The Bee Maker

by Mobi Warren

  Without answering, she trudged off to her bedroom, bare save for a lightweight sleeping bag on the floor. Before flopping on top of it, she tapped her wristband to take one last look at the hologram of her mother’s statue. Twenty-six hundred years ago a girl ran a race. Melissa looked again at the girl’s name on the right heel and that’s when she noticed, so faint she had missed it the first time, the outline of a honeybee like a punctuation mark after Amethea’s name.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RACE DREAMS

  Dia, Crete

  Amethea sat facing Karpos at a small round table in the inner garden of the cottage, her chest tight with anxiety. She did not look directly at him but gazed at the white roses that climbed an olivewood trellis behind him. Her mother had cared tenderly for those roses, watering them every dawn and speaking softly to them as if they were young children. Roses in full bloom the day before now hung limply on their stems. Did they miss her mother, too, she wondered?

  Her own grief was so raw it burned within her like onion rubbed into a wound. Despite that, she sat erect, a calm expression on her face. Tears, she knew, would only irritate Karpos and, like it or not, she must now depend on whatever goodwill her uncle possessed. She had begun to doubt whether or not he intended to assume guardianship of Hippasus. In all her conversations with him concerning the move to Larisa, he had avoided any mention of her brother.

  Amethea poured Karpos a cup of diluted wine and offered him a clay dish of figs and almonds. He gulped the wine and cleared his throat as if to speak, but when Amethea looked up, his eyes did not meet hers. Instead they moved slowly over her face and body in a way that made her feel uneasy.

  At length he spoke. “You are an echo of your father.”

  It was, thought Amethea, an unusual way to begin a conversation. She had not seen her father in nine years, not since he divorced her mother and left Crete. Why bring him up now?

  “Fire in your grey eyes, like Adelphos. Your arms are taut and sleek, as I guess your legs are.” Her tunic reached to her ankles, hiding her legs, though her athletic contours were not hard to guess.

  Amethea felt as though her uncle were appraising her the way he might a horse for a chariot race and it made her uncomfortable. She knew his stables in Larisa held some of the finest steeds in Crete, a fact he was fiercely proud of. Would he consider her a prize to show off, as well? She didn’t know what to say so silently cast her eyes downwards.

  “Like your father, you would make a fine runner.”

  Amethea lifted her eyes. “Mother ran a race, too,” she blurted, then blushed at how quickly she had lost her composure to defend her mother.

  “Yes, yes,” responded Karpos, his voice edged with irritation. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize the violet headband? It was a gift from your father on the day your mother won the Heraea. I’m surprised she kept it. Perhaps she regretted her decision regarding the boy?”

  “My mother rarely spoke of my father. She never spoke of regrets. She was proud of Hippasus.”

  “Proud of a goat-footed, goat-horned boy? Your mother, I see, persisted in her madness. Adelphos, if indeed he was the father, would not claim the monster.”

  “Hippasus is learning his letters, Uncle, and he can play the lyre. And no one can heal an injured animal better.” Again, she knew she had spoken too passionately, but she wanted her uncle to appreciate Hippasus’ good qualities.

  “Heal an animal?” he retorted and spat. “Better to use his gift to keep his own mother from dying.” Karpos batted a hand in the air as if swatting a fly then popped another fig in his mouth.

  Amethea tucked a long, stray curl of her red hair back into her headband. Her hair had a mind of its own, full of untamed motion as if a scramble of squirrels lived in it. She worried her uncle might find it unseemly for he was a man, she had observed, who cared a great deal about appearances. She bowed her head, fighting an urge to argue with him. The future of her brother depended on her finding a way to soften her uncle’s disdain.

  Amethea longed to ask outright what his plans were for Hippasus but held her tongue. I must not appear impatient, she told herself, although concealing her emotions had never been easy. They could be as unruly and wild as her hair. And like her mother, Amethea was headstrong. Atalanta-strong she liked to think. What would Atalanta do now?

  “My brother,” she began.

