‘A Bumblebee’s Dance’
Nora Naveen, she is a passionate photographer exploring and photographing the raw beauty of the world. From expansive vistas to intimate moments of nature, her goal is to inspire others to view the environment with greater care and curiosity. In order to foster a respect for environment and inspire others to discover and preserve it, Nora Naveen offers her artwork.
A Bumblebee’s Dance
They were everywhere when George was a kid. Magical creatures. Everything from the fearsome fire breathing dragon, to the smallest magical bumblebee. It was easy to blame overgrown lizards for smouldering towns and crushed families. But the humble bumblebee’s magic was far more insidious, the ability to heal, to resurrect, to restore, denying God and fate their power was a recipe for disaster.
The priests visited the hamlet of Coldwater when George was but a child. They stood upon oak barrels, right in the middle of town, their gowns blowing in the wind. Bees buzzed in the breeze, darting this way and that in their never-ending quest for pollen. The oldest priest outstretched his bony finger, the shrivelled skin pointing accusingly at the town.
“If you do not cease this heresy,” the priest croaked, pointing at the town's bee hives, “God himself will rain hellfire down upon you.”
George sat on his family’s wooden fence, kicking his legs and giggling at the priest's words. How can they not see the truth? Their god had never healed a man’s mutilated arm, never eased the suffering of the passing, all he seemed to do was collect tithes.
His father echoed his sentiments. “You’re nothing but a bunch of old quacks.”
“Only God can grant eternal life,” the priest reasoned, “not this devil’s honey.”
“Go preach somewhere else!” George’s father shook his head.
“A sinner,” the priest reached for his whip, “this gives me no pleasure. Only blood will cleanse your sins in God’s eyes.”
“Don’t touch my father!” George cried.
The strike of the whip, and the screams of his father burned into George’s soul. The whip cracked down, and snapped against his father’s back. The savage blow forced him to his knees, as a hole was torn in his flesh. His father’s life leaked from the wound.
The priest turned to the village. “Cry not, for this sinner will again be able to enter the kingdom of God, with his sins atoned.”
Across the village the whip cracked again, a stifled cry escaped his father’s lips. But even as his father’s back bled crimson, he never took his eyes off the priest, not for one moment. No one in the town did. It was only after the third rock, the priest shuffled down the main road, his lackeys in tow, screaming bloody vengeance.
“Save it!” the town’s doctor cried after them. She was already running to George's father, honey pot in tow. She smeared the honey into the wounds, and George watched as the edges shimmered, before knitting themselves back together. When his father stood, clothes horribly ripped, there was no indication of gruesome wounds, not even scars. All that remained was his pale face, and a puddle of blood already seeping into the dirt.
A smile spread across George’s father’s face, as he massaged his now clean back. “Nothing to worry about son.”
“I thought you’d at least have a scar,” George whispered as he ran for a hug.
The doctor shook her head. “This stuff cures everything, broken heart, scars, I’ve even seen it bring people back from the dead!”
But she was wrong. Fire would not easily be denied.
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Twelve years later, George sat on a little hill overlooking Coldwater. His arm lay across his first love. Together they watched the setting sun. Her smell set his heart pounding, her lips were soft, and strawberry flavoured.
Coldwater sat below them, nestled in a little valley, a loose collection of houses. Each building was several stories tall, made of wood and straw, with glass windows. They towered above houses of other hamlets, those who didn’t dare farm the bees. Laughter echoed from well fed bellies, and fires flicked, contained, for now.
Jenny looked into his eyes, and he gazed back at hers, crystal blue.
“Do you think they’ll come back?” Jenny asked.
George blinked for a couple seconds. “Who?”
“The priests, duh!” She whacked his arm quite hard, leaving a little welt.
“No,” George answered quickly with a shake of his head. “They’d be stupid to come back here, they’re only going to get pelted again.”
“We haven’t heard from Farwater in a long time, they’re the only village left like us and we’ve always stuck together,” Jenny whispered.
George looked down at the river that meandered through the town, it headed east, in a long winding trail of orange in the sunset, towards Farwater. He hated the honey from there, it stung horribly, perhaps due to the mountain flowers their bees feasted on. Nothing like our rolling hills honey, he thought. “They probably just haven’t sent a runner in a while, I’m sure they’re fine.”
