The Bees: A Novel

by Laline Paull

  “That story is called The Visitation.”

  The voice was sweet and thrilling, and the hand that touched Flora took away her fear.

  “It tells of robbery and terror, and the survival of our people.” The scent mirage was gone, and in its place an intense pure wave of Devotion filled the chamber. Flora dropped to her six knees, at last in the presence of the Queen. She laid her antennae along the ground in reverence.

  “Brave daughter.”

  Flora looked up. At first all she could see was the shimmering aura, but then Her Majesty’s large, beautiful eyes shone through, lit with kindness and love. She was magnificently large, with long, shapely legs and a graceful tapering abdomen full and buoyant under the golden tracery of her folded wings.

  “Mother,” Flora whispered.

  “Child,” said the Queen. “Do not be ashamed.” She raised Flora to her feet and smiled at all her ladies. “Come, my daughters, let us be more comfortable in my chamber, that I may hear about my ancient cousin Vespa’s wicked venture.”

  Eleven

  FLORA 717, LOWLY OF KIN AND SWEEPER OF FILTH, NOW sat with the Queen and her ladies in Her Majesty’s own private sitting room, eating jeweled lily cakes and drinking fresh nectar, while she told her story of the wasp and the heat ball. Without warning, the Queen scanned her, then to Flora’s shame the smell of the wasp rose from her body again. The ladies started in fright and protested that they had washed her.

  “Hush, daughters.” The Queen smiled. “I only wished to make sure that even in its last traces, the scent of the Vespa had not changed. Their ancient envy still beats strong; that is why they want to steal from us, as if our honey or our children will give them our power. In the Time before Time they chose blood above nectar, and we became foes.”

  Lady Burnet clasped her hands. “Immortal Mother protects her children.”

  “Hallowed be Thy womb,” all the ladies responded; Flora too, as the words rose unbidden from her tongue.

  “Leave me, daughters.”

  Then the Queen lay down on her couch of petals, folded herself in a haze of scented sleep and vanished from their view.

  To Flora’s surprise, the ladies showed her to a bed. It was soft and sweetly scented, almost as fragrant as the cribs in Category One.

  “Because the Nursery is just beyond that door,” said Lady Violet from her neighboring couch. “Perhaps you shall see it tomorrow when we attend Holy Mother at her Laying Progress. With all the eggs and glowing cribs—it is a sacred marvel beyond words.” She coughed. “Do not be offended if we cannot take you; you are only here for one day.”

  “I will not.”

  “Your humble attitude is honor to your kin.” Then Lady Violet wrapped herself in a thin scented veil of sleep and spoke no more. Flora lay in the darkness, breathing in the divine nurturing perfume that held them like a tender embrace. She drew it deep into her body until she felt her abdomen soften and glow.

  THE NEXT MORNING the sun bell rang and the Queen’s fragrance rose strong and sweet as the ladies opened the doors to the Nursery. They called Flora to come with them and they entered the great chamber of Category One behind a dense veil of seclusion. They were now in the most sacred area of the hive, the Laying Room, row upon row of immaculate cribs empty and waiting for the Queen.

  The Queen’s scent rose high as she went into her birth trance. Her face shone brighter, her scent pulsed, and then, with a fast, graceful rhythm, she began swinging her magnificent long abdomen from side to side, each time sliding the tip deep within a crib. At the back of the Progress, carrying the water and cooling cloths, Flora saw the faint point of brightness remaining in the wax, where a tiny new egg adhered to the bottom. Each one glowed with soft gold light, then faded as the Queen moved on, her birth dance so hypnotically beautiful that Flora wanted to swing her own body in joy, but seeing that none of the other ladies danced but followed most demurely, she held her urge in check and did as they did.

  Six times she returned to the Queen’s Chambers for fresh water and pollen cakes before all the cribs were filled. The Laying Room was soft and bright with new life, the Queen stood proud and exhausted, and her ladies wept in delight.

