by Susan Dexter
The cakes were rather hard and burnt black on their bottoms, but Tristan was not about to complain. He chewed, swallowed, complimented, and got straight down to business. He would like, he said, to borrow a laying hen.
“One of my hens?” Mistress Dalzell squinted at him. Her eyes reminded Tristan of the raisins, sunk in her face like the dried fruit in the cake dough. “There’s not a one of them one bit better than the ones your master has already.”
“There was a fox,” Tristan confessed.
“Oh dear. Oh, dear!” He needed to say nothing more. Foxes were a common plague. “The filthy beast got them all, I suppose?”
Tristan nodded. “What it didn’t eat or carry off, it just killed.”
“Foxes are murderers, that’s what they are.” Mistress Dalzell set the empty plate down before Thomas. It held a few black crumbs and a stray raisin. The cat sniffed the offering doubtfully.
“I was thinking,” Tristan said, nudging Thomas to remind him to be a polite guest. “That if I might borrow a hen for a bit—of course it would take a while to hatch out eggs and raise chicks, but eventually we would have a flock again.” Thomas nibbled the raisin. “I wouldn’t expect a loan just for kindness. I could chop wood for you, as much as you felt was fair. I expect you use quite a bit.” Mistress Dalzell took in washing for other folk. If she wasn’t washing, then she was dyeing yarn, or lengths of woolen cloth. She needed a fire under the kettle for that, too.
“That lazy son of mine chops wood for me when he comes to dinner.” Mistress Dalzell’s son did odd jobs of work and mostly spent his pay in the tavern. “He brings me a cartload of driftwood, now and again.”
Tristan nodded, understanding. He wasn’t discouraged. Surely there was something else he could offer? It was fair to let the owner of the hen set the price. He’d only needed to open the discussion. He could depend upon Mistress Dalzell to keep it going. She understood bargaining.
“I’ll tell you what I would trade for.”
There! The bargaining was under way. Tristan leaned slightly forward, to show his interest.
“Last winter was pitiful hard on bees.” Mistress Dalzell nodded her head toward her row of fruit trees. “Three hives I had, and not a one of them thrived. The skeps are empty as can be. I’d trade you eggs for honey. I like a sweet, now and then.”
Eggs were not a flock of chickens. Eggs were just a few meals, an omelet or a cake. He needed to do better than that, Tristan decided. He tried to choose a suitable counter-offer.
Mistress Dalzell thought of one first. “If you were to bring me a swarm of bees, now—I’d give you a hen for that,” she said. “I’d like to have bees in my hives again. I’ve always had my own bees, I have. For years. Honey, and wax to make proper candles. I just had a run of bad luck, what with that sharp winter and then that wet spring. Same as you with the fox.”
A swarm of bees? Well, why not? It wasn’t as if she was asking him to spin straw into gold, Tristan decided. It was the right time of year for bees to swarm. Healthy hives were becoming crowded, and there were plenty of summer days left for establishing a new hive, before winter killed off all the blossoms and the bees settled into sleep. It might prove to be less work than chopping wood, in the end.
“I’ll try,” Tristan agreed. “I’ll take one of your skeps to fetch the swarm home, if I may?”
Flower to Hive
You can talk to bees? Thomas asked. The cat tried to sound nonchalant, but his green eyes were wide, missing nothing.
“Well, only a little,” Tristan admitted. “Bees really aren’t much for conversation.”
All that buzzing isn’t just their wings? My mother told me it isn’t purring. Is it a growling?
“Bees tell each other about the flowers they’ve visited,” Tristan explained. “Over and over, and then maybe over again. That’s all that matters to them. Anyway, I needed to find out whether Blais’ bees might be thinking of swarming this spring. They aren’t.” He sighed.
Tristan had lain on his belly in the flowering thyme for most of an hour. It was difficult to have a serious discussion with a bee. The honeybees darted from blossom to blossom and forgot any question that Tristan asked before it was all the way out of his mouth. Those few bees which might be disposed to answer him looked no different from those which were irritable and impatient. Tristan hadn’t been stung, but he’d had some close calls. Only wasps were more temperamental. Also, the bees moved constantly, shifting position and trading places among the thyme blossoms. By the time he abandoned his questioning, Tristan had a nasty headache.
