Where The Bee Sucks

by William Stafford

  She stole across the kitchen and pushed the door shut. She bolted it and put a tall stool against it for good measure. Without looking, she reached for the cord and yanked at it until the blinds, rather haphazardly, fell into place. Her knuckles were white around the corkscrew.

  Panting, she reached into the fridge and took out a bottle of white wine. She plunged the tip of the corkscrew into the cork, right through the plastic seal. She grunted as she twisted the handle, winding the screw deeper and deeper in, imagining it was Harry’s eye.

  Nothing but trouble, she snarled. And where the hell was Olly?

  ***

  “Are you okay, Harry?” Olly was in the reception of the police station, where Harry was waiting, looking more than a little shaken. “When I got your call, I didn’t know what to think - I thought they were doing you for murder.”

  “Sorry, Olly,” Harry sounded like he hadn’t slept for a week. “I didn’t want to scare you. It was just questioning, that’s all. I just happened to be there.”

  “That seems to be happening to you a lot lately. Come on; I’ll splash out for a taxi. Let’s get you back to the house.”

  “Your house, do you mean? You know I’m not welcome there.”

  “Let me handle Alicia. When she hears what’s happened, she won’t mind. Not just for the one night.”

  Hank Brownlow emerged from the back rooms. Olly’s eyes widened to see the famous TV presenter.

  “Can you believe these guys? I was the victim here. Well, not the victim, obviously, but a victim. Who’s to say I wouldn’t be next?”

  “Um, Olly, this is Hank Brownlow. Hank, this is Olly. My best friend,” Harry added pointedly. The emphasis was lost on Olly. He was pumping Brownlow’s hand and grinning with admiration.

  “Pleasure to meet you!” he gasped. “I watch you all the time.”

  “So you’re my British stalker?”

  “No, I mean your programmes.”

  “Relax, kid. Just trying to inject a little humour into the proceedings.” But Brownlow’s glamour was already superseded by the sight of a second figure being escorted into the reception by a couple of uniformed officers. Olly was astounded to find himself face to face with the half-ape, half-fish figure of Caliban.

  “What the hell is this?” he gasped. “Listen, mate: if you’ve taken my part -”

  Caliban cowered from the angry young man of British theatre. It had not been an easy couple of hours for the creature. All those questions he couldn’t answer about his lack of formal identification, his presence in this strange land of men and how he came to be there. All was a mystery to him. At one point, he’d tried to effect a swap - in a human body he might be able to understand, might have some memory - but when he’d grabbed the policeman’s hand all he’d got was a rough shove back into his seat and a few choice curse words he had never heard before.

  “Um, Olly, this is Caliban,” Harry thought it behoved him to make the introductions. “The real one.”

  Olly walked around the cringing figure, inspecting him from every angle. “Golly. Jenna didn’t do too bad a job...”

  “Who’s Jenna?” Brownlow asked.

  “Make-up lady at the theatre,” Harry supplied. “Thing is, he’s with us, now. That is, if you’re with us too, Hank? The four of us. Against Jeremy.” He could have added ‘against Ariel’ but he didn’t like to think of the spirit as an enemy. As far as Harry could judge, Ariel was enslaved by Jeremy, by the pieces of that stick.

  “Sure, count me in,” Hank dragged a hand through his hair, worried that in this harsh institutional light the plugs would be all too obvious. “We have to get to the other two pieces of the stick before those guys do. Then we might be on an equal footing.”

  “Harry,” Olly pulled him aside, “kindly tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  “No time,” Brownlow interrupted. “We got to get out of here and find those pieces.”

  “Is it for one of your programmes?”

  “You could say that,” Brownlow shrugged. “That and the future of all mankind.”

  “Ooh, I’d love to be in one of your programmes,” Olly clapped excitedly. “As long as I get to play myself?”

