The Murmur of Bees

by Sofía Segovia

  Tomorrow they would go out again, like they did every spring. Tomorrow, winter would end. Tomorrow their life cycle and Simonopio’s travels would recommence.

  It had not been as solitary a winter as the previous one. Since it had not been so cold, the bees ventured out more just to keep Simonopio company, with no work to do, in no hurry, as if they forgot for a few months that their community’s lives depended on their daily expeditions in spring. They flew without pressure, they stopped at will, and they returned whenever they wanted. They knew that the work had been done. They also knew that the work would soon be calling them back and that they would gladly heed the call. But in the interval between autumn and the following spring, the sole focus of the bees—aside from helping to keep the honeycomb warm for the next generation with their bodies—was Simonopio.

  That winter, Simonopio was not idle either.

  He knew that time had not lessened the danger Espiricueta posed, and that it would be a grave mistake to dismiss or ignore him. Simonopio’s previous year’s travels had not served to put such thoughts out of his mind; the purpose of the wandering was not to forget the fear the man had instilled in him. On the contrary: he fed the fear and allowed it to grow. He would not allow himself to become complacent, as easy as his days were, without the weight of that fear, without the weight of the responsibility he had taken on as the only one who saw Espiricueta for what he was: the coyote.

  A coyote that, very deliberately, Simonopio had not seen again since the day he set foot on his land for the first and last time.

  He was sorry to hurt his godfather with his constant absence, just as he was still sorry the family had been so alarmed on that first night he had improvised a camp away from the hacienda in the spring of the previous year and they had assembled a search party to look for him as night fell.

  That night, Simonopio had camped close by. He had wanted to test his mettle spending the night alone but not very far away—he wanted to know that he could go home at any moment if his courage failed him. He expected to be afraid, but fear was not what kept him awake hours later. He missed his bed, for he had never slept anywhere other than a bed. The stones found their way under his blanket, making him miss his comfortable bed even more. Then he heard urgent voices. He specifically heard the desperation in his godfather’s voice, telling the rescuers to spread out in one direction or another, calling his name.

  He would have replied immediately were it not for the fact that Espiricueta was among the group of men, silent. Simonopio did not want to see him. Nor confront him. Nor did he want the man’s hard eyes fixed on him. Which was why he had hidden in the bushes, dragging his improvised camp with him and erasing any trace of it, remaining silent. From there, he saw them pass by and go off into the distance. He watched Espiricueta come back and stop just a few steps away, yelling his name, urging him to come out. Simonopio closed his eyes, knowing that a look has the power to attract. A short while passed, which to Simonopio seemed endless. Espiricueta remained motionless, listening. Simonopio did not dare so much as breathe. At last the coyote, like the others, heeded the order to call off the search in order to resume it the next day.

  Simonopio did not move from his hiding place for the rest of the night. Before they began searching for him again at first light, Simonopio returned home of his own accord. He would have liked to have cried the same tears that his godfather held in when he saw him, but Simonopio held back. He stopped at putting his arms around the man, though he could not reach all the way, remaining there until he felt peace return to Francisco Morales’s body.

  Simonopio would have liked to explain his intentions to his godfather, but he knew that, even if he could have enunciated the words correctly, he still would not comprehend him. There was no way to explain to them why it was so important for him, and for everyone, that he reach the end of his journey with his bees. He was sorry for every step he took away from his bemused godparents, who thought they were hiding their concern for him while they left him free to do whatever he needed to do. But not even that stopped him. He had come and gone on his expeditions many times, and he knew that, when spring arrived, he would do it again.

  Not even in winter, with his exploring on hold, could he give himself the luxury of resting and therefore losing what he had gained. He was adamant that, when spring arrived, his feet would still remember every crack and every stone on the trail, and also that the trail would remember him: that it would accept his footsteps as it had learned to do through his efforts. He had also allowed himself some days off. Days to visit the ranches with Francisco Morales. Days to go out into the hills, making sure he returned in time to welcome his godfather on the road at the end of the day. He also traveled a long distance for his godmother, to that place that made her so sad, where the land still bemoaned the conflict.

  But he would return to sleep under his bees, which he had rarely allowed himself to do during the hot months.

  With his shed’s new window open and with a great deal of patience, the bad smell had been banished during the hot days of summer. By the time winter arrived, when he had no option but to keep the window shut, only the scent of the honeycomb persisted, imbuing Simonopio with the comforting feeling of being enveloped and protected by the bees’ unbreakable community. There, he slept in peace and slept deeply. And there his body had grown. He knew it because his pants told him so—they seemed to shrink of their own accord—as did the sore toes in his worn boots. Each time his godmother came to his shed to bring him new shoes or measure him to make new pants, she would say to him, Ay, Simonopio! Carry on like this, and you’ll be taller than me in a month.

  He liked growing. He liked other people noticing it. But what he wanted most was for the coyote to know it.

  With the onset of another spring, he took to the trail again. His taller, stronger body traveled farther in less time. Reaching the place where he saw his godmother on her way to and from Monterrey was no longer a major effort, and he stopped there only to see her pass in the train and so that she would see him. If it was not a day when she was traveling, he would go on by without looking back, unwilling to make a promise; it was not up to him to heal that land. Not when he still had to complete his own mission.

