The Honey Farm

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The Honey Farm Page 16

by Harriet Alida Lye


  “Of course.” Cynthia presses her hands to the tops of her thighs as she stands up, looks between Ibrahim and Silvia, and walks away with the slowness belonging to only the most confident people.

  Ibrahim looks at Silvia and she’s not sure how to read his expression. Confusion, rejection, anxiety. “This was your idea,” he says, once Cynthia is out of earshot.

  “I know,” she says, and she does feel guilty for that. “But you’ll be amazing whether I come or not, right? And it’s probably good that I put in some time doing bonus work.”

  “So you’re doing it?” he asks, baffled by how quickly the situation has pivoted.

  Silvia shrugs. “I think I have to.” She is apologetic without apologizing. Though her feelings are not uncomplicated, underneath it all is delight, as ever, at being the chosen one. She stands, pushing her chair back, and picks up her not-quite-empty cereal bowl. “I won’t say good luck, so break a leg!” She is too shy to kiss him in public.

  Never having heard this expression, Ibrahim registers nothing. Ben and Dan have to explain what it means after she leaves. Silvia finds this hopelessly adorable when he tells her later.

  SILVIA KNOCKS on the door to the honey house.

  “Silvia. Perfect,” Cynthia holds the door open as Silvia walks in, tentatively. “Thank you for staying.”

  “Sure.”

  “No, I really appreciate it.”

  Silvia looks around the room. It’s plain wood, like the bedrooms, and lined with shelves that are full of things: bottles, Mason jars, papers, pipettes, Tupperware boxes. Some of the vessels are full, but most are empty. There are cupboards and filing cabinets, all of which are closed. Despite the dirt floor, everything is so organized it’s practically sterile. It could be a hospital hut from M*A*S*H: makeshift and brushed tidy. She wonders what it must have looked like before, when Cynthia wouldn’t let her in.

  Cynthia continues, speaking confidentially now: “I need your help with harvesting the royal jelly.” She explains that this, the food that transforms any ordinary bee into a queen, “is one of the most profitable things an apiary can produce. But”—she eyes Silvia up and down—“please don’t tell anyone about today. I don’t want it getting to Hartford. It upsets him.” She looks at Silvia meaningfully.

  “Royal jelly can be sold for up to thirty-two dollars an ounce, wholesale—honey is sold for between one and three dollars an ounce, for comparison.” She continues, using terms like profit margin, bandwagon, placebo effect. “You start by encouraging the hive to produce its own queens.” She shows Silvia the special frames—longer, deeper than normal cells. “The nurse bees feed all the larvae in these cells the royal jelly, and we harvest it before the bees fully develop.”

  Silvia watches as Cynthia takes out some plastic tubes from a cupboard under the sink.

  “Every bee in a hive gets fed some of this during its incubation. But the ones that will be queens never stop. They consume it exclusively. That’s what makes them queens.”

  Cynthia has set up a special hive behind the garage to fill with the victim queens. “So this hive will produce exclusively royal jelly.”

  “But how do they make it?”

  “Make what?”

  “Sorry, how do the bees make the royal jelly?”

  “They secrete it from their glands.”

  Silvia’s face registers the appropriate disgust.

  “Here.” Cynthia brings up the frame she’d placed on the countertop to show Silvia. “To harvest it, the queen larvae must be removed before they have the chance to fully develop but after their cells have been injected with the maximum capacity of royal jelly. It’s vital to find the precise moment. You use a long thin wooden spoon, like this”—she reaches for the spoon to show Silvia—“to remove the larvae, and then a syringe to suck up the jelly.”

  “Where do we put them?” Silvia asks.

  “Put what?”

  “All the baby queens.”

  “Oh. We won’t need them beyond this stage.”

  Silvia shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. She tries to imagine light engulfing her. In a past life she would have called this a prayer.

  To produce a kilogram of royal jelly, two thousand queen cells must be emptied. Sacrificed, Silvia thinks. Cynthia will do the removal with the spoon and then hand the frame over to Silvia, armed with a syringe to mine the honeycomb.

