The Beekeeper's Bullet

by Lance Hawvermale

  Feeling perverse, he tried to sit up.

  He slumped back immediately. The pain bubbled fast and then settled, holding at a low boil. If the woman had hauled him here to wait for the local police to come, he had no desire to wait around until—

  The stall door swung open.

  She’d changed clothes. Her odd ensemble of before had been replaced by an ankle-length skirt and sensible top, her sleeves buttoned at the wrists. She’d brushed her hair, the brown locks burnished with red in the light that spilled in from behind her. Her firearm was nowhere in sight.

  “You’re awake,” she said.

  Was it a question or an observation? Alec wasn’t certain. But she was alone, without anyone nearby who had come to abduct him.

  She kept one hand on the stall door, as if she might leap back out and slam it shut at any moment. “Can you hear me?”

  He swallowed. “Aye.”

  She nodded, exhaling the breath she’d apparently been holding. “Who are you?”

  Slowly Alec came back to himself, his wits returning, his resolve pushing through the pain. “Where am I?”

  “In Bruni’s milking stall.”

  “Bruni?”

  “One of the cows. It was the best I had.”

  He used his good hand to touch the laceration on his head. He felt a bandage there.

  “Got you stitched up, more or less. It was the least I could do, considering that I came very close to…well, at any rate, my name is Ellenor Jantz, instructor of English, mathematics, and civics, as well as a hobbyist beekeeper, and I need you to leave immediately because a squadron of German air officers is taking up residence here in the morning, at which point they’ll arrest the both of us.”

  Alec absorbed this, sorting through the information she’d imparted. He raised an eyebrow, the only thing on him that didn’t hurt. “A hobbyist what?”

  The woman named Ellenor scowled. “Do you drink whiskey?”

  “I’ve never turned it down. Irish?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not one damn bit.”

  “Good. I’ll trade you a glass for your name.”

  That seemed fair enough. He’d given far more for a good swallow in his time. He told her his name and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Lieutenant, Royal Flying Corps.”

  And certified ace, the vain part of him wanted to say, but he had the notion that she wouldn’t be impressed.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, shutting the stall door behind her. He heard the wooden block fall into place, latching him inside.

  Alec closed his eyes again. He’d been a stupid bastard to think he could locate his sister and bring her back to France without any difficulties along the way. He’d barely made it into Germany before falling victim to the rookie mistake of letting Fritz put him between the sun and a machine gun. He blamed his error on too much time training fresh-faced fools and not enough time keeping his edge in the air. How would he reach his sister now? How would he save her?

  The woman named Ellenor Jantz returned, brown bottle in hand. “Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “That’s not good enough. You cannot be here in the morning.”

  He wondered if he could sit up. Perhaps in a few minutes he’d try. “May I ask you another question?”

  She seemed reluctant, but nodded.

  “How far are we from the town of Metz?”

  “Uh…at least a hundred miles, probably more. I’m not sure. I’ve never been there.”

  So much for walking. He certainly couldn’t travel that far on foot. Could he borrow an automobile? A horse? Bruni the milking cow? He didn’t have much time…

  Ellenor held out the bottle. “Who is she?”

  Alec blinked, wondering if the American had somehow read his thoughts. Had he talked in his sleep?

  “You told me that you had to find someone,” she said. “Find her. Who is she?”

  Alec remembered. Before losing his senses at the wreckage of the Avro, he’d blurted out the first and most important thing before succumbing to his wounds. Now, as he lay here, he knew it wasn’t wise to reveal too much of himself, but maybe if this woman understood the danger, she’d agree to help him find a car. “She is Sarah, my twin sister. The French are going to bomb a factory at Metz in five days. Sarah works there. I have to get her out.”

  Chapter Five

  “Darkness,” Ellenor said, “is no time for bees.”

  “Are bees afraid of the dark?” Truda asked.

  Ellenor smiled at the girl. “Bees fear nothing.”

  Karl looked unconvinced. “Everyone fears something.”

  Ellenor considered it. She sat in the children’s room, surrounded by all the things a wealthy European bought for his children, which was everything. One wall was painted like an African savannah. Truda adored cleverly painted dolls that fit one inside the other. Karl’s collection of wooden swords knew no equal on the Continent. “Bees don’t come out at night,” she explained. “Right now, as we sit here at our candlelight, all the bees are tucked safely in their hives. They’ve no business in the dark. They can’t see the flowers, and they need the sun to guide them home.” She showed them a biologist’s illustration of a honey bee, its body parts meticulously labeled. “See these extra eyes? They’re called ocelli. Those eyes allow the bee to navigate by the direction of the sun’s rays.”

  “He looks weird,” Karl said, frowning.

  “It’s a female.”

  “What?” Karl peered closer, perhaps expecting to see some kind of bee genitalia. “How can you tell?”

  “The girl bees do all the work. The boy bees do nothing. Well, almost nothing.” Ellenor decided this was no time to explain the mating habits of bees—or any mating habits, for that matter. “Here, look at this.” She reached into the neckline of her top and removed a pendant on the end of a Swiss-made chain. The pewter ornament was in the shape of a bee, its body made of yellow feldspar. “Your father gave this to me after my first honey harvest last year. See how beautiful she is?”

