by Laline Paull
“Pretty, pretty . . .” She drove a whip of her acid scent down the passageway; it wrapped around the antennae of dozens of bees and made them yelp in anger and disgust. She pushed her huge face closer, blocking the light.
“Greetings,” she hissed softly, “my sweet, juicy cousins.” Her claw flashed into the hive, close enough for Flora to see the entrails on its tip and smell the Thistles’ blood. To stop herself from running she dug her claws deeper into the comb. Deep within the hive, a faint vibration pulsed toward her. It spoke in her mind.
Keep still. Hold firm and wait.
Flora gripped harder into the wax and held the wasp’s stare. The wasp gazed softly into her eyes, willing her closer. The scent of malice rose stronger.
Draw her in, spoke the thought in Flora’s mind. Lure her, lure her—
Flora stepped backward and all her sisters moved with her. The vibration in the comb became stronger and they felt it too. She kept her gaze locked with the wasp’s.
Lure her. Draw her.
Flora let her antennae tremble and the wasp pushed in closer.
“Are you the one, shall it be you?” Her voice had a soft singsong cadence, but her gaze was hard and calculating. “What a fat feast you will make, little cousin . . .” The wasp eased herself deeper into the hive entrance, and Flora could not hold in her fear, for her sisters were dense behind her and there was no retreat from mortal combat.
The wasp’s body rasped on the hive floor. Four of her six elbows were in, and the only light was the yellow striping of her face. Flora dug down into the wax again but the voice in her mind had stopped. She would be the first to die, but she would fight for her sisters’ lives—for Holy Mother’s life. She unlatched her wings and heard the sound of every sister doing the same.
“No,” the wasp crooned, pulling her last pair of legs into the hive. “We should not fight; all I want is to take you to meet the chillldren, all the hungry . . . little . . . children—” A claw slashed out and she laughed. “Forgive me, you’re too delicious.”
DRAW HER.
The voice was clear and strong in Flora’s mind. She whimpered and backed away, and the wasp crawled in after her. The smell was suffocating and her soft hissing struck terror into Flora’s body. She felt that all her sisters had crept around the edges and their numbers had filled from the back. There was no more room to move. The monster gathered herself to spring.
NOW!
Flora roared the word as the wasp lunged—and sprang upon the monster’s back, her claws scrabbling for purchase on the slippery armor.
The wasp hissed and writhed in a frenzy of rage, one sister after another shrieking as she snapped their heads in her jaws and ripped their bellies with her claws. Flora fought her way up to the wasp’s head and the lashing black whips of the creature’s antennae. She caught one in her mouth and bit down.
The wasp hissed and hurled herself against the walls, trying to crush her attacker against them. Flora clung on and spat the foul blood as below her sisters threw themselves at the thrashing foe. Then Flora lunged for the other antenna, cracking it off the wasp’s head so that the hole jetted pulses of green blood. Blinded in agony, the wasp screamed in rage, killing sister after sister, but she was one against many and the tide of bees kept coming until the stinging, biting weight of their bodies covered her and held her down and she could not move.
Then they beat their wings, fast and tight with fury so that the air heated until they themselves could barely breathe. The wasp was strong and kept struggling, but she grew weaker, and then she stopped. Only when her smell changed and the bees heard the dull cracking of her shell from the heat did they cease their fanning.
The great wasp lay dead, and so did hundreds of brave sisters closest to her, killed by the colossal heat. Many others were maimed in the fight, and outside on the landing board, fallen Thistle sisters lay dead or mutilated in the sun. The air was thick with the foul scent of the wasps and the blood of bees, but the hive was saved.
THE DEAD WASP was a horrific sight. The great glittering black eyes were cooked white, and two green blebs of blood marked the roots of her antennae. Herself unhurt, Flora began to help her wounded sisters. More bees came running from all areas of the hive with vials of holy propolis to bind up the broken shells of any who might live, but the casualties were very great.
