by Laline Paull
The Holy Chord faded, the vibration of sixty thousand feet resumed, and Flora ran down to the end of the passageway to check, her belly swelling with every step.
Invisible until she stood directly before it was a small, carved doorway and a tiny panel marked with a crown. Flora touched it and the door swung open. To her relief, she stood in the small, empty room she recognized, with the three doors.
She closed the door she had entered from. Another one led to the Nursery, and the third . . . was where the worn tiles ended. Flora went to listen at it. All was silent behind, and she opened it. She found herself on the landing of a staircase, tall and steep. From beneath rose the scent of the fresh air of the landing board, and from above, the scent of honey. Immediately, Flora knew where she was. This was the staircase she had used when she fled from Sir Linden, when the greedy drones had invaded the Fanning Hall. The air was still, as if it had been undisturbed for some time. She began to climb.
THE STAIRCASE ENDED at a small landing with one door. Beyond it, Flora could sense the corridor and the vibrations of sisters’ feet. She gasped at the pounding of her belly—the egg was coming. Warm wax began seeping from between her bands and flowed over her hands as she struggled to hold it back—to waste such a precious substance, to strive so hard to protect her egg, to think she could hide it—Flora beat her head against the wall in grief at her failure.
Very slowly, a section of wall swung around and Flora stood facing a dark open space. The egg began pushing its way out of Flora’s body and she managed to get inside and push the wall closed behind her. She sank down onto the ground and breathed the old still air in the chamber. Despite the pain, two scents instantly registered.
The first was the strong smell of honey, carried on vibrations from one of the walls. Flora opened her antennae to read them—and knew they were the movements of sisters, working in the Treasury beyond. The second scent was much fainter, old and dry and undisturbed by any living vibration.
Her egg trembled inside her and halted its passage. Feeling its fear, Flora turned to face whatever threat was there. Her distended abdomen left no space to slide her dagger, but she raised her claws and circled against the strange force in the chamber. The scent clarified into an infinitesimally small signal in the air. It was not trying to repel her—it was calling her.
Clenching her egg tight in her body, Flora followed it to its source. She stopped in shock. There, against the wall, was a sight so extraordinary that for a few seconds she felt no pain. Three tall cocoons stood anchored on a thick wax plinth, each one a long and faceted oval, intricately decorated. All bore small round holes in the lower section, but one also had a jagged rip across the top.
Flora drew in their scent, and screamed as the egg pulsed hard in response. Each cocoon was a coffin, and each held a long-dead Sage.
Flora’s egg began traveling through her again, fast and violent. She fell to the ground before the three sarcophagi, twisting in silence as her abdomen was forced apart. The egg slid from her body and the roaring air calmed. She could feel it, warm and alive and huge, resting against her. She curled around to hold it and her heart filled with love.
This egg glowed golden and smelled sweeter than Devotion. Flora felt her body wet with liquid wax and, quick and grateful, she brought it forth handful by handful, building up the roughest crib of sweet white wax directly in front of the three cocoons. Then she knelt and held her egg close, thrilling to its living vibration. Though slightly larger, it was the same shape as the first. Flora vowed that this time she would feed her little son everything he needed to grow strong—and discover what she must do to seal him for Holy Time.
My beloved egg—my wicked, blessed sin I love—
Never again would she forget herself in the field. She placed the egg tenderly in the rough crib.
“In three days,” she whispered to it, “I will hold you and feed you.”
Fearless from the power of birth, Flora rose to examine the strange cocoons. They reminded her of the grand decorated cells in the Drones’ Arrival Hall—but these were much larger and held no trace of male smell. Each one bore three or four small holes, positioned over where the occupant’s abdomen would be. When she sniffed at them, Flora’s own sting pulsed at the faintest trace of old dry venom—but they were all long dead. She climbed onto the plinth so she could see into the one with the hole at the top.
The barely formed face of a young Sage female stared back, dead before she was born. She would have been as big as the Queen herself, and almost as beautiful. One of her hands was raised, a fragment of wax caught in her juvenile claw. Flora climbed down. It was the living Sage she must worry about. She washed herself very carefully and let the tip of her abdomen fully contract. Then she slipped out the way she came, ready to rejoin the life of the hive.
Inside the chamber, under the sightless gaze of dead priestesses, her egg began to grow.
Twenty
FLORA STEPPED OUT ON THE LOWEST STORY OF THE HIVE to freezing-cold air blowing in from the landing board, and the battering of hail against the wooden hive. Thistle guards ran to push back the boulders of ice rolling in, and Flora joined the sisters running to help them. She felt completely disoriented, as if she had slept for a long time and missed the news of the hive, for judging by the rush of house bees toward the Dance Hall, a meeting had been called.
The smell of Sage priestesses came from within, and Flora pressed herself against other sanitation workers in the crush to share their kin-scent and mask any smell of her egg. In the center of the Dance Hall the massed choir of Sage priestesses hummed the Holy Chord until the vast harmonic drowned out the sound of the hail. Then they sent their silent will through the comb, in the voice of the Hive Mind.