  “That’s a girl?”

  “It is. Suffice to say that a male bee has a boring and rather short life.”

  Truda found that funny, and Karl threatened to pinch her if she didn’t stop giggling, and Truda dared him to try, and that was how it went while Ellenor glanced from the window at the starry sky and thought of Lieutenant Corbin-Dawes.

  Leave it to a Brit to hyphenate a surname. How pretentious. Maybe he was the nephew of a duke or baron or someone else full of pomp and peerage. If he was half a gentleman at all, he’d vacate the barn to spare her the repercussions if the Germans discovered him here in the morning. Except, of course, he could barely move. He could hardly be expected to embark on a march back to the Front as if he were just a merry old chap with a whistle on his lips.

  I have to find her.

  He’d explained it like this: His sister, Sarah, had married an Alsatian industrialist who’d died of smallpox two years after the wedding. Sarah and her in-laws now operated the factory without him, supplying the Fatherland with engine parts for what the lieutenant called lorries but Ellenor knew as trucks. Corbin-Dawes had attended a strategic meeting at his aerodrome in which plans were revealed for a bombing flight on Sarah’s factory. He’d taken a plane without permission in hopes of flying her back across a border she’d otherwise never be allowed to cross.

  “Well, at least I’m not a boy bee!” Truda shouted at her brother.

  Ellenor settled them down. Heaven forbid that Father should hear them all the way in his study, where he was probably bent over his journal, writing in his flowing penmanship about the impending guests. This time tomorrow he would likely relinquish that very room to Captain Gustov Voss, who would probably soil the carpet with his Prussian boots.

  Maybe it was the thought of those boots that finally convinced her. It would be hard enough to bear the sight of interlopers mucking up the garden; Ellenor was not
going to give them the pleasure of taking a prisoner.

  She put Karl and Truda to bed at the usual hour, just as the children’s clock, made in Bavaria, ferried out its little bird and clucked the time. Then it was off to bed herself, except not really, because while the house lay quiet under a blanket of summer stars, Ellenor slipped through the kitchen door and hurried barefoot to the man from England.

  ****

  “Are you awake?”

  Alec sat with his back against the slatted wooden wall. He’d managed to get himself at least partially upright. The bruises along his left side pulsed in pain, a ripple effect along the length of his body from where he’d slammed against the cockpit, the stick punching him in the ribs. The farrier, Josef, had fed him the remains of what must have been a fine meal. The mess hall back at the aerodrome knew nothing of food like this, rich and dark. “I’m here.”

  The door swung open, revealing the woman who’d both shot and saved him. She wore a long wool cloak and no shoes. Her hair was piled atop her head with a hasty array of pins. She wore no cosmetics. Alec was struck by her unadorned beauty.

  “You look better,” she said.

  “German food is fortifying, even the leftovers.”

  “Josef fed you?”

  “He seems a good fellow.” For a German, he wanted to add. The Boche had burned a French village only three days ago. Alec saw no honor in razing the land as you conquered it. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see if you’re feeling well enough to move.”

  “No, I mean, here in Germany. You’re American.”

  “I work here. Like your sister, I suppose.”

  “You came before the war?”

  “No. I was touring the Continent. The previous teacher employed here got conscripted and sent to the Front, like most men of that age. Father advertised for someone who could speak English.”

  “Father?”

  “He owns this very barn in which you hide.”

  “Ah. My thanks to him.”

  “He doesn’t know you exist. He’s a patriot. Now, before Father or anyone else learns of my deception, we need to get you out of here. The Jagdstaffel arriving in the morning will surely conceive of creative ways to deal with both of us if they find out.”

  Alec had been considering this. A Jagdstaffel, more commonly known as a Jasta, was a fighter squadron of elite pilots. They were given license to behave in ways completely alien to the infantry troops. They lived lavishly, painted their crates eccentric colors, and died by either burning alive or falling to their deaths. If they were being billeted here, it meant two things. One, the property was near enough to the Front to provide a choice launching point. Two, the facilities here could provide for the needs of men who were simultaneously violent, charming, haughty, and intense.

  And there was something else, wasn’t there? An opportunity waiting to be seized?

  “What are you thinking?” Ellenor asked.

  “Where will you have me go?”

  “To the hives.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Up on the hill. It’s about two miles, if you follow the track. I have four beehives there…well, two, actually. But there’s a shed where I keep my equipment, the supers and smoker—”

  “Supers and smoker?”

  “Never mind that. You can stay there. No one else is around. You’ll be alone until you’re well enough to travel. I’ll bring food and other supplies tomorrow afternoon.”

  Alec looked at her anew. He already knew not to test her—his wounded hand was evidence of that—but he saw more in her eyes than a woman not afraid to defend herself. She risked her livelihood by helping him. She’d formulated a plan. She was definitely not the average lass one met on the train to London. “Do you speak German?” he asked,

  “Natürlich spreche ich Deutsch.” She gave him an annoyed look. “Of course I speak German.”