  But Karpos did not want to talk about Hippasus. Sunlight glittered on the hammered gold bands he wore on both wrists and his eyes roamed over her body once more. His gold bands made Amethea think of Hippomenes’ golden apples, the bewitched apples that ended Atalanta’s winning streak against the male runners of Greece. She felt suddenly wary. Karpos was after something, she sensed.

  “What did your mother tell you about her victory at the Heraea Games?” he asked in a kinder voice. His eyes met hers and he smiled.

  Why is he asking this, Amethea wondered. For as long as she could remember, Karpos had held nothing but contempt for her mother. Why was he now reminiscing about her mother’s finest moment?

  Karpos stroked the dark curls of his beard and peered at her as if trying to discern something in her expression. “Did she ever tell you about that day?” he asked again, grasping her wrist as she poured more wine. His arms were covered in thick, black hair. Like a bear, she thought, but not a loving bear like Atalanta’s foster mother. His grasp tightened on her wrist

  She cleared her throat. “Mother told me that she ran like the wind, that it was the happy day she met my father.”

  Karpos let go her wrist and leaned back, half gloating. He took another swig of wine and said, “Adelphos admired my sister’s grace and speed. Your father was a famous athlete, you know. His name is still celebrated.”

  “Yes, Uncle. He won the pentathlon at Olympia. Three times in a row.’

  “A woman is lucky to win one footrace,” her uncle observed.

  Amethea nodded and said, “Women do not race once they are married.”

  “Yes,” her uncle agreed. “Only maidens are allowed to compete.”

  Karpos drained his cup and licked his lips. Something in the tone of his voice sent a quick rush of fear through Amethea’s limbs. Had he already promised her to some unknown suitor?

  She took a breath to steady herself and said, “Women run to honor the Mother Goddess. As my mother did.”

  “But a woman also honors her family and her city by winning. And a woman may have a victory statue made. Such a woman is a trophy to a husband when she weds.”

  An emotion other than grief or fear suddenly welled up in Amethea and it was bitter disappointment. Ever since she could remember, she had longed to compete in the women’s footraces at Olympia, the Heraea Games, just as her mother had done. She longed to taste her own victory and have a statue made to stand alongside her mother’s in Hera’s Temple there. But her mother’s death had made a once unlikely dream an impossible one. The Heraea Games, the most famous of all women’s races, were held only once every four years to coincide with the men’s Olympic Games. This year was the year, the only year she might have hoped to compete. Of course, the odds of her going had always been slim. Her mother had considered contacting Karpos to ask for his help but had quickly abandoned the idea, knowing how hostile he felt towards her.

  “Your father saw the runner in you when you were born,” Karpos said as he gave her another probing look. “Consider the name he gave you.”

  Amethea swallowed, straightened her shoulders and nodded, struggling to maintain her composure. Bitterly, she reflected that her name was the only thing she had left from her father. When she was born with a head of fiery red curls, Adelphos had named her after an immortal horse that pulls the sun god’s chariot. She had lived up to the name, pulling herself up by her mother’s knees at nine months to walk. As a toddler she chased butterflies on legs that lost their baby fat early.

  “
If your mother had been sensible, your own father would be accompanying you to the Heraea Games this summer,” Karpos said.

  Amethea knew her uncle was referring to her mother’s refusal to have Hippasus exposed at birth. Yes, if her mother had relinquished Hippasus, allowed Adelphos to carry the baby up a mountainside and abandon him on a cold rock, life would be different. She would not have lost her father and there would be no question of her missing the Heraea Games. A faint but sour trace of resentment uncoiled in Amethea’s heart like a hissing snake. She knew she was as gifted a runner as both her parents but she would never have a chance to prove it.

  “Your mother’s name is inscribed on a statue in Hera’s Temple,” Karpos continued. “It is a fine image. Such a pity you will never see it.”

  Did Karpos mention this to rub onion even deeper into her wound, Amethea wondered? She blinked back angry tears, hoping her uncle would not notice.

  “Ah, but races are nothing to you now,” he added. “You are in mourning, though I believe your mother wanted you to race at the Games more than she treasured her own pride.”

  Amethea jerked her head up in surprise and stared at Karpos. Had her mother contacted him, after all, and not told her about it?

