The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  My head spun. I was so tired. I sank down onto the ground and stayed there. The ground was warm, the grass was soft. My eyes slid shut.

  But I didn’t fall asleep. Because there was such a tightness in my chest. Emma’s pond of tears had reached me. The water was rising. It splashed against my feet.

  I swallowed and swallowed. Couldn’t breathe. Drowning. But I fought back. Got to my feet again. Just stood there looking at the bees, who were also fighting down there. Fighting the ordinary, daily struggle for their offspring, for enough pollen, for honey.

  They were going to die, too. It wasn’t viable, what I was doing. Every single time I opened a hive, it would be like this. The same feeling, whether they were alive or gone. There was no point.

  There was no point!

  All the muscles in my body tensed. All my strength gathered in one of my legs, in my foot, and all of a sudden I kicked.

  The hive fell to the ground with a crash and a swarm of bees rose up.

  I shook the boards loose. The bees were everywhere now. Furious and terrified. They wanted to get me, to avenge themselves. I stomped on them, on the brood, on their babies. But the sound was muffled, barely audible. Not like broken glass. I continued all the same. Destroy them. Crush them. Tear their wings off. Because they had destroyed me.

  And then it hit me. How simple it was.

  We could destroy each other.

  I was standing in the midst of a cloud of furious bees, raging around me.

  It was so simple.

  I lifted my hand to the zipper, to the veil.

  All I had to do was lift it up.

  Take off the hat.

  Off with the gloves.

  Pull down the zipper quickly—squirm out of the suit.

  Kick off the boots.

  And just stand here and let them do the job.

  They would sting me in self-defense. Pierce me, sacrificing their lives to take mine. And this time my father wouldn’t be here to take me in his arms and run off with me, while the cloud of bees stormed above us and followed us all the way to the river, where he pulled us under and held us down until the attack was over.

  This time I would fall down. Stay down. The poison would run through my veins. Let them keep stinging, and if they stopped, I’d kick them with bare toes, step on them so they continued, kept stinging until I was beyond recognition.

  They should have their revenge. They deserved it.

  And then everything would be over.

  I’d do it now.

  Now.

  My fingers clutched the veil. The thin fabric against the heavy gloves.

  Lifted it.

  Now!

  But then . . .

  Footsteps crossing the field. Someone shouting.

  Heading towards me.

  At first calmly, and then stronger. Louder.

  Wearing a white suit. Hat, veil. Fully dressed, ready to work. Once again he’d come without a warning. Or perhaps Emma had known.

  He’d come. For good?

  He was running now. Did he see me? What was happening?

  The cries became louder, piercing through the air.

  “Dad? Dad!”

  TAO

  The boy and his father stood behind me as I put the key into the lock and opened the door to an empty evening darkness.

  Kuan’s jacket wasn’t hanging on the hook in the hallway. His shoes were gone.

  I pushed down the handle on the bathroom door.

  His shelf above the sink was empty. There was just a trace of soap where his razor had been.

  He’d moved without saying anything. Because he wanted to? Because he thought I wanted him to? Because everything about me reminded him of Wei-Wen, the way everything about Kuan reminded me of him?

  Because he blamed me?

  Yet another one who’d disappeared. But this time I couldn’t search for him. I couldn’t ask, couldn’t contact him. This was his decision, I had no right to ask. For I was still to blame.

  The boy and his father had stayed in the hallway. They looked at me expectantly. I had to say something.

  “You can take the bedroom.”

  I put my bag down in the middle of the living room floor and made up a bed for myself on the couch. I could hear the boy talking in there. His voice came in waves, eager, chattering about practical details with a newfound energy. He’d rediscovered a future. The darkness in him had disappeared. Or perhaps I’d put too much into the words the evening before. Loaded them with all of my own stuff.

  I went over to the window. The fence was still there. In the air above it a helicopter was circling. The bees were contained, like in a cocoon, not a single one was supposed to slip out, not until there were many more of them and there was certain knowledge about how to control them. That was how Li Xiara wanted it to be.

  She wanted to tame them. They were going to save us. She wanted to tame them, the way she had tamed me. And I’d allowed myself to be tamed. That was the easiest. Follow her, don’t think.

  The boy was laughing. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh. How young and bright his laughter was. I’d given them something. The sound grew louder, made it easier to breathe. When was the last time somebody had laughed between these four walls? Behind me was the bag. Inside it was the book, I’d never returned it, but read all of it from beginning to end. I carried the words with me, but didn’t know what to do with them. It was too enormous, I couldn’t cope with it.

  They were preparing the square, clearing away a space. A podium was being built, cameras rigged up. Several crews were working at once, because the speech was going to be broadcast to the entire world. An energetic producer bossed people around. In the background she stacked large baskets full of freshly picked pears. The symbolism felt exaggerated. But maybe that was what it would take.

