by Siya Turabi
Ansari Saab was Hassan’s favourite poet, but right now the poet irritated him. The poet took his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his forehead.
‘Who are these friends? Who does he work with?’
‘Who does he work with?’ The poet often answered a question with a question. ‘The ones he works with are hidden. Or rather, they hide themselves and wait.’
‘What for?’
‘For the right moment to take power.’
‘Who from?’
‘You’re asking the right questions, I see.’ But Ansari Saab said no more. A drop of water ran from his forehead and rested on the thick hairs of his eyebrow. ‘All I know about him is what the others say. He drifts between the dark and the light, barely visible in either.’
The drop reached the poet’s eyelid and tumbled onto his cheek.
‘They’re the dangerous ones,’ the poet said, ‘the ones that trick you into believing what they want you to see.’
Baba still worked for the honey dealer. And Amma… he didn’t know what had happened. Whatever it was, they had both been tricked.
‘I see him at the shrine sometimes. Not many people notice him but I do. That man has some kind of inner drive.’
‘What is it?’ Hassan asked.
‘I’m not sure, but he’s a patient one. I can tell. He just waits and watches. My feelings say he’s seeking revenge of some kind.’
‘Why?’
‘That I definitely don’t know.’ The poet wiped his whole face and neck with his handkerchief before taking a sip from his metal flask. ‘The mir is a better alternative to the government. Your father has to be careful. Politics is a dirty game.’
‘But Baba just wants equality for everyone. The old systems need to change.’
‘People are too greedy for that. And anyway, there are too many people to do the government’s dirty work.’
‘Baba would never do anything wrong,’ Hassan said.
The poet only sighed.
Hassan remembered his bottles; the others were waiting for him.
‘What are you doing here Ansari Saab, really?’
‘This is my favourite place at the moment. Shade and peace. Good, eh?’ He held up his flask.
‘Will Baba be all right?’
‘Who knows? Life is uncertain, my dear, especially in Pakistan.’
That didn’t help Hassan.
‘Are you coming to the shrine tonight? We’ll make your father read his poetry. You’ll see; people will forget everything that happened.’
‘He said he’d take me,’ Hassan said. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow.’
‘Take it,’ the musician said.
Hassan’s father took the drum and placed it between his knees to begin a slow beat. Poets began. Words and beats. Hassan stood up and tapped his foot, and kept tapping even when the poet stopped. It was like nothing had happened the night before; Ansari Saab was right. But Sami wasn’t there. He missed her presence.
‘Go on,’ Baba said, pushing Hassan gently forwards into the circle.
‘Yes, speak about the stars,’ one poet said.
‘Say something about the sun and moon,’ Ansari Saab said.
Hassan wanted to talk about bees.
‘The black honeybees live deep in the forest.
Their honey is a healing gold.’
Everyone was listening. His father tapped the drum with his thumbs.
‘Only those who truly know the honey’s worth may receive it.
For they only listen to the ones who love them.
And for this love, the bees reveal their secret.’
One or two of the poets stood up; some of them clapped. His father beat the drum faster; all his fingers came to life.
‘He’s a poet,’ Ansari Saab said.
Hassan sat down as another poet stood to take his turn. The humming was in his mind again, a clear steady tune. Hassan had no choice but to ask the question that he’d been thinking about these last few days.
‘Can we go for the black honey?’
‘You know we can’t. I promised your mother.’
‘You said you wouldn’t sell the honey anymore.’
‘I’ve stopped.’
‘I saw you today with the jar.’
‘That was the last time.’
Hassan felt his shoulders rise. His father’s words were too easy.
‘But you promised me too.’
His father took several sips from the coconut. He was tapping the drum, looking for a rhythm. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Before the rains. You know what they mean.’
‘Floods,’ Hassan said. The humming in his head stopped.
‘They could be tomorrow. They could be in a month. When I was your age, they would have started by now.’ Baba began to find a slow steady beat with his fingers. ‘The weather isn’t following the old cycles.’ He turned to Hassan again. ‘If we go, then the sooner the better. Once the rains start, there’s no chance. The nests are too deep in the forest.’
Hassan had not drunk one drop of that coconut spirit but he felt dizzy.
‘It won’t be easy; if those black bees don’t like us… We’ll go in the morning before Amma wakes up.’ Baba tapped the drum faster. ‘You’re fourteen tomorrow.’ His thumb was vibrating on the drum. ‘Numbers are very important.’ A poem was coming. He stood up to speak. A hush fell over the poets.
‘Fourteen worker bees rode their paths to fourteen planets that lived around the sun.
They were six-sided planets that whispered strict instructions to these workers.
Make your caves to look like us, the planets said.
The bees brought this knowledge back to the earth where they built cities of wax.
Caves were built in these cities to be the birthplace
For workers, drones, and queen.
Time spent in the cave was different for each.
Time obeyed the law of numbers.
Twenty-one days for workers, twenty-four for drones, and sixteen for the queen.
Workers, drones, and queen.
All because the bees listened to the planets, which listened to the sun, which thanked the queen.’
