The Beekeeper's Bullet

by Lance Hawvermale

  “You’ll need a lot more lessons.”

  “Fortunately, I happen to be on good terms with an expert.”

  “Are we on good terms?”

  “Well…you haven’t shot me today.”

  “I seem to have left my rifle behind with everything else.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  She permitted herself a smile, though not one she honestly felt. She and Alec took the long way around a tangle of wild privet, and houses became visible down the slope, plainly painted homes and fences of stacked stone. Ellenor realized how the two of them must look, a peaceful couple strolling in the midmorning sun, dressed somewhat strangely and both in need of a bath. They were not so out of place. War had created many misfits and outcasts, and it was not uncommon to see the occasional disheveled, haunted-eyed straggler passing through. They spoke in riddles and seldom stayed for long.

  “You’ll have to do the talking,” Alec said.

  “I assumed as much. Do we have a story?”

  “We’re fleeing the Front. We had a farm. French artillery drove us out. Our lorry broke down last night, and we’ve been walking ever since.”

  “And if they ask our names?”

  “Make something up.”

  “And if they ask why you’re not speaking?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Tell them I’ve been shell-shocked or something.”

  “That’s your best explanation? You don’t speak because your brain is addled? We should forget this and turn around. I’ll help you start the plane so you can go and find your sister. I’ll be fine.”

  “Liar. Besides, I’m responsible for your being here. It’s my duty to see this through.”

  “So I’m your duty now?”

  “Please, I’m trying. I’ll work it out eventually—soon. I’ll find the answer. In the meantime, we could use a bite to eat, and we’ll see about that coat. I’m just going to keep my mouth shut and hope for hospitality.”

  Ellenor hoped for a lot more than that. She hoped she’d wake up and find this was all a dream. She hoped for a way to return to her little room in the manor house, with its brocade drapes and white damask bunting hanging from the bed posts. None of that was possible anymore, but at least she was wearing a decent pair of boots.

  They neared the village, with its slate roofs and moss-covered wells. When the first hay farmer looked up from his work and noticed them approaching, Ellenor waved with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel and tried to think of a fabricated name.

  ****

  At that same moment, in a barn that had been converted into a hangar, Gustov Voss scraped dried blood from the back of a truck.

  “She brought him here in this?”

  “She did,” Josef confirmed. “When she called me over, I thought it was to help her unload her hive boxes, but instead…”

  “Instead it was a British officer.”

  “I believe that is correct, sir. I mean, Gustov.”

  The blade of Gustov’s knife, made of Damascus steel, was so well-polished that he saw little fragments of his reflection in it when he observed the flaking circle of blood.

  “What other injuries did he receive in the crash?”

  “Nothing major, from what I understand. But, uh…that blood wasn’t from the crash.”

  Gustov looked over at him, waiting.

  “He was bleeding from the hand because Little Fox shot him.”

  “Little Fox?”

  “I mean Ellenor. That’s what I call her.”

  “She shot the Englander?”

  “In the hand, yes.”

  “And then she brought him back here to field-dress the wound she inflicted?”

  “I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s true.”

  Gustov laughed in spite of himself. “Oh, I’m starting to believe that anything is possible when Ellenor Jantz is involved.” He darkened when he recalled that he’d not yet filed his report of the incident. Perhaps he could delay it a bit longer. “I ask you again, just to be sure—you have no idea where they’ve gone?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was going to leave with him.”

  “I’m told she left all of her possessions behind.”

  “And her bees.”

  “Yes. Her beloved bees.” Gustov tapped the tip of the knife against his knuckle as he considered it. “They took the plane eastward, but I assumed the pilot would soon change course and head west, in the direction of the Front. That’s where the action is. That’s where he would likely go. So my men scoured the sky to the west, not returning until their fuel tanks demanded it. And they saw nothing, heard nothing. This makes me think that the Englander continued east after taking off, which makes little sense. What does he expect to do with a single aircraft in the heart of Germany? At most, he might blow up a locomotive or a bridge…and what does that possibly accomplish that’s worth the trouble of recruiting a partner and orchestrating the theft of a plane?”