  I was given my own dressing room. A woman came in with some clothes to choose from. Nothing flashy, but all of the clothes were brand new. A simple design, it resembled the uniform from the Party’s earliest phase, as if to remind viewers where I came from, that I was one of them, one of the people. They were a little stiff, with fold creases, but of a soft fabric.

  “It’s cotton,” the woman said. “Recycled cotton.”

  I’d never before owned a cotton garment. Every meter cost a month’s salary. I chose a blue suit, put it on. The fabric breathed, I could barely feel it against my skin. I turned to look in the mirror. It suited me. I looked like one of them. Like her, Li Xiara, not like a worker from the fruit fields, but like the person I was perhaps actually meant to be.

  I was somebody else in this suit—the person she asked me to be. I turned around, looked in the mirror over my shoulder; the jacket hung nicely over the shoulders, the trousers fit around the hips. I tugged a little at the sleeves; they ended exactly where they should.

  Then I met my own gaze. My eyes . . . they looked so much like his. But who was I? I looked down. Wei-Wen had never owned a cotton garment. And his short life had not had any meaning.

  Again I forced myself to raise my head, to look at myself. A useful idiot stared back at me.

  No. All of a sudden the fabric felt abrasive against my skin. I tore off the blouse. Stepped out of the trousers and left them lying on the floor.

  It would have meaning. And I knew how.

  I pulled my own threadbare sweater down over my head, tugged on my old trousers, buttoned them quickly and put on my shoes.

  Then I picked up my bag, which was lying on the floor, opened the door to the dressing room and quickly walked out. I found the producer and grabbed hold of her.

  “Where is Li Xiara? I have to talk to Li Xiara.” She was in the village Committee building, had received the largest office. Three men were chased out of there by a security guard when I arrived, even though it was absolutely clear that they had hadn’t finished their conversation.

  Li Xiara stood up quickly and walked over to greet me. She tried one of her gentle smiles, but I was done with this now.


  “Here.” I handed her the book.

  She accepted it, but didn’t open it, didn’t even look at it.

  “Tao, I’m looking forward to hearing you speak.”

  “You have to read the book,” I said.

  “If you like we can go over it one more time, I’d be happy to do so. The wording. Perhaps we should change some of the phrasing . . .”

  “I just want you to read this,” I said.

  She finally shifted her gaze towards the book, stroked the title with one finger. “The History of Bees?”

  I nodded. “I won’t do anything, I won’t give any speeches until you’ve read it.”

  She looked up quickly. “What are you saying?”

  “You people are doing everything wrong.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We are doing everything we can.”

  I leaned forward, held her gaze and said softly: “They’re going to die. Again.”

  She looked at me. I waited for an answer, but it didn’t come. Was she thinking? Did she take it in? Did my words mean anything to her at all? The anger rose inside me. Couldn’t she say something?

  I couldn’t stand to be there any longer; I turned and walked towards the door. Then she finally reacted.

  “Wait.”

  She opened the book and calmly turned the pages until she reached the title page.

  “Thomas Savage.” She glanced at the name of the author. “American?”

  “It was the only book he wrote,” I said quickly. “But that doesn’t make it any less important.”

  She raised her head and looked at me again. Then she nodded towards a chair.

  “Sit down. Tell me.”

  At first my words tumbled out in rush, as I explained haphazardly, jumping back and forth. But then I understood that she was giving me time. Several times somebody knocked on the door; there were many people waiting, but she turned them all away and I slowly calmed down.

  I told her about the author, Thomas Savage. The book was based on his experiences and his life. Savage’s family had been beekeepers for generations. His father was one of the first to be affected by The Collapse and one of the last to give up. And Savage had worked with his father until the end. They had changed over to organic operations at an early stage, that was Savage’s own requirement. He never forced the bees out onto the road, never took more honey than they needed to survive. But all the same they were not spared. The bees died. Again and again. Finally they were forced to sell the farm. Only then, as a fifty-year-old, did Savage sit down and write about all of his experiences, about the future. The History of Bees was visionary, but still real and concrete because it was based on a lifetime of practical experience.

  The book was published in 2037, just eight years before The Collapse was a fact. It predicted the fate of the human race. And how we might, in turn, manage to rise from the ashes again.

  When I was finished, Li Xiara sat in silence. She held the book calmly in her hands. Her gaze, impossible to read, rested on me.

  “You can go now.”

  Was she throwing me out? If I refused, she would call security, give them orders to take me home. Demand that I stay there, in the flat, until it was time for the speech and then require me to give it and many more, against my own convictions.

  But she did none of these things. Instead, she turned the pages until she reached the first chapter and leaned towards the text.

  I stood there. Then she lifted her eyes again, nodded towards the door.

  “Now I would like to be alone. Thank you.”

  “But . . .”

  She put one hand on the book, as if to protect it. Then she said softly: “I have children, too.”

  WILLIAM

  The wallpaper hung in tatters from the walls and its yellowness was still invasive. She was singing again, today like every day, a melodious humming of faint notes while she swept the floor with precise movements. I lay with my face towards the window; a few brown leaves fluttered past out there.