He took Hassan by the shoulder but still spoke to the poets. ‘I ask you, isn’t there magic in that?’
His father sat down and took another sip of the coconut spirit. His eyes shone and he spoke quietly now.
‘The worker bees brought back a secret knowledge with them from the planets, written in an invisible language on their wings. Only humans that they love can read it but these humans have to earn their trust first.’
‘How?’ Hassan asked.
‘By giving back exactly the same amount of love as they receive. Coin for coin, piece for piece. It’s not easy.’
‘What’s the secret knowledge about?’ Hassan asked.
Here his father laughed, with his head thrown back. Then he stopped and looked straight ahead. Serious. ‘It’s the secret to our existence. It’s the answer to why and how we’re here. The knowledge governs the law of time and numbers. It’s the answer that makes us all equal.’
His poetry voice was gone. ‘I’d give everything to be a holder of that knowledge.’ His head hung and he was swaying just enough for Hassan to wait for another poem but none came.
‘We’ll leave early tomorrow,’ his father said.
Another poet stood and everyone lifted their hands to a new rhythm. Hassan looked around to see a few of the circle standing up to sway. And then his gaze stopped. Someone was walking around in between the crowds, too sober and straight. The figure stayed at the edges, like some kind of spirit without a face, watching everything. Not in an interested, general kind of way. He was looking for someone. He stopped and leant against the shrine, a still shadow in the chaos that moved around him.
Chapter Four
‘If the bees get too excited, we smoke them,’ Hassan’s father said, handing him the smoker.
The clips that held its handles were brown fro
m rust, but the handles themselves were like mirrors and Hassan saw his own tired eyes. He turned the handles to see his father’s face in the mirror, thinking hard; his high forehead was creased and his eyes, normally smiling, were glazed with worry. His father mouthed the words, ‘Knife, clay pot, water,’ before he put each of these into a basket. Hassan moved his lips too, ‘Smoker,’ he said, and handed it back to his father as his mother appeared through the bedroom doorway, a second too early. Her eyes were watering, only half open. Her soft, sleepy body tightened when she saw them.
‘You can’t be…’ she said.
Hassan stepped back into the shadows behind his father. He knew when his mother was about to roar.
‘Meri jaan,’ his father said. He only called her that when he wanted something. ‘My dear,’ he said again, with his poetry voice. ‘The poets have written verses about the black honey.’
His father was fighting for this; Hassan was still.
‘Those poets give you bad ideas,’ she said.
‘No, this one is all mine,’ Baba said.
His mother sighed and Hassan stepped out of the shadows, no longer a little mouse.
‘This is for your eyes,’ his father said to his mother. ‘You know what the elders say too, and the holy book. The black honey is medicine. You’ve said it yourself.’
‘I have medicine from the doctor.’
‘It’s not working.’ His father was checking how heavy the basket was. When he had a plan, nothing could stop him. ‘The bees were generous to me with the other forest honey.’
‘What about Mir Saab’s law?’ his mother asked.
‘For the black honey to work, it needs to be fresh from the hive,’ his father said. ‘We have to go now, before the floods.’
His father took her hand but she pulled it back. She hated to lose but Hassan wanted his father to win this time.
‘The elders say that the black honeybees don’t share their honey easily,’ she said.
‘I understand that.’
‘They’re wilder too.’
‘I know the stories. This is a risk we have to take. They may not even allow me to take any of their honey.’
‘You’re not taking him with you?’ She pointed at Hassan. ‘He’s too young.’
That was the wrong thing to say. Hassan stood tall. ‘I want to go with Baba.’
His mother’s face darkened and he felt the push of tears. Crying would be the end of it all.
‘It’s my birthday.’
Her voice was small now, almost a whisper. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
His father carried on packing the bag, or pretending to.
‘Amma, I want to go with Baba. It’s our last chance before the floods.’
‘What about the animals in the forest?’
‘Don’t put fear into him,’ his father said.
‘I’m not scared.’ Hassan came close and looked up at her eyes; the lids were puffy and the insides grey and cloudy.
‘He’s just like you,’ she said.
They had won, but he didn’t want his mother to feel it. Hassan pulled his ear lobes and stuck out his tongue – his new way to make her laugh – and when she did, it was a high-pitched squeal, the one that had made his father marry her. She didn’t laugh today but she kissed his cheek.
He wiped off the wetness.
‘Bring him back safe.’
Baba was already at the door with the basket slung over a shoulder. He looked fearless.
On the streets, all the shutters and doors were closed. It was still dark and cool and the stray dogs were the only ones awake. They came for the crumbs that Hassan always had for them in his pockets.
They marched past the factories, light-brown splodges of paint against a sky washed dirty grey. Bamboo waved along the borders; their tips didn’t snap like they did when Hassan rode his bike alongside them, faster and faster. Bamboo heads shook. Snap, snap, snap. Bamboo necks sagged. He giggled and his father put his finger to his mouth. Laughter in this quiet world could wake things up and they didn’t want that yet.
Further along the river bank now, ducks rested on low waters.