  Back in the Queen’s Chambers, Lady Burnet directed Flora to clean and make ready the common areas while she and the other ladies took Her Majesty into her private sanctum to prepare her for rest. As Lady Violet closed the doors, Flora curtsied and gazed her last on Holy Mother, her heart filled with love and a tearing sadness that this day of beauty and wonder was over. With the greatest attention she swept and cleaned, knowing that when the doors opened again, she must leave.

  The ladies-in-waiting filed back out. Determined to show that a sanitation worker had manners, Flora pressed her knees straight and curtsied to Lady Burnet.

  “Thank you for all your—”

  “Oh, do not be so craven.” Lady Burnet had a strange look on her face. “Holy Mother has requested you attend her again.”

  “Me?” Flora looked around at all the ladies. None smiled.

  “You.” Lady Burnet spoke neutrally. “Do not linger, go at once.”

  THE QUEEN PARTED HER GOLDEN AURA when Flora entered and bade her sit close by. Then she drew it close again, so that Flora was wrapped in it with her.

  “I have not left the hive since my marriage flight. Now I only taste the world through food and drink and the stories of my library.” The Queen gazed through her golden veil, as if out upon the open sky. “Did they frighten you?”

  “Yes, Holy Mother, at first. Then I wanted to know more.”

  “They tell of our religion, and must be fed with attention. After my labors I have not strength to scent them myself, though my ladies do their best. The priestesses read them when they can, but in these strange times they are so busy with matters of governance that it is not their priority.” The Queen smiled. “Tales of the world, my daughter, of beauty and terror.”

  “Holy Mother, I will read them gladly—after the wasp I fear nothing.”

  The Queen’s laugh sent ripples of delight through Flora’s body, though she did not know how she had so amused her.

  “Let us see,” said the Queen. “The first three will be enough for you.”

  AND SO FLORA KEPT HER POSITION as attendant to the ladies-in-waiting for another day, fetching water and refreshments for them until the Queen had laid her thousand eggs and returned to her chambers—and then her second job began.

  While the ladies groomed each other and ate their supper and the Queen rested, Flora went to the Library. Without the anxiety of the other ladies around her, she was calm and could focus, and the intense energy of the chamber no longer overwhelmed her. In the still air she detected wisps and trails of the story fragrances as their living energy drew her attention and sought release—but this time she was determined not to lose control.

  Very carefully, Flora scented the first story panel. There it was, The Honeyflow in all its blossoming glory, the foragers calling to each other in the Old Tongue. As her mind absorbed the mellifluous language, she knew they spoke of the Myriad lurking in wait.

  Beside that was The Kindness, where a sister saw her own death by the hand of another. Then came the third, that honey-scented door to chaos—The Visitation, from which a filament of smoke curled out its invitation. Flora stepped back, and the smoke retreated. The Queen had said three panels were enough, but excitement coursed through her body. If the priestesses were too busy to read the last three panels, then surely it would be of benefit to the hive if she could perform that task.

  She looked at the last three panels. No tremors went through her antennae, nor did her feet drag forward without intention. The lilting singing of the ladies in the rest area beyond came through the walls, sweetly reassuring. Flora stepped up to the fourth panel, and the singing grew louder. A beautiful choral sound filled the chamber, the sound of ten thousand sisters singing one word that ebbed and flowed around the Library, as if they moved close beyond its walls. Flora could
not quite decipher it, and as she concentrated, the Library filled with the bright, busy smell of the Dance Hall—and a great pressure wave rolled through the chamber.

  Expiation! The choral blast of the word made Flora stagger. It echoed through the chamber and died away, and the scent of the Dance Hall faded.

  Flora shook herself, her blood racing. Though she did not understand the strange word or the scents, and the feeling in her body challenged her to flee, the Queen wanted her to know the stories, and Flora would not fail her.

  She moved on to the fifth and penultimate panel. At first glance it was very simple—just one carved leaf. As she looked more closely, it took on a golden hue and its filigreed veins pulsed energy that grew into a stalk, then a stem that stretched down the length of the panel and into the floor, its golden roots spreading all through the chamber and back up the walls until they met overhead. The heavenly smell of Holy Mother rose up strongly, mingled with the rich aromatic scent of pollen. Flora looked up and saw the roots had joined into a knot at the center point of the vaulted Library ceiling, which swelled into a crown-shaped fruit. It grew larger and larger, then burst apart in a shower of golden dust.

