The Honey Farm

by Harriet Alida Lye

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? She’s decided to stay.”

  XXII

  SILVIA WAKES to the smell of burning. She sits up, her movements awkward, and looks out the window. It’s dark. She thought it was morning, she has slept forever, but the sun isn’t there to light the world. It’s not cloudy; it’s as though the sky is on a dimmer switch that’s been turned down. The air is misty, silver.

  Nobody’s around. Not Ibrahim, not Cynthia, who sometimes is there when she wakes to give her tea and toast with honey. Silvia pulls herself out of bed, toppling a little bit before she finds her balance, and pulls Ibrahim’s dad’s sweater over her grubby white pyjamas.

  She tries to tune in to the sounds of the house as she walks down the stairs. She knows them all so well she can usually tell just from listening where everyone is and what they are doing, but now it’s all a hushed blur. When she gets to the kitchen it’s dark there too. She goes to flick on the light switch, but by the time she gets to it she sees Hartford through the window, in the backyard, facing away from her.

  “Hartford!” she calls out. He doesn’t turn; he must not have heard her. He’s stoking a large bonfire with wood from old hives. The thin frames still retain their shape for the moment, but the licking flames will soon overtake and consume them.

  “Ibrahim?” she calls towards the library, thinking he might be in there, touching up the paintings of her and Cynthia. But there are no lights on in there, and there is no response either.

  “Cynthia?” A heavy silence. “Hello?”

  She goes towards the back door and looks outside. The sky turns from a matte grey to a deep, uniform slate—it’s not as black as night, but it’s nothing at all like day. Looking up, she sees a hole in the sky where the sun would normally be—like a hole punched clear through canvas, a wholly black centre with white light radiating from behind it.

  “Hartford?” she cries loudly, and he turns.

  “Silvia,” he says, taking a step towards her. “What are you doing up?”

  “Isn’t it morning?”

  “Yes,” he says matter-of-factly.

  The fire’s neon-orange heart is the only source of light in the world, and it draws her like a moth. She shakes her head and steps, barefoot, onto the damp grass, the dew not having had any help in disappearing.

  Hartford throws another stack of broken honeycomb frames onto the fire, and the hiss and sizzle of combustion shocks her back a step, and then it settles down. When she’s nearly by his side he looks at her gently. “You should go back to bed,” he says, sounding like her father.

  Suddenly the birds, which she hadn’t even realised had been singing, fall silent. Silvia pauses, feeling cold; the temperature has dropped. “Where is everybody?” she whispers, afraid of speaking any louder in this newly silent world. “Where’s the sun?”

  Hartford prods the fire, which is rising to the sky, higher and higher, even as the wood collapses in on itself. The first law of thermodynamics: energy can be converted from one form to another but cannot be created or destroyed. Wood becomes fire becomes stars.

  She looks up and sees a disk moving across the hole punch through the sky, letting a little bit more light in from behind. She stares for a moment and then looks away, the light burning her eyes. “What’s happening?” she asks Hartford, but he just shrugs.

  She looks back to the house and Cynthia is there, wearing a baggy sweater; her hair, for the first time, is not perfectly brushed but kinked, as if from sleep. She’s holding a glass of milk as a sort of offering. “Come.”

  “Where were you? Where’s Ibrahim?”

  “Let’s get you back to bed, Silvia. You must be tired.”

  “What are you talking about? I just woke up. It’s day, isn’t it?”

  Cynthia walks to where Silvia is rooted on the wet grass and puts her arm around Silvia’s shoulders, giving her the glass of milk. “Just calm down, darling. Everything is fine—there’s nothing you need to do.”

  Silvia doesn’t want to drink the milk, but she picks up the glass and gulps it as if under a spell.

  Cynthia watches. “There’s a good girl.”

  “This is insane.” Silvia is laughing as if something has switched inside her. Fear becomes bewilderment becomes complete absurdity and back again. “I just saw—the sun, it isn’t—”

  “I need you to calm down. It’s bad for the baby for you to get so agitated.”

