Keeper of the Bees

by Meg Kassel

  The floor creaks. I open my eyes and rear back with a gasp. The tall, thin man with the farmer’s hat settles into the chair next to me. Up close, he’s an absolute horror. His skin is like cracked leather as he sighs through the stitches keeping his lips closed. He gazes out at the dusty lawn through sunken, sewn-shut eyelids. Careful, even stitches made by someone a long time ago. Black thread, sewing shut the ways a human is a person.

  “You,” I whisper.

  I turn around to call for someone, but Stitches turns and leans toward me. I shrink as far into the corner of my recliner as I can get. A low, gravelly voice fills not the air between us, but the interior of my skull.

  Don’t scream.

  “Why?” I ask out loud. I don’t know if this telepathy thing works both ways. My heart is thumping so hard, I can feel it throbbing in my eye sockets. I can only look at him for quick moments, he’s so terrifying to gaze upon.

  I’m not here to hurt you.

  He smells like rotten teeth and fresh-cut hay. An odd combination made more disturbing by how much I’ve always liked the smell of hay. “What are you?”

  A mistake. The very corners of his mouth curve up. Relax. Your fear is distracting.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you’re a scary dude. How did you get in here?”

  Stitches ignores my question. Yet you don’t find him scary.

  “Who him? You mean Dresden? Of course not. He’s my friend.” I whack my palm against the side of my head, as if that will dislodge the man’s unwelcome voice from resonating through my skull. “Wait, are you real? Are you really here?”

  Yes. Hitting yourself won’t help. I would prefer you not injure yourself.

  I cast another quick glance at him. “Why are you here?”

  I’m curious about you. You have tremendous power over him.

  “What power?” My voice is different just after I’ve had my meds. I can’t get crisp edges to my words. “He left. And I don’t have power. Not even over myself.”

  You are full of power. You are power.

  “I’m a mental patient who’s been committed. They don’t even let me use a fork.”

  That is irrelevant.

  “Oh, sure.” This is feeling like a chat with a cranky uncle, and it’s making me tired. “The fact that I have psychotic episodes is irrelevant.”

  He’s trying to help you.

  After a pause to comprehend, my belly does a weird flutter. “He can’t help me.”

  He can. Promise you won’t try to stop him.

  “Why would I try—”

  Promise.

  “Okay, fine. I won’t try to stop him.” I blow out a breath and wave a hand when a puff of woodsmoke comes out of my mouth. “You’re crazier than me, you know.”

  A rough, creaky noise scratches down the insides of my skull. It takes me a moment to figure out he’s chuckling.

  I don’t have the luxury of madness.

  Oh sure. Being this way is a luxury. This guy is getting on my nerves.

  Maybe he heard that, because he gets to his feet slowly, like an old man. His joints let out a series of noisy pops and crunches. The air fills with that strange stench of decay and hay. Bony fingers tip his fraying hat.

  Good day, Estelle Roane. You’ve been most enlightening. He starts walking away.

  I spin in the chair. “Wait.”

  He pauses without turning.

  “Why do you think Dresden can…help my condition?”

  There’s no answer for a moment. It goes on long enough for me to think the telepathic link is broken and I can’t hear his answer. Or that he’s just going to walk away without answering.

  Because he caused it.

  His words punctuate like hammer falls. I freeze in a state between no-freaking-way and of-course-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that?

  Dresden didn’t sting me, though. I push my sluggish mind to think back to that weird conversation I had with Dresden. We’d been talking about…my great-great-grandmother, Opal Wickerton. Oh, Dresden.

  Can you forgive him?

  Stitches’s back is to me, but he still watches me. He doesn’t use his eyes, after all. I blame the medication for slowing me down too much to answer or ask another question quick enough, because in a flash of light, Stitches is gone and there’s a circle of darker wood on the hardwood where he stood. I’m alone in the Library room again, facing that stupid camera, winking a red light at me.

