Moonshine

by Susan Dexter

  Blais might be away for more than a week. He had been known to visit with Master Sedwick for the best part of a month. They were great friends. But it wasn’t likely Blais would be gone so long this time—there was that spell for the cabbage moths. Blais would have dealt with it before he left, had he intended to be long away.

  There were stars in the tiny bits of sky visible between the trees. No moon appeared, at least not before Tristan settled himself for sleep. He felt it ought to have risen, and he wondered hazily if the sky was clouding after all. Would there be rain? Probably the trees would keep it off of him. Thomas curled on his chest, warm as a stove and purring. Tristan forgot the moon. He was asleep well before his thoughts spun themselves out.

  The Bog

  Entering the wood, Tristan kept a sharp eye out. He expected nothing. There were few flowers and no honeybees. A dark bumblebee lumbered past, making noise enough for a whole swarm. Bumblebees nested alone, in holes in the earth. They made no honey, so far as Tristan knew.

  He studied the birds he saw carefully. Birds often knew quite well where honey was to be found. He had read of them leading bears to hives, so as to have the scraps after. Tristan hoped there were no bears in the wood. He wasn’t the meal of choice for such a big, slow creature—but one never knew. He walked from clearing to clearing, along trails probably made by deer. He used his ears as well as his eyes—the hum of thousands of wings would give a bee-tree away.

  When Tristan came out of the trees and back into grassland, he found flowers once more, and bees tending the blossoms. He found running water again, too. It was like a plague—a plague of streams. He couldn’t follow a bee more than a few hundred yards, which wasn’t far enough. Trying a log that proved wobbly, he fell into another stream and found a minnow in his pocket. With a sigh, he threw the fish back into the water.

  Another toppled trunk held a beehive in its empty heart. Tristan observed it from a little distance, his heart beating fast. The bees took no notice of him. They were numerous, but without choking the air, busily content. Plenty of flowers bloomed within easy flight.

  Tristan sighed and turned away. There was no reason for the bees to be seeking a new home. No suggestion of his was likely to influence them into swarming. And his feet hurt.

  Tristan stuffed his boots with moss, but that didn’t help for more than a few minutes. Trouble was, his feet were soaked. The ground was wet, even when he wasn’t struggling to cross yet another inconvenient stream. Tristan looked around, frowning. Watching his feet, he’d lost sight of his surroundings.

  The carpet of grass tended more to mounds and heavy clumps. The spaces between the clumps reflected the blue sky. Where there had been drifts of clover, now Tristan saw great stands of water-loving yellow flag.

  Grassland had given way to bog. The place drained poorly—in fact, a great deal of water drained into the area, judging by the streams. Trying to keep his feet dry forced Tristan to walk twisty courses. He might have been caught in a maze with walls of glass. He was not confined, but he could not go where he wished. The land led him between ribbons of water.

  Mostly that water was no more than an inch deep. But it lay over mud which was often far deeper. There were pools too, probably deep enough to drown a horse. Those looked little different from the shallow spots, but an ill-considered step proved the difference. The air was thick with insects, most of which bit. Plainly, they found human blood a tasty meal.

  Tristan would have turned back—but bees were as plentiful as the mosquitoes. Bog plants bloomed and blossomed, just the same as their dryland kin. Bees didn’t need to walk. They needn’t swim. Wherever there were flowers, a buzzing, shifting dance of fuzzy nectar-gatherers filled the air. The bloodsuckers didn’t bother them.

  Tristan slapped the back of his neck, then stared unhappily at the blood smeared across his fingers. Where would bees nest in this place? If he thought about it, he should be able to see the answer. It certainly wouldn’t be close to the ground, like the last hive. But bees still favored trees.

  When the bog had been drier country than it presently was, trees had grown far from the forest edge. Drowned now, those ancient trunks still stood, like sentries never relieved at their posts. The dead snags could be seen for considerable distances through the heart shimmer and insect clouds. They could well hold bees. They looked ideal.

  Reaching them, that was another matter entirely. The bog never allowed Tristan two steps in a single direction. Dodging and swatting hungry bugs only made matters worse. Tristan soon gave up any hope of actually remembering his course. Retracing it would be like following a mouse’s scurryings.