  “But you can see it too? It’s not just me, I’m not—?” Silvia collapses into Cynthia’s arms, her legs giving way. Nothing hurts, it’s not that—she feels nothing at all. Her insides have been replaced with gauze.

  “Silvia.” Ibrahim is there in the doorway and rushes to her. “What’s going on?” he asks Cynthia.

  “Where were you?” Silvia asks him. “Do you see this too?” She points with her head to the sky, lightening back to a silvery grey but still not the colour of day.

  “Of course I see it; it’s normal.”

  “Normal?” Silvia’s voice becomes dog-whistle high. “You’re telling me that it’s normal to have night in the day?” and when she says this out loud, it’s as if a piece falls into place. Her body turns from gauze to ice.

  “Help me, Ibrahim,” Cynthia says. “I’ve lost control of her.”

  “This is the next plague,” Silvia says, hardly even audible. “That’s what’s happening. It’s the second to last one.”

  “I thought you’d gotten over this, Silvia.” Following Cynthia’s gestured instructions, he takes Silvia’s other arm and helps to lift her up and walk her back to the house.

  Silvia starts crying.

  “Come on, honey,” Ibrahim says, softening but still condescending. “We’ll get you back to bed and you’ll feel better.” He looks at Cynthia and gets them to stop in the middle of the wet lawn, under the dark daylight. He takes Silvia’s hand in his. “I’m here with you,” he says. “We’re right here, and everything’s fine.” He uncurls her tightly clutched fist, wanting to hold her hand, but in her palm he finds the small silver cross, stuck with sweat to her skin.

  XXIII

  AGAINST A TAR-BLACK backdrop Silvia sees a close-up of Cynthia’s face, magnified and unreadable. Her lips are hanging slightly open, and Silvia looks closely, sensing that something is not quite right: Cynthia’s large teeth, perfect white squares, are covered in something red. A bright, living red, as if she has been chewing fresh flesh. The lips stretch into a dripping smile, then everything recedes into the blackness, and she’s gone.

  Out of the darkness now comes a spinning vortex of bees, shining and moving to form a perfect helix. A voice resounds, deep and all-encompassing like a universal loudspeaker: “I will strike Pharaoh and the land of Egypt with one more blow. After that, Pharaoh will let you leave this country. In fact, he will be so eager to get rid of you that he will force you all to leave.”

  Silvia is not pregnant and so moves differently, light again, free in her body. She feels like a child. She’s in the yard, by the vegetable patch; now she’s by the hives, floating among, then above them. She looks up at the tornado of bees and tries to move away, but they keep moving towards her. She’s unable to control them, but this doesn’t scare her. She feels at peace, she feels outside herself.

  The voice speaks again, this time louder. “For I will pass through the land this night, and smite all the firstborn children.”

  Cynthia’s face appears again, superimposed over the whole world. She seems kindly, still shining, and Silvia tries to say something, to ask why her mouth was full of blood—she trusts that there must have been some misunderstanding from before, but then Cynthia smiles again, revealing not just blood on her teeth but the half-formed wings of baby queen bees, stuck like pineapple fibres between her teeth.

  Silvia recoils in disgust, but not horror: there must be a logical explanation, for Cynthia is nothing if not logical. Taking two steps back, she’s about to ask Cynthia what’s going on when she notices for the first time that she is cradl
ing something in her arms. Perhaps she was holding it all along.

  XXIV

  SILVIA WAKES UP to see Ibrahim smiling down at her. The day is bright. For a moment she can’t tell where she is. She doesn’t remember arriving in bed, doesn’t remember falling asleep. Then she remembers her dream. She’s left with less of a memory and more of a feeling. Should she tell Ibrahim about it? Could she convince him that they must leave to protect themselves from the final plague? Would it be worse not to be believed or to be proved right?

  Before she can say anything, Ibrahim proffers a steaming cup.

  “Tea?” He is smiling benevolently.

  Silvia sits up and takes the cup.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  She sips, swallows. “Bad dream.”

  “Well, the solar eclipse passed a few hours ago, see? Look.” He gestures to the sky-blue sky. “Everything’s back to normal.”

  Silvia stares at him. “Solar eclipse? I . . . I didn’t know.”

