Hive

by A. J. Betts

  Without looking up from the book, the son said, ‘The way out is somewhere in this house.’

  ‘But the other ways are melted shut,’ I told him. Besides, I already knew where they would lead: to the netter house and the commons.

  ‘It’s not a way. It’s more of . . . an exit.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’m not sure; I can’t remember. That’s what I’m looking for.’ He closed a book and grabbed another. Morning was coming. There wasn’t time for my questions.

  Out.

  A small word for an astonishing thing.

  Would they know about us? Would they welcome me? Would there be plums there? Would I meet another Celia and another son? I hoped so. I left the son to his reading and let myself drift through the quiet house, wondering how I might discover a way that wasn’t a way. I scanned the walls. I looked to the ceiling, recalling with a jolt the story of Jack and how he’d climbed the magic beanstalk high, then higher, then out.

  Of course.

  ‘It’ll be through the ceiling!’ I called. ‘We’ll need a ladder.’

  But the son was already on his feet, a knife in one hand.

  ‘It’s up there,’ I pointed.

  He shook his head, then stomped his foot like a giant.

  Chapter 16

  All my life I’d been told only the netters’ hub could be lifted, but this, too, had been just a story.

  Together we pushed aside desks, cupboards and sheets. Like the netters’ hub, this one had bolts at its edges which could be loosened and removed, like a lid.

  The son set to work with the knife. Each freed bolt came out a dusty rust-red. While he worked, he told me what he knew.

  There hadn’t been a fire. Their tools – their phones and screens and internet – had stopped working early in the first days. They’d lost service, he said, breaking their connection with the other world. They couldn’t hear anything from it, nor could they speak to it. Servicers tried for weeks, then seasons. Some of them quit. After many years without a response, they chose to give up altogether.

  ‘When the servicers relocated, they left behind these broken screens and computers because they were just a reminder of failure. Then they sealed up the doors and went to other houses where they took on jobs that were useful, like gardening or netting or cooking.’

  The son stood to stretch his back.

  ‘But that was ages ago,’ I said. ‘The screens might work again. We should try. They might connect –’

  ‘They don’t. Besides, it wasn’t so long ago.’

  ‘You said it happened in the first days.’

  ‘It did.’ The son checked my face as he said, ‘That was only four generations ago.’

  ‘Four?’

  A nod. ‘We’re the fifth.’

  I reeled. We were only the fifth?

  Five was the number of fingers on one hand. Five was the number of marbles we each owned. Five was insignificant. If the son and I were the fifth generation, it meant the judge and Llewellyn were the fourth. It meant Geoffrey had been the third, and that there’d only been two generations before him since the beginning; since God started it all.

  This world seemed to be shrinking. Or was I expanding?

  Teachers’ lessons had often begun with ‘long, long ago, in the first days . . .’ They’d never told us an exact number, for there’d been hundreds of generations, we assumed, more than anyone could count, for hadn’t we seen the drawing of the tree of the world, with its endless branches, layer after layer? Hadn’t we been told we were just small twigs at the top of an ancient tree?

  The ovenfire, we knew, had been burning constantly for ‘many generations’, just as the source had trickled, and growlights had altered, and God had watched over us. Our names had been passed down from generation to generation, along with the marbles and games, yo-yos and stories, each of them terribly old and precious. Every time I used my spoon I considered the hundreds of mouths that had used it already. Every time I mended a frame in a hive, I thought of the hundreds of beekeepers who’d done so before me.

  ‘Is this what the books said?’ I asked the son.

  He jostled the bolts in his hand. ‘I knew this already. The judge told me. It’s been less than a hundred years since the beginning. Are you ready?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Out.’

  I blinked, aware once again of what was real. The hub was real. The son was real, waiting, offering me an escape.

  ‘Is it better?’ I asked.

  He shook his head slightly. ‘I told you, I don’t know.’ He pulled an object from his apron that was silver and round, then studied it, concern creasing his face. ‘There isn’t much time. Hayley, do you want this?’

  Did I? What kind of choice did I have? It harrowed me to think of leaving this world and everything in it I cared for, and I did care, so much – for Celia and Luka and the bees. Even the son. Especially the son. Now that I’d come to understand him, I didn’t want to leave him. If I could, I would stay in this world and get to know him more, but this wasn’t a true choice because staying would mean madness, and this – our shared knowledge; our private friendship – wouldn’t be the same. I wouldn’t be the same.

  A murmur rippled through me and I heard what it said. Out, it whispered, like a secret. Like hope. Out was a promise of a new beginning. Out was the lure of things unknown and friends unmet. Another world, waiting. Out was a life I’d never known. A life I suddenly wanted to know.

  Out was bold and it beat through me like a drum.

  I nodded, as the son knew I would. I had to go out. There wasn’t a choice anymore.

  Together we strained to break the hub’s seal. The lid resisted, its edges squealing, releasing old salt as it loosened. With our backs, we shoved at the lid until it slid across to make a sliver of a gap.