  Going back, he’d simply have to do the best he could. Or whatever the bog would allow. He couldn’t be lost as long as he could see the forest, Tristan decided. A shrill whine beside his ear made him jerk sharply to one side. His feet wandered into a mudhole. Mired to his knees, Tristan swatted at the most persistent pests. He’d be bled white by nightfall, if he didn’t do something!

  After a moment’s thought, he began to mutter an incantation. Thomas sprang onto his shoulder, startling him so that Tristan had to begin his spell over again.

  What’s it do? The cat asked.

  “Hopefully, it keeps these flying needles off me before I run out of blood!” Tristan started over yet again.

  Maybe three repetitions did the trick. Suddenly, the warding began to work. Fewer bugs landed on him, and most of them took off again in haste. Only the boldest dared torment him, and putting the hood of his cloak up fended them off. Dragging his feet out of the muck, Tristan struggled onward.

  A bee zipped past his left ear, well ahead of Thomas’ darting paw. Another shot by on the right. Tristan thought he saw a pattern to the two flights. He had, after all, been right about those drowned trees. One of them held a beehive.

  As he closed in on the bee-tree, Tristan saw that the air around it was full of bees. The hive had at least three entrances, and a shifting cloud of bees surrounded each one. As Tristan’s approach was noted, the activity increased. Tristan halted. He felt Thomas go tense on his shoulder.

  The cat was right to be nervous. If they ventured too near, the warrior bees would emerge to drive them off. This was a great hive, a city of wings. Its citizens would know how to deal with a honey-thief. And who would dare the bog, save a robber?

  Tristan found a dry spot and sat down. There were no flowers near him, but bees began arriving at once. They inspected him, flying past and around and over him. The air hummed. Slowly, Tristan opened his pack. He took out the jar of amber honey. He put a single drop on the tip of his tongue. Then he spoke a word of power and swallowed.

  The honey reminded his stomach that it was empty, but he hadn’t come all the difficult way to eat. Tristan dipped his finger again. He rested his elbow on his knee, so that his finger was on a level with his eyes. Then, he simply waited for a bee to accept his invitation to parley.

  Soon enough, a bee arrived. She scented the honey, a stronger lure than the most fragrant flower. She circled once, shining golden in the sun, then made a dainty landing on Tristan’s hand. Her antennae twitched. Her mouth dipped toward the honey. She sipped at it.

  The honey still on his own tongue sealed a magical bond between them. Hello, Tristan said, friendly and polite. He watched the bee.

  She wiggled her striped abdomen, as if his greeting had startled her. She made no move to sting him, though. Tristan was careful not to move. He did not so much as blink. Polite and harmless. She’d die if she stung him, and he’d have to start over with another bee, at a great disadvantage. And in pain, surely.

  Greetingzzzz, the bee replied. Thizzz izzz eggzzzellent honey.

  Good flowers, Tristan explained. Fruit tree blossoms and every sort of herb.

  Thomas had a dance of bees about him. The cat sat calmly, but his eyes darted like minnows. The tip of his tail twitched, as if Thomas could not keep it still no matter how he tried.

  Tristan hoped the cat could at leas
t keep his paws still. Swatting a curious bee would not make a good impression. Surely Thomas understood that?

  He returned his attention to the bee standing on his finger. This is a busy hive, Tristan said. Your queen must be mighty.

  His guest wiggled her antennae at him. Buzzzzy, yezzzz. Szzzzzip many flowerzzzz. Szzzoon we go.

  He could feel her speech, vibrating on his fingertip. Her tiny feet felt impatient. She was tapping four of them at once. Soon you go? he asked. To a new home? Your queen is leaving? If a new queen was hatched, the old took many of the workers and sought a new home.

  Szzzztrong, izzzzz sheeee. Szzzztrong. The bee’s fur was the color of honey, rich and warm. Szzzoon we go, she repeated.

  Yes, I can see there’s no room here. Tristan nodded at the tree. So many bees.

  Squeezzzzzed, are we! The bee danced, very gracefully, on all her six feet. Excited. Eager. Small wonder. Swarming was a great adventure, and it did not come in most bees’ short lifetimes. This one would be elderly in a month’s time.