  The Library returned to normal—but a blow of sadness struck Flora in her heart as the name of the panel spoke in her mind. The Golden Leaf. Suddenly the beauty of the strange story was loathsome and Flora felt a terrible grief—but nothing had happened, nor was she hurt in any way. She stepped back from the fifth panel. It was deeply disturbing—and yet, even as Flora recoiled from the dark and twisting feeling that had risen in her heart, a little part of her mind whispered praise for her own endurance. She had read five stories! How pleased the Queen would be with her, and how wonderful to be able to help the busy priestesses!

  There was one last story. The sixth panel smelled inert, yet it held a powerful stillness. Cautiously, Flora focused on it. Nothing happened; no scent, no image, no sound came forth, but the air in the Library grew warm and close. From the center of the little panel blew a faint trace of fresh air. Feeling like she was suffocating, Flora could not help going closer.

  The Library vanished and she smelled the Nursery. One crib pulled her closer, huge and dark. Deep within it a baby cried in pain, and a cold wind howled. As Flora ran toward it the crib began to rattle and break apart. The baby cried louder, and as she leaned over the crib to see it, a twisting black comet screamed out of its depths and into her brain.

  FLORA CAME TO HER SENSES back in the ladies’ quarters, lying on a bed. She heard Lady Burnet and the others talking quietly—until they heard her sit up.

  “Such vanity,” Lady Burnet said, “such folly.”

  Flora stood up. Her body trembled, and she looked around in fear, but all was quiet.

  “Crawling out of there raving and ranting,” continued Lady Burnet. “Comets and cribs—I am sure Holy Mother said nothing about touching those panels—”

  “She did—” Flora’s voice was thin. “She wanted to know—”

  “Tales of terror and madness? You surely misunderstood Her Majesty, for only the priestesses may touch the Sacred Mysteries—why would she ever ask you, a sanitation worker? I think the wasp cost you your senses.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Flora’s heart filled with shame at her mistake. She had misunderstood the Queen, and been foolish and vain.

  “Despite that,” said Lady Burnet, “Holy Mother is ever-loving and forgiving, and has asked that you attend her.” She stood back, her face rigid with resentment.

  “Do not keep Her Majesty waiting.”

  THE QUEEN WAS RESTING on her couch in a shimmering golden aura, but she opened it to admit Flora, then closed it around them. Flora wanted to talk, to tell Holy Mother about her experiences in the Library, but each time she tried to speak, the greatest weariness took her tongue, and she felt tears rising.

  “Hush, little daughter,” the Queen said softly. “We heard that you read them all. We too once knew them, but it was many eggs ago, and we have forgotten.” She smiled and stroked Flora’s face. “You will recover.”

  Flora nestled against her wise and beautiful mother, breathing the healing fragrance of her Love deep into her body. It had changed—in the subtlest way, but distinctly. Something was new in its molecular structure, but just as Flora sniffed it deeper, the Queen twisted and gasped in pain.

  “Mother!” Flora leaped up. “What is it? Shall I call one of the ladies?”

  “No”—she gripped Flora’s arm and pulled her back—“no. Stay with me.”

  Pressed against the Queen, Flora felt another shudder pass through both their bodies. “Holy Mother, let me call them—”

  “No—” Pain clamped the Queen’s voice. “We need no assistance.” Then whatever seized her relaxed its hold, and she let go of Flora. She flexed her great abdomen and settled herself again. “Our Progress was normal today. We filled every crib with life, did we not?”

  Flora could not speak, for the reverberation of the Queen’s pain was still ebbing from her own body.

  “If we had missed one, our ladies would say—that is their job, but they did not, so all must be well.” Her Majesty took a deep breath. “It must be the cold. Has our hive been cold, daughter?”

  “Not to me, Holy Mother,” said Flora, “but they say my fur is so coarse my kin feels nothing.”

  The Queen smiled, and her scent flowed strong again.

  “All is well. But do not speak of this to anyone, do you understand?” She wrapped her fragrance around Flora’s antennae. “Promise me,” whispered the Queen.