Blais’ bees were not inclined to swarm anytime soon. That would have been too easy, Tristan supposed. He had a journey ahead of him.
Tristan made himself a small pack. He wrapped up oatcakes and a bit of cheese, and added a small jar of last year’s honey. He wouldn’t eat that himself, but he’d need it.
He fetched out his pouch of magic stones from the fireplace shelf and took some dried leaves of bee-balm for making tea. Now that he had his own firestone, he could think about hot drinks. He added a tin cup for brewing the tea.
He’d need a large sack to hold Mistress Dalzell’s straw bee skep. Tristan searched through a chest, lifting out stubs of candles, balls of soap, hanks of woolen thread and packets of dried lavender. The empty linen bag lining the bottom of the coffer would do nicely.
Tristan didn’t want to haul much more along. He might need to walk some distance before he located bees looking for a new home. There was no way to know—he couldn’t yet work Blais’ scrying bowl. Blais had caught him trying and said he couldn’t find the sun on a bright day with the device.
He could live off the country while he searched, though. Better than Jock or Rho either one. Water and firewood were easy enough to come by, when you weren’t city-raised. Any bush would be shelter enough for the summer nights, even if rain fell. That and his cloak.
Thomas watched him struggling with the clasp of the threadbare garment. Aren’t you taking some herbs for bee stings? The cat asked plaintively.
“Swarming bees don’t sting,” Tristan explained impatiently, jabbing his finger as he fiddled with the copper pin. “They don’t even eat. The hive sends out scouts, to look for a new home. When they find one, all the other bees stuff themselves with honey. Then they fly with their queen to the new place. They don’t feed on the way. They just fly. And they’re so full of food, they can hardly stay awake when they stop.” He sucked on his finger. “You can handle them all you like, even take the queen out of the swarm. I saw a beekeeper make a beard of bees, at the Dunehollow Fair. He put the queen on his chin, and all the rest of the swarm gathered right around her.”
Thomas made a disgusted noise.
“I’m not going to do anything like that,” Tristan agreed. “I need to talk to a scout bee.”
You need to find one particular sort of bee?
Success didn’t sound so likely, put that way. But Tristan refused to be discouraged. Right now, all he needed to do was walk. He could certainly do that.
He set the wards around the cottage again. He was very careful. He checked and rechecked his work. Then he led the cow along to Mistress Dalzell’s. A creature that needed milking twice a day could not be left alone while he went about his quest, wards or no wards. That would be a worse mistake than the chickens. The cow would never forgive him.
* * * *
By sun-high, Tristan was sure the bees he met with would be wild bees. He was a long way from the last cottage he’d seen. That was as it should be. No use his following bees back to some farmer’s hive. Even if its bees did chance to be swarming, Tristan would not dare take them. Beekeepers always had a fresh skep waiting for swarms. An increase in hives was like an increase in the potato crop. If Tristan helped himself to a swarm, he’d be a thief. He could expect to be treated as such if he was caught. He’d be beaten with sticks, have stones thrown at him, or dogs set on him. The only swarming bees he could safely take were wild ones, bees which b
elonged to no one save themselves.
That was fine. Wild bees were strong and healthy. Wild bees made good honey, and plenty of it. Mistress Dalzell would like a hardy hive, a hive that could survive the coldest winter.
The sun was hot. Tristan sat down beneath a small tree, grateful for its cool shade. He sipped water from his flask, then chewed an oatcake. Thomas prowled across the meadow, choosing his own lunch. Presently Tristan heard a sharp squeak, but all he could see of Thomas was the cat’s lashing tail. Then that settled out of sight. He couldn’t see what the cat had captured.
The grass was dotted with scarlet poppies and constellations of white daisies. Broad drifts of clover appeared when the wind brushed the grass, shifting like cloud shadows on the sea. Bees were busy everywhere in the meadow. The air danced with them. A butterfly sailed majestically by. A dragonfly darted after a gnat, performing feats of aerial gymnastics.