  The comb is the burnished colour of graham crackers, chanterelle mushrooms—the same colour as Ibrahim’s skin. Each hexagon is perfect. It’s impossible to imagine these being built by bees, impossible to understand their organic symmetry.

  “I loved your book, by the way,” Silvia says as Cynthia prepares the supplies.

  “Did you? That’s nice of you to say.”

  “No, really, I loved it. Did you write it here? There’s something about it that feels very much . . . I don’t know how to say it, but almost, well, of this place.”

  “I did write it here, yes. Thank you.”

  “You’re the first poet I’ve ever met. All my parents’ friends are real estate agents or dentists.”

  “Well,” Cynthia replies, smiling, “everyone needs a home and good teeth.”

  Then the memory of a thought comes to Silvia. “Who’s Leila?”

  Cynthia stops humming. She puts down the thin spoon and tray of honeycomb she was holding and looks at them.

  “The dedication in your book—I just noticed and wond—”

  “Right. My daughter. Our daughter.”

  “Oh.” This wasn’t what Silvia was expecting. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  “Hilary took her away.”

  “When?”

  “Just a few months after Leila was born. Hilary left to be with Tom, a friend of ours. The baby’s biological father, actually. We’d asked him to donate his sperm and then Hilary left me for him. Ironic, isn’t it?” She smiles.

  “That must have been terrible,” Silvia says. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine.”

  Cynthia picks up a honeycomb and coughs to clear her throat. “It was difficult. She was quite unstable at the end. Anyway, what about you? Was it what you expected?” Cynthia licks her lips. “Here, I mean.”

  Suddenly Silvia has that feeling of the iceberg approaching. She tries to think about what it was that she expected and then realises that she hadn’t thought that far, where practical plans intersect with prospective futures. “I guess so. I don’t know what I expected. But I do like it here, so much.”

  “Good. And you’re finding it inspiring? Are you getting lots of writing done?”

  “Oh, well—no. Not really. Not at all, actually. I don’t know where to start, I guess.”

  “Well, if you ever want to sit down and discuss your work, I’d be happy to, Silvia. I think you have a lot to say. You just need to let it out.”

  “Really?” Silvia puts down the honeycomb she’s been idly holding.

  “Of course.”

  It’s then understood that it’s time to get back to the work at hand; Cynthia puts her hands on the high countertop work station, and Silvia follows her lead.

  “First I’ll take these out.” Cynthia deftly manoeuvres the unvarnished wooden tool and flicks the little white globules—they look like snots—off into a plastic bag hanging from the counter. Ten cells are emptied quickly. “You have the syringe?”

  Silvia nods, then takes the small frame of cleaned-out comb. She sticks the pipette down to the bottom of a cell, squeezes the black rubber nipple dropper, and sucks up the mucous-coloured gunk.

  “Perfect, just like that,” Cynthia says. “Do you want to try it?”

  “Try what?” She thought she was doing it.

  “Taste it. The jelly. Here—”

  Cynthia’s got her finger right in front of Silvia’s face before she’s made a decision. Reflexively, she opens her mouth. A hard fingertip along her arched tongue, and a sour, sickly taste of sweet creamy vinegar.

  “What do you think?” Cyn
thia asks, grinning, as she extricates her finger.

  Silvia coughs. “I . . .” She swallows. “It’s weird.”

  “People love weird.” Cynthia laughs. “So, are you planning to stay for a while?” Cynthia turns back to work on a new honeycomb. “I mean, you can. You and Ibrahim, you two can stay. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like.”

  “Oh,” Silvia says, her head catching up to this. How long has Cynthia known about them?

  Cynthia continues: “I know you’re from out east, and if I remember correctly, Ibrahim lives with his family in Toronto. Logistically, if you want to stay here for a while, find your feet together—”

  “That’s very nice of you to offer,” Silvia says.

  “I’d enjoy having you around,” Cynthia says. “It would be nice—you know, calmer. Without all the others around all the time. And you’d be able to get more work done after the work of the harvest season is through.”

