The Last Beekeeper

by Siya Turabi

  ‘I’m going tomorrow,’ Hassan said. ‘Alone.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Late afternoon, with his shirt sticking to his skin, Hasan sat in the back of the jeep with the others while Mir Saab sat in the front with Ali Noor. They bounced and jolted over the uneven sandy ground. The jeep hit a bump in the road and Maryam flew up off her seat and crashed down again. She scrunched up her face and rubbed her head.

  ‘At night, that’s where the hogs go to drink,’ Zain said, pointing to a drinking hole.

  The trees grew denser, less spindly, and bushes became more ragged and competed for space. Animals looked up as they drove past, surprised by the jeep and the clouds of dust that followed it. A flock of geese noisily flew upwards and a flock of ducks made angry noises. They slowed down as they approached the edge of the forest and the dirt track stopped at a sign: Harikaya Nature Reserve. Hassan had never been this way before but he decided then that it would be his path tomorrow.

  They walked in single file under the forest canopy, picking their way through thicket and weeds and came to a small hill with a hide perched on top, lined with bamboo reeds and large leaves.

  ‘My main concern is the hog,’ Mir Saab said. ‘Make sure you’re absolutely quiet in there.’

  Ali Noor lifted some of the reeds off and Hassan went through the entrance with the others into darkness.

  ‘I’ll wait for you here,’ Mir Saab said, lifting his binoculars to his face.

  Inside, Ali Noor took out a strip of the wall leaving a thin slit, about a metre long and five centimetres thick. A few feet away from the shelter was a tall bush. On one side of it was a deer and on the other, a hog, each with their head down, munching at the grass. The deer picked at the grass, delicately pulling it out with its teeth; the boar chomped with its huge jaw like a machine.

  Hassan started to sweat. He’d heard too many stories about boars that had charged into people, either killing or maiming them. It looked peaceful now, but everything could change if the hog decided that the deer was dessert or if it heard them. It lasted a few minutes longer, and when Ali Noor signalled for them to leave the hide, Hassan was drenched in sweat. All of them stayed quiet on the forest path along which Ali Noor and Mir Saab led them. They carried on for another hour but then Mir Saab stopped and turned around.

  ‘Can we keep going?’ Hassan asked.

  ‘No, the sun will set soon.’ Mir Saab reached for his shirt pocket and opened a box. He held what looked like a metal ball in his hand. ‘This compass might be useful.’ He opened the lid and Hassan saw that the arrow inside was vibrating.

  ‘The arrow points north. The fort is to the west,’ Mir Saab said.

  For a moment, he was back to his old self, the one who fiddled with cameras and talked about nature.

  ‘Thank you, Mir Saab.’

  Mir Saab gave it to him and he held it tight. It would fit in his waistcoat pocket alongside the piece of honeycomb.

  Hassan dropped back to the end of the line of people. The canopy was full of birdsong and the light was fading. There was no fear now but would it be the same in the morning when he would be here on his own? They reached the track again and he jogged to be level with Maryam.

  ‘Do you think the beekeeper knows you’re coming?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at the compass.

  Together they walked behind the others. He tripped on some thicket and Maryam steadied him. This time, for the first time, his body stayed relaxed.

  In six days, she’d be too far away to touch him.

  That evening, they drove from the palace to the hill fort, to stay there for a few nights as was the family tradition when they were in Harikaya. The great iron doors of the fort, with short spikes running all over them, opened and the car just got through.

  ‘Invaders used to come on elephants and they couldn’t fit through narrow doors,’ Zain said.

  ‘Now they come with wedding invitations,’ Maryam said.

  The jeep slipped through the gateway and stopped in a small courtyard, surrounded by walls.

  ‘This is the first stage of entry into the fort,’ Zain said. ‘Invaders could never get further than this.’

  A heavy iron door opened and they all walked into a much bigger courtyard surrounded by arches. It was like the dance platform of the hive. Servants appeared and took suitcases out of the car.