  There wasn’t water at the surface as I’d thought there would be. There was nothing at all in that hole but dark air and a briny stink. It disappointed me. I’d hoped to see the blue stars again. I’d hoped they’d accompany me out.

  The son winced – it surprised him too. Studying the drop, he held out the broken phone and let it fall into the hole. Silence stretched, followed by a dull splash. I caught a flicker of worry as he crouched at the lid. The hole went so far down neither of us could see where water began.

  ‘It is the way,’ he said, wishing to convince us both. ‘They used to call it a moon pool. There’s a compressor down there to equalise the pressure. The netter house has one too. That’s why the ocean doesn’t come rushing up.’

  ‘The ocean?’

  At the word, his lips split into a smile. It reminded me of how Celia would smile when she thought of the netter boys she liked. A dreamy smile. A private kind of longing.

  ‘It means water,’ he said. ‘A whole lot of water.’

  ‘Have others gone down there?’

  ‘Three servicers did, at the start. They’d hoped to fix the signal from the other side. None of them came back.’

  Only three? I wondered if they went bravely, or if they’d been scared. I wondered how I would feel, when I went.

  ‘Have any others gone who are like me?’ I asked. ‘Anyone with the madness, I mean?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as madness, Hayley. There’s only migraines – headpains – and people who ask too many questions.’

  He grinned, and I saw he meant it more as a compliment than a criticism.

  ‘I wish I’d never found the drip,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘So do I.’ He licked his lips, then grabbed hold of the hub’s lid. ‘We need to drag this completely off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So you can get down to the water. Come on. You have to help me.’

  I recalled the night I’d fallen into the netters’ hub. How cold the water had been then; how cold and
endless. I remembered the pressure in my chest as my lungs burned for air. How tempting it had been to swallow the cool water until it flooded me. If the son hadn’t hooked me, I might still be lifelessly falling.

  He’d said three people had gone out before me and never returned. He hadn’t said whether they’d survived.

  Watching him strain at the edge of the lid, new fear flitted through me. What if all this – the service house, the books, the promise of another world – was just another of the son’s lies? What if this out was just a story he told to quell my terror: a hopeful, childish story before death?

  ‘Come on!’ The son grunted as he pulled. ‘You’ve got to help.’

  ‘But there’s no air,’ I said, wishing he’d look at me again. ‘I’ll die without air. I’m not stupid.’

  He panted, slid. ‘I know that, Hayley. And neither am I.’

  There was air, he told me then. The books had described how to make it, with two baby cribs brought together and locked to make a person-sized marble with an air-engine in its base. A capsule, the books called it.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said, before running to the male sleeper. He returned dragging two wheeled cribs behind him, then worked intently to dismantle them.

  As I watched, it became clear to me that cribs were never meant for babies. They were too round to comfortably fit a mattress; too deep for a mother’s reach. Each half was dark blue and semi-transparent. I used to believe it was for mothers to see the babies, when really it was so a person could look out of it.

  Out.

  How tenderly he lifted me. How gently he carried me and placed me in a crib with my legs folded under and my neck at an angle like an uncle’s. How carefully he adjusted my head and placed sheets beneath it, then used more to soften the spaces around me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’d said he couldn’t rescue me, but maybe he could.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it was wrong . . . your treatment.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just look away?’

  His hands paused. I noticed the tremble.

  ‘You mightn’t think so, but we’re not so different, you and me.’

  ‘Because of the headpains?’

  The son shook his head. ‘Does it ever feel to you that life is . . . kind of a puzzle?’

  I nodded. It did.

  ‘It’s not like that for everyone, you know,’ he went on. ‘For most people, life just happens and they don’t ask why or how. They don’t notice the gaps between the puzzle pieces, or wonder what they mean. It makes my job easier, but still . . .’ He groaned and tilted back his head. ‘It’s so frustrating: knowing some things but not others, and having to pretend that I’m okay with it . . . Then I’m with you and I don’t have to pretend, about anything. It feels easy, like there are suddenly two pieces in the world, at least, that fit how they should.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘I’ve seen how brave you’ve been. Brave and smart. I know you, more than you think, and I know you deserve better . . . You deserve a chance. You’ll get to see out, Hayley. You’ll be just like one of your rogues, going where the other bees don’t.’ He swallowed, then pointed at a vent. ‘This here is where the air comes through. Keep it clear, you understand? This here is the latch you use to open the cribs when you arrive. You turn like this, then unclip here. Lift. See? But only when you’re there, understand?’

  ‘When I’m out, you mean.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Say it again,’ I urged him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Out. Say out.’

  He frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘I dare you to say it.’

  He cringed and shook his head and I knew then it was true: the son wanted out more than I did.

  And why wouldn’t he? He was a boy who walked in the night with flames and knives and secrets. He was a boy with headpains and not a single friend to confide in. A boy who’d known all along of a service house with books and screens and a hub that led to somewhere else. How long had he been wishing for out?