‘Why is no one allowed in the forest, Baba?’
No answer.
Shots went off in the distance. It had to be Mir Saab, out early in the forest. Hassan’s breath caught at the back of his throat but he kept his eyes on the track. Vultures appeared in the sky, heading for the village to look for scraps. Crows stayed out of sight when the huge birds visited. People said that the vultures came to observe the villagers, ever since all humans were banned from the forest. They said that the vultures were figuring out how to become people.
They approached the forest and a red sun began to rise over the tree tops.
‘Watch out for snakes,’ Baba whispered.
There was a sharpness in Hassan’s stomach. What if a huge hog raced towards them now?
They carried on, twigs snapping, a rustle of leaves; lizards slithered in front of his feet.
‘Stop it,’ Baba said.
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop thinking like that. It’s like a car horn to the animals.’
‘But it’s in my mind.’
He only smiled. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said. ‘The forest is the greatest teacher. If you can survive here, only then will you understand the world.’
Hassan was tired but he continued through undergrowth, over ant hills and past forest clearings that were open to the light, which was already becoming powerful. They walked round a lake where the deer that had gathered for their morning drink scattered like bullets back into the forest. They went on. A bee buzzed past – not a black one. When he was almost too tired to walk anymore, his father stopped.
‘These are their trees.’
Golden leaves sprouted from branches that twisted outwards like the antlers of ancient deer.
‘Acacia,’ his father said, stopping under a tree, squinting, and looking up through the leaves, but he shook his head and moved to the next. Squint, shake, move. Hassan copied and went from tree to tree, arriving at each trunk with the question, ‘Is this the one?’ Repeating it over and over in his mind until his neck hurt.
His father was almost out of sight when he cried out, ‘I have it!’
When Hassan got there, Baba’s eyes were dancing.
The nest was at the top, a big lump of earth stuck to the tree. Hassan could just make it out through the leaves.
The tree was so high and the nest far, far away. Amma’s words dropped on his head like mud. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘They’re waiting for us,’ Baba said.
His father started to climb the tree with bare feet and the basket over his shoulder, stepping on branches or pulling himself up the trunk until he was a long way off the ground.
Hassan wished he could do that – climb a tree for honey. He pressed his hands against the trunk; they were trembling. His heart was loud and his throat was dry. He had to believe. A surprise wind blew, making it easier to see through the leaves. A slow, low-pitched hum reached him from the nest. Another breeze carried the humming closer. He knew this humming. Sound swept down to him and he forgot to worry for a few moments, lost in their world. Were they going to give Baba some of their honey? Hassan kissed the tree.
His father stopped a few feet below the nest. It seemed to shake as Baba inched closer. Yes, it shook. The lump began to pulse and fold like a wave. It was alive. Bees. Hundreds – no, thousands of dark bees. Some hovered, apart from the nest, darting along short invisible lines but staying close. What were they doing? It was a breathing ball of noise. Hassan felt his skin tighten around him.
Then, a glow came from inside the nest. Yes, it was a glow. Had Baba been allowed by them to go further? The movement of the nest was clear – pulsing and folding. The mass of bees looked ready to explode. Hassan’s throat was narrowing. He wanted to scream to his father to come down, but he held back, gripping onto the tree. His father’s shadow was nearing the nest, getting
closer to the glow.
He was nearly there. Yes, he was there. Hassan almost cheered. With his small knife, Baba reached into the blackness and came out with a small square of wax, a piece of honeycomb, dripping black gold down the knife. What would that be like to taste? It went into the clay pot and in the basket. Hassan wanted to bang on the tree, to shout for joy, to say thank you. He wanted to dance to the sound of their humming but it got louder. The nest shook again. Most of the bees stayed together but others buzzed free. Were they angry? One touched Baba’s face. He waved his hand. More came away. What was Baba doing?
Baba took the smoker out of his basket with one hand and pressed the bellows. Nothing. Hassan froze. Baba had checked the bellows that morning. Baba tried again; still no smoke. The mass of bees was stirring. A small group of bees came to hover by his head, their humming louder – a warning.
‘Come down, Baba.’
But he was going closer. What was he doing?
‘Come down, Baba!’ Hassan shouted, but his father still didn’t hear. Or was he just not listening?
The humming was now a force that made Hassan’s body rock but he kept watching his father, who still didn’t come down. What was he waiting for? The bees didn’t want to give him more. Why was it not clear to his father?
Other bees left the cluster, coming close to Baba’s face. They darted near his cheeks. His eyes. His lips. He waved his hands about as more bees buzzed around his body. He slapped his chest, his shoulders, his face.
‘They don’t want you, Baba!’ Hassan’s throat was burning.
Baba turned to look down. Was he giving up? At that moment a bee stung his face, and another. Spirals of bees left the nest and his father had to use both hands against them with his legs wrapped around the trunk.
The smoker hurtled through the leaves.
‘Come down!’
A wave of bees rose, reaching Baba’s shoulders. Another wave reached his ears and then his head until he was in the middle of a black cloud that roared and folded around him. A final wave struck and his father fell.