The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  He remained motionless for another moment, but then he turned around and walked back to the tent. I hurried away.

  I increased my pace, ran as quietly as I could back towards the fence.

  I’d seen something. But I didn’t know what. The fences, the boxes, the tent. It made no sense.

  Neither here nor at the hospital would anyone give me what I needed. Nobody would give me answers. And they wouldn’t give me my child.

  I reached the fence, crept through the same place, passed the guard. He was still sleeping at his post.

  I stood there outside in the warm night. The fence towered over me. But Wei-Wen wasn’t here. He wasn’t even in this part of the country. He was where the plants came from. In Beijing.

  GEORGE

  Blueberry bushes in bloom are beautiful things. I’d forgotten in the course of the winter, but every time Maine greeted me with its white and pink knolls in May, I just had to stop and look.

  It was so beautiful that books should be written about it. But without bees, the flowers were just flowers, not blueberries, not bread and butter. Guess that’s why Lee breathed a sigh of relief every time we showed up. He walked around and kept an eye on his bushes, looked at the blossoms, probably wishing they could pollinate themselves, that he wasn’t so damn dependent on a sweaty farmer from another state and his equally sweaty men.

  We were supposed to be here for three weeks. Lee paid $80 a hive. An expense that stung, for sure, but I knew of many who charged more. Gareth, for instance. I was cheap compared to Gareth.

  Besides, Lee also really got his money’s worth. In every hive fifty thousand bees worked from sunrise until it was dark. Happy bees. Every single hive buzzing with health. He’d never had anything to complain about. I’d been at his place every spring since he took over the farm and the bees produced a lot of berries, every single year.

  Lee almost stormed towards me when I got out of the car, sharp angles of his arms and legs, giant shoes against the ground, trousers a bit too short and a dirty cotton sun hat on his head, held out a slim hand and took mine, shook it and didn’t let go, as if he wanted to hold me in place and make sure I hadn’t left before the bees and I had done the job.

  His hand was thinner than I remembered. His hair, too.

  I smiled at his long horse face. “Look at you. Even more wrinkles.”

  He smiled back. “Not as many as you.”

  Actually, Maine was way too far for us, I should have found something closer to home. But Lee had become kind of a friend over the course of all these years, I made the trip just as much because of him. We talked a lot while I was here. He probed away, asking questions. About the bees, about our operation. Never tired of it. I teased Lee about being a university farmer. After many years of education and with great enthusiasm he bought a broken-down wreck of a farm in the 1990s. Started out with strong opinions about everything that worked in theory. Had to be organic. Yes, sir. Since then he’d no doubt made every mistake in the book and some not in the book, too. Practice turned out to be something else entirely. The last few years he’d completely reorganized everything. Now he ran a standard farm—the huge spraying machines rolled around in these fields, too. I’d probably do the same thing if I were him.

  I nodded towards Tom, who was standing a few feet behind me.

  “You remember Tom.”

  Tom stepped forward, obediently reaching out his hand.

  “Well, look at that,” Lee said. “You’re twice as big as last time.”

  Tom laughed politely.

  “So you came along this year.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What about school?”

  “Got time off.”

  “This is school, too,” I said.

  Kenny’s vehicles rolled away. It grew quiet. We were done putting out the hives. Only Lee, Tom and I were left. Tom was in the car. Reading, or sleeping, maybe. It’d been hard to get anything out of him again the last few hours. But he worked hard today, too, when he was asked. I had to give him that.

  Lee took off his gloves, pulled up the veil and lit a cigarette.

  “There. Nothing to do now but wait. I’ve checked the weather. It looks good,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “A few showers in the long-term forecast, but not much.”

  “We can take a little rain.”

  “And I’ve put up new fences, too.”

  “Great.”

  “That should keep them away.”

  “We’ll count on that.”

  We fell silent again. I was unable to get rid of the image of huge bear paws tearing the hives to pieces.

  “Anyway, they’re your expenses,” I said.

  “Thanks. I know.”

  He inhaled heavily.

  “So he’s going to take over?” He nodded towards Tom, who was sitting in the car.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Does he want to?”

  “He’s getting there.”

  “Does he need college, then? Can’t he just get started?”

  “You went to college.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  He looked at me with a crooked smile.

  The bees are calm the first couple of days in a new place, staying mostly indoors, at home. After a while, they take short trips out of the hives, check out the conditions and get to know the place. And slowly the trips get longer and longer.

  On the third day they were really up and running, buzzing away on all sides. Lee sat among the bushes, fifty or sixty yards away.

  Head bowed. He was counting, didn’t see me.

  I snuck up on him.

  “Boo!”

  He was so startled that he jumped. “Ah shit!”

  I laughed.

  He threw his arms up in defeat. “You interrupted me!”

  “Relax, I’ll give you a hand.”

  “I don’t trust that counting of yours. You’re not objective.”

  I squatted down next to him.

  “You’re chasing them away.” He smiled. “There’s no room for bees here anymore.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  I got up, walked ten yards away, tried to pick out an area of about three square feet. Looked around.

  Oh yeah, they were here.