  “We’ll talk to your agent. Now come on, guys; let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  “Um...” Harry hesitated. He pointed across the foyer to where Caliban was hunched over a water dispenser, trying to submerge his head in the pitiful dribble. “He’s coming with, isn’t he?”

  Olly approached the creature and patted him gently on his furry arm to get his attention. “Come on, there’s a good, um, monster.”

  Caliban left the drinking fountain with reluctance but was glad to have someone telling him what to do.

  “Marvellous for research,” Olly said over the creature’s head to Harry. “See how he moves and so on. And smells! But didn’t they want to keep him, put him in a tank or something?”

  “That’s where my acting skills came in,” Harry smirked. They were out in the street and out of earshot of the baffled and bemused police. “Told them it was a costume. Method acting. Caliban’s drunk scene. Researching it by means of a pub crawl.”

  “And they believed you?” Olly was impressed with Harry’s improvisational skills.

  “More like they didn’t know what else to do with him,” Brownlow pricked Harry’s bubble. “Now, let us think. The other two pieces, as far as I’m aware: one went missing from Birmingham Library so they don’t have that one. And the other was in the keeping of some guy called Cheese. Do you know him?”

  “I do - or I did,” Harry said sadly. He described to Brownlow and Olly the scene of Cheese’s murder. Caliban paid rapt attention. It was all new to him and he had no recollection of the part he had played in any of it in his guise as Ms Benn or any of the others he had inhabited.

  “And that message he tried to write? What was that again?”

  “’Where the b’” said Harry. “As in ‘where the bloody hell is that piece of the staff?’”

  “Oh, no,” Olly laughed. “I know this one. I’ve heard it often enough these past few months. Oh, come on, Harry. Don’t you remember your Tempest?”

  He was greeted with three blank faces, one his friend’s, one famous off the telly, and one like two halves of different creatures welded together.

  Olly cleared his throat and recited.

  “Where the bee sucks, there suck I,

  In a cowslip’s bell I lie.”

  Caliban made cooing sounds and tried to snatch the poetry from the air.

  “That’s real pretty,” said Brownlow, “but what the fuck does it mean?”

  Harry repeated the quotation a couple of times. He shook his head. “Something about flowers?” he shrugged.

  “Now why would an erudite professor like old man Cheese want to decorate his floorboards with that particular gobbet?” Brownlow paced up and down the pavement, thinking aloud. “Unless it’s to tell us where he staffed the stash - I mean, stashed the staff.”

  Harry’s face lit up and then darkened again. Olly clapped excitedly. Caliban aped him.

  “Where would the prof find cowslips?” Brownlow continued. “Beats me. I wouldn’t recognise a cowslip from a cow’s ass.”

  Harry pulled out his smart phone. Seconds later, he showed them a photograph of the bloom in question.

  “And he had these in his garden?” Brownlow peered at the screen and passed it to Olly. Caliban flinched from the magical device in case it hurt him. He sniffed the air but could smell no flowery fragrance. Witchcraft indeed!

  “I don’t know...” Harry frowned.

  “The professor was cleverer than that,” Olly spoke up. “His own garden would be too close to home.”

  “Your garden usually is close to home,” Harry observed but Olly ignored him
.

  “But there are other gardens...” Olly went on, pacing in the manner of TV historian, Hank Brownlow. “Other gardens to which the professor had easy access...”

  “You mean like the Birthplace?” the American, pacing alongside Olly, lifted a finger. Olly came to a standstill. He met Harry’s gaze. They both grinned and spoke at the same time.

  “Anne’s Gaff!”

  Caliban echoed their words with a couple of grunts.

  “He was there! I was there but he’d gone by the time I got there!” Brownlow smacked his forehead. “He was probably burying the thing while I was making my way there. Talk about your bad timing!”

  “It’s worth a look,” said Harry.

  “Won’t it be closed?” said Olly.

  “Bullshit,” said Hank Brownlow, his chest swelling. “You think I let a little thing like opening hours get in the way of an investigation? Let’s get going!”

