The Beekeeper's Secret

by Josephine Moon

  Through her face net, Tansy watched Maria’s face soften into an affectionate smile. ‘Busy girls today,’ she said. ‘There must be some good food out there.’ She pointed to the bottom box. ‘That’s the brood box. That’s where the queen is and where she’s busy laying fifteen hundred eggs every day.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred?’

  ‘Every day of her life for as long as she lives, which is two to three years. She only mates once in her whole life. She leaves the box at around three weeks of age and flies kilometres up into the sky and circles around until the drones from other hives, not her own, come to find her. She keeps flying while the weaker drones drop from exhaustion and then she mates with the strongest ones.’ Maria paused, saving the best for last. ‘Then she rips off their penises and keeps them inside her for the rest of her life.’

  Tansy blanched. ‘Jeez, that’s brutal.’

  Maria nodded. ‘A bee’s life is brutal. The workers literally work themselves to death, falling to the ground when their wings are shredded from overuse. The drones—the boys—are there solely for the chance to mate, and a queen only mates once in her lifetime. So the vast majority of drones never do a single thing. The worker bees will regularly toss them out of the hive, after first stripping them of their wings so they can’t come back home. They starve to death on the ground or are taken by predators.’

  Tansy was disturbed. Here she was thinking bees just pottered about in flowers and made delightful honey, when in reality they were kamikaze warriors with no qualms about their own fate or about killing their own kind to preserve the hive.

  Maria lifted a large square of wood from the roof of the hive, which sheltered it from rain and sun. Then she continued her grisly account. ‘The potential queen babies kill each other, until there’s only one left, and when the ruling queen’s too old and the hive thinks she’s not fertile enough they’ll toss her out too so they can raise a new one. A worker bee lives just a couple of months, will make thousands of visits to flowers, will clean and feed and nurture and communicate and defend, and make just a couple of drops of honey before she dies.’

  ‘That’s depressing.’

  ‘They work to serve, sacrificing everything, including themselves, in the process.’

  ‘Like nuns,’ Tansy observed.

  Maria grunted. ‘There are a lot of similarities.’ She pulled out the smoke tin and stuffed the dry grass down into the bottom, picked up the long barbecue lighter and clicked the button a few times until a flame appeared at the tip, then dipped it into the middle of the nest of grass until it caught. Smoke curled up out of the top before she flipped on the lid, puffed the bellows a few times to get it going, and let it smoulder.

  She worked the edge of her J-knife under the lid of the upper box, cracking through a dark brown glue-like substance. ‘That’s propolis,’ she explained. ‘The bees use it to seal their home, fortifying it against pests and attack. If any intruders die inside the hive, the bees encase them in propolis because it prevents the decomposition of bodies, which might contaminate the hive. It’s tremendously good for you, full of antibiotics, and heals wounds and ulcers. It can turn hard as cement, though, and make it difficult to access the hive.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered why they don’t use honey more in hospitals,’ Tansy said.

  ‘Politics, no doubt. Honey is the only food in the world that never goes off, because it is packed full of antibiotics and living enzymes. Manuka honey is sold for such a high price these days because of its medicinal value.’

  ‘Sounds like we should be stockpiling it,’ Tansy said. ‘Maybe we should all be building cellars and storing it like valuable wine, if it never goes off.’

  ‘In case of apocalypse, after all the bees are gone,’ Maria puffed, working hard to prise the lid off the top of the hive. ‘I’ve thought about it.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Briefly. Though it’s too sad a thought to dwell on for long. New Zealand has fallen victim to varroa mite and the results have been catastrophic for the bees. Australia can’t be far behind.’

  The lid cracked open and sticky brown propolis stretched between the edges as Maria worked them apart. Inside the hive, Tansy could see ten wooden rows—the edges of the frames. Two black metal trays lay between a couple of the frames. Bees moved everywhere, crawling over the wood, up from the hidden depths of the box, diving down between the frames, taking off for flight, and scurrying around in concern at the disturbance to their home.

