The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  Everything was going according to plan.

  We slept and drove in shifts. Nobody said much. Morning came. The rolling hills of the landscape all around us. A machine drove past in a field a distance away. Like a gigantic insect. The body of the machine, the tank of pesticide, was huge and round, contained thousands of gallons. It had long, rotating wings that spread the material on the fields in a cloud of tiny drops.

  I kept my bees far away from pesticides. It dulled them, always led to losses. But in recent years many had started using something new. The pesticide was no longer sprayed but spread in small pellets on the ground. It was safer and better, it was said. Lay in the soil and was absorbed by plant roots, lasted longer, worked longer. It was shit all the same. I would have liked to have seen the farmers manage the old way, that the crops in the fields had to survive on their own, without the help of pesticides. But it seemed that wasn’t possible. Insect pests could eat a ripe field down to the ground in one night. There were too many of us, the food prices too low, and everything else too expensive for anyone to take the chance.

  Tom woke up beside me. Opened the thermos, poured out the last dregs and suddenly thought of me.

  “Sorry, did you want some?”

  “Help yourself.”

  He drank it down in two gulps. Said nothing more.

  “Well, well,” I said. Mostly to fill the silence.

  He didn’t answer. There wasn’t much to say.

  “So,” I said. “Yeah.” And cleared my throat. “Any girls in the picture? At school.”

  “No. Not really,” he said.

  “None who are pretty?”

  “None who think I’m pretty.” He laughed and I registered that he was in a talkative mood.

  “Just you wait,” I said.

  “Hope I won’t have to wait as long as you and Mom.”

  Emma and I got married when we were thirty. My father had long since given up on me.

  “You should be grateful for that,” I said. “So you were spared noisy little siblings. Don’t know how good you’ve got it being an only child.”

  “Siblings could have been nice, too,” Tom said.

  “On paper,” I said. “In reality it’s hell. And I know what I’m talking about.”

  I had three brothers. Arguing and fighting from morning to night. I was the eldest and was a mini-dad from the age of six. Had always been happy that Tom was an only child.

  “Anyway. First you have to start by finding yourself a lady. And then you can have kids, one at a time. You know how it works. Birds and bees. Or maybe we never had that talk.”

  “No, maybe we can have it now?” He chuckled. “Let’s hear it, Dad. What’s the story with the birds and the bees?”

  I laughed.

  He did, too.

  WILLIAM

  Edmund?” I knocked on the door to his room.

  The past few days, while I was waiting for the new hive, I had spent outside getting to know the bees, first with trembling hands, then with more and more certainty. I had found the queen, she was larger than the workers and drones, and I marked her with a tiny spot of white paint on her carapace. I observed the queen cells that had been built, but destroyed them right away, couldn’t take the chance of swarming—the old queen taking parts of the colony with her to make room for a younger queen and her progeny. Beyond this the hive didn’t provide much knowledge. I opened it with great care and caution; the bees became agitated every single time. I still didn’t understand how it could be that the queen laid two types of eggs, both for worker bees and drones. But the working conditions for observations weren’t the best. I presumed that as soon as the new hive was in place, this would be much easier to study.

  One thing was certain, at least: it was a hardworking bee colony I was dealing with. The hive was increasingly heavier, the bees brought in nectar and pollen, the honey was glistening in there already, dark golden, sugary-sweet and tempting.

  Charlotte often kept me company. She observed the bees with great enthusiasm, picked up the hive in her hands, weighed it, made wagers on the amount of honey. She lifted it with skill, checked for queen cells, found the queen, took it out with her hand—yes, she dared to do it without gloves—and I saw how the bees swirled up, searching for her, as they always do with their queen. Charlotte had grown this summer, her ungainly body acquired curves, her pale cheeks color, her skirts became almost indecently short and had crept up to the middle of her shin. A new dress, I thought, she deserved that, but it would have to be later, because now other things were more important.

  On some days I had to go in to the shop. Then she would help me there as well, cleared, washed, kept the stock organized, did figures so the nib of the pen scratched, added, subtracted, assessed profits.

  But Edmund never participated. The preparations for his studies in the autumn were not going as they should. That was clear, even to me, although I seldom spent time with the family. The books he kept in a dark corner of the parlor were in the process of becoming just as dusty as mine had been. He was always so tired, off color, often shut himself in his room. The restlessness had been replaced by something sedate, something slow, a sluggishness one rarely saw in young people.

  I hoped nonetheless that he would come along and sit with me, so I could explain to him about the straw hive and subsequently show him how much more brilliant my own invention was. I wanted to show him what he and his book had initiated in me, and hoped I could manage to awaken the same passion in him.

  “Edmund?” I knocked again.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Edmund?”

  Nothing happened.

  I hesitated, then I carefully pushed down on the door handle.

  Locked. Of course.

  I bent over, peeked through the keyhole and glimpsed the key that was in the hole from the inside. He was not out, then; he had locked himself in.

  I pounded on the door. “Edmund!”