  I turn back around and huddle in my chair. My thoughts are a disorganized ball of thread, knotted into a single impossible mess. A nurse comes into the room. Her sneakers squeak. Keys jangle at her waist.

  “Are you okay, Essie?” she asks. “You were talking to yourself and appeared upset.”

  “I’m fine.” I work hard to keep the trill out of my voice. “Sorry about that.”

  She hesitates at the dark stain on the floor, then squeaks out of the Library room.

  I slump against the chair. Oh god, no one saw Stitches but me. No one smelled him. I eye the chair next to me with mistrust. That guy was here, I think. I don’t care if he didn’t show up on camera. How did he not show up on the camera? Well, he’s telepathic. He can probably do a bunch of things that no one else can.

  Unless he wasn’t real. Oh, I don’t want to go there.

  I reach out, touch the cushion of the chair next to me. It’s warm. I snatch my hand back.

  It’s warm, and there’s no way The Crying Knitter’s body heat would have held that long. Of course, I could be imagining the warmth, too. I run my fingers through my hair and squeeze until my scalp hurts.

  I’m so tired of this—of not knowing whether something is really real or if I’m existing in an imagined landscape of my mind. I’m tired of either being slow and foggy with medication, or aware and delusional and possibly dangerous.

  I envy Grandma Edie right now. It’s terrible, and Aunt Bel would be so mad at me if she knew my thoughts. But my grandmother is free of the Wickerton curse, and how nice must that be? I don’t know how to live like this and not hate myself.

  And if Stitches was real and Dresden did cause the Wickerton curse, what did that mean? If he stung Opal Wickerton, it had to have been an accident, right? He said he only stung bad people. Then there’s that strange promise Stitches made me make. Why, if Dresden could cure my insanity, would I try to stop him?

  There, teetering on top of the pile of all these questions and uncertainty, is the one question—the question that I think Stitches came to find out, but I’m not sure if he did—if Dresden cursed my family…

  Can I forgive him?

  There is no mistaking the meaning. It’s as clear as an unmedicated day. Could I accept that Dresden stung my ancestor and love him anyway?

  I backpedal from it neatly—I’d only played with the idea of love in the first place. I hardly knew Dresden long enough to know if I loved him the way people are supposed to love each other. I’m not sure I’m capable of it.

  I chew my lip, staring blindly outside at the brown grass, the tall fence surrounding Stanton House.

  Somehow, this question, and my answer, are important. My answer has power.

  On the other side of the window, it starts to rain.

  25

  Dresden

  the storm

  I left Philadelphia immediately. I wanted to speed back, but to say I was depleted would be an understatement. I passed by crime-ridden neighborhoods, hospitals, corporate bank headquarters, skimming off as much fear and pain energy as I could find. It was like eating crumbs, compared to the powerful waves produced during a cataclysmic event. Never in my life have I wished more that I could fly on an airplane, but not even I can avoid scrutiny in places like airports, and the bees are not happy in enclosed places like planes, or tunnels, or underground places. It makes them feel contained, I suppose. They don’t mind trains, though, and I did attach my swarm to a freight train heading west, which saved me time and precious energy.

  Perhaps I am getting soft or spoiled, because
I don’t remember feeling this much discomfort during times of low energy before. There was a time when beekeepers didn’t trail behind harbingers. This is how we all lived—hungry, exhausted, alone.

  So here I am, tumbling into Essie’s backyard well after nightfall, six days after leaving her. My body has developed a tremble. My route from Pennsylvania back to Missouri is littered with the tiny bodies of dead bees, but Essie’s house looks peaceful. The car is parked in the drive, and the lights are out, except for the glow of a TV set in Aunt Bel’s room. The sight reassures me that the Wickerton house did not receive a visit from the killer during my absence, not that I thought he would, with Michael watching out for her. Essie is safe, and I owe him for that.