  “We haven’t really thought about that stuff yet—I mean, we don’t really have plans yet. I don’t even know if he . . . but, yeah, I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “There’s no rush, Silvia. I just thought I’d plant the seed.”

  After this they work in silence.

  AN HOUR or so passes, and after emptying what feels like hundreds of trays of honeycomb, they’re left with a mustard jar filled only a quarter of the way—about the amount of an egg yolk but paler, more viscous.

  Cynthia holds it up to the light. “Perfect. That’ll be enough for now.”

  “Okay,” Silvia says, wiping her hands on her jeans though there is nothing to wipe away. It will still be several hours before the others return from the market.

  The two women are not sure how to acknowledge each other and this new thing between them. Cynthia nods; Silvia looks at her feet.

  Silvia is about to leave, but then, turning on her thoughts, she says, “I was going to make some tea. Do you want some tea?”

  “Tea?” Cynthia replies, baffled. “No, no.”

  OUTSIDE THE HONEY HOUSE, Silvia finds a plastic grocery bag on the ground. Opening the bag, she sees the minuscule translucent bodies of queen foetuses. Gelatinous white, like aliens with their big eyes. Hundreds of them. No, thousands. She suppresses the need to retch until she gets inside the house, skips the kitchen and the tea, and heads straight to the bathroom.

  L

  FEELING UNSETTLED, as though she’s just seen something she shouldn’t have—some elemental fibre of the universe—Silvia goes to her room, thinking she’ll try to write. Ibrahim had talked about material, and he was right—there is plenty of material here, but Silvia can’t make sense of it so as to create anything logical, let alone meaningful. It’s all just fabric, everything flat, everything equal.

  Bees. Queens. Dead babies. Their tiny see-through brains and their unformed, cold hearts.

  No.

  She closes her eyes. When she opens them the page is still blank. She opens up Cynthia’s book and turns to the poem about Leila. “Mine.” Does it feel different now, knowing the context? There is no giveaway that indicates the poem is about a baby, let alone Cynthia’s baby, but as she reads it again—she reads it three times now—the sharp hurt of loss comes through.

  She hears a sound coming from outside and gets up off the bed to look out the window. Hartford’s car bumps over the rocky driveway, and a few seconds afterwards the shadows of bodies follow behind it.

  They’re back.

  She hurries down the stairs, nervous; she hopes, as though the hope is her own, that Ibrahim will be happy with how the market went.

  At the bottom of the stairs she finds Cynthia waiting, arms crossed. “Get some writing done?” she asks Silvia, her voice chirpy, chitchatty.

  “Mmm.” Silvia slips down to the ground floor as Ben and Dan burst through the door.

  “We sold all the honey!” Ben cries, carrying the folded-up banner Hartford made that says HONEY—MIEL in delicate cursive writing.

  “And Ibrahim nearly sold the portrait of Silvia for five thousand bucks to this lady in Crocs!” Dan adds.

  “Sucker,” Ben says loudly, making sure Ibrahim hears as he walks in, trailing the others.

  “Thanks. But she didn’t buy it, so I guess that makes me the sucker.”

  Silvia looks at him, wanting to go over, but Cynthia is in the way. She’s trying to detect any indicators that will point to what mood he’s in. She can’t tell.

  “Well, she was gonna,” Ben says, feeling a little bad now. “Maybe she still will.”

  Then Cynthia speaks. “Would you sell the painting to me, Ibrahim?”

  There’s an instant, onomatopoeic hush. Everyone in the group looks at Ibrahim, who’s carrying his canvases with his back-bungee system.

  “Really?” Ibrahim asks, thunderstruck.

  “I should buy some of your work while I can still afford it.” Cynthia chuckles. “You certainly are a rising star!”

  “Well, I mean, yeah, if you want to—that would be great,” he stutters.

  “You should be able to afford it with all the profit you’ve made off our slave labour,” Dan says, muttering loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  Cynthia only smiles magnanimously, staring at the group until they start to walk, one by one, up the stairs to their rooms. When only Silvia and Ibrahim remain, Cynthia goes over to Ibrahim.

