The Bees

by Laline Paull

“The Kindness means death?” “Amen,” chorused the ladies. “No use to the hive, no use for life!”

“You understand nothing—you are merely brave.”

Now I only taste the world through food and drink and the stories of my library.”

Accept, Obey, and Serve, even when it hurts.”

“Nor may a flora ever forage, for she has no taste.”

“She smells, Sister,” said one of the police, her great jaws ready to bite. “And her belly is swollen,” said another, her hooks gleaming. “That scent is my kin. I am a flora and a forager, and I stretch this belly with nectar from a thousand flowers a day if I can find them, to bring home to our hive. Accept, Obey, and Serve.” “Accept, Obey, and Serve,” shouted the bees, as if a Sage priestess had said it.

“With winter coming, your hive could budget to the last sip of honey, the last grain of pollen. With knowledge, you could save yourselves. . . . One bee, one answer. One bee . . . one answer.” She began to revolve, her white belly shining and disappearing, shining and disappearing. “One bee . . . one answer . . .” Other spiders dropped down from their webs, slowly twirling pendants beneath the leaves. Brown and white. Brown and white.

“Blood and nectar—my favorite.”

“Winter comes twice.

Like every other sister in the packed Dance Hall, Flora paused and felt the tremors running up and down her antennae. She loved the feeling of venom swelling her sac, and her sting flexed strong and supple within her, longing to slide forth. Every sister in the hall slowly raised her claws, waiting for the signal in the comb.

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.

Madness. Sister against sister. Disaster.