Flora carried many sisters out to the sunny landing board and laid them down gently, knowing they would not return. Many lay in agony with their limbs crushed. Flora stopped to comfort one, a sturdy little Plantain whose face was half gone. Many Sage priestesses moved among the dying to bless them with the Queen’s Love and ease their passing. One Sage in particular caught Flora’s attention, the sun bright in her pale fur. The priestess turned to look, and by the power of her gaze, Flora knew they had met before. Quickly she walked back into the hive, to the group of sanitation workers gathered at the wasp’s body.
They were wild-eyed and terrified of the huge carcass, until Flora spat out a mouthful of its blood and grabbed one of its legs. It broke away from the body as she pulled it, and the sanitation workers roared in approval. No longer afraid, they fell upon the wasp, tearing what was left of her to pieces and carrying them out. Then, because the scent of the battle was broadcast on the air far and wide, the remaining Thistle guards let them hurl the pieces over the edge of the board, no longer fastidious.
Bees of all kin scrubbed away at the landing board to rid it of the wasp’s foul smell, and as each section was cleared the priestesses passed along the edge and laid new markers to cleanse and reconsecrate the hive. Sisters looked for dead of their own kin, then the priestesses stood wing to wing and sang the Holy Chord as even the timid house bees came forward to fly the dead to the burial area. Flora searched too, but no sanitation worker had fallen.
“Your kin does not fight.” It was Sister Sage, the pale priestess who had taken Flora first to the Nursery, and then the detention cell. “But you did, and bravely. Why did you not run back inside?”
“The voice in my head.” Flora felt no fear. “It told me what to do.”
Sister Sage looked at her for a long time.
“That was the Hive Mind. It has also restored your tongue.” The priestess touched her antennae to Flora’s, and once again the divine fragrance of the Queen’s Love filled her soul. “You are indeed unusual.”
“Is my Holy Mother safe?”
“More questions . . . Yes, she is. And it is our ancient law that no matter what her kin, any sister who channels the Hive Mind in times of crisis may be taken to meet her. If, of course, she survives. It appears you have.” She clapped her hands together, and six beautiful young bees arrived at her side. All wore fresh veils of the Queen’s Love, which made their faces iridescent.
“Behold the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Go with them, and attend them well.”
Ten
THE LADIES SPOKE VERY PRETTILY TO FLORA AS THEY led her through the hive, in accents so refined they were hard to understand. Outside the silent Dance Hall the lobby was busy with sisters rushing to help the wounded. From there the ladies took Flora up an unfamiliar staircase whose steps chimed softly in welcome. They emerged in a small hall in the midlevel of the hive, near the hallowed Chapel of Wax.
The soothing, warm smell of the Nursery drifted in the corridor and Flora hoped they should pass through it so that she might see the babies again—and so that Sister Teasel and the other nurses might see how she was honored for her service to the hive. But the ladies took another route, down the long passageway between the worker dormitories and the Arrivals Hall, and beyond Flora’s knowledge of the hive. They stopped at elegant doors made of many different shades of gold, cream, and white wax and exquisitely carved with flowers. Lady Burnet held them open.
They entered a small vaulted chamber made of immaculately plain cream wax. Three silver and three green pitchers stood on an old hexagonal table, but otherwise the room was empty. The air was so full of the Queen’s Love that it sp
arkled, and Flora laughed in joy as she breathed it.
“Holy Mother is near! Am I really to meet her?”
Lady Burnet smiled and took up one of the pitchers from the table.
“Yes, my dear, but you are unclean, and first must be prepared.”
Then each of the ladies took a pitcher and stood around Flora, pouring ceremonially in turns, pure water, then healing infusions in case of injury or disease. Flora shivered as the wasp’s blood mingled with that of her fallen sisters, ran down her legs, and drained into a channel in the ground. Then the ladies encircled her and fanned her as if she were a chalice of nectar. Only when Flora’s thick russet fur stood high and dry were they satisfied that she was clean. While Lady Primrose and Lady Violet each used a lump of golden propolis to fill in the many scratches on Flora’s legs, they all sang softly in another language, lilting and beautiful.
“What does that mean?” Flora felt ashamed at the care they lavished on her.