  ‘You’re still wearing bright colours,’ Begum Saab said to Zain and Amina. ‘Come with me.’

  Amina turned to Maryam and Hassan. ‘Explore,’ she whispered before she disappeared through one of the arches.

  He followed Maryam through to a great terrace that crawled around the fort and was bordered by a wall. Maryam went over to the wall and stood in front of it; it came to her chest.

  ‘I’ve never seen stars like this before,’ she said.

  A man below the fort at the bottom of the hill rode a bicycle, in no hurry and singing to himself. He cycled past the huge marquee outside the village wall.

  ‘That’s where the gatherings are,’ Hassan said.

  The rhythmic tones of a slow drum beat rose up from inside the tent while a steady stream of villagers was going in.

  ‘My mother used to go,’ he said. ‘The bread she brought back was special.’

  A tear dropped onto his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped the wetness with his hand but it was too late.

  ‘Why don’t you go to see your mother?’

  ‘I promised I’d find the honey first and bring it to her.’

  As the drum beat played, melodies rose up in the thin night air.

  ‘Can you see the alams over there, shining in silver?’ Maryam asked.

  A line of poles with thin metal tops shaped like hands were being carried into the tent. Each one was draped with long black cloth. Garlands of roses and silver thread were hung over the cloth.

  ‘Why do people cry at the gatherings?’ Hassan asked her.

  ‘Don’t you know the story?’ She looked at him and laughed. ‘You don’t know anything about different stories, do you?’

  ‘I was too busy,’ he said.

  She laughed again. ‘Two hundred years ago, the governors of a town asked the ancestors to come and help them govern. The ancestors came and set up their tents outside the town on the banks of the Euphrates. But it was a trick.’

  ‘A trick?’

  ‘That’s when the ambush happened. The ancestors didn’t want to fight but they had to go out and ask for water for the children and the sick. The rulers of the town attacked them. Three days it took before each man, one by one, met his fate.’

  ‘Why did the governors do that?’

  ‘Because the ancestors had magic and that was forbidden.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The rulers were afraid of magic, but the ancestors only used it for good.’

  ‘What kind of magic did they have?’

  ‘It was the magic of the earth and healing, the magic of love and ancestry, a magic that understood the stars. After it was all over, the people of the town came out and saw what had happened. They gave the children and women food and water.’

  ‘Why were they afraid of their magic?’ he asked.

  ‘Those governors didn’t realise that magic is everywhere – that they had lost touch with it.’ Maryam shrugged. ‘The women suffered a lot. They were the ones left behind with the thirsty children.’

  Hassan thought of Harikaya, of his mother, of the women working in the factories and on the land. They were the ones who suffered most. Below, the drum beat continued. The chant had stopped and now he missed his mother.

  ‘We have to do something. It’s the women who will suffer the most.’

  ‘If the government got the factories and closed them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We could organise a march.’

  ‘My father tried. They wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘What if we write leaflets? They can’t shut leaflets down.’

&n
bsp; Hassan laughed. ‘It’s worth a try.’

  They stood together looking upwards. For a few moments, Hassan felt some space around him. He was home.

  ‘Hassan,’ Maryam said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to come back with me to London?’

  The question was a great wave that came without warning and he had to hold onto the top of the wall to stop it carrying him away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hassan looked round for his waistcoat in the room with stone walls. It was the first time he had slept in a bed with a real mattress – that time in Karachi didn’t count; it had only been for a few minutes before the cook—

  He stopped himself thinking and walked over to the window – no meshing, no crow, just an opening. The sky was empty of vultures; it was too early for them now. He slipped on his waistcoat and tapped the pocket; the honeycomb was safe. He opened the heavy wooden door and made his way to the terrace and looked out over the wall.

  The fort overlooked the ancient forest and desert flatlands that were dotted with craggy rocks and rolling fields. Sand seeped into irrigation channels that lay parched in the fields.

  There was a shout from behind him and before he could turn around, footsteps arrived by his side. They stood face to face and he laughed. Maryam stretched out her hand with a cup of white milk that had pistachio nuts floating at the top.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said.

