The History of Bees

Chapter 31 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 marvelous 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.