Someone has to
tell the bees when there has been a change.
I have heard that that they will take offense and leave a place if they are
not treated with respect, as part of the household at a passing. What a misfortune
that would be! Without them nothing green would flourish, no matter how sweet
the soil, how caring a hand tended the garden. But more - their company, their
fierce determination as they share the work, the busy buzzing of their conversation
my life would not flourish without that companionship.
And I have seen that the bees are messengers; as they go about their business,
fertilizing the last fall blooms and setting aside with their unquestioning
faith the last of this years stores for Winter and the promise of Spring, they
will spread the sad news while still working to encourage life.
My news was a little unusual, for the darkest parts, the deaths, had happened
elsewhere and some time ago. Still, it is a parting, to be sure, and my heart
ached at the separation. I was, as he had warned me, torn in two. Yet it was
the loss of the head of the house, and I knew it was my duty to tell the soft-furred
ladies their master had gone. I wanted to have all my obligations fulfilled
before I went again through my front door.
I stood on the path a while, choosing my time and my place. The garden table
by the window where he had told me many stories to keep me out of my fathers
way, knowing that the words of a good tale flourished in my young brain like
mint the kitchen garden, with its fragrance of lavender and wild thyme
that spoke to me now of a place far away that had offered a moment of healing
and home, and the great-hearted friend who had believed in our need the
rose arbor where he had told me to stop being so foolish, and welcomed my bride
with open arms and heart
You already know, I suppose. I am a simple man, and straightforward about these
things. It called like a beacon, and I followed the golden light that gleamed
through its branches down to the new tree in the party field.
The ground around was wild here, as he had preferred, winking eyes in the grass,
buttercups and clover, new petals of elanor that coaxed us toward autumn unafraid.
The ladies hummed softly in the sweet late air, full buckets on their legs as
they readied themselves for the trip home over the fields, crisscrossing paths
in the late heat, singing as they went - as much like four young friends with
full packs and light hearts out for an evening ramble as made no difference.
They had not yet left for their home.
I put both hands behind my back and tried to think of some fine words, reciting-words,
the kind you are glad you thought to say when you look back. But I had no words
as big as his heart, or as full as mine, or as soft as the bees.
I rocked back and forth a few times, and was startled to hear myself speak in
the gathering dusk. "He's gone."
That wouldn't do at all, but how much could I say without loosing my own way.
"He isn't dead but he's not coming back, if you take my meaning.
You have the right to know that I am the man in the house for now. I'll do my
best for us all."
The ladies hovered in the still air, singing in a way that didn't seem so different
from the night we met the elves while crossing to Crickhollow now that I thought
about the two things together. Then they brushed against the golden stars that
lit the lawn, and turned to cross the field.
Whatever it is that draws them over the grass and the fields to their own hive,
unerringly, every time - I looked up and saw it, in the light shining in the
small round window next to my front door.
Bees take their time - you cannot rush them. But I thought they would give me
a chance.
My step was a little lighter as I walked up the path and went inside to yellow
light, and fire; the warm smells of cooking and welcome. Rose drew me to my
chair without a question; gave me a kiss and put Elanor in my lap. My daughter
looked up at me and smiled like all the stars of heaven twinkling on at once.
I drew a deep breath. "Well, I'm back," I said.
*******
June 13th fell on a Friday this year, and there was on on-line challenge at Henneth Annun to write a story that dealt with a superstition, either adapted from Earth or invented for Middle Earth, in under 1.000 words.
Telling the Bees there has been a death in the family, or a change in the head of the household is a little know superstition these days, but I remember speaking to the bees with my grandmother as a child.
It is a Scots/Celtic superstition, and so it should have a third component beside the two Sam mentions. For me, it is that the bee is a symbol of resurrection and immortality, often used that way in heraldry, too. The word is related to beo, byw - 'to be living.'