  “Hartford didn’t tell you? I just assumed, when you found him—”

  “Ibrahim.” She stops him, shaking her head, needing to speak for herself. “I’m sorry . . . for everything”—she’s waking up now; the dream is disappearing and it’s all coming back—“but I have to tell you something. The final plague, after the darkness—” He’s about to interrupt. “No, no, please let me finish,” she goes on. “I know you don’t believe me, but after the darkness is the death of the firstborn,” she explains, rushing on though he’s trying to interrupt again. “And even if it’s not true, please, what’s the harm in just being cautious? Right? I really, really think we need to leave the farm.”

  He’s confused, because she’s sounding so much more logical than she ever has before, even though her logic is utterly unreasoned. He tries to hold his love for her in his head, paint it over this current reality. He tries to empathize with her circumstances, remember where she comes from, what she must be going through, but it’s hard to create narrative with no context.

  “Listen,” she continues, “whatever you think, I know something’s not right, and I would just rather have the baby in a hospital, to be safe.” She’s trying so hard to sound reasonable and takes a deep breath, willing her heart rate to slow down. “Something about Cynthia is making me nervous.”

  “Hey.” He wraps his arm around her. “Honey, it’s okay, calm down.” He rocks her back and forth. Her needs and concerns are so pressing that they dissolve his own. This is how the world balances itself. He turns her face to his and kisses her with such tenderness, such a profound acceptance, that she can feel a seam unstitch in her heart. “Everything’s fine. Cynthia’s fine, the baby’s fine, and besides, I’m here. I’ll take care of you no matter what.”

  “It’s not about you, Ibrahim—please listen to me. I—” She looks down; she feels liquid. “Oh my God!”

  “What?” Ibrahim looks down too and sees the patch of water spreading out from beneath her. “Oh! It broke!”

  “What broke?” Silvia, shrieking, is not just confused but terrified.

  “Your water.” He pads his hands around the damp sheets. He looks at Silvia, his eyes brilliant, his smile maniacal. “Baby! You’re having the baby!” Ibrahim, face on, grips Silvia’s biceps and tries to transmit his joy.

  Silvia shakes him off. There’s no time. She won’t be able to leave. The reality of this falls over her, top to bottom.

  “What’s the matter?” He sees that her expression has changed, as quickly as the weather.

  “Get Meg.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not yet.” Scream-gasp. “Yes.”

  “The contractions have started already?” Ibrahim asks.

  “I guess so.”

  “Isn’t that a little early?”

  Silvia has no idea what he’s been reading up on but wants trusted authority regardless. “Call Meg.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Ibrahim.”

  “What should I say?”

  “I don’t fucking care what you fucking say”—another scream-gasp—“I’m having a fucking baby. Now. I want Meg. Here. Right. Now.” He still doesn’t move. “Go!” she shrieks.

  “Right, right, sorry, sorry.” He scrambles up, fusses about with the sheets, leaps into the jeans he was wearing yesterday and pulls on the same T-shirt (inside out), runs out the door, runs back to kiss Silvia, (“Ibrahim!”), then breaks into a run down the stairs and into the kitchen. He treads water, looking around, panic growing. Then he sees Hartford coming from his office, holding a crate of honey: a salvation. “Hartford!” Hartford looks up. “Where’s Cynthia?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet. Probably in her room.”

  “Silvia’s having the baby. I need to call Meg!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have her—”

  “Oh God, never mind. I need to get Cynthia!”

  Hartford continues to stare blankly, the pieces not seeming to come together for him.

  “Silvia is having the baby.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Well, go knock on her door.”

  While Hartford points to the ceiling, to all the black holes in the universe, Ibrahim thinks of how nothing Hartford could do would ever be a surprise to anyone.

  Ibrahim’s on his way up the other staircase, which he’s barely used, at the front of the house, overlooking the driveway and sort-of courtyard. The stairs creak as he takes them two at a time. He would be rushing, running, shouting if he weren’t so worried—his worry about disturbing Cynthia is currently, disloyally, supreme to his worry about Silvia’s labour.

