The Bees

by Laline Paull

“Then kindly recall that variation is not the same as deformity.”

“Instead of attending Devotion,” whispered Lady Primrose, “we maintain the Stories of Scent. Not nearly as pleasant, but just follow along and we shall soon be out. We only ever do the first two, so don’t worry.” The ladies formed a line and put Flora at the end. They walked in a circle around the chamber repeating the Our Mother, and then Lady Burnet stopped in front of a panel. “The first story is called The Honeyflow.” She smiled at Flora. “The lightest touch, then move back.” She dipped her antennae and touched the panel to demonstrate. Immediately, the scent of flowers rose up from it, developing and blending as each of the ladies took her turn. Flora marveled to recognize the ancient kin-scents: the Sage and the Teasel, the Rosebay, Willowherb, Clover, Violet, Celandine, Burnet, Thistle, Malus, Bindweed, and all of them. Of the floras, there was no reference. “Quickly, my dear.” Lady Burnet’s voice had the slightest tremor. “We must move along.” As Flora touched her antennae to the first panel, all the blossoms of spring burst into life and the air was filled with orchard sweetness and the scent of lush grass. But before she could fully enjoy it, a pressure wave went through the air in the chamber. She heard the harsh caw of birds and smelled the high sharp tang of a wasp. As she leaped back in shock all the ladies laughed nervously. “A common reaction,” said Lady Burnet, “but it is only a story, it cannot hurt you. Fresh as dew, yet made in the Time before Time. Is ...

But the olfactory loop held Flora’s attention: the hive, the sun, the honey—then without warning came a blast of wild, cold air and choking smoke. Flora staggered. Her body was in the room, but her senses flooded with the panic of ten thousand sisters roaring their engines, the dazing sun, and the overpowering smell of honey. “That story is called The Visitation.” The voice was sweet and thrilling, and the hand that touched Flora took away her fear. “It tells of robbery and terror, and the survival of our people.”

THE QUEEN PARTED HER GOLDEN AURA when Flora entered and bade her sit close by. Then she drew it close again, so that Flora was wrapped in it with her. “I have not left the hive since my marriage flight. Now I only taste the world through food and drink and the stories of my library.” The Queen gazed through her golden veil, as if out upon the open sky. “Did they frighten you?” “Yes, Holy Mother, at first. Then I wanted to know more.” “They tell of our religion, and must be fed with attention. After my labors I have not strength to scent them myself, though my ladies do their best. The priestesses read them when they can, but in these strange times they are so busy with matters of governance that it is not their priority.” The Queen smiled. “Tales of the world, my daughter, of beauty and terror.” “Holy Mother, I will read them gladly—after the wasp I fear nothing.”

“But my kin may never forage, it is written!” “I read flowers, not scriptures. But I know our hive is in grievous need of food and that you have wings and courage and a brain. Do not annoy me by asking permission.”

Outside the Chapel of Wax Flora pulled some of the purifying veil of scent from around the doors and wrapped it around herself. She resealed her antennae but she could not draw in her abdomen, for her egg grew larger all the time. She loved the feeling of the life inside her, and she did not care if it was a crime; she wanted this child—and must find a place to hide.

Flora could not believe it—surely the priestess had smelled her guilt. Then she felt her antennae sealed tight again. She had done it unconsciously, and she knew why. Deep in her mind, her tiny egg shone pure and bright. It did not want to die, it did not want its mother to die—and they were still connected. Joy rushed through Flora’s body and she looked down at herself. It was true, she did look young again. Her fur rose thick and lustrous, her cuticle gleamed, her joints were supple. Very quietly she opened her wing-latches and sent her consciousness running down the four membranes. Each one was strong and supple and whole, with no trace of damage. The deep tear she knew had been there had healed. Holy Mother’s youth restored with every egg.

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.

Linden reached up with stiff arms and tried to pull his sodden ruff right, then abandoned the effort. “It is not strange to me, really, that you should turn on us at last. I know how vast we lived, with what ease, at every sister’s expense. Not one grain of pollen or drop of water, let alone nectar, did we ever bring in. Nor one stroke of work did we do—but we were very quick with our demands. Clean my hooks, lick my groin. Admire me, attend me, and you may eat my crumbs. And all the food we wasted . . . Forgive me.”

The fly’s craving for respect made Flora angry. She understood why the Sage despised her own kin—because the flora were ashamed of themselves. “Stop cringing,” she said. “If you are a fly, you are a fly! Some of my people love spurge too—and I am the lowest of my kind. I clean waste—”

Flora heard the stamping of feet above, and felt the dim vibration of singing from the midlevel lobby. The drones were taking their mission of celebration seriously. Once she had saved Linden’s life, and now perhaps he had saved not only hers, which she held to no account, but also her beloved child’s. She blessed him with all her heart, and the feeling of gratitude brought tears to her eyes. She bent to kiss her sleeping daughter’s face, and to her joy, the words of the Queen’s Prayer came unbidden to her mind. If there was anything holy left in this world, Flora knew it was this love for her child, and for the Queen, her beautiful mother who had loved her, and told her not to be ashamed. While the drones and the sisters rejoiced on the floor above, Flora said the words of the Queen’s Prayer in her mind, until it took over her soul. From Death comes Life Eternal . . .