Jenny nuzzled closer to him. “You’re right, we’re gonna have to send a runner soon, for our wedding. I want my cousin there.”
George grimaced. I hate her though. Plastering on a smile he straightened his shoulders. “Of course, love.”
“And if you don’t cry when I walk down the aisle, I’m not coming.” Jenny pouted with her arms crossed.
A smile crossed George’s lips as he held her tightly. His mind returned to a familiar tract, well worn in his brain. Will I afford this? Will Jenny have a good life with me? When will I be promoted? His mind circled, even as the sky shimmered with distant stars.
The night hid the black smoke rising from the east.
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George watched a bead of sweat drip down his nose. The midday sunlight flickered and danced within, casting the bead in the same golden yellow as honey. He stood in the town plaza, in front of his friends and family, awaiting Jenny at the altar.
Bees hummed around him, and eagerly buzzed the numerous flowers that dotted the town square. He smiled as one landed square on his shoulder, and wiggled its butt, speaking in a language only bees understand. It's a good sign, he thought. Though, had he known the meaning of the desperate butt wiggles, his heart would have stood still.
His eyes darted to the hill, where he and Jenny had taken in the sunset months prior. A metallic glint of a thief's knife, for a second caught his eyes, before it faded into the rocky hillside. Wondering to a dark place, his mind pondered what had befallen Farwater. Why had they not sent a runner back? What happened to our runner? Where was Jenny’s cousin? These were the questions that hung unanswered over the day.
A peace had settled over the hamlet, as they awaited the bride’s arrival. Conversations were spoken in hush whispers and subtle winks. George’s eyes rested on his father, who smiled broadly and flashed a quick thumbs up. His black hair steadily greyed with each passing year, although slower than one would expect. Today his head was almost entirely black, save for a few brave wisps of grey. George knew his father had layered it in honey the night before. Even honey could not hold back the sands of time, not forever.
Suddenly, the buzzing reached a crescendo, a roar that nearly drowned out the river. Nearly. From behind George’s house, Jenny appeared. George’s heart stopped, his mouth opened and a single tear dripped down his face. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, he thought. Garbed in the traditional white, flowers adorned her hair, and her hands clutched a grand bouquet. All the colours of the rainbow, and many more beyond, were reflected in the petals.
Bees eagerly buzzed around her, a shield of insects protecting the bride from the outside world. One large bee sauntered ever closer. George knew just by looking, a queen bee was approaching Jenny’s flowers. The whole town held its breath, and it landed on a rose within the bouquet. Jenny stopped. Everyone stood still. The queen bee disappeared into the rose, and a cheer echoed through the town.
Jenny smiled brightly, her white teeth flashed against her lips, and she moved forward. Tenderly at first, holding the rose as still as possible before her feet quickened and she tumbled into George’s embrace.
They exchanged their vows quickly, for Jenny was eager to get George out of the public light, and George was excited to show Jenny the cabin he had built, just behind the hillside. George found himself gazing into Jenny’s perfect blue eyes, her lips twisted into a half smile.
A subtle cough snapped George back to reality.
“I said,” the head beekeeper repeated in a stage whisper, “you may kiss the bride.”
George scooped her up and obliged. Kissing his bride passionately for all to see. The town erupted into a cacophony of noise, cheers, whistles, shouts, all rang out along the valley.
“I have something very important to tell you later,” Jenny whispered into his neck as George held her aloft.
“Okay.” George clutched her tightly, and gently set her down.
Jenny smiled knowingly, and led him towards her house, a small cottage on the edge of town. They were almost there, right on the edge of the houses. I’ll show her the cabin later, George thought, somewhat eagerly. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an old man down the road, walking with a pronounced limp, and garbed in robes that sent a shudder down George’s spine.
Down the road, the priest sauntered towards the village, a scroll clutched in his hands with the imperial seal. George felt everything fade to silence, as even the bees stopped flying.
“Attention,” the priest called, “the time has come to repent. God has allowed this farce to continue long enough. But the time has come to renounce the Devil’s bees. Or we will do what we must.”
George’s father stood up, and walked towards the priest. “Listen here you quack, we want none of your religion here, go find someone else to-”
A glint of metal, and a thief's knife buried itself into George’s father’s chest.