  Then there is a figure at the top of the wooden staircase; he can feel its shadow cast over him. He looks up: Cynthia.

  “Ibrahim?”

  “Silvia’s having the baby—sorry, you have to call Meg, you have to come.” The words stumble out; he’s unsure of what he’s apologizing for.

  “Have her contractions started?”

  “Yes, I think so, and her water—there’s water everywhere.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

  Ibrahim waits where he is, not moving.

  “You go back to her, Ibrahim. I’ll get the things required.”

  “How long will it take for Meg to get here?”

  “Don’t worry, Ibrahim. Go on.”

  He runs back down the stairs, back across the foyer—he bumps into Hartford, who nearly drops the crate full of jars of honey—and tears across the kitchen and back up the staircase to his and Silvia’s room.

  Just as soon as he’s crossed the threshold, Silvia screams. “WHERE IS SHE?”

  “Cynthia?”

  “No, Meg. I told you—”

  “She’s coming, she’s coming.” He runs to her side. “What can I do? What do you want me to do? Do you want to, like, squeeze my hand or something?”

  “No, no, no, no—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the matter? Ibrahim, I’m having a baby.”

  “But everything is going to be fine! People have babies all the time.”

  She just stares at him. Even her eyeballs hurt.

  At that moment Cynthia arrives.

  “Where’s Meg?” Ibrahim asks.

  Cynthia doesn’t reply. She marches up to the mattress, takes one look at Silvia, squirming, and quickly assesses that the labour is too far along: there is no time to set up the birthing pool. The baby is coming so quickly, much more quickly than any of them imagined. She unfolds the flannel sheets (at the ready next to the mattress) and lays out the sponge pad underneath Silvia’s legs, nudging the edge as far beneath her hips as she can manage without physically moving the girl, then props the clary-sage massage oil and dried lavender stalks on the stack of books that serves as a night table.

  “Silvia, can you take your pyjama bottoms off by yourself, or do you need my help?”

  Silvia shakes her head, sweat pearling above her eyebrows.

  Cynthia nods, then crouches as she gently pulls the p
yjamas down from Silvia’s hips and along the length of her unshaven legs.

  Ibrahim winces, and pulls Cynthia aside. “What are you—I mean, what’s going on? Isn’t Meg coming?”

  “I’ve got this taken care of, Ibrahim.”

  “What do you mean? What are you—what if something goes wrong?” he whispers, not wanting Silvia to hear.

  “She’s too far along—I need to do this now. Nothing will go wrong.” Cynthia snaps latex-free gloves over her hands. “You’ll wait outside.”

  “What?”

  “Outside, please. We can’t have men in the birthing room.”

  “The birthing room? Cynthia, that’s insane. This is my baby!”

  “Not Silvia’s baby, then?” Cynthia gives him a look. “I really don’t think you’ve been much help to Silvia these last few weeks, Ibrahim. And now, since you don’t seem to be able to provide a calming influence, you need to step outside. Silvia needs me. You’re wasting everyone’s time.” She pivots to go back to Silvia. “Close the door on your way out.”

  IBRAHIM STALKS the upstairs corridor as if he’s hunting for prey, and for every sound he hears through the doorway, his imagination fills in all the blanks. A shuffle could mean Silvia moving down the bed, getting up, running away; the sound of rapping glass could mean her knocking on the window, trying to break through; the groans could be the normal pains of childbirth or they could be something entirely different, something he can’t imagine. He has no reference point at all.

  Then, a song he recognizes. What is it? It’s that song, the main one from . . . The Nutcracker. Tchaikovsky, that’s it. It tinkles along, floating above the human sounds inside the room. He hears someone humming. Probably Cynthia. He doubts Silvia will be humming right now.

  Hartford appears at the end of the hallway, and the way the light falls, only his head and shoulders are visible. He looks at Ibrahim. “How’s it going?” he asks.

  “How’m I supposed to know?”

  “Why don’t you come wait downstairs?” he says kindly, and when Ibrahim doesn’t move, Hartford guides him down the stairs to the kitchen, knowing that a little space will be better for everyone.