The Last Beekeeper

7. Four

Four

The fields and orchards fade into the background as the village comes into view. Modest, is how Dja would have described it. Tragic, is what Ma would have said. The mud-and-stone structures bear the weight of winter damage, with many windows missing glass. Frost has warped the beams and roofs. The village wasn’t really designed, it just sort of sprang up, with houses built as and when they were needed. Years of repairs only make it even more patchwork and haphazard. From the roofs, washing lines criss-cross between windows, hung with ragged clothes and faded sheets. At this time of day, only the very young and the very old are in the village. Everyone else is working in the fields, or out on Gathering missions, so toothless old women and men huddle in rickety old chairs, cradling infants or yelling at toddlers to get out of whatever it is they’ve climbed into.

Warren’s excitement bursts out of him every so often and his little feet skip along the path. He runs forward, desperate to reach home, then runs back, remembering that Solma has the bee.

“I wanna catch Bell before her planting shift!” he gasps, his smile almost too big for his face. “She’s gonna to be so pleased!”

“Everyone will,” Solma agrees. She runs her thumb over the matchbox and feels the bee buzz within. “It’s a miracle.”

And it is. Hope with gossamer wings. But Solma can’t shake a dark, nagging feeling at the back of her mind. What can one bee do? Solma might never have grasped the complex biology her Ma tried to teach her but even she understands the principle of species reproduction. One bee is no real hope at all, just a splash of beauty in an otherwise bland landscape. The poor thing won’t last long.

And yet …

Warren laughs and rushes ahead, calling for Bell. Solma hesitates. Everyone will be pleased. The Steward will be delighted the bee was found on his patch, the pollinators might not have to work so hard this year, the seed produced may even be enough for a decent harvest.

But the voice of despair still mutters at the back of her head. It’s just one bee. It seems cruel to bring such an impossible hope to so many desperate people.

Solma finds herself casting furtive glances to see if any of the villagers suspect the bee’s existence. She could cry its presence to the skies, hold it up for everyone to see.

But she doesn’t. And she can’t explain why.

A memory starts pulsing in the back of her mind, long-hidden and shrouded in fear. A girl. A flash of red hair. A flower (how can that be when the wildflowers are all gone?) and a feeling of terrible regret …

Solma pushes the memory to the back of her mind where it belongs. Whatever it’s trying to tell her, though, it’s as if the truth has been corralled at the back of her throat. She can’t bring herself to mention the bee.

The Aldren—especially the old women—smile at her as she passes. One lifts a gnarled old cane in greeting and grins, her lips dry and chapped but her eyes still full of mischief. She cradles a sleeping child.

“Morning, Sol!” the old woman calls. “Good planting?”

Solma shrugs, “Hi, Gerta,” she says. “You know how it is.”

Gerta grins, showing six grubby teeth and blistered gums. Solma can’t help but smile back. Gerta Lo Aldren is still the same as she had been twelve years ago, when four-year-old Solma, a Yuen too young to be of use, played under her rocking chair.

“And the leg? It’s ok?”

Solma nods and taps her fingers against the prosthesis. “Good as ever,” she says.

Gerta grunts, satisfied. Solma’s got no idea where the old woman found this remarkable leg, but after Solma’s accident three years ago, Gerta had packed a burlap bag, taken her walking stick and disappeared for two weeks. Everyone thought she was dead until she’d come back with the shiny black limb, made of some lightweight material, that Solma now wears. Gerta, in her strange way, had tinkered with it until it fit snugly to Solma’s knee and matched the length of her flesh-and-bone leg. Solma never asked where Gerta found it, didn’t want to spoil the magic of learning to use it. But there are stories of the crumbling, overgrown city ruins to the west, now reduced to scavenging sites. They’re supposed to be full of all sorts of wonders from the old world—before the insects died and the cities fell and the surviving humans worked to carve out the scrap of life they now live. Whatever the story, Solma’s gratitude to Gerta runs deeper than she’s ever told anyone. The old woman rocks the child she holds as the little one begins to stir.

“You come to me if you got any issues.”

“Yes, Gerta,” Solma says.

Gerta nods and turns her attention back to the sleepy child.

Solma could tell her. Right now. She’s found a bee. Look! It crawled right out of the dirt like the rising of some tiny god.