“I see it is too late for you!” the priest screamed. He ripped his knife out, leaving a trail of crimson blood in its wake, and George’s father crumpled to the ground. The priest kicked him a single time. Before turning and staggering back down the road. “Cleanse this place with holy fire, God wills it,” he called to an unseen lackey, dropping the town's imperial death warrant.
A snarl crossed George’s face. He opened his mouth to shout, when a thud, like a lightning strike, sounded. His eardrums compressed. An ancient ancestral feeling whispered to run and hide.
The priest looked back at the village. He mumbled, hidden under his breath. “May God have mercy on their souls… and mine.”
Far above the village, two dots hung seemingly motionless, one emerald green and another dark red. Every beat of their massive wings sent shockwaves down onto the village below. From their maws spewed orange fire.
The head beekeeper shielded his eyes from the sun. “Dragons!”
Fire engulfed him. The flames crashed against the dirt and burned all the way down to rock. The ground melted and liquified under the heat into orange magma. The fire spread throughout the main square. Flowers burned, wilting to black and then ash on the wind.
“Go to the hill!” George pushed Jenny away from the town, still clutching her bouquet of flowers.
“Come with me!” Jenny cried.
“No, I have to-” George began. He was interrupted by another pass by the dragons. Two columns of flame descended from the sky and impacted on the tiny hamlet. Houses ceased to be, cobblestone roads liquified, glass flowed like liquid, smoke clogged the air and burned eyes.
George’s eyes flicked to the hunter’s hut, just upon the edge of the destruction. It wasn’t much, more a lean-to than anything else. But within the structure sat stout hunting bows that might defeat a dragon. George’s jaw clenched. I have to fight.
George couldn’t see anything through the wall of flames that engulfed the town. All that remained was the flicking orange fire, and red magma. He heard distant cries and screams over the roaring flames. His fists clenched into balls, and his nostrils flared like a bull. The heat clawed at his eyes. He looked at Jenny, several steps away from him up the hill.
“Please,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”
The entire world froze for a moment. A lightning bolt thundered through George’s chest. He looked at Jenny’s eyes, red and puffy, any tears long since absorbed by the heat. The fire snarled behind him, as buildings collapsed and timbers snapped. His entire life sharpened into focus.
He paused. His hands still longed for the certainty of wood, and the fury of arrows. But as he gazed at Jenny, an emerald creature screamed overhead. Its breath of orange and red crashed over the couple, and slammed into the lean-to, engulfing it immediately in fire.
As the dragons made another pass, George rushed his wife up the hill. He felt the heat from the dragons’ fire when they spewed, and knew nothing remained of Coldwater. No other shadows moved in the silhouette of fire, not even the bees. All that remained was a fiery hell.
They scrambled over the hill's peak, and down the other side. Burning fires lay behind them, and the sky was black and orange. There lay George’s cabin, a dugout, made of loose flagstone, entirely unfinished, with a large wooden door. They both hurried in, and locked the door behind them with a subtle click.
The dragons kept hammering the town for hours. Pass after pass, even the dugout began to warm from the fires behind the hillside. George clasped what remained of his family tightly. How could they? We committed no crime! George tightened his fists.
“I wish I could kill a dragon!” Tears leaked from his eyes, and sizzled against the warming rock.
Before long the dragons had stopped. Coldwater was gone, a smudge on the map, a desolate wasteland devoid of all life. Only Jenny and George remained. All the beehives were gone, and all the queens gone, save for one, tucked up in Jenny’s rose.
The queen heard George’s desperate cry, and inside the rose, something terrible was occurring. Jenny’s bouquet of flowers wilted, turning grey, and crumbling into ash. What emerged was a black bee, whose honey would not give life, but take it.
George knew what he held in his hand was vengeance incarnate, but it had cost the world its best medicine, and there was no one to blame, but him.
Jake Wright is a published poet (on the Word’s Faire no less) who is pursuing a minor in creative writing at UBCO. When Jake isn’t writing, he’s usually crying over university, skiing, or gaming. He wrote this story for his girlfriend, who seemed to enjoy it, thank goodness! Jake can be found on his youtube channel, https://www.youtube.com/@WritingwithWright