  But he would be back.

  Little by little he made progress, encouraged by his bees: That’s it, keep going, not far now, they would say to him. Inevitably he spent the night alone—the bees did not know how to survive out in the elements at night, so if they wanted to wake the following dawn, they had to return to their hive at nightfall. Whenever he slept far away, Simonopio chose his campsite very carefully. He lit his fire with the flint his godfather had given him, not because he was cold, but to warn other animals that the place was taken. For dinner he ate a mixture of soft oats and honey. He drank water from his canteen and then spread out his sleeping bag and climbed in it, imagining it was a cocoon that sealed in the smell of his skin—the smell of bees. With a hand callused from his constant use of the machete as he cut his way through the bushes, he stroked the smooth handle of the old penknife—the other gift from his godfather—as if it were a talisman. And then he fell asleep, revisiting or reinventing the stories he kept in his memory, especially the ones that reminded him he was the lion. The fierce lion of his imagination, not the lion that was dead inside that he had seen on his sad visit to the circus in Monterrey.

  The next day he woke, usually after a peaceful night, feeling determined and ready to continue his exploring. The unusually hot spring breeze turned into welcome summer storms.

  One particular summer’s day, it was not his body being sated with rest that woke him. He was woken by an indeterminate yet irresistible smell, a smell that traveled in the warm morning wind, perhaps helped by the bees’ wings. Then he knew: this was what called to them to make their daily journey. This was their treasure, and he was close to seeing it and touching it for the first time.

  Contrary to his habit as an experienced camper, he left his equipment whe
re it was, except for the machete. He would need that. He was anxious to reach the end of his long journey.

  And he arrived, concentrating on swinging his sharp blade like a pendulum, hypnotized by the rhythm, cutting his way through the thickest bushes without being able to see past the thorny branch in front of him, and the next, and then the next, and then the next, until suddenly there were no more: just his bees’ treasure. And his bees were there, waiting for him.

  You’re here. You’re here, they said to him, buzzing around him. Look. Touch. Smell. Here. Take it. Take it. Quickly.

  And Simonopio obeyed.

  34

  The Flight of the Flowers

  The Villaseca Fair was coming to an end, and Francisco was grateful for the cool weather they had enjoyed throughout the last week of the festivities. After the Saturday dance at the Linares Social Club, they took advantage of the occasion to arrange Carmen and Antonio’s interview with the Church for the next day.

  They held a lunch for the fiancé’s family and for the witnesses who’d come especially from Monterrey for the formality, which had taken place earlier that day with no setbacks or unpleasant surprises. The new Father Pedro, who had arrived recently from Saltillo to replace the old—and deceased—Father Pedro, was more than satisfied with the private interview with the couple and their character witnesses, declaring that there was no impediment to the marriage taking place that winter. This being the case, Francisco invited him to join them for lunch, and he gladly accepted. He was a newcomer in Linares, but he had soon sensed that little or nothing could be achieved there without the consent or support of the families of noble descent or “first society,” as they called it, so any opportunity to get to know people better—and especially these people—he would take.

  He was also bored of eating the tasteless food that Doña Inés prepared for him. That day, he would eat Doña Matilde’s dishes at the Morales Cortés house.

  On their requisite visits to Monterrey during Carmen’s months of courtship, Francisco and Beatriz had forged a good friendship with their daughter’s future in-laws. Now, at two tables in the shade of the great pecan tree beside the house, they enjoyed the perfect weather while they ate and then conversed, drinking coffee and sampling the candied pumpkin and little balls of pecan cajeta that Sinforosa had made for the occasion.

  The conversation flowed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to bring the afternoon to an end.

  At the second table, the youngsters laughed in the way only young people can laugh: with ease, without the weight of worry marring the sound of a good guffaw. Francisco looked at them with envy, with an urge to sit at their table to remember, even if just for a moment, what it was like to be so free. And to forget, for another moment, that despite the perfection of the day—the delicious food, the cold beer, the whiskey on ice, the perfect weather, the good company—he was once again in real and imminent danger of losing a large part of his land.

  He was doing his utmost to be a good host. He participated in the conversation and laughed at the right times. He proposed a sincere toast to the bride and groom-to-be. He thanked Antonio’s parents for coming. He praised Beatriz’s efforts with the food and his mother-in-law’s with the dessert, and he even listened patiently to the new Father Pedro’s petition, seeking his support for expanding the boys’ and girls’ charity schools.

  “That way, fewer children have to go to the rural ones, Sr. Morales, because what the government teaches them there is to forget God and His commandments,” the priest said to him, knowing the Morales Cortés family paid for all their workers’ children to attend the Church’s charity schools.

  “Yes, Father, we’ll see . . .”

  Francisco Morales was a great believer in education. In all truth, he would have liked to have made a commitment then and there, given the clergyman’s good intentions, but he could not: he did not know whether he would have time to devote to a new project in the near future. He did not know whether he would have money. He did not know whether he would have land.