  I want to see Essie—just check, to reassure myself that she’s fine—but I feel like I’m moving under the weight of a boulder. Sleep rarely beckons me, but tonight it calls me like a siren. Being mindful of the cameras Essie told me her aunt had installed, I tuck myself in the narrow, leaf-filled space between the shed and the stockade fence. Consciousness slips away. The ground is lumpy with sticks and abandoned plastic plant pots, but as long as I am near her, I can find rest on a pile of bricks.

  My body soaks up the pulse of fear, which now permeates the community thanks to the murders, the episodes of people acting out violently—all thanks to my stings. Doors that have never been locked are getting new deadbolts. Children who have enjoyed free range of the neighborhood are being corralled in their own backyards. Fear travels through the ground like a current, pressurizes the air like an electrical charge.

  I wake up in early morning, bemused by the fact that I actually slept all night. First feelings, then bruises, now sleep. My body is nowhere near full strength, but I’m functioning. The tremble has eased, thankfully. The first glow of light is pushing back the shadows, but not by much. The sky above rumbles and sends down a steady rain. Great masses of furious clouds roll across the sky. It’s not good, the way the clouds are moving. My stomach tightens at the erratic, churning patterns.

  A storm is coming. The storm. The one that will scar this community for generations. The one that will end many lives. The harbingers are never wrong.

  I change to bee form. The bees are sluggish this morning. They’re not trying to take me over today, at least. I fly up to Essie’s window, starving for a look at her. For this girl, I will find a way to die.

  26

  Essie

  the storm

  It started like a thunderstorm, like they all do. Rain and rumbles. A furious sky. We knew it would be bad.

  The weather services was tracking a line of severe storms.

  The staff gets twitchy when the tornado watch goes up.

  I keep my distance when the “watch” turns to a “warning,” as the nurses grow claws and great, leathery wings, as they swoop up and down the halls. I’m not sure what to make of their transformation—whether they’re mad at us, or just worried in general. I stay out of their way, just in case.

  The morning “goals group” is cut short for preparations. They think the residents don’t notice their worry, and some definitely don’t, but I do. The winged nurses haul cases of water, locked cases of medical equipment to the basement with cell phones clamped in the crooks of their shoulders. Logically, I know these people have children to account for and pets to bring inside and homes to secure, yet here they are, stuck with us. I gather up the courage to offer to help carry stuff, but it just stresses them out more. One of them bares gleaming fangs at me.

  Go watch TV in the Open room, Essie, she says.

  So I sit on a chair and watch the Disney movie Frozen, which someone has put on again. I feel like a useless lump, doing nothing while the rain beats harder and the wind rattles the windows. My least favorite nurse calls me to Dr. Roberts’s office for our ten-fifteen therapy session. I swallow a groan and get to my feet.

  “We’re still doing this in a tornado?” I ask.

  “Essie, the weather reports say the tornado is going to miss us.”

  “Then why are you doing all this?”

  “Standard preparatory procedure.” Her eyes snap at me as she hooks a thumb toward the nurses’ station. “They say we’re not going to be hit with a tornado. Remember to consider good possibilities, not just the worst ones.”

  My eyes water from the effort not to roll them. This is the nurse most likely to add extra meds for contentious behavior. An eye roll could land me a few extra milligrams and, well, no thank you to that. I nod and go to Dr. Roberts’s office at the end of the hall.

  It’s the same office I’ve visited for three years, but now I enter it through the door leading directly to the Stanton residences. Sitting in this chair, I could almost imagine Aunt Bel in the waiting room outside, crocheting to pass the time for my appointment to be over.

  “How are you feeling, Essie?” Dr. Roberts asks, like he always does.

  “Fine.”

  “Can you elaborate, please? What do you feel fine about?”

  I sigh and tell him I’m worried about the weather, about my aunt alone in this, and he tells me that it’s good to think of other people. He asks me how my medication is making me feel, and I tell him it feels like my head is floating two feet above my body. He nods and writes something down on his pad.

  It’s the usual set of questions. I don’t think about them very much, I just answer them in the most efficient manner possible to get me out of this room and away from this man who sits too close and touches me when there’s no reason to. His eyes are black today. Solid black all the way around, like smooth onyx in his sockets. I can’t tell exactly where he’s looking when his eyes are like that. That dead raccoon is back on his head and oh boy, does it stink.