  He jogged away. The others waited patiently until he realised he was hurrying in the wrong direction. Caliban took advantage of this interval to lap rainwater from a puddle.

  “I vote we take a cab,” the American, more winded than he would have liked to be, bent forward with his hands on his thighs.

  “Not on your nelly,” said Harry. “We don’t want people to know we were there.”

  “Good thinking!” Brownlow agreed.

  “I know a short cut,” said Harry. “There’s the primrose path for the tourists but there’s a quicker way.”

  Olly slapped his friend on the shoulder. “See! All that time as a tour guide is paying off. Everything is research, Harry.”

  They shared a moment of eye contact. Was that night just research then? Harry wanted to ask. Was that all it was? Preparation for a role that doesn’t yet exist?

  Olly looked away, diverting his attention to Caliban, coaxing him away from the water. “There’s a good boy,” he said.

  Caliban farted.

  “I don’t understand it,” Olly whispered to Harry. “In the play, I mean, he says such great lines - it’s a great part. But him, here, he’s just - well, he can’t speak, for one thing.”

  Harry thought about it. “Perhaps this is Caliban untouched. Perhaps he’s reverted to the way he was before Prospero turned up on the island and taught him language.”

  “Caliban in the raw...” Olly mulled it over and decided he liked the idea. “Wow. Great research opportunity.”

  “Bloody actors,” said Harry. He led the strangest party he’d ever been party to through the Old Town district and on towards Shottery.

  Eighteen.

  Jeremy kept the engine running of his Citroen 2CV. He had to be ready for a quick getaway should prying eyes or policemen come around the corner. Of course, he could have waited anywhere for Ariel but he wasn’t sure of the range of influence that only half a staff would have. And he also wanted to be on site - or as near to the site as he could get. For Ariel the padlocked gates of the Leamington Spa waste recycling centre were no barrier.

  “Come on, come on...” he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. How difficult could it be to find a bit of old wood in a rubbish tip?

  He jumped as the spirit appeared in the passenger seat.

  “Hello!” said Ariel, trying to stay cheerful.

  “Well? Did you find it?” Jeremy was impatient. He would have seized the spirit and shook him but that was impossible.

  “Patience, master. I was able to follow traces of my former master but not without difficulty. I found his books and magazines in the paper banks, his garments in the clothing bank and -”

  “Cut to the chase, damn you! Did you locate the third piece of the staff?”

  Ariel wiggled his makeshift eyebrows. He produced from somewhere within himself a length of dark and knobbly wood, trumpeting a fanfare with his mouth. Jeremy snatched the staff and examined it from every angle. He reached behind him to the back seat and, scraping the low ceiling of the little car, attached the third piece to the other two.

  He laughed like a maniac falling down a drain.

  Ariel shifted uneasily on the seat.

  “You have done well, spirit,” Jeremy grinned. “One more piece and I shall set you free.”

  “Great,” said Ariel.

  ***

  “Closed!” Olly sounded surprised.

  “Who’d have thunk?” said Brownlow.

  “I said,” said Harry.

  “Give me strength,” grumbled Caliban. He began to scale the gate; his simian half did much better than his piscine side. Within seconds he was straddling the gate, his monkeyness in the grounds of Anne Hathaway’s cottage, his fishiness in the public street.

  “Get down from there!” Harry hissed, as though scolding a wayward child.

  “I can let you in if you want,” said Caliban. “No scales off my back.”

  “I think I preferred it when he wasn’t speaking,” Olly muttered.

  “What are we waiting for?” Brownlow bellowed. The others frantically waved and shushed him. Everyone froze.

  The silence was obliterated by an outburst of loud music, a power ballad from a bygone era. Embarrassed, Olly fumbled his phone from his pocket. Apologising, he walked a few steps away and took the call.

  A light came on in an adjoining building.

  “Shit,” said Harry. “Joyce.”

  “Who’s Joyce?” said Brownlow.

