The Honey Farm

by Harriet Alida Lye

  She folds to her knees, unable to do anything but surrender. “Forgive me,” she says, tears on her tongue, “please forgive me.”

  If only this would stop. She will do anything to make this stop. All she wants is nothingness.

  Then the sky opens. She feels it first on her skin—it’s freezing, and falling so hard it feels almost painful, sharp. Within seconds her clothes are soaked through. The earth, having crusted over to protect itself, doesn’t absorb the water readily, like someone who doesn’t quite have the confidence to be vulnerable.

  Then there is a voice. She opens her eyes, scrambles around. She’s never had a reply before.

  The voice is louder. “Silvia?” Ibrahim appears, running. “Silvia, what the hell are you doing?”

  Equal parts fear and relief. She shakes her head, can hardly breathe.

  “You’re gonna get sick. Come on.” He comes next to her and grips her shoulders, hugging her, pulling her, trying to get her to move.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, weeping into the ground, not moving towards him.

  “Get up, come here.”

  “Please forgive me,” she says.

  “For what?” He looks distraught but not angry, for which she is grateful. “What are you doing?”

  “I didn’t want to leave without you,” she says between sobs.

  “Of course not—we don’t have to leave, you don’t have to go anywhere,” he says, rubbing her back. “Come back, we need to get you inside, it’s freezing. You’ll catch a cold and the baby will get sick.”

  Silvia does not want to be moved, at least not in the direction that Ibrahim is pulling her.

  “Silvia, come on—what’s going on?”

  “I have to leave. I’m sorry. I can’t go back there.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ibrahim is desperate. “Silvia, I love you.” His voice sounds different, less strong than usual. “But I don’t understand what’s happening. Please come back with me. Please let me take care of you.”

  By now all of heaven is black with cloud. The trees shake with the sudden rush of animals taking shelter in the branches, and there follows a great deluge. Not just rain but a waterfall of freezing water, turning the ground to a skating rink as soon as it touches earth.

  As though her bones have dissolved with her resolve, Silvia lets herself be carried by Ibrahim back in the direction from which she came, her face wet with tears and rain, her clothes soaked.

  Three heartbeats turn towards the farm.

  THE FREEZING RAIN is falling solidly, but Silvia can’t go quickly and Ibrahim, supporting her weight, can go only so fast himself. This rain is new and endless. She can hardly see, her tunnel vision focusing on a fearful abstraction rather than the reality of the muddy ground before her.

  As they approach the house, her breathing constricts. “Ibrahim,” she says hoarsely, “Ibrahim, I can’t.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

  The walk back seems to have taken only a few minutes, though she thought she’d been running for hours. They arrive dripping wet at the house under a shiny grey sky to find Cynthia and Hartford waiting for them by the front door, dry under the metal porch awning.

  “Silvia.” Cynthia is standing in the doorframe, holding the door open for them. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

  Neither Ibrahim nor Silvia says anything. Ibrahim, shaking his head, is struggling to get Silvia over the threshold and into the warmth.

  “Come in, get inside.” Cynthia stands aside, and Hartford is waiting in the kitchen with hot-water bottles and woollen blankets.

  Silvia is guided to the table. She lets herself be covered in two blankets, one on her lap and one over her shoulders; she lets Hartford place a hot-water bottle on her lap; she stares at the mug of boiling water he’s placed in front of her on a bee-shaped coaster.

  “Silvia.” Cynthia comes to stand behind her and places her hands on Silvia’s shoulders. She fingers Silvia’s wet hair and reaches behind her for a tea towel to rub away the damp. “Silvia—what happened?”

  Silvia looks at Ibrahim, standing opposite, staring at her with his big brown eyes stretched to the outer limits of their sockets. She looks at Hartford, sitting at the head of the table, sipping from his own mug of hot water. She feels Cynthia’s presence behind her, warm and unknowable—she is invisible, but when Silvia leans her head back, it rests just above Cynthia’s belly button. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “There’s no need to be sorry, honey.” Cynthia comes around and sits next to Silvia. She touches the girl’s cold cheek. “Tell us how we can help you.”