  “My apologies. My wits are dulled. I’ll get better, I promise. What I meant is, when these men are here, and you’re among them on a day-to-day basis, if there’s anything…important that is said among them, anything that might be useful…”

  “If you’re asking me to spy on our German house guests, then the answer is that I’m already planning on it.”

  For the first time in days, Alec smiled. It hurt his swollen lip. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not doing it for you, Mr. Corbin-Dawes of wherever the hell in England you’re from. I’m doing it to try and keep my friends as much out of harm’s way as possible.”

  “I meant thank you for making me smile.”

  “Oh.” She seemed at a sudden loss. “Well…at any rate—”

  “At any rate,” he interrupted, “you tried to kill me, and now you’re offering to protect me, and I’m accepting with as much grace as my tired body can muster. So, yes. I’ll stay in this shed of yours, with the smokers and the soup.”

  “Supers. It’s what we call the boxes for bees.”

  “Ah, beekeeper jargon. Perhaps one day I’ll trade you for aeronautical jargon and we’ll have a grand time discussing dope cans and Immelmann turns. In the meantime, I suppose I should attempt to get on my feet. But…you said this hiding spot is two miles away? I probably can’t walk two yards, much less anywhere close to two miles, I’m afraid.”

  “You won’t have to walk.”

  “How am I getting there?”

  “I’m driving you—what do you think?”

  “You know how to operate an automobile?”

  She stared at him. “Don’t make me shoot you again.”

  Alec surprised himself by smiling a second time. “Warning received.”

  When she helped him stand up, he managed not to scream.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Ellenor distracted herself from thoughts of the fugitive she’d concealed by writing a eulogy for the dead. In a journal bound between rugged hemp covers, she recorded every detail of her modest honey operation. Last year she’d harvested over a hundred pounds from three hives, and after splitting one of those colonies in two, she’d hoped for even more production this time around. But some damn thing had killed half her population.

  She’d inherited the bees from one of Father’s aging colleagues, a man he’d met as a young cavalry officer in the Franco-Prussian War, which he still referred to simply as “70/71.” Having learned the art and science of apiculture on the farm back home in the States, Ellenor had jumped at the chance to add honey to the estate’s list of home-grown products, along with grain, root vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs from the dozens of chickens that roamed freely and were occasionally poached by foxes at night. Father had brewed a batch of honey-flavored beer.

  Ellenor kept her records in English because it was easier that way; she was fluent in German but had never been comfortable writing it. She kept track of everything: each inspection, every frame of capped and uncapped brood, all the activities that happened when the hive box was closed and only fully understood when it was opened. A healthy queen could lay two thousand eggs in a single day. She mated once and lived her entire life in the dark—except when Ellenor lifted the lid and peered inside. Comparing the notes she’d made yesterday on the hill with those she’d penned after inspecting the dead bees last night, she hoped to find some meaning behind the loss.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Dagmar called from the garden.

  “Lovely.”

  “I’m terribly sorry about your bees.”

  “Thank you. We’ll manage.” Will we? Just because two colonies vanished didn’t mean the other two were threatened. On the other hand, disease could certainly travel between hives.

  “Any notion as to what happened?” Dagmar asked, basket in both hands.

  “I’m still studying the problem. I’ll let you know.”

  “Very good. See you for lunch, sweetie.”

  Ellenor smiled in what she hoped was an authentic way. Then she let the smile fall from her face and wrote Investigation ongoing in
her field journal. Predators weren’t to blame, as a family of hungry raccoons wouldn’t have stopped until all four hives were disassembled and plundered of their riches. Besides, Ellenor had secured the top covers with wire, and raccoons might be agile little pests but they weren’t capable of outwitting heavy-gauge wire—were they?

  She felt the sound before she heard it. The air seemed to quiver slightly. Ellenor looked up from her work, aware that something had changed. She cast her eyes skyward and saw them.

  A dozen black shapes appeared below the clouds. The exhaust from their engines marred an otherwise blue sky. From here, the noise was little more than wasps buzzing, but with every passing second, it grew.

  Josef emerged from the barn, neck craned back. Karl and Truda ran up, knees dirty, shielding their eyes from the sun. Doors opened in the main house. Faces appeared. Father stood on the library balcony.

  The planes came.

  The Jasta flew in an uneven formation, each biplane an individual miracle; how those radical, wooden things remained aloft was anyone’s guess. The sound intensified. The men in those planes would now use Father’s estate as a base from which to launch their sorties against the French. Since the war began three years ago, aviation had transformed the struggle. At first dismissed as a gimmick, the airplane had quickly become a scourge. And now the scourge was here.

  They flew directly overhead with a howl, twelve dark crucifixes against the sky.

  Without speaking, the family members and staff of the ancestral house in the Rhine valley watched the squadron turn, decelerate, and come closer to the ground. There was no particular grace to it; the biplanes shuddered, the pilots at their sticks little more than uniformed boys. And then, one by one, the aircraft touched down in the barley field two hundred yards behind the barn, their wheels kicking up plumes of soil.

  Ellenor counted eleven single-seat units and one larger version built for two. They were painted according to the taste of the pilot, with daggers and hearts and wild jolts of color, personalized and cherished. The canvas was stretched taut across their wing decks, mended here and there from enemy fire.