  ‘Sharbat,’ she said. ‘From last night.’

  He drank it down in a few gulps. It was sweet and good.

  ‘You have white lips now,’ she laughed.

  They were both silent on their way to breakfast. While he waited for her to say something about London, his head raced with thoughts. There was no way a village boy could go back to London with her. People in the village dreamt of visas to London all the time. There was a family on the street where his house was. One of the boys had left, made it to a city, paid for his sisters to follow him, yet every time they came home to visit their mother, they only talked about going to London. It was an out-of-reach desire that swallowed their daily lives. He knew Mir Saab had taken Muhammed to London a few times, but that was as his servant. Mir Saab could manage that kind of visa easily. Hassan would never go anywhere as a servant. Maryam was still silent as she went through the door. Perhaps it had just been a wish, nothing more. And anyway, Amma needed him to be closer than London.

  He ate with the family in a room with high white walls and windows framed by mosaics. Afterwards, Amina and Zain left with Begum Saab. Maryam stayed with Hassan and Mir Saab at the table.

  ‘Remember the honeybird,’ Mir Saab said.

  It was time to tell Mir Saab more. After all, he wasn’t the one who had sent the guards after Baba.

  ‘I saw the beekeeper less than a month ago. He saved my father from the fire.’ Hassan imagined his father’s face, his creased forehead, his pain after the fall. The golden hive in Mir Saab’s study in Karachi shone in his mind and, just at that moment, the sun’s rays reached the floor through the windows. The light was bright.

  Mir Saab chuckled and shook his head; his eyes widened and he let out a big laugh.

  ‘That’s it!’ he shouted. ‘That’s it. That’s why the bees in the masjid were preparing you.’ His face was alight and he brought his fist down heavily on the table and bent over. ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘Nothing. He spoke to the bees.’

  ‘The beekeeper recognised you. I don’t know how, but he recognised you.’ Mir Saab rocked as if a current of energy was shooting up his body. ‘The link you have with him is important.’ He was speaking fast. ‘You’re connected to the bees, like him,’ Mir Saab said. ‘You’re connected to their knowledge.’

  They sat for a minute, maybe two, in silence as if they were waiting together for some kind of message.

  ‘You will be another holder of this knowledge,’ Mir Saab said. ‘Your journeys into the hive, what do you think they were showing you?’

  So many things, he thought, but all he could say was, ‘The queen bee. I never reached her.’

  ‘She only appears to a very few.’ Mir Saab got up and paced the room. ‘You have more of a chance than I ever had.’ Mir Saab stopped. ‘I left too soon.’

  ‘Do you think the queen is the gateway to their knowledge?’ He thought for a moment.

  ‘Reaching her is part of knowing that,’ Mir Saab said, ‘or at least the presence of her. Her energy. You need to reach her energy centre. I wasn’t sure of that until now. Yes, the hive revolves around her energy; it’s a great responsibility. But you know all this.’ Mir Saab walked to the window.

  With his back to Hassan, Mir Saab said, ‘Go now to the jungle. The beekeeper is waiting.’

  Birdsong burst from the forest which was only a few metres away now, but he needed to rest for a moment. It had been a long walk and the sun was hot this morning. He stood in the shade of a fig tree and a red drop fell on his finger. He looked up. A fig was open, rich and ripe, and ants were streaming over its pink flesh. He licked his finger. Just then, a bee buzzed high in the tree. It flew higher and higher until he lost sight of it. Another bee hovered at a lower level, testing the flowers on nearby bushes. It carried bright-yellow balls of pollen on its legs and flew from bush to bush. He followed it into the forest.

  He stood still, silent, searching for the sound of the bee. None came. The forest was watching and listening to his every move. There was no clear path to follow but he kept walking and the canopy of the forest grew denser and darker. His eyes began to get used to it and sunbeams shot down through the trees to point the way.

  And Hassan followed.

  Thickets and thorns scratched his feet.

