? But somehow, I didn’t think so. The pause seemed more sinister. I imagined the driver’s malevolent gaze trained on me in their rearview mirror. My hands loosened and I allowed them to fall from the bike. I had been prepared to wrench it back onto the road. Now, every muscle I had quivered and bunched to prepare for flight.

  Would the driver get out of the car and come for me on foot? Or would they try to run me down for real this time?

  I could abandon the bike and run into the orchard.

  That was my plan when the lights went out, signaling that the driver had taken their foot from the break. But the sound of a loud motor on the road behind me made me look before I leapt. A shiny red pickup truck was approaching. Maybe the sedan driver saw the truck too. Maybe they had only been checking on my welfare before going on their way. Cold certainty that they’d meant me harm crystalized in my gut like ice. Ridiculous. I’d never know for sure.

  The woman driving the red truck beeped a hello. The driver’s-side window was open and her hair was a wild, wind-tossed mane of faded brown shot through with silvery highlights that glinted in the sun. After her horn greeting, she cut the large steering wheel hard and swerved onto two well-worn ruts in the gravel road Granny had told me would lead to the beehives.

  The sedan was gone.

  I reached with shaking hands to drag Granny’s bike back onto the road. I was more than ready to see a friendly face. I followed the red truck with relief. If the sedan turned around and came back, they wouldn’t find me alone. I would worry about the return trip later.

  After several yards it became steep and I was forced to get off the trike and push. Lucky for me, the pushing was much easier than the pedaling had been. My heart slowed. The ice in my gut thawed. I was already beginning to doubt that I’d been in any real danger.

  I had time to catch my breath and think about Granny’s words again. “Stings happen, but I wasn’t talking about that.”

  Thankfully, I came to the cluster of beehives Granny had told me to watch for fairly quickly. Arranged in a large U shape like open arms reaching toward the apple orchard in the distance were twelve squat off-white boxes made up of layered levels. Even from a distance, I could see the bees swirling around the hives. Although I couldn’t see their keeper yet, parked by the side of the road near the hives was the red pickup truck, dusty now, with its tailgate down and what must be beekeeping accouterments laid out, waiting. For me.

  As I came closer, the hum of thousands of insect wings filled the air. The vibrations enveloped me. I didn’t just hear the bees. I felt them. In my chest. Along my skin. Deep in my inner ear. The noise was a sentient entity. I wasn’t alone.

  A movement drew my attention toward a shed that had been hidden behind the bulk of the truck until I got closer. I recognized the woman who had been driving the truck from her silver-shot hair. The woman I assumed to be Sadie was definitely older than me, but much younger than Granny. She moved with a quickness and confidence that came from a lifetime of activity that was nowhere near to slowing down. She noticed I’d arrived and she raised her hand in greeting. I awkwardly waved back as she approached.

  “I cannot believe you rode that thing all the way out here,” she exclaimed.

  It was only then I noted the red truck had come from the direction of town. Why hadn’t Granny arranged a ride for me rather than sending me out on the trike?

  “Fresh air and exercise,” I said with a shrug. If she knew Granny, then she knew the old lady worshiped nature. She refused to drive, walking everywhere she went in town in spite of her advanced years. And she’d expected me to do the same. In my short time in Morgan’s Gap, I’d already developed a warm glow to my skin in spite of sunscreen.

/>   “She can go overboard sometimes,” Sadie said. “She used to hike or bike all over this mountain. Wherever she was needed. These days she’ll accept a ride if she has to go very far, but she’s too stubborn to learn to drive. Take care of yourself and don’t be afraid to say no, every now and then, if she pushes you too hard. It does her good to face occasional opposition.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  “You do that. I’m Sadie, by the way. Sadie Hall. You must be Mel,” Sadie said. “Welcome to the apiary.” She was close enough now for me to see the crinkles around her eyes that matched the silvery streaks in her hair. But I could also see the straight square shoulders and muscular set to her arms and legs. As well as a highly alert glitter in her hazel eyes. She looked me up and down as well. Evaluating my merits, or the opposite. My spine stiffened, but then she pointed at the pile on the tailgate of her truck. “You’ll find coveralls there. And some gloves. I think they’ll fit. Get suited up and then I’ll introduce you to the bees.”

  The apiary. The bees.

  Not my apiary or my bees.

  Their noise still stirred the air, a physical manifestation of sound.

  “I’ll help you with the hood and net when you get to that point. There are zippers and Velcro to prevent any access points. The bees are generally very focused on the queen when they swarm, but you’ll need to take care,” Sadie said.

  I left the bike and met Sadie at the tailgate. Before I shrugged into the coveralls, she used wide tape around the openings of my jeans and sleeves to seal them close to my skin. After, she helped me with the Velcro on the sleeves and neck of the coveralls.

  “Sometimes a new person can upset them. They’re more aware of their caretakers than most people think. Especially these mountain bees. There’s been an apiary here since before my grandmother was born. Quite likely as far back as the settlement of Morgan’s Gap. And we’ve never brought in any bees from elsewhere. We’ve established new hives with local wild bees or from colony swarming. It’s made them particularly hardy and healthy. But less… tame,” Sadie said as she brought the oversized hood up and settled the netting around my face.