  Enraptured, Flora nodded. “I promise . . .”

  The Queen kissed Flora’s head. “Go.”

  NONE OF THE LADIES looked up as Flora emerged from the Queen’s sanctum. As she sat down with them, those closest got up and moved. Lady Burnet’s face was neutral, but she stabbed her embroidery hoop with her golden needle.

  “Lady Burnet, forgive me if I have offended you—”

  “Me? Oh, no.” Lady Burnet smiled but her eyes were cold. “Your boldness does credit to a drone—but is simply out of place here.” The ladies heard footsteps in the passageway outside, then came a timid knock on the door.

  “Ah! Enter.” Lady Burnet rose.

  It was a very young sister also from Burnet, her fur already teased and styled like that of a lady-in-waiting. She curtsied perfectly to them all, antennae demure and downcast.

  “Flora 717,” announced Lady Burnet, “your time with the Queen has ended, and with it, all privilege of access. Leave now.”

  “Now? But Holy Mother will wonder—”

  “You flatter yourself. She will not. Now back to Sanitation where you belong.”

  FLORA WENT BLINDLY. The pain of Lady Burnet’s words, the humiliation of her sudden expulsion, and, most of all, the folly of imagining she had a permanent place serving the Queen in her chambers . . .

  She could not feel one pulsing foot-track, one scented code—all she was conscious of was the thinning of the scent of the Queen’s Love, weaker with every step she took away from her presence—and the dull ache in her belly that had started when the Queen gasped. It was stronger now, concentrating itself deep within her abdomen.

  Flora stopped. Holy Mother needed her. She needed to be cared for. She, Flora 717, should not have listened to Lady . . . Lady . . . All the names of the ladies-in-waiting slid from her mind. She tried to place them all, sitting on their chairs . . . but the memory blurred as she summoned it. The Library—the panels—the scent-stories Holy Mother had asked her to learn . . . everything faded to nothing, except the disturbing new sensation in her belly.

  Flora looked down at her body. Her legs were still striped with propolis, her fur still pomaded with curls and patterns. She had not imagined it; she had been taken there. She had met the Queen and been wrapped in her Love. Flora searched her body for any trace of that sweet scent, but it had completely vanished.

  She started to shiver. Sisters passed all around her, their antennae streaming with nonse
nse and gossip and instructions. Everything they said was meaningless and angered her, because all she craved was the Queen’s Love. Desperately, Flora began to groom herself, searching for some filament, any remnant of the blissful scent, but all she tasted was folly and vanity. To her relief she heard a bell, and then felt a faint vibration running through the ground.

  It signaled Devotion, the service she had not needed to attend for as long as she served the Queen. Flora spread her feet wide to locate the nearest place of worship. It came from directly beneath her, in the Dance Hall on the lowest level of the hive, where the power of a thousand sisters was already gathered. A crowd of workers poured past to get there in time. Empty and heartbroken from her expulsion, Flora ran to join them.

  Twelve

  THE MOOD OF THE SISTERS IN THE DANCE HALL WAS agitated. Flora was crowded wing to wing with sisters of every kin, and her mind and body clawed with the need for the Queen’s Love. Other bees were also anxious, and she heard many complaining of hunger. Still they waited. A few bees began to emit jerky little buzzes of fear as the divine pheromone level dropped, but others with more in their bodies touched them and hummed reassurance as they shared what little they had left. Then with a jolt the floor trembled, the vibration surged, and the scent of the Queen’s Love began to rise. Those sisters with room to move knelt down on the comb and wept in relief, while others lifted their heads to hum the Holy Chord. At the vibration in the comb and change in the air Flora pressed her six feet down into the wax, opened her spiracles, and drew the fragrance deep into her body.

  It had no effect.

  All around her, sisters were enraptured in a blissful state of union with the Queen, but Flora remained trapped in her own consciousness. She scanned the crowd. To her surprise she noticed several other sisters who, though they stood very still, remained alert to everything around them. Their bearing was calm, with an air of detachment. Flora stared a moment, then recognized them. They were foragers.