  Josef, obviously well out of his element, only shrugged.

  “I am missing some vital piece of intelligence.” Indeed, it was as if he were working from a script with several important pages removed. “What am I overlooking?”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Gustov said distractedly. He walked slowly to the barn’s wide doorway and summoned his valet with a wave. They’d assigned to him a young man barely out of rifle training, wide freckles like dew drops on his cheeks. All air officers on both sides of the Front enjoyed the services of such an aide-de-camp. Gustov’s was a naïve Franconian named Eldwin.

  “Sir!” Eldwin saluted with unnecessary formality.

  “Where is Lieutenant Mier?”

  “Overseeing the refueling for the day’s patrol, sir.”

  “As soon as he’s finished, please ask him to come see me.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “That is all.”

  Eldwin raced away, nothing but skinny knees and flying elbows, and damn the bureaucrat who conscripted boys like this for a war that would eventually kill them. At the very least, it would transform them with its tentacles and bile.

  Gustov lit a Turkish cigarette and waited.

  Mier arrived on a motorbike eight minutes later, dismounted, and came to attention with a salute not quite as rigid as Eldwin’s had been.

  Gustov explained the only plan he’d managed to assemble. It was the best he had. It was predicated on a single, possibly pointless hunch: “The Englander was apparently shot down not far from here. We need to find his crashed plane.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ellenor sat at an outdoor table made from the repurposed lumber of an old ox cart. A glazed ceramic pot occupied the table’s center, roses spilling out of it like fire. Across from her sat a sixty-year-old hay merchant named Rickert and his wife Magnild, the village seamstress and quilt-maker. Alec sat beside her. They drank beer from steins that Magnild stored in the icebox to keep the metal cool.

  “…and we left so quickly that we didn’t bother to consider our destination,” Ellenor continued, making it up as she went along. She’d never considered herself much of a storyteller, but she’d gotten practice with Father’s children, who’d grown bored of their books and looked forward to whatever tales Ellenor created from the shadows on their wall. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your kindness.”

  “You’re in the country,” Rickert said. “We remember our manners in the country. Now, try finding an honest man in the city…”

  “Oh, hush,” his wife admonished him. “Fine people inhabit the cities, and you know it.”

  “Yes, fine people who would just as soon fleece you for your last coin as give you the time of day. I’ve done my time in town. I prefer sky over smoke.”

  “I concur,” Ellenor said, hoping to come across as whatever kind of person that Rickert thought was salt of the earth. “We didn’t have much at our home, but all the same, it’s a shame to leave it all behind.” She real
ized as she lied to this honest man that she was playing a game. For the first time in her adult life, she was actively deceiving someone, a spy in a foreign land, hoodwinking the locals. The idea was so farfetched that she stuttered a few times while talking of the fake property she and her brother Mika had been forced to flee, with its pretty tiled walk and green shutters.

  “And you, Mika?” Rickert asked. “What do you do for work?”

  Ellenor put on the longsuffering face she’d been practicing in her mind. “My brother doesn’t speak, at least not to those he’s just met. Please don’t be offended.”

  Rickert seemed at a loss, unsure of how to process this, but Magnild swooped in with that kind of grace acquired only by women of a certain age. “No need to worry about that, dear,” she said. “If he’s fond of dumplings and Strauss, he’ll find himself at home here.”

  “You have a gramophone?” Ellenor asked.

  Rickert grinned like a rogue. “We may be provincial, but we’re not barbarians. We have a lovely Berliner I’d be happy to show you.”

  “And we’d be happy to see it!”