  That day, sitting in the shade of the great pecan tree beside his house, Francisco Morales did not know anything.

  Beatriz looked at him from time to time, when the conversation allowed it, and from her eyes, a question reached her husband: What’s the matter? From his eyes, the answer reached Beatriz’s: Don’t worry, everything’s fine. But then Francisco’s eyes involuntarily traveled back to the noisy table of young people, looking at them longingly.

  On that day, the soon-to-be-weds were the center of attention; the only ones distracted were Consuelo and Miguel, Antonio’s younger brother, since they only had eyes for each other, enjoying the early days of their courtship. He envied them that too. He remembered those young looks of love he had shared with Beatriz. They had not stopped—the love was still there—but they saved almost all of them for the best times, because life, the routine, got in the way, and war offered little respite or time for niceties.

  He now tried to call to Beatriz’s eyes with the force of his own, but she did not pick up on it, since she was discussing arrangements for the coming wedding with Antonio’s mother.

  From the corner of his eye, Francisco was surprised to catch sight of Simonopio approaching. They had not seen him for several days. Hundreds of bees swirled around him. He was ragged, covered in scratches and scrapes, and muddy, and his hair was stiff with dirt, but his stride was purposeful, and his smile so big, so bright, it lit up his eyes.

  From Francisco’s eyes, a message reached Simonopio’s: You’re here, you’re back. And from Simonopio’s eyes, a reply reached his godfather’s: I’m back.

  When the ladies from Monterrey saw and recognized the cloud that accompanied the child, one by one they let out a scream and hurried away from the threat, fanning themselves wildly as if they were the victims of an aerial attack. The visitors knew about the Morales Cortéses’ godson, but no one had warned them of his quirks. When they saw Beatriz and Francisco approach the boy, who was enveloped in a veil of bees, they were shocked.

  “Watch out!” some yelled from behind them.

  Beatriz turned to offer some sort of explanation, but Francisco ignored them. While they often saw Simonopio with bees buzzing around him or crawling on his face or arms, it was unusual to see him surrounded by so many. That day, it seemed to be all of them. It was as if the entire swarm had gone out to welcome him or had joined him in his unusual homecoming. As if it was a special occasion. Such a number would intimidate anyone, but Francisco knew Simonopio’s bees and they knew him. They tolerated him. They would not harm him and they would allow him to approach as they always did, so he did not hesitate to walk toward the boy. In the distance, he could hear Consuelo’s complaining and her embarrassed apologies to her Romeo and the other young guests for the unexpected presence of the adopted child.

  “Ay! Just look at him! What a disgrace!”

  But Francisco left Beatriz to explain the situation and control their youngest daughter’s flapping.

  He did not know whether it was his proximity or some silent message from Simonopio that made them decide to stop escorting the boy, but suddenly, as if of a single mind, the bees ended their welcome parade and flew off in perfect unison.

  Just one remained, perched on Simonopio’s neck.

  “Do you want to come meet everyone?”

  Francisco was not surprised when Simonopio shook his head. In fact, he was amazed to see the boy there at all, not just because he had been absent for several days, but because Simonopio had never liked being present when strangers visited. Yet here he was, and the smile remained on his face.

  “You’re all right,” said Francisco.

  It was not a question.

  Simonopio nodded as he removed everything he was carrying from his knapsack.

  “What do you have there?”

  Simonopio took out his sleeping bag, placed it on the ground, and unrolled the tight bundle. He took out something wrapped in a rag and handed it to his godfa
ther.

  “Shall I open it?”

  Simonopio nodded again, fixing his eyes intensely on Francisco’s. Whatever it was, the contents of the package were very important to his godson. Holding his breath, Francisco carefully undid the knot in the rag, remembering the day when he saw Simonopio for the first time, when he opened two similar, albeit larger, bundles, to find the boy and his beehive full of bees. So he thought that, in this case, he had better proceed with caution.

  And when he had completely unwrapped the package Simonopio had presented to him, letting out the air held in his lungs, he uncovered its contents with relief: two hollowed-out orange halves, so old they had become shells of hard leather. Simonopio had bound them together with the rag to make a spherical container.

  Francisco felt as if he were about to open an oyster shell to discover a pearl.

  As he separated the halves, their contents fell to the ground in a fine drizzle of white. Francisco followed it with his gaze and then fixed his eyes on it, making no effort to pick up what he had dropped.

  An exquisite aroma assaulted his senses.

  “Flowers for the bride-to-be!” said Sra. Domínguez, who, now that the bees had gone, was curious to see what the boy had in his knapsack.

  “You brought flowers for Carmen, Simonopio? Blossoms?” Beatriz, simultaneously touched and surprised, approached to see the little white flowers that did not grow in the surrounding area. “Where did you find these?”

  Then, Francisco, who still had not raised his eyes from where the gentle breeze now lifted an orange-tree flower—a blossom—into the air, said, “Late bloomers. They’re not for the bride. These flowers are for me.”

  And then he picked them up one by one, taking care not to mishandle the petals.

  They all looked at him with surprise when, after securing the package just as it had been when Simonopio handed it to him, he went into the house without another word, followed close behind by the child of the bees.