  A bee had just flown away from a flower. Another came to rest simultaneously. And by gosh, a third one, too.

  “How’s it going?” I looked up.

  “So-so. Two here. And you?”

  “Three.”

  “Sure about that?” he asked. “You’re just making up bees.”

  “You’re the one who’s bad at counting,” I said.

  He sat there awhile.

  “Fine. Here are some more.”

  I stood up, smiled at him. 2.5 bees per square yard is good pollination. That’s why Lee often sat like this and counted, almost like he was obsessed. Because the number of bees per square yard determined the amount of berries he could pick when summer was over.

  Two for him. Three for me. It was going to work out.

  But then came the rain.

  WILLIAM

  It was finally here. Conolly jumped from the coachman’s seat and over into the wagon; there it was, new and bright against the dirty, scratched wagon floor. I stepped up to him, reached out my hand, and touched it, the hive. The woodworking was soft and smooth beneath my fingers, polished with the finest artistry, the roof carved out of wooden boards, almost seamlessly joined and the doors had been given small doorknobs. I stroked them with my hand, not a trace of a splinter to be found. I opened one of them; it slid open without a sound, and peeked in. The frames hung in straight rows, ready to be filled. The hive had a strong scent of fresh woodwork; the smell enveloped me, almost made me dizzy. I walked around it. The detailing work was impressive, every corner perfectly rounded, he had even gone so far as to add some beautiful carvings on the one side. Yes, all of the words of praise I had heard about Conolly were true. He had really delivered a marvel
ous piece of handiwork.

  “So?” Conolly smiled proudly like a child. “Satisfied?”

  I couldn’t even answer, merely nodded and hoped he noticed how broadly I was smiling.

  Together we lifted the hive onto the dusty courtyard.

  It was so bright and clean, it felt almost sacrilege to put it down on the dirty ground.

  “Where do you want it?” Conolly asked.

  “There.”

  I pointed towards the aspen.

  “Do you already have bees?” he asked.

  “They’re going to move into this one. When we’ve built more, we’ll breed them.

  He assessed me with his eyes.

  “When you have built more,” I corrected myself, and attempted a smile.

  “But that is the only thing I’m going to take credit for,” he said with a grin.

  Then he turned towards the straw hive down there. Thousands of bees were buzzing around it, hard at work. At the same moment, one of them zipped straight towards us. Conolly jumped away.

  “I believe you’ll have to carry it there yourself.”

  “They’re not dangerous.”

  “You want me to believe that.”

  He took another step away, as if to emphasize his point. I gave him a little smile, tried to seem both understanding and indulgent at the same time.

  “Then you will be spared,” I said.

  Together we lifted the hive onto a wheelbarrow and bid each other farewell for the time being. But we both assumed that we would be seeing each other again soon.

  And the hive was waiting for me. It was ready.

  It was with considerably greater gravity that I dressed in the white suit today, the hat, the gloves, the veil; as ceremoniously as a bride I hung it over my face before I pushed the wheelbarrow down through the garden. A path of flattened grass had formed on the way to the hive, like a narrow church aisle, it suddenly occurred to me. I had to chuckle at the thought of myself as the bride-to-be, on the way to the altar, flushed with excitement. That’s how important this day was for me; it sealed my fate.

  I pushed the old hive a bit and set the new hive in its place. Then I stood there looking at it. The golden material shone in the sun. The old straw hive was faded and bedraggled in comparison.

  Carefully, with slow movements, I started the work of moving the bees. I found the queen and put her in the new hive; she quickly made herself at home. The others followed her lead.

  My calmness infected them. I felt completely safe, so safe that I removed my gloves and worked with bare hands. The bees accepted it; they could be controlled, tamed.

  I looked forward to all the hours I would be spending out here, just the bees and I in undisturbed tranquility, shared contemplation, with an increasing bond of mutual trust.

  But then something happened. I felt something along my shin, the quick movement of wings beating, then a stinging pain.

  I jumped, and a high, female shriek escaped me. Luckily nobody heard me. My hand went instinctively towards my shin to slay what was hiding there.

  I shook the leg of my trousers. The bee fell out and onto its back in the grass, with a furry torso and a lustrous tail section, the skinny insect legs sprawling helplessly in the air.

  My shin stung fiercely. To think something so small could cause such severe pain. Step on it, I wanted to step on it, squash it, even though it was already dead. But one glance towards the hive, towards all of its sisters, kept me from doing so. You could never be certain.

  I hastened to shove my trouser leg down into my boots, pulled on my gloves, made sure to batten down all the hatches, and then, with swift hands and firm shoulders, continued working. Perhaps I couldn’t trust them yet; I hadn’t really given them many reasons to trust me. But with time, the trust would come. I was convinced of that. I would not give them any reason to sting me, and one day we would be as one.

  Finally, many arduous minutes later, the bees were in place.

  I took one step back to observe them. They were the judges, at the end of the day; they were the ones who determined whether the hive would be their home. Many were still whirring around the old straw hive, homeless, in search of the queen. I lifted it onto the wheelbarrow. It was to be taken away to be burned, and then I would finally find out whether I had succeeded.