In obedience, the bees formed themselves into concentric circles as if this were the Fanning Hall. Then the priestesses were lifted up by their own kin so that all could see them. Their wings were unlatched, their scent shimmered stronger, and their eyes were luminous. They spoke in their beautiful, low choral voice so that every sister heard them above the hail.
“We are the holy Melissae, born of the Queen’s kin, and guardians of the Hive Mind. The season is dark, the flowers have turned against us, and the air to flood and ice. Spores of evil growth enter on the damp wind and blight our chalices of nectar, and our Treasury shrinks faster than we can fill it. Holy Mother’s sacred work is halted, and the sins of Apathy, Despair, and Inertia settle on us like flies.”
The scent of the Sage rose stronger and the foragers stirred uneasily, for beneath it crept the heavy masking odor of the fertility police. Flora immediately sealed her antennae and drew her spiracles tight to withstand its domineering influence. Her instinct was to run, but that would be fatal, and if she died so would her—
She forced the secret thought back down and looked around her. Every sister’s antennae stood in fear, even the foragers’. They could not all be guilty—she must remain calm.
The priestesses scanned the chamber. Extending their elegant antennae to their full length, they absorbed information flaring from every fear-struck sister. Frightened little buzzes came from different areas of the crowd as the thick scent of the fertility police crept low and tight around their legs and feet to hold them fast. Flora did not resist it, even as waves of panic ran through the chamber from thousands of sisters. If they found her, then it was Holy Mother’s will she must die.
Holy Mother . . . To even think of the Queen was painful. Her kindness, her beauty, the way her loving touch had taken away Flora’s shame at her kin—
“We, the hive, are guilty of Sacrilege and Waste,” resumed the choral voice of the Sage priestesses. “Nectar in Fanning has been drunk without permission, foragers lost on the wing, and even mistakes made in the Nursery”—there was a gasp of shock at this—“because of errors in this very chamber.” The priestesses shimmered their wings to spread their scent.
“The Queen’s Love is carried by the Rule of Law, and we show our loyalty t
o Holy Mother through our trust in her priestesses, the Melissae. The season has grown hostile and bloom after bloom we have called it aberration, and waited for change. And now it comes in this rain of ice, and the meaning is clear: it is a judgment on our hive and a call to penance!”
The dark bees wove in from the edges, driving the crowd tighter.
“We have consulted the ancient codes in our Holy Mother’s Library,” continued the priestesses in their several voices, harsher now but still beautiful. “The Queen has reassured us of her Love, and we are permitted to celebrate our sisterhood with the Rite of Expiation.”
The silent bees stared back.
Expiation . . . Flora tried to think where she had heard that word before. Then it came to her—the fourth panel of the Queen’s Library. She wanted fresh air, she wanted to leave this chamber, but the choral voice of the Sage continued.
“The sacred act calls upon the sacrifice of love, one bee for her sisters, her Mother, her hive. Who here is old and near the end of her use? Who hides a weakness that may be illness, or has in any way sinned? To save your sisters and free our hive from this suffering, give yourselves now.”
No bee moved or spoke but kin-scents streaked with terror spiraled in the air. Flora saw the serene blind face of Sister Cyclamen, who had been so kind to her in the Chapel of Wax. Expiation. The old sister began to lift her hand.
“I will do it!” Flora called out loudly. “I will atone!”
THE CROWD TURNED and the focus of every Sage priestess locked onto her as she walked forward. Sisters shrank back, awed and frightened. Flora unlocked her antennae and felt a rush of relief. Only the Queen may breed—that was the truth, and to acknowledge it reunited her soul with her sisters. Gladly would she give her life for them, and win back honor with her death.
“I am Flora 717 and I—”
“And I will too!” called out another voice in the crowd.
“And I,” shouted another.
“I will die for Holy Mother—”
“I am of the spring, my time draws near, take me—”
One after another they called out.
“Let me—”
“I cling to life but I am old—”
“I am greedy—”
“I am weak—”
Sister after sister walked forward after Flora. The priestesses directed them all to stand in a group in the center. One walked around dividing them.
“Young, old. Old. Old. Old.” She stopped at Flora. “But you are very young.” She raked a claw through Flora’s fur. “Barely risen.”
Flora looked down at herself and saw it was true—her fur was thick and lustrous as if she were still just a young nurse. The priestess drew a slow claw under Flora’s abdomen and brought it out. A curled filament of wax hung from it. She smelled it. Flora waited for the blow, for though she had gained access to the chapel as a forager, none of her kin was permitted to work with this sacred substance.
“You still make wax—of course we cannot spare you. A noble gesture, but stand aside.” The priestess passed on, inspecting the volunteer bees.
Flora could not believe it—surely the priestess had smelled her guilt. Then she felt her antennae sealed tight again. She had done it unconsciously, and she knew why. Deep in her mind, her tiny egg shone pure and bright. It did not want to die, it did not want its mother to die—and they were still connected. Joy rushed through Flora’s body and she looked down at herself. It was true, she did look young again. Her fur rose thick and lustrous, her cuticle gleamed, her joints were supple. Very quietly she opened her wing-latches and sent her consciousness running down the four membranes. Each one was strong and supple and whole, with no trace of damage. The deep tear she knew had been there had healed.