  “If circumstances had been different, I might have agreed to take you myself,” he said. “But there are other things to attend to now.” He popped a fig in his mouth and chewed it, spitting out a piece of the hard stem.

  At that moment Dove bounded into the little courtyard and thrust her paws in Amethea’s lap. She wagged her long, thin tail in a wide arc. Amethea looked up and saw Hippasus hesitating at the entrance to the garden.

  Karpos stood up brusquely. “Men are required to give an oath that they have trained a full ten months before competing at the Olympics,” he remarked. “No such requirement is laid upon girls, but those who are serious make themselves ready.”

  “I would have been ready, Uncle,” Amethea said as she stroked Dove behind the ears.

  “Indeed? An even greater pity then.”

  Before her mother fell ill, Amethea daily sprinted on narrow goat trails that wound through outcroppings of rock and rough pasture. Before sunset, she often ran along an empty stretch of beach, toughening her feet on pebbles and sand. A youth her age, named Eucles, sometimes ran along the same shore but they never spoke. She had heard he was training for the Olympic Games and knowing that had fueled her own stride.

  “Will you stay for dinner, Uncle?” asked Amethea, anxious to change the subject. “We would be honored if you would share a simple meal with us.” She opened her arm as if to invite her brother to step forward. He stood there with a bashful face, dangling a wild rabbit in one hand. His skill with a slingshot had brought home dinner. Stewed with wild greens, the rabbit would make a delicious meal. Yet she knew killing the rabbit had cost the gentle-hearted Hippasus. No doubt he did it to impress Karpos, to seek some small measure of approval.

  But Karpos had already turned to depart. He bid farewell to Amethea and walked briskly past Hippasus without acknowledging he was there. Amethea stared after him feeling as if Karpos had slapped her in the face.

  By the dim flickering of an olive oil lamp, Amethea entered her mother’s chamber and undressed. She knelt by the garment chest and slowly lifted the wooden lid. On top were her mother’s folded tunics and shawls woven from brightly dyed wool and linen. She pushed them aside to reveal a package wrapped in honey-colored goatskin. She unfolded the skin and slowly took out the chiton, a race garment, embroidered along the hem with images of dolphins and horses. She wrapped the knee-length rectangle of cloth around her body and fingered the fine stitches of her mother’s handiwork. She blinked back tears. Even when it was hopeless, her mother had dared to believe Amethea might run at the Heraea Games. Amethea let the cloth drop to her feet, fell to her knees, and wept.

  “Amethea, what is wrong?”

  She turned and saw Hippasus leaning in the doorway of their mother’s chamber. The flickering light from the lamp cast shadows on the wall that elongated the two bumps on his head into grotesque horns. She couldn’t help giving a slight shudder. No wonder others found her brother hideous.

  “It’s nothing, Hippasus.” she spoke harshly. “Go to sleep. It’s late.” Amethea hurriedly wrapped the chiton back in the goatskin, tossed it in the chest and slammed the lid down.

  Later, she tossed on her sleeping couch, ashamed of her reaction to Hippasus. The shadows were to blame, she told herself. Her brother was not a satyr’s son, no matter what Karpos and others may say. It was her duty to protect him, not win some fleeting glory in a race. Yet as she lay there in the dark, she could not entirely quell the realization that Hippasus did indeed bear the marks of a goat. What did the gods intend for him? for her?

  The next morning, Karpos stopped by the cottage to inform Amethea that he was leaving by boat for Larisa but would return in a fortnight to escort her to his estate on the big island. She noticed he had trimmed his beard and his skin was scented with olive oil. He seemed unusually cheerful, as if a weight had been lifted from him.

  “Pack your things,” he instructed. “Although they are now freed from the terms of their service, I have asked Kimon and Dika to assist you in any way you need.” He made no mention of Hippasus.

  Amethea invited him to sit and offered him a treat Dika had prepared, sesame seeds mixed with honey and rolled into balls. She sat across from him as she had the day before and steadied herself with a deep breath. It couldn’t wait any longer; she had to know what his plans were for Hippasus.