As good a place as any to start his search. The woodland beyond the meadow was dense and looked ancient. An old forest held many dead trees. Bees liked the hollows of rotted trunks and branches. Such places made good hive sites. So, now all he needed was to find a bee that was headed for its home.
A bee stayed on a blossom till it had sipped all the available nectar. Then it would shift to a fresh flower. If that blossom had been visited already by another, the bee might not find much to keep it there. Every bee in the field buzzed and bumbled from one flower to another. It was a complicated dance, lacking a fiddler to give the dancers order. How could Tristan choose a single bee and follow it till it was ready to return to its hive? He got dizzy just thinking of doing it.
But he could tell when a bee was loaded and ready to depart. Bees took pollen as well as nectar from the flowers. Pollen was food, but it wasn’t sucked into a worker bee’s stomach. The yellow grains were stored in leg pouches, which swelled as they were filled. Tristan could easily see them on some of the nearest bees, if he leaned close.
Ah! There was such a bee now. It had an orange-gold load upon either hindmost leg. It looked like a tiny donkey bearing panniers. When it rose up, Tristan did likewise, ignoring other bees that his movement startled into flight.
His bee shot off toward the dark band of trees. Tristan tracked its flight for a few seconds. Easy enough! But then he lost the gold speck in the distance, before he could take more than a step in pursuit.
If only bees were as big as dragonflies! Tristan frowned, thinking. If he couldn’t follow a particular bee across an open meadow in full daylight, how could he track one through the dark forest? What would Blais suggest? Had he ever read a spell that might help him now?
It wouldn’t be a bad thing if the bees were larger—or at least looked larger. A round bit of glass could magnify. He should have brought the fishing float he’d found on the beach. But, a drop of water would be every bit as round. Tristan reached for his flask.
He poured water into his palm, then dipped his forefinger. Tristan raised the finger carefully, watching the drop that hung trembling from the tip. He quietly invoked the Principle of Similarity. Like to like. What was true for the smaller part would hold for the greater part as well.
Tristan pointed his finger toward a feeding honeybee. He stared at the insect through the drop of water. The bee was wonderfully enlarged. Tristan could count every bristly hair on its fat body. He could see the rainbow facets of its eyes. Those pockets of pollen looked like loaves of bread.
The water drop hung shining in the sun. The bee grew larger, the longer Tristan looked.
“Like to like,” Tristan whispered, setting the spell. The bee was huge. When it left the flower, he half expected the wind of its churning wings to blow him off his feet.
Distance still made the bee dwindle as it neared the wood, but it appeared to be the size of a small bird. Tristan hurried after the hurtling shape. “Come on, Thomas!” he called to the cat.
The bee was well ahead, but it wasn’t flying all that rapidly. Bees were tireless, but hardly falcon-swift. He could keep up, Tristan knew. Thanks to the spell, he could keep the bee in sight. Tristan jogged through the long grass.
All at once, there was no sign of the bee. Tristan stumbled to an uncertain halt. He shaded his eyes against the sun. No use. The only bees he saw were plying their trade in the buttercups around his feet.
Thomas trotted up, raising his tail as he slowed to cover the final few yards. What’s the matter? The cat asked, not quite out of breath.
Tristan didn’t answer. He ran through his herb-lore. The bee must have vanished when something interfered with his spell. But what? Buttercups liked wet feet. Did that mean anything? Tristan stepped forward. Thomas followed, looking cross at being ignored, saying nothing more.
Tristan had to walk fifty yards more, but he found exactly what he expected. A small stream wound invisibly through the long grass of the meadow. “Magic can’t cross running water,” he told Thomas. “The spell I put on the bee stopped working when the bee flew over the stream.”
Oh. Thomas dabbled a paw in the clear water. Shadows darted for cover—minnows or some other tiny, wary fish.
“I’ll just have to find another bee after I’ve crossed,” Tristan said, resigned. He looked for a likely spot. The stream was neither wide nor deep, but just too wide to be stepped over easily. He could wade through, but that would soak his boots. He’d rather keep his feet dry, if he could.