  “The live-in caretaker,” said Harry. “We’re in the shit now.”

  “Sorry, Alicia... No, I’m not in the pub. I’m not... Yes, I am with Harry - but - if you could listen for a second - No, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt - What do you mean, my boss and his bird have been around? - Look, I’ll explain when I get home - No, I don’t know what time that will be - Alicia?”

  A ground floor light came on.

  “She’s not happy,” said Olly, pocketing his phone and joining the others.

  “Should we maybe hide or something?” Brownlow suggested, having lowered his voice by a couple of decibels. Olly and Harry grabbed him by the arms and pulled him into some bushes. They looked for Caliban but he was no longer atop the gate.

  “Oh, shit,” said Harry. “He’s gone inside!”

  “Isn’t that what we wanted?” said Brownlow. The others swatted at him to shut up.

  “Golly,” whispered Olly. “For whom should I be concerned, him or Joyce?”

  ***

  “As soon as we find the fourth piece, we’re laughing.” Jeremy was driving with the staff between his legs. Ariel, in the passenger seat, decided that ‘laughing’ was exactly what he would not be doing. “Now,” Jeremy went on, “Any clues? Anything you can remember about where the final piece of this powerful puzzle might be.”

  “Er...” Ariel looked askance and caught his reflection in the wing mirror.

  “Now, spirit, don’t make me compel you.”

  “I’m not!” Ariel protested. “I’m not forcing you to make me do anything.”

  Jeremy pulled the car to an abrupt halt. He brandished the tip of the staff in the vicinity of Ariel’s nose. “Spill the beans!”

  “Master, that is an idiom I recognise not,” Ariel stalled.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  Ariel stiffened, like frost on a pond. He could not take his eyes from the staff. He found his voice rising from within and pushing against his lips. He tried to hold back the tide, wondering if this is how mortals feel when they vomit up the contents of their stomachs, but he was unable to stem the torrent of words.

  “Full fathom five thy father lies...” He clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “What the bloody fuck does that mean? My father! Speak sense, damn you!”

  “The professor - the Cheese - he was trying to write a message as he p
erished.”

  “It’s from the play...” Jeremy mulled it over. “Damn it; I was never any good at cryptic crosswords. And that’s what he wrote? Exactly what he wrote?”

  “Um, well, no he didn’t live to complete it.”

  Jeremy waved the stick again. “Tell me, spirit! Exactly what did he manage to write before he popped his clogs?”

  Ariel frowned; he couldn’t remember anything about footwear. “Full fathom five - the total sum of the message. Master,” he added for good measure.

  “Well, what does that mean? Full fathom five! Sounds like a group of superheroes.”

  “I believe it is a reference to water,” Ariel shrugged. “Deep water.”

  Jeremy’s mind raced to calculate the depth. “A fathom is six foot. Five times six foot is... thirty... Where around here is there water that’s thirty foot deep?”

  “You’re the local, master, not I.”

  “I don’t like your attitude, sunny Jim. Now, if the old sod hid his piece in thirty foot of water, you’re going to have to be the one to retrieve it. We need to identify the correct body of water - that is the question.”

  Ariel’s form became colourless and transparent. He shimmered and rippled.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Jeremy barked.

  “Body of water,” Ariel shrugged. “A jest, master!”

  “Give me strength,” Jeremy scowled. He started the engine. “We’ll try the river first off. That’s our best bet.”

  Ariel resumed a more solid, more opaque form with a plop. He crossed his arms and looked at himself in the wing mirror again. With the staff incomplete, he could just about resist it. He hoped his lies would buy Harry and the others enough time.

  ***

  Joyce the live-in caretaker shone torchlight in the faces of the men at the gate. Harry and Olly squinted and turned away, but Brownlow, more accustomed to the harsh lighting of a television studio, stared directly into the beam, answering with his teeth in all their brilliance.

  “Madam, we are awfully sorry to arouse you at this late hour.”

  The flashlight wavered.