  “I can’t—I can’t tell you.” Her face is still wet from both tears and rain.

  “Silvia,” Cynthia says, “you know you can tell us anything.”

  Silvia is shaking her head as though a tick has landed in her ear. She sees it all in her head, but she doesn’t know how to get it out without sounding insane.

  “Silvia, please,” Ibrahim says, draping his arm over her small shoulders.

  “I had to leave.” Silvia’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I had to leave to protect you.”

  “From what? What are you talking about?” Ibrahim comes even closer but can’t get near enough. It upsets him to be so in the dark; he wants Silvia’s light back.

  Silvia takes a deep breath. She looks at her hands and speaks with reluctance and speed. “This maybe will . . . I know it might sound . . . but I know, I know that God has been sending signs from the beginning, but it’s only just become obvious.” Her breathing is shallow. “Or maybe I was just trying to ignore it at first, I don’t know, but you have to tr—”

  “What?” Ibrahim looks as though he’s been smacked. “What signs? There are no signs. Silvia, it’s in your head—”

  “Shh.” Cynthia steps in, quietly brushing Ibrahim aside. “Hold on.” She takes Silvia’s hands in her own. “They’re freezing,” she says. “You must be exhausted.” She rubs Silvia’s hands, warming them up between her own. “Can you tell me what signs you mean, Silvia?”

  Silvia nods obediently.

  “First there was the red water, and then the frogs came, which is why Monique left, and the lice too, even though I didn’t get them, and then the sheep got a plague, you told me that yourself . . .” She trails off and closes her eyes. She’s dizzy; she’s still finding it difficult to bring air into her lungs.

  “So what?” Ibrahim can’t keep the exasperation out of his concern. “It’s a farm, Silvia.”

  “God sent plagues to punish the Egyptians,” Silvia says, breathless, “because they didn’t follow the true faith. Now God is punishing me for following my pleasure instead of His path.”

  “Silvia.” Ibrahim comes and sits next to her, trying to be calm, though she can see his hands are shaking. “You have to stop this. No one’s punishing anyone.”

  Cynthia raises her hand to Ibrahim to quiet him. “It’s possible you’re reading too much into this, Silvia. That you’re seeing signs where really it’s just nature. Have you thought about that?”

  The rain is getting louder, hammering on the tiled roof and the tin eaves, pelting the hard earth.

  Cynthia continues: “You come from a very different place, I know that, and we are all so proud of the progress you’ve made.” She squeezes Silvia’s hands for emphasis. “You said you felt free here, didn’t you?” She pauses, looking into Silvia’s eyes. “Maybe you need to learn to trust us. Trust that feeling.”

  Cynthia’s eyes belie something elliptical; Silvia can’t determine what her eyes are saying that’s different from what her words are saying. Whether it’s concern or something more. Her heart is beating too fast for her to breathe properly, that’s what it is; it’s so vast and swollen that it’s blocking her lungs from filling with air. She puts her forehead to the smooth wood of the tabletop and opens her mouth, gasping.

  Once she has.

  Once she has calmed.

  Once she has calmed
down she can breathe normally again, with the inhale equal to the exhale, her lungs operating without her talking them through each motion.

  Once she has calmed down, Cynthia takes her to bed.

  XV

  CYNTHIA HELPS SILVIA out of her wet clothes as though she were a child. Silvia doesn’t feel like her body is her own, so she is not embarrassed. She is the host of another life, not an independent self. Cynthia helps her sit back against the pillows, pale against the grubby cotton.

  “That better?” Cynthia asks.

  Silvia nods. “I’m sorry.”

  Cynthia shushes her. “It’s okay, honey.”

  “I do trust you. It’s just—” She stops for a moment to catch her breath. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “You’ve gone through such big changes. It’s normal to be scared, even a bit unstable. I understand.”