“It tells of Her Majesty’s marriage flights.” Lady Primrose giggled.
“Shh! Not for her ears!” Lady Violet smiled at Flora. “Though you shine so clean you’re barely a flora at all now.”
“Thank you.” Flora tried to curtsy. At this all the ladies came forward to demonstrate the correct way, guiding her limbs with delicate hands.
“It is not your fault.” Lady Burnet was so kind. “You cannot help your kin.”
Lady Meadowsweet also smiled at Flora. “Yet she was so brave . . . and seems so willing and humble—could we not do a little more with her?”
“We could!” Lady Primrose took hold of Flora’s fur. “Make it softer—”
“Shine her whole cuticle, not just the legs . . . make her color seem lighter—”
“Do something about her breath—”
Flora swallowed hard. “I am very sorry, my ladies. It is the wasp’s blood.”
“So shocking.” Lady Burnet offered her water to drink. “But how wonderfully you speak, I can understand nearly every word. Not like a flora at all. Now if only you did not look it! Ladies, it would be a fitting tribute would it not, for her bravery? Would you like that, my dear?”
“To change my kin?”
“And lose your wonderful heritage of service?” Lady Burnet laughed. “Goodness me, no! But we might disguise it, a little.”
When they had exhausted their skills with grooming, pomade, and propolis, the ladies trained Flora in how to sit and rise, but were forced to let her splaying curtsy go uncorrected, for there was nothing to be done with that. When the comb trembled through the hive the ladies did not move to attend the service of Devotion, for here the Queen’s Love filled the chamber so strongly that anyone who entered became euphoric as she breathed.
Flora’s joy increased when she saw the food. Patisserie and nectar finer and more fragrant than she could ever have imagined were served to them by pretty sisters from Rose and Bryony, but on observing Flora’s manners, the ladies all agreed she was still too uncouth to meet Her Majesty. They made her demonstrate the correct way to eat and drink so many times that for the first time in her life, Flora’s hunger was satisfied and she could leave food uneaten. Then they bid her keep her hands still to let set the fashionable shapes they had twisted into her fur, so she rested in contentment listening to their bright, bubbling conversation—and despite the vanity, surreptitiously admired the sheen of her newly polished legs.
AFTER SUPPER the ladies-in-waiting took Flora with them to fulfill the daily duty of visiting the Queen’s Library. When they closed all the doors of the small hexagonal chamber, one continuous mosaic of coded scent tiles ran round the walls, and featured on each wall was one small central panel. Flora sniffed in fascination, detecting the bouquet of home amid the many unfamiliar smells.
“Instead of attending Devotion,” whispered Lady Primrose, “we maintain the Stories of Scent. Not nearly as pleasant, but just follow along and we shall soon be out. We only ever do the first two, so don’t worry.”
The ladies formed a line and put Flora at the end. They walked in a circle around the chamber repeating the Our Mother, and then Lady Burnet stopped in front of a panel.
“The first story is called The Honeyflow.” She smiled at Flora. “The lightest touch, then move back.” She dipped her antennae and touched the panel to demonstrate. Immediately, the scent of flowers rose up from it, developing and blending as each of the ladies took her turn. Flora marveled to recognize the ancient kin-scents: the Sage and the Teasel, the Rosebay, Willowherb, Clover, Violet, Celandine, Burnet, Thistle, Malus, Bindweed, and all of them. Of the floras, there was no reference.
“Quickly, my dear.” Lady Burnet’s voice had the slightest tremor. “We must move along.”
As Flora touched her antennae to the first panel, all the blossoms of spring burst into life and the air was filled with orchard sweetness and the scent of lush grass. But before she could fully enjoy it, a pressure wave went through the air in the chamber. She heard the harsh caw of birds and smelled the high sharp tang of a wasp.
As she leaped back in shock all the ladies laughed nervously.
“A common reaction,” said Lady Burnet, “but it is only a story, it cannot hurt you. Fresh as dew, yet made in the Time before Time. Is it not a marvel? And better that we learn of the Myriad—though you of course have met one already.”
The ladies clapped politely. Flora felt embarrassed.