  The next hour went like that, with Ellenor weaving threads of gentle lies across a loom until she wondered if she’d be smothered by them before she was through. Johann Strauss’ “The Blue Danube” spun on a hand-cranked gramophone. Inevitably the talk went to what everyone called the Great War, though there was nothing great about it but the size of the egos of the men who’d started it. Rickert and Magnild had two daughters in Göttingen, thankfully well removed from the fighting, but the country’s economy was so focused on outputting war materiel that both young women had been forced to take up jobs in a machine shop.

  “They spend all day making rivets,” Magnild explained. “It can’t be very rewarding for them.”

  “They’re safe and they’re paid for their labor,” Rickert said. “A father cares a lot less for rewarding, believe me.”

  Magnild showed them the small studio she used in her work as a seamstress, and it was then that Ellenor discarded the notion of locating a coat. She’d come here intending to acquire an insulated garment to protect her from the temperatures at high altitudes, but now inspiration moved her in a different direction—one that didn’t require her to steal what she needed.

  She pointed across the room. “That quilt is incredible.”

  Magnild smiled. “Oh, that old thing is nothing special. I’ve done far better work.”

  “It looks heavy and warm.”

  “I’m afraid the stitching isn’t up to my current standards. I made it years ago. It just sits around and waits for winter, when it can finally serve a purpose.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course, dear!”

  In Ellenor’s arms, the quilt lay like a bag of sand, its weight just the kind that one would need to rest comfortably on a frigid night, come November. Ellenor unfolded it carefully, revealing squares of pale yellow and red, connected by interlocking black checks. The squares were made of variegated fabrics: thick flannel, smooth batik, rough homespun.

  “The batting is wool,” Magnild said. “It’s not pretty, but it’s warm.”

  “Would you consider trading for it?”

  “Trading?”

  Ellenor folded the bulky blanket and put it aside. Then she reached into the rolled neck of her sweater and revealed the honey bee pendant that Father had given her. She unclasped it. The thought of parting with it made her sad, as it was the one real piece of jewelry that she owned. “It’s made of pewter and feldspar,” she explained. “Those aren’t rare materials, but neither are they commonplace. This should be worth a bit if you choose to sell it.” She held it out.

  Alec and Rickert looked on as Magnild accepted the necklace. The metal flashed in her palm. “If you need the quilt, dear, just take it. You shouldn’t give away your last possession.”

  “I insist. It’s only fair.”

  “You won’t accept a gift?”

  “I won’t. You’ve been very gracious. And these days, that’s hard to find. We’re all so worried that the world is ending that we forget who we are. You’ve not forgotten.”

  “And neither have you, apparently.”

  “Well…that remains to be seen.”

  Rickert slowly raised his hand, like a schoolboy waiting his turn. “May I ask a question, lass?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m very thankful for the bauble there. I’m sure it will come in handy at the market. But, um…might I ask why you’d be needing a blanket like that in the middle of summer?”

  It was a reasonable question, and one that Ellenor hadn’t prepared herself to answer. So instead of staining her already soiled soul with another inaccuracy, she defaulted to the truth. “As hard as it is for me to believe, I’m about to take a trip, a journey to somewhere I’ve never been before. Quite honestly, I’m a little bit afraid. I’ve left everything meaningful behind, and all I can do is hope that I’ll be all right. It’s happening so suddenly that I’ve not yet had time to sit and cry about it. I’m sure I’ll get to that. But until then, I just want to stay warm.”

  Rickert seemed satisfied by this. He might have still been curious about the need for a heavy cover, as summer temperatures were such that you could sleep comfortably at night with only a single cotton sheet, but he was savvy enough to keep his mouth shut. Something wasn’t right with these two; they tried to hide it, but it was there, like an animal growling just beyond the limit of your campfire light.

  “Where are the two of you headed from here?” Magnild wondered.

  “East, I think.”

  “Away from the violence, then.”

  “I hope so.” For some reason, she doubted that were true.

  ****

  Alec walked toward the setting sun, carrying a bartered quilt under one arm and a sack of food under the other.