  “I’m glad you’re so productive here, Ibrahim.”

  He nods, looking at Silvia.

  “I wondered if you would both want to stay longer,” Cynthia continues, “through the fall. There’d be even more time for your painting, and—”

  “Wow!” Ibrahim cries, not returning Silvia’s meaningful stare. “That’d be great!” Then, finally turning to Silvia, he says, “That’s so generous, isn’t it? I’m sure we’d love that!”

  Silvia doesn’t respond—she just lets herself be taken into a sideways hug and looks at Cynthia.

  “Wonderful,” Cynthia says. “Good night, you two.” And she’s gone.

  LI

  “I DON’T GET why you’re so upset,” Ibrahim says. He and Silvia are on opposite sides of her room, trying to keep their voices down. “I mean, we’re living in her house—she would have found out we were together eventually.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me if I was okay with staying before you—”

  “Are you not okay? I thought you liked it here.”

  “Yes I like it, but maybe I had other plans, other things to do in the fall! And maybe I like it for now but not forever!”

  “Oh. Well, do you?” Ibrahim sits on the mattress. “Have other plans?”

  “That’s not the point.” She looks down at him but does not join him. “Cynthia asked me if we wanted to stay when we were working this afternoon, and I said I wanted to talk to you about it. You know, because people have to talk about these things.”

  He sighs an elaborate sigh.

  “Ibrahim, please. I didn’t know if you wanted to stay here, with me, whether that’s something that’s on the table, and—”

  “What? Are you saying you don’t know whether I want to be with you? Have I not made that clear? I think you’re the best. The fantasticest.” He kisses her loudly over her ear. “Plus, we haven’t committed to anything. We can always leave with the others if we want to. We can leave whenever.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want,” she says.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks, trying very hard to be patient.

  “I don’t know what I want.” She finally sits down.

  “How were things with Cynthia this afternoon?” He is eager to find a change of subject, unaware that this subject will only narrow his path further.

  “Fine.” She brushes him off. “No, not fine. It was weird. We had to kill all these baby queens to get their royal jelly. It was like we had to abort all these alien pregnancies. And she made me try the royal jelly too, and it tasted . . . like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.”

  “Oh.” H
e doesn’t know what to say. “I’ve heard of royal jelly. It’s pretty expensive, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and I guess it’s ’cause you have to murder for it.” She’s upset, she knows she’s more upset than she should be, but she can’t rein herself in.

  “And did you get any writing done afterwards?” He tries another subject.

  “Ibrahim, honestly, there’s no need to ask me that. Ever. I did not get any writing done. I never do. That’s always the answer—no, so there, you never need to ask it again.” She stands up but doesn’t go anywhere. She has nowhere to go.

  “Silvia, hey, come on, what’s the matter?”

  “Sorry.” She doesn’t look at him. “I don’t know what’s got into me.” She has that feeling in her gut that you get when you’re walking down stairs and miss a step. “I just feel exhausted.”

  “It’s okay, it’s fine. Come here.” He takes her in his arms and brings her down to his level. Her ears rest right between his collarbones. “I just don’t want you to forget that I think you can do it. I think you can do whatever you want.”

  “And if I don’t want to? Would that be okay too?”

  It feels awkward between them, as if there’s another person in the room observing them.

  With her head still pressed against his chest, her thoughts suddenly somewhere else, she empties and fills her lungs before saying, “Don’t you ever feel, like, isolated here?”

  “On the farm?” He pulls back to look at her.

  “Yeah. Without Internet. Without phones.”

  “No. I know I can leave if I want.”

  “What do you think she wants?” She is nervous asking him this; she feels vulnerable.

  “Who, Cynthia? I don’t know.” He shrugs; he hasn’t considered this. “She’s just offering, no? Who’s to say she wants anything?”

  “I just feel like if she’s offering this, it must be because of something. Don’t you think? Maybe she wants us to stay for—”

  “What do you think?” He pulls back to look her in the eyes. “That she’s making us stay here—for free, in her home—so we can, what, keep her company? Help her with the work? How sinister.”

 

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