  “Uncle,” she began in a halting voice, “I know you were displeased with my mother—“

  He interrupted. “My sister dishonored her husband by allowing the boy to live, and because of that your grandfather exiled her to Dia. But your mother has paid for her folly, and perhaps it is time I rest my own anger.”

  These were the last words Amethea expected to hear from Karpos and she looked up in astonishment.

  “I once admired her, Amethea. She was such a fine runner! And I have been thinking, I cannot ignore the fact that I have a nephew. After all, every person may serve the gods.”

  Amethea blurted, ”Then you accept Hippasus?” Her heart lifted for the first time in days.

  Karpos’ jaw briefly tensed. He half-closed his eyes and frowned. Amethea knew Hippasus filled her uncle with revulsion.

  “Uncle, I promised my mother I would look after him. My brother is a good boy. I swear he will not be a burden.”

  Karpos surprised her further by taking her hands into his own as if to reassure her and said, “Of course, of course. I’ve had a great deal on my mind, and I’m sorry if you thought I had no plans for your brother. But you must trust me, I am making arrangements.”

  “Then you will not deny him; you will not abandon him?”

  “The boy is ugly and slow as an ox in mind as well as limb. Do I speak harshly? I am only stating facts. But all may serve the gods, even a goat-footed boy.”

  Amethea sighed in relief. “Shall I pack his things, as well, then, for the move to Larisa?”

  Karpos turned his face towards the white roses. A few new buds had appeared. “What? No, no, everything will be provided for. Best to leave his shepherd rags behind.”

  Karpos must intend, she suddenly realized, to provide Hippasus with the finery worthy of a nephew. Who would dare make fun of a goat-footed boy if he had the patronage of a wealthy, powerful man like Karpos? The cord of worry that had held her lungs in a suffocating grip since the night her mother died, loosened.

  “Oh, Uncle, how can I show my gratitude?”

  “Gratitude? No need, my niece. As I said, everything is being arranged. My daughters are looking forward to having a new sister.”

  Karpos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. On his way out, he turned back and said. “There is one other thing, Amethea. Do not ab
andon your hope for a victory.”

  Amethea watched her uncle depart down the path towards the village, her skin tingling. She knew she shouldn’t make too much of his parting words, but what if he meant he intended to take her to the Heraea Games, after all. Was it possible?

  She quickly packed a meal, grabbed her aulos, and went to find Hippasus. She had warned him that Karpos would be visiting in the morning and had arranged to meet him later at the shrine. Sending him away from the cottage had been unnecessary, she now realized. She couldn’t wait to tell him that Karpos intended to care for them both.

  At the shrine that evening, Amethea played Hippasus’ favorite tunes while he lined up pebbles and counted them. He arranged some of the pebbles into hexagons connected like the cells of a honeycomb. She paused and looked up at the stars until she located the lion and the pulsing blue star of his heart. There in the shrine of the Bee Goddess, she could almost see herself crossing the finish line at the Heraea Games.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PASSING OUT

  OF HADES

  Melissa’s spirits sank with every passing mile. Her father’s face was grim. He’d hardly spoken a word as the solar van carried them across the sterile stretch of bleached desert called the Hell Zone. Thousands of abandoned fracking wells stood like nails in an enormous coffin, remnants of the last desperate push to extract fossil fuels. Whatever plants and animals had once lived here had either vanished or been forced north by the lack of water and a warming climate. Occasionally an eco-drone passed overhead, monitoring for any sign of life.

  The landscape was so bleak, it was hard to imagine anything good could exist on the other side of it, but gradually as they drew nearer to Texas, they began to pass solar farms with rows of sleek rotating mirrors and after that, small towns centered around large plazas filled with blooming desert plants. Green corridors of cacti and succulents connected these towns. Her father told her that a specific moth or native bee or bat or beetle pollinated every plant in the corridors and that these towns had been tasked with saving desert pollinators from extinction. Their partial success, though far from certain, gave him hope for honeybees. In West Texas, giant wind tulips, tall as skyscrapers, lined the horizon. These had replaced older versions of wind turbines, the kind with blades that had proved so lethal to birds and bats.