  That word, “unstable.” She remembers Cynthia used that word about someone else. Or was it about her? Silvia looks at the ceiling, thinking about how it looks like every other ceiling she’s ever seen.

  “But I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”

  Silvia looks at Cynthia, sensing urgency in her voice.

  “Stay here after the baby’s born. Ibrahim will be able to focus on his work, I’ll look after the baby, and you’ll be able to rest. I know this is hard for you, and you don’t need to do it alone.”

  Silvia’s brain is fizzing like a shaken-up soda. She can’t speak.

  “Does that sound like a good idea?” Cynthia asks gently.

  Silvia looks into Cynthia’s eyes, which she notices no longer seem like ice but like fire.

  “The baby needs stability, Silvia. And I don’t think you can give her that right now, do you?”

  Silvia recognizes herself in the accusation and feels suddenly teenaged, chastened. “I, uh, I need to discuss it with Ibrahim—”

  “I can talk to him.” Cynthia strokes Silvia’s hair gently.

  Silvia nods. “It does seem like a good idea, for the moment at least.”

  “Good.” Cynthia smiles, revealing her teeth. “You get some rest.”

  IBRAHIM IS FRETTING in the kitchen, treading a path between the table and the countertop. When Cynthia enters he stops walking and words pour out of his mouth as though he’s turned on a tap. “I don’t get what’s going on with her, I don’t know how to make it better—you know I’ve been trying, and I do love her, I love her so much, I just can’t understand—”

  “She’ll be okay,” Cynthia says, touching his arm.

  “Are you sure?”

  Cynthia nods sagely. “But you should leave her to rest for a few days.”

  Ibrahim is taken aback. “Really? You think she wants to be alone?”

  “Don’t you see, Ibrahim? You’re part of the sin she thinks she’s committing. It’s best if you give her some space—her state of mind is clearly delicate.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, I was wondering,” Cynthia interrupts, “would you paint my portrait? That should help keep you occupied for the next little while. Same rate as the last one, of course.”

  “Uh . . .” He has never done a commission so isn’t sure what it would be like. He deliberates, but can’t exactly find the space to say no at the moment. And the money will definitely be helpful when they leave. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Brilliant. Can you start tomorrow? Better to get it done before the baby is born.” She walks out before he can say anything in response.

  XVI

  HE WISHES he could talk to his father, but the fact that it’s the middle of the night in the last freezing gasp of winter, which makes this a logistical impossibility, fills his chest like lead. Ibrahim is alone right now—he feels more alone than ever too—sitting on the toilet in the downstairs bathroom at 3 a.m. His previous schedule has been creeping in, and there doesn’t seem to be a reason to try to sync back up to a daytime rhythm. Silvia sleeps most of the day anyway. Out the window he can see moonlight falling on the grass, beveling the blades as the ice once did. It’s late March, that in-between season where the damp darkness of winter is at its dullest, and yet hope is starting to grow.

  Abouya, he says to the father who is always in his head. Will it always be like this?

  Don’t be so melodramatic, Ibrahim, his head-father says. The future unfolds as the present, forever and ever.

  What if the baby dies, like Mama died?

  She will die, Abouya responds with a sigh. Everything dies. Ibrahim can see his father’s sorrowful, pragmatic, heart-full face crumpling, mouth open as he considers his words. And we have to learn to love the world anyway. Lucky for you if you die first.

  Ibrahim closes his eyes. He can feel his abouya’s duvet cover around him like a cape; he can see the glass teacups his mother bought from the souk refracting the weak light of the dark bedroom. Will I make a good father? What will my son call me? Will he call me Abouya? Dad? And what if it’s a girl? Will I be able to paint still? Where will we live? What will we do about money? Will Silvia want the baby baptised? Will I be able to teach him about my world too? Will he want to learn?

  His thoughts have run away from him now, and his imaginary father has stopped responding; Ibrahim can’t come up with all the answers himself anymore. He just has to give it up to the unknowable inevitability of the future.

