by Gary Every
in Issue 73, February 2018
He pushes off from the shore, floating down the river, accompanied by his beautiful queen. The ancient Etruscan uses a long pole to propel his boat forward, letting the slow moving current do most of the work. The apiarist and his beautiful queen are searching for wildflowers.
As the colors of the sunrise fill the sky the queen buzzes contentedly, buried deep inside her hive where it sits perched high atop a platform in the prow of the boat. The early morning is still and quiet. Even the hive awakens slowly, with only a few bees departing at a time, wobbling erratically across the sky. The ancient Etruscan maneuvers his slow moving barge past a snag with a grunt and a groan.
As the sun slowly rises, flower petals unfold, revealing the blossoms inside. More and more bees fly away from the hive. Even though the barge will float all day long, somehow all the bees will find their way back to the hive. At least he thinks they will. The truth is the old man never counts them. Maybe some don’t find their way home. The bees fly low, skimming just above the river as they harvest water lily blossoms.
Suddenly there is a splash and a giggle. The beekeeper turns his head in time to watch a fine feminine form slither into the river, shivering from the shock of the cold water. One naked woman is followed by another and another and another, a cascade of breasts, buttocks, perfectly proportioned legs and charming smiles dropping into the water. Nymphs and dyads, the daughters of Dionysius drop into the water, washing away all remnants of last night’s wild frolic.
Suddenly the young women realize the old man is watching them. A few cover up their nakedness, but most do not feel threatened by the feeble old man. They giggle and splash as taunts and jeers fill the air. He accepts the soaking; smiling as he raises his arms to display his drenched clothing.
“No honey for you today.” He declares.
“Come swim with us.” They shout in unison.
“No need to go swimming.” He plainly states. “I am already soaking wet. Besides,” He grabs his pole, “My queen demands that I work today, helping her drones collect golden pollen.”
One of the daughters of Dionysius asks, “Do you at least have time for a story?”
The young women giggle and wiggle, encouraging the old man to tell a story.
The ancient Etruscan observes the bees; they are still busy harvesting water lilies. “Of course I have time for a story.” Then he proceeds to tell the daughters what they want to hear, a tale of a brave handsome hero who rescues a helpless princess. The girls clap with enthusiasm as all foes are vanquished.
Suddenly there is the stomping of loud boots. The stomping grows louder, steadily louder, and there are many of them. The young women wear looks of concern. The roar of the boots stomping in unison continues to approach.
Suddenly the reeds part and the helmeted head of a Roman soldier pokes through. The daughters of Dionysius vanish instantly. Some submerge themselves beneath the water and breathe through hollow reeds, while others swim away underwater as fast as otters. It would not be pleasant for a battalion of the Roman Legion to stumble upon the bathing daughters of Dionysius. At least it would not be pleasant for the daughters.
The soldier’s helmeted head swivels from side to side as he looks about for the giggling female voices he had heard just moments before. The soldier sees only the ancient beekeeper and his floating hive. Once his name was widely known and greatly feared, but now in his old age the beekeeper revels in his anonymity.
“Old man!” the soldier cries out.
The ancient Etruscan never flinches, as if he is stone deaf.
“Beekeeper,” the soldier shouts.
The old man slowly turns his head. “May I help you?”
“Did you just see a bevy of beautiful women? I could have sworn I heard them giggling.”
“Perhaps,” the ancient Etruscan uses his pole to push his craft further from the shore, careful not to float over the tops of the reeds where some of the submerged daughters of Dionysius are hiding. “You only heard the sound of the river current babbling as it flows over rocks and boulders. It has been known to fool people before.”
“Maybe.” The soldier is unconvinced but unable to see any other explanation. He stops searching and looks the beekeeper in the eye. “Do you ever use any of the honey you collect to make mead?”
“Certainly.”
“I would like to buy some,” the soldier says, tossing a large golden coin into the air. “We go into battle tomorrow and some of us will never live to see the day after.”
The ancient Etruscan never moves as the coin sails past him, even though he could have easily caught it. The coin lands in the river with a splash and sinks swiftly.
“I need my mead,” the soldier complains. “And I won’t pay you again.”
“And you shall have your mead.” The beekeeper said. “One of the things being old frees you from is the madness of constantly thirsting for gold.”