The stream sparkled over a bed of golden gravel, no more than ankle deep. That was fine so far as it went, but there might be mud too. Tristan suspected it. If he simply stepped in, he might sink. What he wanted to see were larger stones. He’d step from one to the next and get across. A toppled tree bridging the stream would be fine too. Tristan searched downstream.
He found a nice chain of stones. The only real gap was toward the far bank, and he thought he could jump that bit. If he went fast, he’d have momentum to help him. A heron, fishing upstream, gave Tristan a yellow-eyed glare and stalked away, not concerned enough to bother flying.
Thomas reared up against Tristan’s left boot, looking up at him. His wish was obvious—to be carried across. Well, the stream was deep to a cat. Thomas could jump from stone to stone just as Tristan could step, but after his fishing adventure, perhaps he didn’t wish to.
Tristan settled the cat on his left shoulder and told him to hold tight. He preferred to have his arms free for balance, not full of cat. The stones looked safe, but crossing water wasn’t always simple for wizard-folk.
The first two rocks were flat and dry. The third was evidently round as an egg, under the water. It shifted under Tristan’s foot. He left it hastily, but without distress. So long as he didn’t linger, small slips were nothing to bother about. If he kept going, he’d be fine. Just like walking on ice.
The next rock was flat, and it didn’t shift—but it was moss-covered and slippery as grease. Tristan skidded. He fought hard for his balance, but he lost. Arms flailing, he pitched into the stream.
The water was only a handspan deep, but his landing soaked Tristan from head to heels. Thomas promptly abandoned ship. Digging his claws hard into Tristan’s shoulder, the cat sprang toward the bank with all his might. His flight lacked dignity, but he reached the stream’s far side dry. That was more than Tristan could claim. He picked himself up and slogged the last few feet, mud sucking fiercely at his boots, water dripping from his hair, his clothes, his chin.
What was that? Thomas gave himself a violent shake, though he had no water in his coat. He licked his shoulder furiously. Are we joining a circus?
“Wizards don’t cross running water any better than their spells do,” Tristan admitted. His shoulder stung. Thomas’ claws had pierced his skin as well as his clothes.
Next time, you’re on your own. Thomas had recovered his dignity, but he was in no mood to forgive.
“All right.” Absently, Tristan picked up a water-smoothed piece of slate. The stone was a perfect oval, of a deep, uniform color. Tristan could feel the magic in it
, though either crossing the water or falling had left him dizzy and unsettled. He climbed the low bank, sat on a fallen tree, and dragged his boots off.
No drying-spell for him this time! The sun ought to be up to the job. It wouldn’t need to work hard this time—he wasn’t soaked down to his skin. And maybe by the time he was dry, his heart would have settled back down where it belonged, instead of banging away in his throat till it was all Tristan could do to breathe around it. He hated running water, if he had to cross it!
Thomas stalked a scarlet dragonfly. The dragonfly contemptuously stayed just out of his reach. Yellow sunlight poured down. After a few moments, Tristan put his boots back on. He filled his flask from the stream—might as well get fresh water while he had the chance. There was plenty of it. Repeating the drop-charm on another bee, he set off again.
He lost this bee too. The stream wound considerably. Possibly there was more than one stream. It was hard to see, in the tall grass. At least, hard to see very far ahead.
The sun was sinking when he reached the edge of the wood. Soon there was not a bee to be seen anywhere. Tristan gathered dry sticks while looking about for shelter. A bush would do, if he found nothing better. The low-hanging branches of a fir could be both roof and walls.
Tristan was prepared to spend a night or two in the open. The sky was clear, rain unlikely. He had food to eat, wood for a fire, a firestone to light the blaze. He had Thomas for company. Most wild animals would have no interest in him. All was well.
He refused to be discouraged. Swarming bees weren’t common. They weren’t scarce either. Patience and persistence would pay off in the end. Tristan watched the golden flames dancing, searing a small fish he’d hooked from the nearest bit of stream. He wasn’t worried. Not in the least. He was a wizard in training. Night held few terrors for him.
He would accomplish his chosen quest. Only he must be fairly quick about it. He had to be back at the cottage before Blais returned. Ideally, with the matter of the chickens well in hand. The flames began to take the shapes of hens and roosters as he thought about that.