Strange things can happen over dinner. During my evening with Master Thomas’s family, I became friendly with his surprising daughter, Mary. She said unexpected things for a girl known to be shy, and showed a sharp sense of humor .
She’s been observing life quietly and drawing her own conclusions.
“Would you like to watch a honey robbery?” she asked as we were taking our last bites of dessert - my honey-drizzled cheese cakes. “These cakes, by the way - Father says he can’t keep them in the bakery more than fifteen minutes before they’re all bought up. He says he’ll have to order more honey.”
“So you’re going to supply us from now on?”
“No, not yet. There won’t be honey from my hives until next May or June. But I know of an old beech tree that’s loaded with honey combs; it’s in a clearing not too far into the woods. I’m going to rob it. For fun.” She waited to see how I’d react.
“I guess everyone has their own idea of fun,” I teased her.
She lifted her chin. “That’s my idea. Funny, right?”
In a small world like ours, every little thing is examined and gossiped over. A young woman with unconventional ideas is wondered at, then made fun of. It struck me that sometimes, people laughed behind her back, thinking she wouldn’t notice. I guessed she had, but was too proud to show it.
I hadn’t often wondered what was in another’s mind. There was my fierce protective love for my mother and my siblings, but I rarely thought of it; it was just there. There was my respect and affection for my mentor and boss, Master Thomas. The rest of the world was full of people who thought and behaved along the same predictable lines.
As for the girls I knew, they were nice girls and all that, but pretty much the same. I knew what they’d talk about, how soon they’d let me kiss them, when they’d start developing ideas about the future. After the first flush of attraction, I’d get bored and move on. Mary had a different cast of mind and was turning out to be interesting.
I smiled with genuine warmth, wanting to reassure her.
“Funny fun. So tell me how you rob the bees.”
“There’s a big hole in one side of the tree,” she said slowly. “Not hard to reach. I’ll take out as many honey combs as I can. Lucky there’s that hole,” she added, “Otherwise I’d have to ask the gardener to cut one in, and that might kill the tree.”
“Not to mention the gardener.”
“What?”
The bees, I mean, they’d sting him to death.”
Mary laughed. “Are you afraid? Then I’ll have to disinvite you. Bees can tell when someone’s afraid, you know. It makes them aggressive.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Bees don’t scare me.”
****
It was Sunday, early closing day, about noon. Mary had said that daylight’s best for collecting honey combs, as most of the bees are outside foraging then. After Master Thomas and I finished cleaning and locking the bakery up, we walked together to his house.
He gave me a look from under his heavy eyebrows. “Mary’s never invited anyone to one of her bee expeditions before,” he said as we trudged along.
I rubbed my neck. “Master Thomas,” I said. “I’ll be honest. I like Mary. But I don’t know where it might go. What I want most right now is to stay well with you.”
“Understood,” he said, then sighed. “Take your time, lad. But,” and here he turned to look me in the eye, “No fooling with her. I well know you play around with the village girls. Mary is not a village girl.” And he shut his lips.
I thought of Mary’s intelligent glance; her reserve, and her lips curving into that half-smile.
“No sir, she’s not,” I said.
****
So we set out to rob the bees. I carried a tin bucket and a long-handled sort of metal spatula. Mary carried a basket and a hand trowel for digging up mushrooms. She had a look of calm anticipation. Her full skirt made a whispering noise, and the veil of her straw hat fluttered in the breeze.
I walked alongside her, enjoying the cool September day. It had been a long summer. Now the sunlight was golden on the apple trees, beeches and oaks making their rustling autumn music. The air smelled crisp and sharp, with a whiff of cider from fallen apples fermenting on the ground.
High overhead came shrill calls: the last swallows were flying to Africa.
“Do you know that a group of swallows is called a “scream?” I said.
“No, really?” Mary laughed. “But then, yes, listen to them.”
We stopped to watch the birds wheeling and screeching and disappearing into the blue and white bowl of the sky. My heart filled with the beauty of the country I’d known all my life.
“Isn’t this grand?” I said. “I’m glad to be out here today.” With you, I wanted to add, but didn’t.
Mary took off her hat and strode ahead. “Me too,” she said. “Oh, look, a big patch of penny bun mushrooms!” She squatted on the grasses and with her trowel delicately parted the thick-stemmed, crusty mushrooms from the ground and placed them in her basket.
We approached the opening to the woodland, a footpath covered in fallen leaves. I scuffed along some paces for the pleasure of raising their autumn colors.
“Where’s this honey tree?” I said, noticing a number of bees darting around.
“Not far. Come along.”
In a few minutes’ more walking, we heard buzzing, louder as we entered deeper into the woods. And off to one side of the path there it was: an enormous old beech. It had a dark opening on one side of the trunk. Hundreds of crawling honeybees darkened the hole. More flew in and out. The noise was tremendous.
I stepped backwards.
“Do you really want to do this?” I said.
Mary’s eyes were bright.
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “Here, take my basket. Give me the bucket and the comb knife.”
“Is that what it is,” I muttered, handing them over.
“It’s to detach the honey combs inside,” she said. “Now stand away - a good length away. Don’t talk to me or interfere in any way.” She took her hat off and handed it to me.
“All right. But won’t you need your hat?”
“No. Now stand away, please.”
I did that, retreating about six feet from where we’d been standing. I watched Mary approach the tree, walking lightly, her skirts swaying. She was saying something in a low voice. Some bees circled around her head. I winced, afraid they would sting - but she kept slowly walking on, murmuring. More bees circled her; soon a living veil of flying bees surrounded Mary entirely.
My head was full of the sound of the bees. I struggled to disbelieve what I was seeing, but couldn’t: it was happening there in front of me.
She approached the honey hole, put the bucket down, and peered inside, all the while covered with bees. Carefully, she inserted the comb knife and scraped at something. A moment later, she withdrew an elongated pale-yellow disk dripping with honey, and gently shook the bees off it. She placed the comb in the bucket. This she did over and over, always talking to the bees in the same low, cheerful tones.
The head-filling buzzing never ceased. It came to me strangely that Mary and the bees understood each other.
At last Mary stepped away from the tree. She stood motionless in a shaft of sunlight that gilded her body from her honey-blond head to her shoes. There she was in her veil of bees, breathing lightly, a golden figure out of a mythical past to my eyes. I regarded her in wonder. Time stopped.
Little by little the bees dropped away from her and flew off. The sunlight moved, and there was plain Mary again, smiling and holding out the bucket full of honey combs.
I swallowed, but couldn’t speak, held fast by the power and the mystery of what I’d seen.
“See?” she said. “It all went fine.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I saw.”
A word from Miriam.
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Ooh!
Loving reading this, Miriam, and sharing with Miri. Shabbat Shalom.