  TAO

  Sweaters, trousers, underwear. For how many days? A week? Two?

  I packed everything I had room for. I’d taken out a beat-up bag of my father’s; now I was throwing clothes into it quickly, with the urgency of someone who has already waited too long.

  When I came home again after I’d been behind the white fence, it was impossible to go to bed. I trotted back and forth across the floor. Not because I was restless, but because I was finally on my way. I wouldn’t have to stay here and wait, hoping for the one phone call that would explain everything, wait and fret over the two simple words I had never said to Kuan. Those two little words: forgive me. I was unable to. Because if I said forgive me, it was true. Then I was to blame.

  This was the only thing I could do.

  I closed the bag. The zipper made a loud rasping noise. The sound must have covered up his footsteps, because when I turned around, he was there. Blinking his eyes a little, rumpled, barely awake.

  “I’m going to Beijing.”

  “What?”

  His jaw dropped. Perhaps because of what I said, perhaps because I didn’t ask him to come with me. At that moment it hit me that I should have said we. We’re going. But it had never occurred to me that he’d come along.

  “But how . . . ?”

  “I have to find him.”

  “You have no idea where he is. Which hospital he’s in.”

  “I have to go.”

  “But Beijing . . . Where will you start?”

  He was so thin. Sharp shadows. Thinner than ever before. Far too gaunt.

  “I found addresses. I have to search the hospitals.”

  His voice rose: “Alone? But is the city safe?”

  “It’s our son.”

  The words sounded unreasonably harsh. I lifted the bag down onto the floor without looking at him anymore. Noticed only how he stood uneasily behind me, the words as if stuck inside him. Was he thinking about offering to come along?

  “But how will you pay for it? The ticket, hotel?”

  My hands stopped in midair. I knew it had to come, the question of money.

  “I’ll just take a little,” I said softly.

  He walked quickly to the kitchen cupboard, opened it, searching. His face hardened as he turned to face me. Suddenly there was something cold in his eyes. With an abrupt movement he tore the bag out of my hands, opened it and looked straight at the tin that lay on top.

  “No.” It came out loudly, with a force I seldom heard from him.

  He dropped the bag with a thud on the floor and took one step towards me.

  “You won’t find him, Tao,” he said. “You’ll spend everything we have, but you won’t find him.”

  “I won’t spend it all. I said I won’t spend it all.”

  I took out yet another sweater, even though I didn’t need any others. Started to fold it. Tried to work calmly. The synthetic material rustled between my fingers.

  “I have to try.” I looked down at the floor. Tried not to look at the bag, which I wanted to snatch up. Fixed my gaze on a crack; Wei-Wen had dropped a toy there once last winter, a yellow wooden horse. I was angry when it happened, we didn’t have many toys. And he screamed, because his horse broke, one of the legs snapped off.

  “But if the money disappears . . . We’ve been saving for three years. We’ll be too old. If the money disappears, we . . .”

  He didn’t finish, just stood there. The bag between us, the tin box on top of it.

  “It won’t help,” he said finally. “Going there won’t help.”

  “As if sitting here does.”

  He didn’t answer, perhaps didn’t want to contradict my accusation. Just
stood there, unable to speak of what he was carrying, what was troubling him—not just that Wei-Wen was gone, lost to us, but that it was my fault. And now I was going to take away from him the chance for another child, too.

  I looked away, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t think about it. My fault. My fault. No. I knew that wasn’t right. The fault was just as much his. We could have just stayed home that day. Stayed home with the numbers, the books. He was the one who had wanted to go out. He was just as much to blame. We were both at fault.

  “Come with me.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You can come with me, we can go together.”

  I ventured a look at him. Was he furious? His eyes met mine. No. Just infinitely sad.

  Then he shook his head feebly.

  “It’s better if I stay here. Available. Besides, it will be more expensive if there are two of us.”

  “I won’t spend all of it,” I said softly. “I promise I won’t spend all of it.”

  Quickly I pulled the bag towards me. Tossed the sweater on top so it covered the box. Then I pulled the zipper closed. He didn’t stop me.

  I carried the bag out into the hallway and found my jacket. He followed me.

  “Do you have to leave right away?”

  “The train only leaves once a day.”

  We stood there. His gaze lingered on me. Did he expect me to say it now? Would that make everything easier? If I shouted it?

  I was incapable. Because the moment I asked him for forgiveness, I would have to take in precisely this: that if he’d had his way, we wouldn’t have been standing here now. We wouldn’t have been out there that day, and Wei-Wen would still . . .

  I put on my jacket. My shoes. Then I picked up the bag and walked towards the door.

  “Bye, then.”

  He took a step forward. Was he going to tear the bag away from me? No. He wanted to give me a hug. I turned away, put my hand on the doorknob, couldn’t bear his body against mine. Couldn’t bear his cheek against my own, his lips against my throat, that he might awaken the same feelings as before, against my will. Or maybe that would stir up the nausea in me as well. And even more . . . would I stir up the same feeling in him? Would he still want me? I didn’t know and didn’t want to know.