  Maria took the smoker and puffed the bellows once or twice so smoke billowed over the box and the bees. ‘I don’t normally use much smoke,’ she said. ‘It makes the bees think a bushfire is coming and causes them to panic eat. It keeps them busy, not calm, as many people think. I don’t think it’s fair to keep stressing and tricking them.’

  ‘Crying wolf,’ Tansy said.

  ‘Exactly. And it makes the honey taste slightly smoky too. Sometimes I start with a little bit of smoke and then follow up with a spray of water later to distract them. But since you’re here today, I don’t want to take any chances.’

  Maria took each end of one rectangular frame and lifted it up into the light to examine the ready-made wax template. Around half of the sheet’s hexagonal units had been filled. Maria pointed out the cells containing red, orange and brown pollen, which had been stored for future use. Other cells had a solid amber-coloured surface. That was the capped honey, waiting for harvest.

  ‘What are those for?’ Tansy asked, pointing to the metal trays lying between the frames.

  ‘They’re traps for small hive beetle,’ Maria said, disgust in her voice. ‘It’s an introduced pest—it’s been in Australia for about fifteen years—and it can wipe out a hive. We didn’t have them when I first started beekeeping but we’re stuck with them now. The bees have no defences against them. But all hives have them now, so it’s a matter of managing them.’ She lifted up the long metal grille of the trap to reveal a similarly long tube beneath it, like a pit into which the beetles fell, filled with liquid. ‘We put vegetable oil in there to entice them in and they drown. It’s one of the maintenance things we have to do and why we have to keep checking the hives.’

  Just then, Tansy spied a small black beetle running on the outside of the hive. ‘Is that one?’ She pointed to it.

  ‘Sadly, yes.’ Maria, one hand holding the frame, used the other to squash the beetle with the J-knife. ‘This is a good, healthy frame but it’s not ready to harvest,’ she said. ‘We don’t take a frame until it’s full of honey.’ She lowered it back into the box and lifted out another frame, which had even less honey in it. ‘Let’s check the next box down.’

  She put the lid back on the first box, heaved it up with a small grunt, and placed it on the ground. The box underneath was also crawling with active bees, far too interested in their work to be wondering what Maria and Tansy were doing. This box was topped with a metal grille.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s a queen excluder. It makes sure the queen stays down below. That way, when we’re moving boxes around to harvest frames and honey, we won’t accidentally squash and kill her. The spaces in the grate are big enough for the other bees to move through, so they can go anywhere in the three layers of the hive, but the queen is bigger and can’t fit through. Most beekeepers put their queen excluder on the bottom box, trapping her in that one, but I’m interested in keeping a happy hive so I let her move through two boxes. I think if she’s got more room to move she’s more content, and a happy queen means a happy hive.

  ‘You’ll know when a hive’s unhappy. The buzzing will change from a gentle, soothing drone to a louder, angrier noise. They’ll start dive-bombing you and climbing all over you.’ She pointed at Tansy’s suit. ‘Not a single one has touched you yet.’

  ‘No, I feel quite safe,’ Tansy said.

  Maria removed the queen excluder and pulled out a frame from within. This one had two long amber-coloured extensions hanging off an edge, somewhat like a w
rinkly peanut shell.

  ‘They’re queen cells,’ Maria said, excited. ‘And look, that one’s hatched.’ The end of the cell had been chewed open. ‘This other one’s not far off.’

  ‘So what happens to the queens?’

  ‘They will fight it out, leaving just one.’

  ‘Poor things.’

  Maria replaced that frame and began to work her knife under the propolis to lift another, but the bees’ noise escalated, their calm flight paths beginning to fracture into shorter, sharper turns.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Maria said, clucking to them. ‘I just want to have a look.’ There was little honey on that frame either, so Maria put it back and replaced the queen excluder on top of the box. ‘I think we’ll leave this hive for today. There’s not enough honey for us to harvest—in general, I like to leave at least four full frames of honey for them, because it’s their food, keeping them alive, and the bees are busy stockpiling for winter right now. But we know the hive is healthy and busy. We’ll check this one again in two weeks’ time to see what’s going on. Sometimes we have a late flush of flowers and a windfall of honey at this time of year. And then I’ll refill those beetle traps and make sure everything is as it should be. It’s not worth upsetting them further now.’