  SOMEHOW HE GOT BACK TO BED. Somehow he fell asleep. Morning comes, as morning always does. He puts on his shirt, and when he tumbles out of bed, leaving Silvia sleeping soundly, he finds Cynthia sitting in his studio. She’s wearing a black button-down shirt, sort of silky in the way it reflects the light, and black cotton trousers.

  “Morning,” Ibrahim says. He wasn’t expecting her to be there yet. He wanted to have a cup of coffee and settle into the atmosphere first, but there’s no time for that now. He shakes his head, trying to make himself more alert, and walks to his box of paints by the window.

  “Good morning.” Cynthia’s voice sounds bright. “I brought you coffee.” She points to a steaming cup on the floor. “Is here all right?” she asks, adjusting herself on the chair by the window. Though the light is pale and veiled through the thin, unending layer of clouds, the room shines with a light that seems to come not from a specific source but from within. He hopes he can capture it in paint.

  “Wait a second.” He’s in the middle of squirting paints onto a small bit of plywood he’s selected for his palette. Feeling what he’s drawn to. Red and black and white, silver and gold. A little bit of yellow. You always need yellow, yellow’s in everything. To get the light right he’ll have to mix in a lot of white; maybe he’ll try painting a translucent layer over the top of it all. His excitement is waking him up.

  “Yeah,” he says finally, scanning his palette and then looking up to see where she was referring to. “There’s good.”

  Cynthia adjusts herself on the edge of the seat; she doesn’t look very relaxed.

  Ibrahim takes the coffee, then looks closely at her. A painter, to paint, must see things with loving eyes, so he has to adjust his perspective slightly, open himself up to love, whereas previously there has just been respect, distance, perhaps even confusion. He looks harder, trying to see through her opacity and understand whatever is within this woman, whatever it is that she keeps around her heart. As he looks, something about her softens: she looks slightly less uncomfortable than she did just moments ago.

  She’s sitting with her right foot crossed over her left and her arms crossed over her legs. She looks like a princess in a wedding portrait. Girlish and nervous, betrothed and dutiful. In this light she looks alarmingly young. He wouldn’t call her beautiful—that’s not the right word. Handsome. That’s more like it. Cynthia’s a very handsome woman. He looks at her now as he’s never looked at her before. She carries herself with a dignity he thinks might have come from having lost it once. His confusion softens to sympathy.

  He starts with her face. It’s wider at the temples and tapers to a point at the
chin. The nose is broad; he describes it using three wavy lines. His brushstrokes are bold.

  Her eyes he does colourless—they are so black they hardly have any colour anyway—but he doesn’t feel any colour coming from her, none at all. Except—

  Yes.

  He dips his brush in red and daubs a crimson dot on her forehead, like a bindi, but not.

  Straight lines for her body—small; texture provides shape—and another red daub above her sternum. He steps back, closing one eye and placing his hand in front of Cynthia and then in front of the painting, evaluating size and perspective. He nods.

  “I’m honoured to have a portrait done by you, Ibrahim.” Cynthia sits a little higher in the chair. “You really are a true artist.”

  He hums, noncommittal.

  She continues: “Is Silvia doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so. She’s sleeping, at least.” He pauses. “I’m trying to give her some space, as you said.”

  “Good,” Cynthia says. “That’s very good.”

  “Can’t talk,” Ibrahim says. “Doing your face.”

  She’s not used to being silenced.

  His brush goes for the gold and mixes in some black. He finds himself painting wings, like Silvia’s but smaller, more insectlike. A grubby gold.

  When he’s stopped painting for a while, Cynthia uncrosses her feet and twists in her seat.

  Ibrahim doesn’t move. He stands completely still, staring at the canvas.

  Cynthia coughs, crossing her feet in the other direction.

  “Are you done?” she asks finally. It’s been nearly an hour of sitting in silence.

  He’s utterly absorbed in the painting, its textures and colours and feelings—the life he’s given it. It worked; it’s working. “For today,” he says.

  “That’s all?”

  “I’ll work on the rest of it while you’re not here. I need some time without the presence of the model.”