  Then he asks me a question: “Who is Dresden?”

  I turn my head so fast, I almost get whiplash. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “From you.” He smiles. It’s ugly and gloating, as if he’s won a game. “Nurse Jill noted that you said that name numerous times yesterday in the Library room. She said it didn’t sound like you were referring to the German city.”

  I clamp my mouth shut. What does he know? “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  He pats my hand, reassuringly, then leaves his hand there. I can’t pull it free, because if I do his hand will be on my knee. I sneak a glance at the door. The lock is in place. A line of sweat crawls down my back.

  “Essie, who do you think you were talking to yesterday?” he asks.

  “No one.”

  He leans forward. “You were clearly having a discussion with someone we couldn’t see, but you could. Unless you share your inner world with me, I can’t help you.”

  “You can’t help me,” I say, squirming my hand and leg away from his touch. “All you do is dope me up so I can’t form coherent thoughts, which I don’t like, thank you.” I raise my chin, scraping together a bit of courage. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your hands off me.”

  “That sounded perfectly coherent to me,” he says, brows dropping into a frown. “And confrontational.”

  A particularly bright lightning strike is followed by a loud crash of thunder. I let out a surprised yelp, as my nerves are a bit frayed. The lights flicker but stay on. For now. I shift out of my seat and edge toward the door. “I’d like to leave now.”

  “We are not finished.” Something about him has shifted. I’m facing the real prospect of being alone in this room with Dr. Roberts when the lights go out. I must assert myself. I know this, but I’m not sure how.

  Acting on impulse, I step toward him. Surprise is clear in his widened eyes and open mouth. He’s used to me bending into shapes to get away from him. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

  “I can keep you here as long as I wish.” His voice is a whisper. There’s no mistake now that he’s looking me in a way he shouldn’t. Coal-black eyes move down my form with slow, sickening deliberation. I was trying to stand up, make a point, but I just provoked him. My heart
starts to pound. I shrink back too late. He moves in, keeping the space compressed, fetid with his breath.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Essie,” he says. “We don’t have to be adversaries.”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He smiles. A long, forked tongue flicks out, brushing my cheek. “Don’t provoke me.”

  I take a deep breath. A clear head is what’s needed here. “Okay,” I say slowly.

  “We have plenty of time, you know.” He reaches out, pinches a few strands of my hair between his fingers and rubs them. “Plenty of time for you to revise your thinking.”

  “About what?” I ask, gulping back a wave of revulsion.

  “Who is Dresden?” he asks, ignoring me. “An imaginary boyfriend?”

  “Not imaginary,” I say, even as my voice cracks. I’ve never felt so trapped in my life. “Touch me, and he’ll come for you.” I believe these words and I don’t. I told Dresden to leave me alone, but a part of him remains in my heart, always. My hands make tight fists on my lap. If Dresden can wander the world for centuries, I can stand up to one perverted, power-tripping doctor.

  I jerk back and break free of Dr. Roberts’s touch, but as if he expected this, his fingers remain tight on my hair. Pain nips my scalp where the strands are ripped out. Fear clutches my gut as Dr. Roberts rubs the blond strands between his fingers. There is a look of pity on his face. “Poor little Essie. I don’t see anyone here to rescue you.”

  No. I will not be pitied. Not by him. He chose the wrong sentiment, at the wrong time, to belittle me with. All I’ve gone through in the past month concentrates in this moment. It stacks up like a teetering tower of experiences, feelings, words, looks.

  There was the way Dresden looked at me—never with pity, only with respect and….something big and soaring and more. There was how hard Aunt Bel fought—is still fighting—to keep me with her. There was Grandma Edie, who’d confide in me all the things she couldn’t tell Aunt Bel. Because I understood. Because I wouldn’t dismiss her. And yet, I always thought of myself as a burden.