  By dusk they’d made their way back to where Hildegard, their lady-in-waiting, rested patiently in the low pasture grass. Alec admired her as they approached. Her blunt nose was upswept, as if seeking the sky. She was painted in an alternating three-color scheme of gray, green, and rusty brown. Her struts and wheel covers were a pale, unblemished blue. If not for the black crosses outlined in white, she would have been beautiful. But it was that cross that would permit Alec to fly freely in German skies. It was his passport to an unmolested landing on the outskirts of Metz.

  Or so he hoped.

  When he’d originally departed the aerodrome in the Avro, which was clearly marked with British cockades, he’d intended to fly at maximum altitude to avoid all conflict and set down at night a good distance from Metz. Then he’d conceal the plane in the brush and head into the city on foot, counting on luck. Now, thanks to Hildegard, he could soar with impunity.

  He carefully settled his load in the plane’s shadow and stretched. Then he walked around the wings and inspected her. Everything was pristine. A Hebel flare gun was clipped within reach of the observer’s seat, along with multicolored flares for signaling ground forces and artillery crews. A hooded compass was mounted into the lower right wing, visible from the cockpit. All the wires were tight. He finished his circuit, his admiration deepening for the Rumpler. “With bellies full of good German meat,” he said, “we shall settle down and watch the stars appear. Sounds grand, eh?”

  Ellenor had slung off the burlap bag of supplies they’d given her and was rubbing her neck. “We were fortunate to have found the right people.”

  “Fortune had nothing to do with it, old girl. Haven’t you heard? God is on the side of the Allies.”

  “I’m not much of a churchgoer, but I think God is on the side of not killing each other.”

  “The way I see it”—he plopped down on the ground and grabbed the canteen—“the Germans and Italians think they’ve got God in their trenches, and the French think they’re the chosen ones—”

  “And the British?”

  “Well, we’re just here for the Cognac.” He tipped the canteen at her
, eliciting a smile. “My point is that God can’t be on everyone’s side, because someone has to be good and someone else has to be evil. We’ve just not yet sorted out which one is which. It’s troubling, really.”

  “You don’t seem particularly troubled.”

  “I am a flyer. My stick and my flask comfort me, and I shall not want.”

  “Are all airmen so flippant? Bombers will soon be on their way to demolish part of the city that we’re visiting tomorrow, and you’re making light of God and talking about drinking.”

  “It’s either that or go mad.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Do you know that one-third of all British pilots who’ve died since 1914 have been killed while training? It’s true. They never saw the enemy at all. Their crates broke apart. Or they landed poorly. Or they veered the bloody thing into a walnut tree. Every time I go up, I cheat the devil by coming down safely again. Jesting about it all is the way to avoid the asylum.” A thought occurred to him, and he leaned toward her. “Do you want to hear a rhyme?”

  “A rhyme?”

  He didn’t wait for an invitation: “The flyer he lay bleeding and in minutes he’d be dead. We listened to his fading words and this is what he said: ‘Take the cylinder out of my kidney and the connecting rod out of my brain. From my arse remove the crankshaft and assemble the bloody damn engine again!’”

  Ellenor laughed, which pleased Alec, and he considered rolling out a second, equally ribald verse, when she said, “How will you get all three of us to France if there are only two seats in this plane?”

  Alec bit his lip. So much for harmless banter. He’d been turning the conundrum over in his mind during the walk back from Rickert’s cottage. Three people, two seats. No other way across the border. Germany’s entire western edge was a fishnet of razor wire, shell holes, sniper zones, and marshes floating with bodies. Every square mile of ground along the Hindenburg Line was either watched by machine-gun nests or already pounded into broken rock. The water was polluted with chemical runoff from nerve agents and leaking corpses. The forests were blackened stumps. The opposite border led to Russia. That left only the north, where the North Sea might provide a willing ship to England, but Metz was over three hundred miles from the shore.