  Tansy helped Maria pick up the top box, surprised at its weight even without full frames of honey, and they gently put the whole hive back together again. The bees calmed down, their buzzing lowering to an amiable working hum once more.

  The women retraced their steps, leaving the small clearing and the bees in peace, and wandered in comfortable silence back through the vegetable garden and past the many rows of lavender, low on flowers at this time of year.

  ‘Bees just love lavender,’ Maria said, pulling off a rubber glove and picking a sprig to crush and smell. ‘In general, they’ll go for flowers that are purple and deep blue and bright yellow before they go to others.’

  ‘So they’d love sunflowers then,’ Tansy said.

  ‘They certainly do. We need everyone to grow lavender and sunflowers to help support the bees.’

  ‘I love sunflowers too. I can’t even think of them without smiling. They just radiate hope. Do you know they used them to help clean up radioactive waste in Japan after the Fukushima disaster?’ Tansy said, excited.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Sunflowers transform some of the contaminants in the soil by taking it up into their bodies, and then the people harvest them and dispose of them.’

  Maria shook her head, marvelling. ‘I never stop learning about nature. Just when I think it can’t get more amazing, it does.’

  A couple of black chooks scooted past them in a spray of clucking and flapping, chasing some sort of moth on the breeze. Outside her cabin, Maria turned around. ‘Are there any bees on my back?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Me?’ Tansy did the same, holding out her arms for inspection as she twirled.

  ‘No, you’re clear.’

  They took off their protective gear, Maria escaping from hers much faster than Tansy, who had at least twice as many layers to remove. It was a relief to be free of the heavy, hot material, the sweat on her skin evaporating as soon as it was uncovered. Maria’s face was red from the effort.

  ‘How do you do that in summer?’ Tansy asked.

  ‘I guess I’m used to it. Probably helps that I joined the convent before the Vatican II council and therefore spent years in the full-length heavy robes before the changes came in. You just learn to live with it. Learn to ignore it. If there’s one thing the convent teaches you it’s how to develop mental toughness.’ Maria ran her hand roughly through her short curly grey hair, which had been flattened by the bee hat. She folded up the white suits, jackets, hats, nets and gloves and tucked them under her arm. ‘Right, then. We better put the kettle on.’

  Inside the dark, cool cabin, the honey bath bombs cluttered the bench. The women had pulled apart clear Christmas baubles to use as moulds, poured in the mixture, and then taped them together while the bombs set. Nearby lay strands of pre-cut red and white twine ready to truss the bombs once they were removed from the moulds.

  Maria moved past them but froze at the stove. ‘What is it?’ Tansy said, flopping into a chair. She watched as Maria reached out a hand, slowly, and picked up a white envelope that was sitting on the stovetop.

  Keeping her back to Tansy, Maria turned over the envelope. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s blank,’ she said, her voice faint. And there was something in the way she was standing, holding that envelope stiffly, that shot a bolt of fear through Tansy’s heart.

  She stood and went to her aunt’s side. ‘Are you going to open it?’

  Maria didn’t answer her.

  ‘Do you know who it’s from?’

  Maria passed the envelope to Tansy, her face white. ‘You do it. You open it,’ she said. Then she began to pace the room. ‘Tell me what it says.’

  Tansy felt nauseous suddenly, infected by the waves of anxiety emanating from Maria. She slid her finger under the corner of the envelope and ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper with just one handwritten word. She read the word to herself. And read it again. And looked up at Maria, staring at her, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  Maria stopped her pacing but kept wringing her hands. ‘Well? What does it say?’

  Silently, Tansy held the paper out to her.

  Murderer.

