The Bees

by Laline Paull

“A flora may not make wax, for she is unclean; nor propolis, for she is clumsy; nor ever may she forage, for she has no taste; but only may she serve her hive by cleaning, and all may command her labors.”

“Because your kin lacks botanical heritage, it forms the base of our society. Or rather, you draw your heritage from impure and promiscuous flowers, shunned by this hive.”

“Our Mother, who art in labor—” Sister Teasel’s voice was hoarse and small, but her nurses joined their own in support. “Hallowed be Thy womb,” they sang to control their fear. “Thy Marriage done, Thy Queendom come—”

At the back of the procession, Flora waited for an alarm to sound at her profane presence on this highest and restricted level of the hive—but a cloud of incense rose up beneath her feet just as from those ahead and joined her to the procession. And then, as the two tall double doors in the middle of the passageway swung open to admit them, her soul filled with joy. Waves of raw floral fragrance billowed out on warm air. Flora entered the sacred refinery of the Fanning Hall and beheld the genius of her people.

The scent of the hive began to change as dawn rose, but the comb was quiet and no one stirred as Flora returned to her dormitory. Her bunk was completely cooled of body warmth as she lay down and curled her abdomen in for sleep. The tip still throbbed, yet she felt oddly calm. All she wanted was to draw the last of that beautiful scent into her mind and feel that warm, tender shimmer of life against her body again. She had committed a crime, yet she felt no guilt, only love for her egg. Flora listened to her sisters’ sleep and the birdsong starting in the orchard, and waited for retribution.

After the fanning and the cleaning there was nothing to do but talk, and gossip bred like mold in the damp confinement. Nothing was off-limits as the sisters struggled to find occupation for their constant restless energy; every kin was discussed by every other, the décor of the hive and its state of repair, the food, the standard of hygiene—even the Queen’s laying. This last topic, which could have been the death warrant of any who spoke of it disparagingly, was always discussed in fulsome terms. Every bee knew a Nursery worker or had recently been one herself, and every bee had her own most personal relationship with Holy Mother. They compared their feelings during and after Devotion, and there was more than a little competition over who felt her Love most strongly, for ecstasy was piety. The conversations always concluded with the acknowledgment that Her Majesty continued to lay at magnificent speed and volume and was more beautiful than ever, and as she was the mightiest force in the universe, this rain must be a sign of her displeasure, and so they must all work harder. Accept, Obey, and Serve. Flora said the words too, half devout and half ashamed. Her body surged with unused energy and, despite the deepening tear in one wing membrane, she longed to fly to escape the terrible tension of confinement, not only with her sisters but with her own thoughts.

FLORA WAS AMONG THE FIRST out. A rising front from the south wiped the last shred of gray from the sky and below her spread the great plain of different greens, pushed together in crude four-sided shapes as if by some primitive insect ignorant of the beauty of the hexagon. In the distance where once had shone the field of golden rapeseed, two great machines toiled away at the soil. Flora flexed a wing-tip and veered away from the smell. She had offered herself up, but she had not been taken. She was fertile, yet still alive. For whatever reason, it had not been Holy Mother’s will that she die—otherwise her confession would have been heard. Instead, a Sage priestess had passed her to the side of the living, and Sister Teasel to the dying.

Sir Poplar roared and started his engine as his body was lifted up in the air by teeming sisters, but they broke his wings from his back and threw him down. “You insult Holy Mother—” “Squander our food—” “Pretend you would mate us as if we were queens—how dare you!” It was the sister from Woodbine whom he had so insulted. She stood where he could see her face. “Only the Queen may breed!” She ripped his abdomen open down to his genitals, then tore out his penis and ate it. Sisters screamed in excitement as his blood splashed on their faces.

Drones screamed as they were ripped apart or bitten to death, and the sisters’ feet slid on the bloodied, pulsing comb. Filled with consecrated anger at every insult and humiliation, every wasted forage and sullied passageway, they avenged themselves on the wastrel favorites, the sacred sons who did nothing for their keep but brag and eat and show their sex to those who must only labor for them and never be loved.