But the words catch in her throat and Solma says nothing. Instead, she waves to Gerta as she ducks inside her own house. Her stomach twists uncomfortably. This is not good. There are no secrets in Sands’ End Village. Trying to keep one is treason. The Steward must know everything so he can make decisions, so he can plan for the future, so he can ensure that the village survives. That’s the law. And breaking it would see both her and Warren exiled. So why can’t she bring herself to say anything?

This is madness. It won’t matter anyway. The tiny, shivering life won’t last the spring, will it? There’s no need to fuss. Or hope. Or tell anyone. It isn’t a secret if it means nothing in the first place.

Maybe that’s best.

She hurries inside, ready to hush Warren before he can announce the news. But to her surprise, Warren sits patiently at the table, his legs swinging beneath him, his mouth clamped closed, as Aunt Bell bustles at the fireplace with various oversized pots and finally manages to pour some soup into a clay bowl. She’s still wearing her day dress, but she’s got her Fei-issue sandals on and her reed hat is ready on the table. Bell’s always been Fei-caste, just like Dja. Neither of them liked it when Ma became Gatra. Bell detests violence. Or so she says. She seems to enjoy thoroughly telling Solma off whenever the opportunity arises.

“Look at his fingers!” she proclaims as soon as she sees her niece. “White as death! And you didn’t even wrap his feet up before you took him out this morning!” In her indignation, her hair—the same red-gold as Warren’s—flies loose from her bun and forms a halo around her flushed face. “What’s wrong with you, girl? Don’t you think of your poor brother?”

Solma bristles. “It ain’t even that cold,” she mutters. “He’s fine, right Warren?”

Warren, who has hungrily tipped most of the bowl of soup into his mouth, splutters agreement. Bell isn’t convinced. She folds her short arms and glares. For such a tiny woman, she’s terrifying when she wants to be.

Solma rolls her eyes and flops down into a chair beside Warren, still holding the bee in her pocket so she doesn’t accidentally crush it.

“There was trouble at the orchards, Bell,” she says, hating the whine in her voice. Why does Bell always do this to her?

“Nonetheless …” Bell says, in that sanctimonious way she always does. She never bothers finishing that sentence, only lets it hang in the air so Solma can feel the weight of her unspoken disappointment. Solma shrugs it off.

“Any soup for me?”

Bell mutters but doesn’t hesitate to fill a bowl for her niece too. She sits opposite them, nursing a mug of hot tea. She hasn’t served any soup for herself. Again. But she watches Solma sip the hot meal with this strange, determined look in her eye, as if she’ll insist that every drop is licked clean.

So the pantry’s running low already. Solma’s heart kicks. She only drains half her bowl and, before Bell can protest, gives the rest to Warren. He accepts it readily, with a murmured, “Thanks, Sol,” before he tips the bowl back and gulps down the watery meal. He’s messy in his hunger, droplets trickling down his chin, which he then wipes away with back of his hand and enthusiastically licks off. Solma risks a glance at Bell and their eyes meet. There’s worry in both. Solma’s fingers reflexively search her pocket for the matchbox again.

The bee. The bee …

It stirs in its sanctuary. Its wings vibrate. Solma fidgets on her chair to cover the sound and tears her eyes away from Bell’s before the worry can take hold. Worry won’t do. Worry solves nothing.

But the bee …

“Warren’s got something to tell you,” Solma blurts out. Absently, she reaches out a finger and wipes the last of the soup from Warren’s chin. She smiles at him, trying to push all the warmth she can into that smile. Warren stares up at her with big, green eyes. Occasionally, she’s struck by how different they look. Warren’s red-gold hair, his pale, freckled skin, and his meadow-green eyes are just like their mother’s and Bell’s. Warren could easily pass for Bell’s son. But Solma’s dark hair, the color of fresh soil, deep brown eyes and freckle-free, white skin are much more like her father’s.

When Warren stares at her like that, filled with all the innocence in the world, Solma wonders how her parents could have produced two such different children.

Warren licks his lips and stares nervously from Solma to Bell and back.

“I have?”

The bee stirs again. Solma feels it shifting, searching. The girl … the flower … the guilt …

“Yeah,” Solma nods encouragingly. “Go on.”