The beekeeper uses his long pole to push his barge into the current, slowly floating downstream as the bees follow, hovering about the barge like a tiny buzzing cloud. The ancient Etruscan looks about, smiling when he realizes that the daughters of Dionysius have escaped. Perhaps the sounds of the river current had fooled the soldier or perhaps the soldier is just a fool.
The beekeeper sighs as he remembers the armies who once marched upon his command. In those days, the ancient Etruscan had been consumed with the pursuit of gold. Armies had invaded on his advice, words whispered into the ear of the king. Empires had been built and others had crumbled as the ancient Etruscan changed kings and allegiances. Of course he had not been so ancient back then and he had been quite a bit more ambitious. The wars had never been about the wealth, power or glory. The wars and countless battles had been fought to give him the resources to conduct his experiments. The beekeeper uses his pole to push the barge downstream, bees trailing along behind. He weeps softly, crying for all the young men who have died because of his commands.
The soldiers will have their mead. The beekeeper does not need their golden coins. The beekeeper and his queen, float along the river all day long. The barge lingers along a steep riverbank, loaded with vines, wild grapes blossoming everywhere. The bees buzz happily as they work. At one point, the beekeeper notices a family of five raccoons roosting in a willow tree. The raccoons climb this way and that, scurrying across the branches as they gorge themselves on wild grapes. The beekeeper waits as the bees go about their business. Those wild grapes make lousy wine but they do make the most amazing honey.
As the barge floats down the river, the bees fly this way and that, searching the land for blossoms. They return to the hive, legs covered with golden sticky pollen, depositing their treasure for their queen. When the bees, discover a lush bank of flowers they dance, squirming and shaking legs. The dancing is a form of topographical language; the movements convey geography to their fellow workers, so that all the bees might reach the biggest patches of blossoming flowers and produce a bountiful harvest of pollen to glorify their queen. The apiarist wonders at a language based upon dance. He gives it a try, shuffling rhythmically across the deck of his boat. He stomps here and there for emphasis. The boat rocks back and forth beneath his clumsy feet. Water splashes everywhere. The bees buzz angrily, swarming about him. He must have annoyed the queen. It must take wings to gracefully execute the language he muses.
He bows and begs her apology. He ceases dancing.
Breathless from his exertions the beekeeper allows the barge to float slowly down the river. The bees fly this way and that, quickly disappearing from sight not long after they leave the boat. He often wonders how far they fly. Different seasons they harvest different flowers and honey connoisseurs can taste the difference. The small purple flowers with the bright yellow centers – flea’s bane daisies – will be blooming soon and they make delicious honey. His favorite honey comes from the fragile flowers known as fairy dusters.
Lightning flashes across a clear blue sky as the beekeeper realizes they must be approaching the castle. As the river comes to a long slow turn the barge sits in the wide turn while the ancient Etruscan stares at the top of the castle towers and parapets. There are no clouds in the sky but lightning flashes again and again. The birds struggle to fly past as if they are unexpectedly caught in turbulent winds. Thick clouds of noxious smoke rise from the windows of the tallest tower.
The ancient Etruscan used to call that tallest tower home. Then too lightning had flashed in clear blue skies and noxious clouds of smoke had escaped from the windows. He had poisoned, pilfered and stolen in order to acquire ancient artifacts and pieces of the philosopher’s stone. Back then the beekeeper had the king’s ear and he had whispered notions of invasions of far flung places so that the ancient Etruscan might acquire rare minerals and exotic plants for his experiments in alchemy. Groans and moans had escaped from the depths of the dungeons, the piteous cries of his enemies and back then he had plenty of enemies.
The beekeeper looks up at the castle, with its own private storm raging inside and outside while shaking his head. He is glad he no longer lives there. For one thing he no longer has enemies. The apiarist sighs as he thinks back on his decades spent as an alchemist. He does not like to ponder the crimes he committed against humanity.
The beekeeper turns his boat around, pushing against the current and slowly returns home. He still seeks gold, but no longer does he lust for coins or metal. Now he seeks golden honey. He no longer seeks to rule an empire but instead willingly serves his queen. Once home he will build a fire to keep the queen and her hive warm all night. He remembers to drop off mead for the soldiers, some of whom will never see tomorrow. Last but not least he sends a raven to the daughters of Dionysius to inquire if any of them might enjoy his company for the evening or desire the taste of honey.
©February 2018, Gary Every
Gary Every‘s work has appeared previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine as well as in Tales of the Talisman, Mythic Delerium, Aofie’s Kiss and many other places.