  He sat down on a fallen log and picked off sticky cobwebs from his long trousers. Ants, in their own world, marched in a line in front of him. Was this all worth it? The forest was huge and the beekeeper could be anywhere. The last time Hassan had been here had been with Baba. If only he were here now, then this would be easier. It would have taken a day to find the honey and he’d be back with Amma by now. It could take forever. But, Maryam was leaving in—

  Something moved through the undergrowth in the distance.

  The outline of a man. The beekeeper. It had to be him. Hassan stood up. The figure glided through the forest and Hassan ran after him, barely keeping up over sandy mounds, hurtling past overgrown shrubs, flinging his arms through low branches and bushes. But the form vanished and he was lost. The leaves rustled and he looked around but saw nothing. It had happened again.

  The sun was directly above now, but he kept going.

  He came to a pond and his feet got stuck in shallow swampy ground. He stepped out of the mud, bending to pick up his sandals which were now caked. He would have to carry on with them like that. They squelched with every step, but such was the violent heat that he could feel the mud drying already under his feet.

  Mir Saab had said that bees gathered by the water. Leaves rustled again and he lifted his head. Vultures were standing around the pond like aged beings from another planet. They stared at him, their heads moving slowly and their black wings shining in the sun.

  There was something in the way their wings were poised that made Hassan take a few steps backwards. The birds stood like guards and kept their eyes on him. If the beekeeper was somewhere in that part of the forest behind them, Hassan had no chance, at least not today. The vultures left the forest in search of food in the early morning; that would be the best time to come, earlier. Later, in the evening, the deer and hogs would be moving to the drinking holes. He had to keep moving. He would try again tomorrow, skip breakfast and come straight away. But he only had two days before Maryam left for Karachi; he couldn’t afford to waste any more. He looked at the birds and their menacing eyes. He would do it, even if they pecked at him. That idea made him turn around.

  Back on dry land again, he took the water bottle from his bag, had a few sips, and leant against the tree, sli
ding down to the ground. He rested with his head on his knees. His legs and feet felt heavy. This was an impossible task. But Mir Saab thought this was his path. Maryam thought he had some kind of special magic. And he had seen the beekeeper.

  ‘The beekeeper is waiting,’ Mir Saab’s words were in his head. He couldn’t give up now. His mother would be waiting. Maryam was waiting. And Baba. Hassan had to wait for him. He tried to ignore something else that stirred quietly now at the bottom of his mind. Maryam’s question. He tried to stop the thoughts but they were too strong. Plane tickets were expensive. He had heard visas were difficult to get. Maybe she had a plan.

  He took a few more sips from his water bottle and rested his head back against the tree trunk. The roughness on his scalp brought him back to the path in front of him. If he went with her, he would have to be dependent on her family. That would be wrong. Baba would think that was wrong. Maryam was kind but it would never work. His jaw tightened. No. Even if he could get a visa, and even if Maryam had been serious, the bees had allowed him to enter their world.

  Hassan’s crumpled form started to unfold against the tree trunk and he raised his head. He had to go on. All this thinking was slowing him down. All that mattered was Amma’s eyes. Until then, he couldn’t go anywhere.

  Footsteps. Someone was walking behind the bushes and leaves. Footsteps came closer.

  ‘Hey!’ Hassan shouted. ‘It’s me.’ Hassan moved towards the figure but the man was faster. ‘Remember me?’ he shouted again. The man must be deaf. The figure disappeared.

  Hassan was breathing hard and he stopped to rest on a hilly mound. A stray sunbeam touched his head and poured gentle light over him. He had seen the beekeeper; it had to be him. Just then, there was a sudden rustle of leaves below him but no movement. He was ready to go on again when a snout and eyes poked out of the undergrowth. He scrambled up. A large hog head, joined to a much larger body, emerged. Its snout pointed in his direction and its squeals and grunts came closer. The hog began charging up the hill towards him, like a bomb bouncing over the forest floor. Hassan picked up a thick log, high over his head, and he roared.