  21

  ‘Where did this come from?’ Tansy asked nervously, looking over her shoulder and peering out the windows. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Maria said calmly. Too calmly, she realised. Like a person who’d just looked down to see that they’d stepped in a steel-jaw trap and had blood gushing from the wound. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s clearly not fine,’ Tansy said, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. ‘We had a cup of tea right here before we left and this envelope wasn’t there. Someone’s been here.’ Her eyes widened. ‘They could still be here,’ she whispered, grabbing Maria’s arm.

  Maria’s own fear had passed and she was back in control. ‘Stay calm,’ she said.

  But a well-placed footstep on the linoleum floor made them both jump and spin around. Maria yelped. Tansy whimpered.

  A tall, broad man stalked out from the hallway, moving straight towards them. Maria staggered back and fell, hitting her right buttock hard on the floor. The man took three confident strides and towered over her.

  He was dressed head to toe in black, save for a small white square showing at his neck. He wore glasses. His hair was grey and receding. And his cheeks were papery, like the ageing man he was. ‘I’m afraid you caught me taking a snoop around your little dwelling,’ he said, oozing disdain.

  It had taken her only a split second to recognise him. ‘You,’ she said, from her position on the floor.

  ‘Maria,’ he said evenly, his gaze unwavering, steady. Cold.

  Tansy crept forward to help Maria to her feet, her eyes on the intruder. Maria clambered up with some difficulty, her legs wobbly, but straightened herself as best she could, while Tansy steadied her from behind. She tilted her head back to look up into the man’s speckled green eyes.

  ‘Long time no see.’ She continued to face him, but turned her head slightly to speak over her shoulder to Tansy. ‘Would you wait outside?’ she said.

  There was silence from behind her. Ian’s eyes were still focused on Maria, not even deigning to register Tansy’s presence, and Maria didn’t take her gaze off him either. ‘Tansy? Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tansy replied weakly. ‘I heard you.’ But instead of leaving, she stepped forward to stand at Maria’s shoulder. Maria could sense the trembling in her niece’s body. She knew she should order her to leave; but she couldn’t. Tansy’s presence, standing side by side with her in this moment, filled her with such a surge of confidence, and something else . . . what was it?

  Peace. That was it. Tansy being there gave her peace
.

  Maria spread her hands out in front of her in a cocky gesture to let Ian know that he had them both to deal with now.

  ‘I don’t care about her,’ he said, still looking at Maria.

  Maria barked out frustrated, angry laughter. ‘Of course you don’t care. You didn’t care then, why would you care now?’

  They eyed each other silently for a moment.

  ‘Actually,’ Maria went on, ‘I have no interest in talking to you. I’ve no interest in anything you have to say. Your two little messages, your pathetic attempts to scare me into submission once again, were wasted.’ She looked him up and down, taking in the formal black robes—clearly he intended to remind her of the past, to intimidate her, to establish his authority over her once more.

  She shot him her most withering look. ‘I demand that you leave my house, right now.’

  His turn to cast her a contemptuous glance. ‘Your house?’ He raised a bushy eyebrow and took in the meagreness of the pint-sized building she called home, with its few humble pieces of furniture. ‘But it’s not your house, is it?’ he went on. ‘In fact, you don’t have anything to call your own. You left your family, your order, the church and God.’

  ‘I never left God.’

  ‘No? I doubt God would see it that way,’ he said quietly, with deafening menace.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tansy said, her hand reaching for the mobile phone in her pocket. ‘Should I call the police?’ she whispered.

  Archbishop Ian Tully turned his gaze to her then, so swiftly and fiercely that Tansy stepped backwards, clutching her phone to her chest. ‘The police? Now that would be interesting, wouldn’t it, Maria?’ He slid his eyes back to her.

  ‘I have no problem with that,’ she said, pleased her voice remained steady and didn’t betray her; while she was prepared to live with the consequences of her actions, Michaela’s charity needed her, and she didn’t want to let them down. But she couldn’t allow him to know where her weakness lay. ‘In fact,’ she said, turning to Tansy, ‘yes, do call the police. Let’s have them come and meet the man who’s been threatening me.’