  Finally footsteps could be heard on the floor inside and the door was pulled open a tiny crack. He blinked at me and the light. His fringe was longer, he had grown a wispy moustache on his upper lip, and was dressed in a wrinkled shirt and nothing else. His feet were bare against the plank floor and above them were some astonishingly hairy legs.

  “Father?”

  “I’m sorry I had to wake you.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, stifled a yawn.

  “I was hoping you might come out with me,” I said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  He stared at me from slitted, drowsy eyes. Rubbed one of his feet against his shin, as if to warm himself, but didn’t respond.

  “I’d very much like for you to understand the straw hive,” I continued, while I tried to keep my eagerness under control.

  “The straw hive?” Still this urbane, somewhat listless tone of voice.

  “Yes. You’ve seen it, furthest down in the garden.”

  “Oh. That.” He swayed and swallowed.

  “So that you understand the difference between it and the new hive. When it gets here.”

  “All right.” He said it through pinched lips, and swallowed again, as if choking back vomit.

  “And how much better-constructed the new one is.”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes were still as if drugged with sleep, not a hint of interest.

  “Perhaps you’d like to get dressed?”

  “Can we do it another day?”

  “Now is a good time.” I noticed suddenly that I was standing there with my head ducked, as if I were begging. But he didn’t appear to have noticed.

  “I’m so tired,” was all he said. “Maybe later.”

  I straightened up then, tried to make my voice sound authoritative. “As your father I demand that you come with me now.”

  Finally his gaze met mine. His eyes were bloodshot, but still oddly clear. He tossed his fringe back, raised his chin. “Or what?”

  Or what? I was unable to reply, noticed that I was bli
nking rapidly.

  “Or I’ll get a taste of the belt?” he continued. “Is that what you mean, Father? Or you’ll take out the belt and whip it across my back until I bleed and have no other choice but to say yes?”

  This hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped, not at all.

  He stared at me, I stared at him. Nobody said anything.

  All of a sudden Thilda was there. She hurried towards me through the hallway, her skirt brushing against the floorboards.

  “William?”

  “It’s almost two o’clock,” I said.

  Her voice rose. “He needs sleep. He’s not well. Go on and go to bed, Edmund.”

  She stopped beside me, laying a hand on my elbow.

  “You don’t do anything but sleep,” I said to Edmund. It came out loudly, sounded too desperate.

  He didn’t answer, merely shrugged his shoulders. Thilda tried shoving me away, while she looked kindly at Edmund.

  “Go to bed, my dear. You need rest.”

  “Rest from what?” I asked.

  “You’re not exactly one to talk,” Edmund said suddenly.

  “What?!”

  “You went to bed for several months.”

  “Edmund,” Thilda said. “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  I could feel the desperation paralyze me. “I’m sorry, Edmund. I’m going to make things right. I’m in the process of making things right now. That’s why I would so like to show you . . .”

  But Thilda shoved me away. “Poor Edmund,” she said in a sugary-sweet voice. “It’s too much for him. He must rest now, he needs it.”

  Edmund stared at me without expression. Then he closed the door and left us standing there.

  Thilda was still holding on to my arm, as if to hold me in place and her gaze was still just as insistent. I wanted to object, but suddenly it hit me. Was he ill? Was Edmund ill?

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked Thilda.

  Her gaze was like flint against my own and almost frightened me.

  “I’m his mother and can see that he needs rest,” she said slowly and clearly, and had apparently no intention of explaining anything at all to me.

  “And I’m his father and can see that he needs fresh air,” I said and heard immediately how foolish the words sounded.

  She lifted the corners of her mouth in a mocking smile. Neither of us said anything more, we just stood like that facing each other. She offered neither answers nor compliance. Because he wasn’t sick, of course he wasn’t; she was just protecting him, from schoolwork and everything that demanded something of him. But she had no idea what had transpired between us, the fire he had lit inside me, how important it was that I had the chance to share it with him.

  But I wasn’t up to the task of trying to explain; I knew how meaningless it was to fight with her, all logical arguments were just swept aside. She was a windmill.

  Perhaps instead I would have to grab him before evening came, before he went out, as he often did. This indefinable “out.” I wished, hoped, that he was in the forest, doing his own observation studies, inspired by me, as I myself had been at his age. Yes, perhaps that was in fact the case.

  And as far as I was concerned, he probably wanted to wait until I really had something to show him. But that increased my excitement. I would make him proud.

  TAO

  I rounded the corner of the house. The fence lay in front of me. Impenetrable, tall, it shone white in the darkness, reflecting the rays of the half-moon. The soil was fragrant, the weather warm and humid, the grass flourished along the side of the road.

  I tiptoed past the guard. His face lay in darkness, but his head was bowed, and I could hear him breathing deeply and calmly.

  Something buzzed in the air, a low sound, perhaps ten meters directly above me. An insect? No, far too large. But the sound moved quickly away and again all was silent.

  Carefully I reached out a hand and touched the fence. I expected an alarm, a howling sound. But nothing happened.

  I walked a few meters along the fence, allowing my hand to trace the smooth, tightly woven material. And there, between my fingers, I suddenly felt a splice. The canvas was taut, but nonetheless I managed to get my fingers between the two layers. I tugged a little. With a faint sound, the layers separated. Soon I had managed to create a hole that was big enough to allow me to slip through.