If Warren shares the hope, it’ll be a child’s hope. If Warren shares it, everyone will forgive him when it dies. Solma finds herself leaning forward in her chair, desperate to hear him speak the words, to make this hope real. There’s a bee.

Warren clenches his little fists on the table and frowns at them. His little tongue pokes from between his teeth. What’s wrong with him? He’d been so excited about the bee, desperate to tell Bell. All he’s got to do now is speak the words.

But when Warren finally looks up, a nervous grin on his mucky lips, he says, “I helped the planters with their seeds this morning, Bell, and I didn’t even drop any!”

Solma stares at him and can’t stop her mouth from falling open. Bell smiles, the skin around her eyes crinkling like their mother’s used to.

“That’s wonderful, Warren!” She shuffles out of her chair and scurries round the table to hug him. She holds him close and Solma watches her face harden into a frown. Solma doesn’t need to ask why. She can feel it when she hugs Warren too; his swollen belly, his prominent ribs, the ribbony sinews in his arms. She looks away as that familiar lump rises in her throat.

Not her brother. Please, she thinks, don’t let it be her brother this year.

“Sol’s got something to tell you too,” Warren says, his voice muffled within Bell’s unyielding hug. Bell releases him.

“Well, we are full of news this morning, aren’t we?”

She turns expectantly to Solma.

Now. Tell her now. After all, what harm can it do? Excitement swells in Solma’s heart, despite the nagging voice at the back of her skull. The hope has its hooks in her, even though she knows its false.

The words gather in Solma’s mouth, ready to be spoken. We found a bee, Bell. A real bee!

But if she says it to Bell, she will have to say it to Blaiz. And Maxen. And everyone else.

Would that be so bad?

The girl … the flower … the memory bursts in Solma’s head again, so strong it’s almost painful.

She opens her mouth, hoping that the words will rush out without being bid. But as she draws breath, the bee stirs in her pocket. It doesn’t make a sound, but Solma feels its pattering feet. She presses her fingertips to the matchbox, relishing the vibrations of the life inside.

And when the words come, they’re not the ones she expects.

“I been promoted to Sergeant in the Gathering Guard,” she says, and has to stop herself clapping a hand over her mouth. Where had that come from?

She’d been given the news the previous evening. Olive was livid, and Solma marched home with pride swelling in her chest. But then Warren had a sore tummy and took ages to soothe to sleep. In the fuss, Solma completely forgot to mention it.

Except, it isn’t what she’d wanted to say.

Warren frowns at her. Bell, however, lets out a squawk of delight and flings herself at Solma, who barely has time to gulp down a breath before she’s engulfed in a hug.

“About time!” Bell cries, squeezing Solma so tightly that Solma thinks she hears a vertebra crack.

She releases her niece and begins whizzing around the kitchen, talking at a hundred miles an hour.

“Extra ration a week! Make all the difference, that. Solma, I’m so proud of you! Your parents would be, too …”

Solma isn’t listening. In her pocket, the bee wriggles and Solma’s head is a-whirr with strange thoughts, the weight of the secret. But why is it a secret? Why can’t she speak it though she desperately wants to? She stares at Warren and he stares back. Neither of them says anything.

“Oh, Solma!” Bell says, brandishing a ladle in her niece’s direction, “Maxen came by ten minutes ago. A boar’s been spotted. You’re needed on a hunting mission.”

Solma flops her head onto the table and groans. Another hunting mission? That’s the third this week. If Maxen organizes many more of these, there won’t be any game left by the time winter comes and Solma’s fed up with shooting things. Still, she won’t say no to Maxen.

“When?” she sighs.

Bell frowns out the window, checking the sun.

“Oh!” she exclaims, “Now! Hurry, Solma! And Warren, get to Gerta’s. I should’a been out that door five minutes ago. Quickly. Quickly!”

She rushes them both in mad circles, wrestling Warren back into a chair so she can wrap his cold feet in cloth. The house is a flurry of mad activity as Bell sheds her dress and wrestles on the grey shirt and breeches of her Fei uniform. She shoos them both out of the house with a stern instruction to Solma to make sure Warren is looked after!

They both stare at her as Bell slams the rickety old door and marches up the path towards the fields, ignoring their protests.