“There are others—of the Myriad? Not just wasps?”
“Oh, they are legion. It means all those who would hurt us, or steal from us, or who pollute and destroy our rightful food. Like flies, for instance.” Lady Burnet put a hand to her head. “Take great care in here, lest all the stories stir at once—our antennae would split with shock.” She looked at her ladies. “I think we may conclude early this evening.”
“But there are five more.” Flora gazed at the other walls, from which intricate and unknown scents coiled then curled back in without diffusing into the air. She looked to the ladies for explanation and saw all of their antennae quivering with stress, and that Lady Primrose was on the edge of panic. Lady Burnet forced a smile.
“To tend these panels is to strengthen the Hive Mind with the ancient scent-stories of our faith. The priestesses do not expect us to read each one.” She looked down. “The first and second panels are enough for us. The rest . . . hold terrors.”
“I am not afraid,” said Flora. “I long to serve my hive.”
“My dear—please recall your kin. Do not presume—”
Lady Meadowsweet coughed and looked at Lady Burnet, a world of meaning in her gaze. “Does it matter who reads them, if the duty is done?”
“Yes,” added Lady Violet. “I have heard her kin have stronger nerves.”
“And would be less affected,” agreed pretty Lady Primrose.
Flora stepped forward.
“Please, my ladies, if I may do any duty to the hive or the Queen—I am strong and willing.” Pressing her knees tight she knelt before them. “And I long to serve.”
The ladies clapped again. Lady Burnet raised her up.
“Very well. The second story is called The Kindness.”
Flora saw how the ladies flinched at the name. She stood up straighter.
“I have heard that word before. I will do it.”
She walked to the next panel. As she touched her antennae to it the voices and hubbub of the hive rose up all around her, and the wonderful comforting smell of sisters rustling their wings for sleep. She felt great love for all her sisters, and the beauty of the hive. Then her feet tingled as if walking on coded tiles, and in her mind she saw herself walking down a long corridor with a Thistle guard. She saw herself kneel, her knees still splayed, then bend her head low to the wax as the guard braced her feet and raised a great sharp claw above her.
Forgive me, Sister—
A sharp pain streaked through the joint of Flora’s head and thorax. She cried out and staggered back from the panel.
She was
in the Queen’s Library, and the ladies stood watching. She felt her body—unharmed—but the shock of the blow reverberated.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Lady Primrose giggled nervously.
“Every sister sees her own end. Though we never go as far as you just did—it is enough to walk the corridor and know what is coming!”
“The Kindness means death?”
“Amen,” chorused the ladies. “No use to the hive, no use for life!”
At their hysterical laughter, Flora laughed too, excited by the terrible vision.
“Let me do another! Now I understand—”
“You understand nothing—you are merely brave.” Lady Burnet leavened her words with a smile. “But if you would take one more, then half are done, and our duty is amply fulfilled.” She followed Flora’s eyes around the last three. “No. Those are too strong; only the priestesses tend those stories.”
“Then one more.” Flora stood up straight, proud of her courage and the awe in the eyes of these fine ladies. “And with all my heart.”
THE OTHER BEES stood near the door as Lady Burnet positioned Flora at the third panel.
“Keep your wings latched,” she told her. “And stop at any time.”
Flora stepped forward and touched her antennae to the wax mosaic. It was plainer than the second, its scent held close to the wax as if to shield its secret, but as she focused, its peculiar fragrance structure began to part.
First came the intense bouquet of the hive, strong and welcoming and laced with the wealth of a million different flowers’ nectar. It smelled of sunshine and sisters and Flora drew it in more deeply, searching for the strange accent note she had first registered. It darted at the edge of her consciousness, just out of reach.
“Good, that is enough,” murmured Lady Burnet from the door. “Let us go.”
But the olfactory loop held Flora’s attention: the hive, the sun, the honey—then without warning came a blast of wild, cold air and choking smoke. Flora staggered. Her body was in the room, but her senses flooded with the panic of ten thousand sisters roaring their engines, the dazing sun, and the overpowering smell of honey.