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘there are more cribs . . .’

  ‘Don’t even –’

  ‘You could. You could make a capsule for yourself.’

  ‘I can’t –’

  ‘You’re unhappy.’

  ‘Of course I’m unhappy!’ Still he refused to look at me.

  I took a breath. Willed myself to be clear. ‘My headpains started this. They’re the reason I went to that way; the reason I’m here. Maybe they’re the reason you’re here too.’ The crib rocked a little as I shifted my weight to kneel. I put my fingers close to where his knuckles held tight to the crib’s edge. I was level with him, this boy who’d given me the choice he wanted so much for himself. ‘You can’t hide your headpains forever. I know they hurt you. You’re an anomaly here, just like me. You should come too.’

  He swore. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘You know I’m not. Neither are you. Come.’

  ‘For God’s sake, there’s no time for this. I’ve risked too much for you already –’

  ‘Then risk it for yourself. Come with me.’

  He gritted his teeth. ‘I’m the son!’

  ‘You’re a boy.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that!’ His nostrils flared, his shoulders shook, his body aching with the burden of being powerful and powerless, responsible for lying to people who didn’t know any better when he knew better. He knew there was an out and he wanted it.

  ‘If you come now,’ I said, ‘the world will wake up to think God’s collected us both.’

  ‘The judge and the doctor will know.’

  ‘So? The world will go on,’ I said, less surely. Would it? Each judge was supposed to be born, not elected, and his mother was too old to have another baby. Who would fill his place?

  ‘They’ll solve it,’ I decided, ‘like a puzzle. You could. You should. Come with me. Come out.’

  I saw the effect the word had on him. It furrowed the lines of his forehead. It twisted his mouth like a burn.

  When I took his hands I didn’t know if I was pulling myself out or pulling him in.

  I held those hands even though they resisted. I squeezed them tight until they finally slackened, until his shoulders dropped, until his chest fell, until he closed his eyes on an outward breath – out! – and I could feel the pulse under his skin, his heartbeats quickening as the thought sped through him. I held them until a heat surged within him and the flame of his eyes flickered with life and he turned to look upon the walls with the knowledge that nothing good could ever come from this world for him. I watched his splendid realisation that he, like me, had a choice.

  There was no end to wonders. The noise he made was all things – the cry of a baby, child, boy, son, and man. A life’s frustration vocalised, resounding from the walls. I heard him, and I knew him, then.

  ‘God,’ he uttered once the house had fallen quiet.

  ‘Works in mysterious ways?’

  His head shook with disbelief as he dared to imagine.

  Dared to hope to be happy.

  From the female sleeper the son dragged two more cribs. He was more confident this time as he worked to liberate the half-circles and put them together as a whole. He was fast, focused. Determined.

  From my crib I watched him with a smile. The son would be coming out with me. He would push my capsule down the hub, then he’d follow behind: two strangers, looking for a new place to belong.

  ‘You’ll feel squished in yours,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll fit. It’s made for bigger men than me. They used to be fat in the old days.’

  ‘Why were they fat?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  After he’d set and checked his capsule, the son returned to mine. He leaned across to adjust the sheets again, then passed me two items. The first was
a book which he said he’d read to me when we were out. The second was a small gold circle. It looked like a button without any holes.

  ‘It’s money.’ He read the words aloud. ‘Australia, 2018.’

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but a book said we’ll need it. Now wriggle down.’

  I did so, nestling into the sheets.

  If he wasn’t a god, he should’ve been. He lifted half a crib in the air and turned it over above his head. He lined up the hinges then gently lowered it down over me, cupping me inside.

  Through the tinted blue glass, I watched him. I’m in a giant marble, I thought. There is a boy who will accompany me to another world where we will read books and eat plums. It was better than any story.

  I turned my neck to follow his movements on the other side of the capsule. He worked at one part of the circular seal, flicking latches and checking joins, before moving around to another.

  The curved surface played tricks with my eyes, altering my view of the son as he worked. His arms would rise up and stretch, then slip suddenly out of sight. His face would shift, slide, slither and shrink, before reappearing at another angle with big nose and big ears, reminding me of monsters. All the better to smell you with. All the better to hear you with.

  ‘You look funny,’ I said, laughing, but my voice was loud and bounced back at me.

  ‘What?’ The son sounded muffled and distant.

  ‘You’re like a beast from a story,’ I teased as more ticks and thuds echoed in the marble. Even my breathing was amplified.

  There followed a deafening scrape and a clunk, and it was done: I was tightly sealed in a capsule, about to go out.

  The sheets rustled noisily as I shifted myself to watch the son’s fingers reappearing, his blue palms pressing white, his face distorting, his forehead too tall, his eyes too wide.

  All the better to see you with.

  I wondered how I would go into the open hole of the hub. Would I be lifted and dropped? Or would I be rolled like a marble?