  I threw one final glance towards the soldier, he was still sleeping deeply. Then I forced my way through.

  It was darker here. I knew that there were searchlights; from time to time we had seen the sweeping light in the evening, but now they were all turned off.

  Did they have guards on the inside? I didn’t know. I just stood there, trying to accustom my eyes to the darkness. Slowly the trees became visible before me. They were without blossoms now, but heavy with leaves.

  Everything was quiet, just the light breeze that slid through the leaves and the grass, but nonetheless I was shaking with excitement. It was prohibited, what I was doing. What would happen if I got caught?

  I slowly moved forward. A distance away I could just make out the rut we had followed to the hill. I walked there.

  I had never in my life felt apprehension out here. Many other feelings—resignation, boredom and also joy—but never fear. Now I moved as quietly as I could, while the sound of my own heart rose into my ears and my back became drenched with sweat.

  The ruts led me forward between the trees. All of a sudden there was something moving at the far edge of my field of vision, a shadow. Was somebody there? I spun around, but saw nothing. Nothing. The world out here was empty and hushed. It was only my own fear playing tricks on me.

  I took a few more steps forward.

  One, two, three—jump. One, two, three—jump.

  We had walked here.

  Wei-Wen between us. Healthy, determined, warm, soft. My child.

  My child.

  I had to stop, bend over, a physical pain in my midriff hit me with such force that I was unable to move.

  Breathe calmly. Think about something else. Straighten up. Be rational. Look around. How much further was it now? To the hill, where we had eaten lunch.

  Keep going.

  I hadn’t walked much further when I discovered it. Light. A yellow light shimmered in the air above an area a distance away.

  I walked closer. More slowly now, putting my feet down one in front of the other with increasing caution.

  And then I saw the tent. It was located on the border against the forest, with a backdrop of bushes and trees growing wild. Round, as big as a small house, with a peaked roof, lit up from all sides. It was made of the same canvas as the fence, the same sterile whiteness. Outside I could see the silhouettes of several soldiers on patrol. The tent was far more heavily guarded than the fence. They walked calmly back and forth, throwing sharp shadows against the tent canvas, a strange shadow-puppet show on a circus tent somebody had forgotten to color. Were they a threat or protection?

  I couldn’t see an entrance. There were no windows, either. I didn’t dare move any closer, kept going instead, around a hundred meters away, parallel with the tent, to see it from the other side. I passed the hill, and at that moment it struck me that the tent was in approximately the same place where Kuan must have found Wei-Wen. With that realization, my fear intensified. My legs were shaking so much they could scarcely carry me forward. I understood that I’d hoped there wasn’t a connection, that the fence and the military people had nothing to do with Wei-Wen.

  But now. The telephone call I went around waiting for, the message that Wei-Wen had just fallen and hit his head, that he’d suffered a completely ordinary concussion and was now recovering, that the two of us could visit him and soon take him home with us, these thoughts now appeared even more to be helpless, desperate fantasies. Right between myself and the tent I glimpsed a stack of cardboard boxes. I approached quietly; behind the boxes I was hidden from the guards.
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  Some of the boxes were folded up, others were still intact. I peeked into one, ran my hand along the bottom, removed the contents. Soil and remains of plant roots. A name was printed on the side of the box, postal code and city. Beijing.

  I put it down and moved on slowly. I was afraid my usual clumsiness would give me away, that I would once again break branches, and I concentrated every muscle in my body on moving as quietly as possible.

  The front of the tent became visible. Just as white and impermeable, but with an opening on the side, closed by a tight, broad zipper. I crouched down. Waited. Sooner or later somebody would certainly come or go.

  I sat crouched down like that until the lactic acid built up in my legs and I had to change positions. The ground was damp, but I sat all the way down nonetheless; the raw chill of the earth penetrated my clothing. It was only now that I noticed the piles of branches outside. They had chopped down a dozen fruit trees to make room for the tent. Dry branches stood out stiffly against the tent canvas.

  Nothing happened. From time to time low voices could be heard from inside, but I was unable to distinguish any words.

  I just sat like that for a long time, surrounded by darkness. The minutes passed, became an hour. The stagnant air was starting to make me drowsy.

  Then: the rasping sound of a zipper. The tent was opened and two figures came out, both wearing white safety clothing, their heads bent together, discussing intensely in low voices. I leaned forward, squinting to see. The tent was opened just for a moment, but nonetheless I had time to make out something of what it was hiding. A transparent inner tent full of plants. Glass walls. Flowers. A greenhouse? Shiny green leaves, pink, orange, white and red flowers surrounded by golden light. Like a fairy-tale landscape in an illustration, richly colorful and warm, another world, living plants, blossoming plants, plants I had never seen before, not to be found among the uniform rows of fruit trees.

  All at once one of the figures began walking in my direction. I remained seated. But the figure came closer.

  I stood up and silently moved backwards.

  The figure stopped. Listened, as if sniffing me out. I didn’t dare to move any more, stood completely still, in hopes of blending in with the tree trunks.