Holy Mother’s youth restored with every egg. And she, a flora from Sanitation, was stealing the gift of life and youth and power from Holy Mother herself, bringing destruction and death on her hive.
“Do not spare me!” Flora shouted. “Let me die, destroy my sins!”
“Religious mania, 717.” In the group of the old selected volunteers, Sister Teasel stood watching her. “But I know you spoke first, and it was brave.” She plucked at her bald thorax as if the fur still grew. “It should have been me; it is up to the higher kin to set the standard.” She twisted her hands. “But I shall do it in death. Now hush, and let us pray in peace.”
The Sage priestesses bowed and addressed the ragged old group.
“Daughters of our Holy Mother, servants of our hive: do you willingly give your bodies and souls in the Rite of Expiation?”
The old bees nodded and held each other.
“We do,” some managed to say.
“Thank you, noble sisters. Then Accept, Obey, and Serve.”
“Accept, Obey, and Serve,” the old bees whispered.
The Sage priestesses brought the younger bees who had volunteered themselves to surround the older group.
“You shall lead the rite,” one of the Sage priestesses said to them, and then the Holy Chord rose up again. From the back of the Dance Hall the dark-slicked bees from the fertility police began driving the others forward. Then the chant began.
Blessed be the sister
Who takes away my sin.
Blessed be the sister—
The kin of Sage began it, but each kin group took it up in a round until the whole chamber resonated with the words and the words blurred into a low surging sound as the crowd pushed forward.
Flora felt the weight of a thousand sisters against her back. All around them were gasps and cries as old sisters went down under the force of the crowd and the chant grew louder.
Blessed be the sister— Her antennae roared with the overlapping words as her feet were forced forward. Fertility is Life itself. The thought made her stumble but she dug her hooks into the wax and felt the strength powering down her six legs. I am fertile. Blood rushed into her wing-veins and she longed to spread them on the air. She must get back within three days to watch her egg hatch—
Her body slammed hard against one of the old bees—and she looked straight into the terrified face of Sister Teasel.
Blessed be the sister—
Who takes away my sin—
“Holy Mother forgive my fear!” Sister Teasel clung to Flora and pressed her antennae tight against hers. Flora cried out in shock but it was too late. The scent and the feel and the love she felt for her beautiful egg rushed into Sister Teasel’s mind. The old sister recoiled.
“You! You are the laying worker!” Sister Teasel struggled for footing in the hardening crush. “Here!” she screamed out. “Here is the heretic—”
Flora kicked her legs out from under her but Sister Teasel only staggered. She clawed at Flora’s face and pumped her alarm glands wildly.
“She sins again! Kill her egg!”
The waves of the chant rolled louder above them as Flora pushed Sister Teasel down onto the throbbing comb and broke her neck.
Blessed be the sister
Who takes away our sins . . .
Flora stood up, her kin-scent pumping hard. All around the Dance Hall the sisters pushed forward, moving the dead into a pile of frail old bodies in the center. Sister Teasel’s body disappeared under others.
Blessed be the sisters—sang the beautiful chorus of the Sage.
Who take away our sin.
Our Mother, who art in labor . . .
“Hallowed be Thy womb,” joined in all the other bees. As they spoke the ancient words of the Queen’s Prayer together, the vibration in the comb changed, and the fragrance of Devotion began to flow.
Many bees wept at the sight of the old dead sisters, and kin comforted kin, but all kept breathing deeply of the Queen’s Love, calming themselves with its purity and strength. Flora spoke the words and closed her antennae tight. They were bruised from Sister Teasel’s attack, but she was alive, and so was her secret.
“Amen,” she said, with all her sisters.
They stood in silence
, the pressure eased. The only sound was a blackbird’s song, far out in the orchard. The hail had stopped.
The Sage priestesses raised their arms in triumph and the bees cheered and wept in joy, their terror forgotten. With a fine fierce sound the foragers unlatched their wings and the house bees cheered them on as they ran for the landing board, bright and steaming as the clouds released the sun.
Twenty-One
SHOCKED AT HER OWN ACT, FLORA WAS AMONG THE FIRST out. A rising front from the south wiped the last shred of gray from the sky and below her spread the great plain of different greens, pushed together in crude four-sided shapes as if by some primitive insect ignorant of the beauty of the hexagon. In the distance where once had shone the field of golden rapeseed, two great machines toiled away at the soil. Flora flexed a wing-tip and veered away from the smell.
She had offered herself up, but she had not been taken. She was fertile, yet still alive. For whatever reason, it had not been Holy Mother’s will that she die—otherwise her confession would have been heard. Instead, a Sage priestess had passed her to the side of the living, and Sister Teasel to the dying.
Flora tucked her antennae sleek down her back as she increased her speed. Never again would she leave her channels open in the hive for any bee to grab and read. Sister Teasel was old and could no longer work efficiently—but Flora’s wings beat with a new strength. She felt she could fly a hundred leagues to serve her hive, and the sky streamed with all the scents rising from the wet earth—including mesmerizingly delicious nectar. Flora locked onto it.