Honey for the Bees

It was lonely on the hill under the Weeping Willow; the afternoon sun honey-coloured, its warmth fading. Her white robe lay scattered around her on the ground, picking up grass and seeds in its threads, as she remembered him, his smile, his promise never to leave her. She laid her head down on a grassy pillow, watching the bees.

This was where they met, by the bee-hive, under the Willow, over-looking the valley.

“Do you come here often?” he said. His voice was like honey, soft and sweet, his smile incandescent like a brilliant sunny afternoon.

She didn’t know where he had come from, he was suddenly there and instantly she didn’t care.

“This is my special place,” she replied. “I come here to think and to drink in that view.” She pointed dreamily to the patchwork of fields to the east, as she drank him in, with a sideways gaze, as he looked to where her finger pointed. “It is calm and secluded here.”

“Very beautiful,” he said. “It’s very beautiful here.”

A Bluebird called out from the willow. Warble, warble. Warble, warble.

“I’ve never seen you around here.”

“Oh, I’ve seen you,” he said Then he seemed embarrassed by his forwardness, as though it just came out. He blushed, crimson.

“I want to fly to the moon,” she said. “Will you hold my hand?”

He reached out and took her hand with his, bringing her wrist to his mouth.

He was the bee-keeper and these were his hives. He called her honey, the sweetest thing he’d ever known. She called him her prince and her stomach buzzed at the thought of him. His hair was as black as night and his skin sun-kissed, golden-brown, his eyes blue like the sky.

She had always been allergic, as she found out as a child, when she got stung in the garden, her breathing became laboured and her tongue swelled. She dreamed of it turning blue for years afterwards. It was the only repetitive dream she had from childhood. A constant reminder of what happened to the little girl, still inside her.

She was thrilled when he got fresh honey from the hive, they sat and fed it to each other. The sweet nectar ran down their faces and covered their fingers, which they sucked until clean.

At last, I’ve found you, her heart ached. All my life I’ve been waiting for this moment.

He said he’d never leave her; he’d been waiting all of his life for her, as well.

And then like his charges, one sting and he was gone. One night she had, before he died in her arms and the physical presence of him faded away. It was like he had been just a dream himself. She didn’t know how she had got through these last months.

She could still feel his sweet lips on her skin, on her lips. She could still feel his chest against her face and his face in her hair. When she was in his arms the world, somehow, made sense, as it drifted into soft-focus and nothing else mattered.

The Raven called her name from the top of the Weeping Willow. Warble, warble. Warble, warble.

Bells rang in their tower, as Sunday begun. They floated on the air from the valley beyond and as they did, the setting sun reflected in her eyes; orange and red in the sky, white light in her corneas, a glowing ball balancing on the very top of the hills to the west.

The shadows crept along the ground, passing over her and engulfing her, as she was telling the bees, of her sorrow and pain,

“Tell him I’m ready,” she whispered. “I’ve been ready since he left me, I just had to face my fear.” That was until she had realised that there was nothing to be afraid of, she had nothing left to lose.

I’d die without him, she had thought, as he held her. She finally knew what love was; dizziness as she looked at him, an all-invading ache at the thought of losing him. She had allowed herself to feel the smugness of happiness when he promised her forever. She lost herself in her dreams which reflected in his eyes, never wanting to wake up. She couldn’t remember life, as it was, before she met him. She wanted to reclaim that promise of forever.

She lifted the white, wooden lid and slid her hand inside.

The Raven called from the willow weeping sadly, Fly, fly, fly and it flapped its wings and flew off into the night.

There was the sound of white fabric rustling on the breeze.

The willow stood sentry to the hive on the hill. A gentle breeze blew across the empty grass.

The bees were silent.