  How do you seek a new home? Tristan asked. Slowly, he put out another drop of honey. Like offering a neighbor another cup of tea, to keep useful gossip flowing. He’d watched Blais do just that.

  Honey was far richer than nectar. Bees fanned nectar with their wings, concentrating it. Rather, Tristan thought, like men making wine from the thin juice of new grapes. His bee rubbed her wings together with delight at what he gave her.

  Szzzend scoutzzzz, she told him, sipping. Find new placezzzzzz.

  With many flowers, Tristan agreed. Clover and harebell. Clary and lavender and coltsfoot. Apple and pear, plum and apricot and brambleberries. Wild thyme by the acre.

  Exzzzzellent, she said, approving the menu.

  Hard to come by, Tristan told her sadly. I’ve just walked through those woods. The meadows are a long way back, the clover blossoms and the red poppies. The trees are done blossoming. Nothing but leaves now, in the forest.

  Thizzzzz? The bee asked, tapping an antenna at the honey smeared on Tristan’s finger. As canny as a goodwife confronting a peddler.

  I carried it with me, Tristan said. Not from the woods, no. From the place I came from. I’m going back there, soon.

  Szzzzoon?

  In the morning, Tristan said.

  She sampled the honey again. Tazzzzty.

  Good flowers, Tristan repeated. But not enough bees. I hoped to fetch a few back. If I found a hive ready to swarm. Ready for an adventure.

  She buzzed, too excited for human words. Uzzzzz? he heard at last.

  If you like. Tristan wanted to smile, but wasn’t sure she might not misunderstand. Bees had no teeth, but bears certainly did.

  I will azzzzk! Many flowerzzzzzzz?

  Many flowers, Tristan confirmed.

  The bee took off, circled Tristan’s head, and landed once more. She gathered information as her sisters did nectar and pollen. A bit here, a bit there. Izzzzz far?

  Well, far enough. Maybe too far for a swarm to fly, but that wasn’t a problem. I can help you. Tristan showed her the skep, carefully. You could all ride this way, you and your queen, all the workers. No rain to worry about. No birds.

  Birdzzzz szzzzeek uzzzzz?

  Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned birds. Birds could easily penetrate the bog. No birds. You would ride, safe. Secret. Until you come to your new home.

  She danced in the air, looping loops, tumbling sideways. Stzzzzzzzzay. I will azzzzzzk. She shot straight away, so rapidly that Tristan’s eyes could not follow the straight flight. He blinked several times.

  Thomas had a bee on the tip of his nose. The cat stared cross-eyed at it and sneezed as it left him. Smooth enough for a merchant, he commented. Perhaps wizardry isn’t your best calling.

  Tristan was busy putting more honey on his finger. He set the jar down open before him. He expected numerous guests soon.

  A little cloud issued from the tree. The air was loud with bee wings.

  Tristan knew his bee at once. She landed first, for one thing. Already accustomed to him, she was unafraid. The others held back briefly before joining her. All sipped, some on Tristan’s finger, the others from the rim of the honey jar. He could tell they agreed on the quality of the sample.

  Good flowerzzz!

  Good flowerzzzz! The bees exclaimed the compliment over and over, like wedding guests singing a round-song.

  Orchards, Tristan explained again. Vegetable plots and herb beds. Crop fields. Pastures of clover. All handy to the hive.

  Man’s crops were thick-sown, unlike the random plantings of nature. Luxurious. The bees were all dancing now, imagining the riches Tristan spoke of. He let them inspect the skep of coiled straw. They quickly found the tiny door.

  Szzzzmall, one bee complained. Her chorus was taken up by the rest. Szzzzzmalllllll!

  Szzzzmall, Tristan’s bee agreed mournfully.

  It’s only for the journey, Tristan assured her. Your home will be much larger. Room in it for many combs of honey, many brood combs. And an apple tree to shade it.

  Apple blozzzzzzomzzzzz? There was more dancing.

  Every spring, Tristan promised. He did not recall passing any wild apple trees as he went through the wood, but there must be some. These bees seemed to consider apple blossoms treasure—or legends. He must be sure to mention them often.