  She swept the debris onto a tray and put it by the door. Then she turned to face me.

  “Shall I shake out your blanket?”

  Without waiting for an answer she quickly lifted it off me, picked it up in her arms and carried it towards the window. I lay there in my nightshirt only, feeling exposed, but she didn’t look at me.

  She opened the window, the air poured in. It had grown colder just since yesterday. I could feel the goose bumps rising on my legs and pulled my feet up under me.

  She held the carpet outside the window and shook it with large movements. It stood straight up like a sail out there before she allowed it to drop. Just when it was almost hanging straight down, she gave it another yank and sent it up in front of the window.

  When she was finished, she laid it over me. It was as cold as the air outside. Then she pulled up a chair beside the bed and stood there with her hand on its back.

  “Shall I read for you?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She never waited for an answer, just went over to the bookshelf, which was again meticulously organized. Hesitated a bit, sliding her index finger quickly across the spines of the books. Then she stopped and pulled one out.

  “We’ll take this one.”

  I didn’t see the title. She didn’t read it to me, either, probably knew that it didn’t make any difference. It wasn’t what she read, but the fact that she read that was important.

  “Charlotte,” I said with the hoarse, old man’s voice that wasn’t mine. “Charlotte . . .”

  She looked up. Shook her head gently. I didn’t need to say it, shouldn’t say it. Because I’d repeated it such a countless number of times already and she knew it very well. What I asked from her was to get away. Leave. Abandon me. Think about herself. Live, not for me, but for herself.

  But her answer was the same every time. Nonetheless I would keep on saying it again and again. I couldn’t help myself. I owed her this, because she had granted me her entire life. But there were no words that would make her leave, no words could hold her back. She wanted only to be at my side.

  Her voice filled the room along with the cool autumn air. But I wasn’t cold. The words took me into an embrace. She would read for a long time now, never allowed disturbances.

  I reached out a hand and knew she would take hold of it.

  She sat like this, today like every other day, with her hand calmly in mine, and filled the silence with words. She wasted the words on me, was wasting her time, her life. That in itself was reason enough for me to get up. But I wasn’t equal to it. I was stripped of—no, not stripped—I had thrown away both my will and my passion.

  Then suddenly a sound rose up towards us from the ground floor. A sound I hadn’t heard in many years. The crying of an infant. An infant? Not mine. Perhaps someone who was visiting? But who? Months had passed since I had heard voices down there other than those of my own family.

  Charlotte stopped reading. She actually allowed herself to be disturbed and leaned forward a bit, as if she were about to take off at a run.

  Someone was lulling a baby to sleep down there. Thilda?

  The child whimpered, but allowed itself to be comforted. Gradually it became calmer.

  Charlotte leaned back in the chair, picked up the book and resumed reading.

  I closed my eyes. Could sense her hand against mine and the words rising and falling in the air between us. The minutes passed. She read, and I lay completely still, in a state of deep gratitude.

  But then the baby’s wailing started up again downstairs. Louder now. Charlotte stopped.

  She withdrew her hand.

  The crying intensified to despair, distress, tearing at the walls.

  Then she stood up and put down the book. Quickly she walked towards the door. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  She opened the door. The crying filled the room.

  “The infant . . . ,” I said.

  She stopped in the doorway.

  I searched for the words. “Has
somebody come to visit?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  “No. The baby is ours now.”

  “But, how?”

  “The mother died in childbirth. And the father, he’s not able to take care of it.”

  “Who is he?” I asked. “Is he here?”

  “No, Father.” She hesitated. “He’s in London.”

  Suddenly I understood. I sat up halfway in the bed, tried to look at her sternly, to make her tell me the truth. “It’s his child, isn’t it? Edmund’s?”

  She blinked rapidly. Didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to, either.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Then she turned away from me and left.

  The door was left standing ajar behind her. I heard her quick steps on the stairway, how she went downstairs and walked swiftly across the floor down there.

  “I’m coming.”

  She stopped.

  “I have him.”

  Her voice became lower.

  “There . . . there, now . . . there, there . . . shhhh . . .”

  And then.

  The faint, humming song of hers.

  But now she wasn’t singing for me.

  Finally she was no longer singing for me. She was singing for the baby she held in her arms, the baby she was slowly rocking.

  GEORGE

  The great shakes. They were in me. For days. Morning, noon, night.

  I struggled to hold a knife and fork. Emma saw it, but said nothing. Struggled to use tools, dropped the screwdriver on the floor, the saw swerved awkwardly.

  I awoke with fear in my heart every single morning.

  Woke up, went down and met him. He just glanced up at me and gave a little nod before diving down into his book again. But that was fine.

  Because he wasn’t shaking.

  He didn’t falter. Even when he was turning the pages of a book, it was done with confidence in his movements, calm and assured, the cup of coffee lifted with a steady hand. The footsteps towards the field, towards the hives, exactly the same length, his strides strong and solid against the ground.

  And I followed behind him. At all times with this trembling in me.