“Thank you,” says Toby. She ought to go back to the cobb-house enclave, find a container, and scoop the centre of the swarm into it to capture the queen. Then the rest of the swarm will follow. She won’t even need to smoke the bees: they won’t sting because they aren’t defending a nest. She’ll explain to them first that she means them well, and that she hopes they will be her messengers to the land of the dead. Pilar, her bee teacher at the Gardeners, told her this speech was necessary when persuading a swarm of wild bees to come with you.
“Maybe I should get a bag or something,” she says. “They’re already scouting for a good nest site. They’ll be flying soon.”
“You want me to babysit them?” asks Zeb.
“It’s okay,” she says. She’d like him to come back to the cobb house with her: she doesn’t want to walk through the forest alone. “But could you just not listen to me for a minute? And look the other way?”
“You need to take a leak?” says Zeb. “Don’t mind me.”
“You know how this goes. You were a Gardener yourself,” she says. “I need to talk to the bees.” It’s one of the Gardener practises that, viewed by an outsider, must seem weird; and it still does seem weird to her because part of her remains an outsider.
“Sure,” says Zeb. “Hey. Do your stuff.” He turns sideways, gazes into the forest.
Toby feels herself blushing. But she pulls the end of her bedsheet up to cover her head – essential, old Pilar said, or the bees would feel disrespected – and speaks in a whisper to the buzzing furball. “Oh Bees,” she says. “I send greetings to your Queen. I wish to be her friend, and to prepare a safe home for her, and for you who are her daughters, and to tell you the news every day. May you carry messages from the land of the living to all souls who dwell in the land of shadows. Please tell me now whether you accept my offer.”
She waits. The buzzing increases. Then several of the scout bees fly down and land on her face. They explore her skin, her nostrils, the corners of her eyes; it’s as if a dozen tiny fingers are stroking her. If they sting, the answer is no. If they don’t sting, the answer is yes. She breathes in, willing herself to be calm. They don’t like fear.
The scout bees lift away from her, spiral back towards the swarm, blend into the moving golden pelt. Toby breathes out.
“You can look now,” she says to Zeb.
There’s a crackling, a thrashing: something’s coming towards them through the undergrowth. Toby feels the blood leave her hands. Oh shit, she thinks. Pig, wolvog? We don’t have a spraygun. And my rifle’s back there in the garden. She scans around for a stone to throw. Zeb has picked up a stick.
Saint Dian, Saint Francis, Saint Fateh Singh Rathore: lend me your strength and wisdom. Speak to the animals now. May they turn away from us, and seek their meat from God.
But no, it’s not an animal. There’s a voice: it’s people. There’s no Gardener prayer against people. Painballers – they don’t know we’re here. What should we do? Run? No, they’re too close now. Get out of the line of fire. If possible.
Zeb has stepped in front of her, pushed her back with one hand. He freezes. Then he laughs.
Bone Cave
Out of the bushes comes Swift Fox, straightening her pink and blue floral bedsheet. Right behind her is Crozier, similarly straightening, though his bedsheet is an understated black-and-grey stripe.
“Hi, Toby. Hi, Zeb,” he says, overly casual.
“Taking a stroll?” says Swift Fox.
“Bee hunting,” says Zeb. He doesn’t seem upset. So maybe I’ve been wrong, thinks Toby: he’s not feeling territorial about her, he doesn’t care that she’s been flailing among the weeds with Crozier.
As for Crozier, isn’t he supposed to be pursuing Ren? Or has Toby been wrong about that as well?
“Bee hunting? Really? Hey, whatever works,” says Swift Fox, laughing. “Us, we were foraging. For mushrooms. We foraged and foraged. We got down on our hands and knees, we looked everywhere. But we didn’t find a single mushroom, did we, Croze?”
Crozier shakes his head, looking down at the ground. It’s as if he’s been caught with his pants down, but he’s not wearing pants, only the striped bedsheet.
“See you,” says Swift Fox. “Happy bee hunting.” She heads back towards the cobb house, with Crozier following as if pulled on a string.
“C’mon, Bee Queen,” Zeb says to Toby. “Let’s get your supplies. I’ll walk you home.”
In a perfect world Toby would already have a Langstroth hive box, complete with supers and moveable frames. She should have prepared one ahead of time, on the off chance of finding a swarm; but, lacking foresight, she did not do this. Barring a proper hive box, what can she use that will appeal to the bees? Any cavity that’s protected, with an entrance where they can go in and out; dry enough, cool enough, warm enough.