  Izzzzz time, a darkish bee announced. The bees formed into a circle, their antennae tapping and touching. Those bees which had been longest at the honey jar bumbled a trifle and were slow to find their places. The circle hummed. Then all at once it took wing and headed for the great hive.

  Did they accept? Thomas sniffed at the jar.

  “I don’t know. I think they went to azzzk.” Tristan shook his head sharply. “Ask. Those must have been the scouts, the ones charged to find a new home, and guide the swarm to it.” A few bees still flew around him, and the jar, but these were shy. They’d be the common workers, content to remain in the great hive with the new queen.

  Tristan carried the skep to a dry, flat spot nearer the bee tree. Carefully, he unwrapped a comb of honey and tucked it inside, at the very center of the skep. Bees gorged on honey before they swarmed. They would not forage on their way to a new home. A queen, though, could not be allowed to go hungry. He must offer her the best he had on hand. That was only sense. And good manners. She was a queen.

  Soon she came, in royal state. Queens flew only to mate and to swarm. The royal wings might be spread no more than twice in her entire life. The queen’s attendants surrounded her. Nothing must trouble the ruler on her stately progress. Had the skep not been to hand, the living bodies of thousands of bees would have raised a wall about their queen whenever she rested. They flew in a crowd all about her. From the instant she hatched, she had never been alone.

  The queen alighted at the entrance of the skep. She could not be mistaken for one of her worker children—she was far larger than any of those, or her attendants. Her abdomen by itself was longer than a whole bee. The queen—and the queen alone—laid every one of the eggs for the hive. Her own weight in eggs, each and every day. Every worker, every nurse, every scout and soldier and courtier was her child. She was surrounded now by her offspring, all of them buzzing continual concern for her health and her comfort. The queen’s court trailed behind her into the skep.

  Heralded by loud buzzing, a thick stream of workers followed. They were orderly and not much excited. All workers knew was nectar-gathering, which did not require imagination.

  Last of all came the scouts. As the first was following the workers into the skep, another circled Tristan’s head in greeting.

  Many flowerzzzzz! She buzzed excitedly. Then she too darted into the skep.

  Circles

  With the swarm clustered inside it, the skep felt heavy. Tristan opened the linen bag wide and carefully set the skep upon it.

  He used the bag’s drawstrings to gently close the top over the straw cone. Best to carry the bees so. The bag would shield the swarm
from sun and rain. The darkness inside it would keep the bees calm. He could feel the workers within shifting into their places about their queen. Their buzzing was a purr, louder than a cat’s. There were more lives in the bag than Tristan could ever count, even if they were all small lives.

  He set off, retracing his path. At least, Tristan supposed he did. It was hard to be sure. So far out in the bog, he couldn’t see any edge of woodland—tall grass got in the way. Tristan put the bee-tree at his back. After all, he had certainly walked straight toward it, coming in.

  As if one could walk straight, in the water-maze of the bog. Tristan was turned this way and that as he sought sound footing. He wasn’t troubled for his own comfort—bees would appreciate a dunking even less than Thomas had.

  He did not expect familiar sights. The bog paths weren’t full of landmarks. He wouldn’t come upon any of his own tracks. The sucking mud swallowed footprints the instant his boots left them.

  Tristan didn’t reckon to be sure of his way—not every single step of it. He held a general course. He didn’t know where he’d emerge from the bog, but he had no doubt that he would emerge.

  So, being lost came as a total surprise.

  After half an hour of stepping from one grass tussock to another, Tristan glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the bee-tree. The light was failing, running out of the sky as night seeped in.

  No doubt that was why he couldn’t see the forest ahead of him. The gory light of sunset glinted orange and apricot on the water of the bog. The bog plants, the iris and the reeds and the sedges, were all black as coal dust, spikes that were differenced only by their heights.

  We won’t be out of this by dark, Thomas said helpfully. His paws were wet, and the cat hated that. Playing in the water was one thing. Being trapped by it was quite another matter.

  “Sky’s clear enough.” Not even a rag of cloud overhead. “There ought to be a moon, later. It’s only a couple of days off full. Plenty of light then.”