The Beekeeper's Son: part I

The following is an excerpt from a short story written by Olivia Lowery inspired by stories told by her Grandmother when she was a child. The Beekeeper’s Son takes its roots from Appalachian folklore about old magic and the healing powers of nature. The main character and narrator, Violet, is loosely based off of Olivia’s grandmother who shares the character’s name. The original Violet grew up in the old Needmore area near Thacker’s Branch in Norton, Virginia in the twenties and thirties. The stories she told Olivia as a child have inspired many of Olivia’s unpublished works.

The Beekeeper’s Son

The sun shining isn't an odd sight for the valley in April. My mountains, tall and somber, seemed to sleep soundly against the crisp blue sky, not yet fully awake from their long winter’s nap.  The trees stood motionless like crooked soldiers by the side of the dirt road, their leaves just beginning to return to the tops. I pulled my old wrap close around me and surveyed the sky for rain clouds. It had rained for three long days, and I wasn't prepared to be caught in a surprise April shower. The rain had cooled the air down considerably; it was a bit cold for spring in the mountains. Ready to finish the task at hand, I hurried down the path kicking up loose gravel behind me.

On this day in particular, I was walking the half mile back into the hollow to fetch honey from the beekeeper. Mother had taken to bed with a headache and would take no other remedy but his honey. The beekeeper was an old man with a weathered face who lived in a small cabin that sat right on the edge of the untamed forest; he had kept bees as long as anyone could remember and sold the best honey in three counties. Not only was the beekeeper’s honey rich and sweet, it was a cure-all remedy for any ailment. The beekeeper’s honey could cure headaches, heartaches, and the like. Some swore the beekeeper’s bees were magic, but I had never been one for fairy-tales. I tried to come up with more reasonable solutions to mother’s ailment but she refused to be swayed. She insisted on the beekeeper’s honey. I believed my mother was a silly woman with too much faith in what she could not see, but I went to the hollow anyway to purchase the sacred nectar.

I arrived at the beekeeper’s cabin and heaved a sigh; this was not what I wanted to do today. My mind wandered back home to my four sisters in the kitchen and mother in bed with a washcloth draped over her forehead, as I dragged my worn leather boots through mud and up the last hill to The Beekeeper’s porch steps. However, instead of seeing the old, weathered beekeeper sitting in his usual rocking chair with a pipe between his lips, I came upon a clean faced boy bent over a piece of stripped wood in immense concentration. A small carving knife in his left hand and tongue held firmly between his teeth, I considered not breaking his fixation and going back home. For what business did I have with Eli, the beekeeper’s son? I hesitated for a moment, deciding whether to speak or tread back through the muddy yard and go home when my decision  was interrupted by Eli's voice.

"What can I do for ya?" he asked casually, not looking up from the wood in his hand.

“Momma sent me for some of your Daddy’s magic honey," I said putting both hands on my hips. "She’s taken to bed again and the boys will be home wantin’ dinner by seven. She swears that honey cures her headaches."

He sat his woodwork down beside him and stretched out, resting his long legs on the porch banister. His eyes lingered on my face, making me shift my weight from one leg to the other nervously. His mouth pulled up into a half smile at the sight of my muddy shoes.

“Your mother is still having those headaches?” he asked, his expression becoming increasingly concerned, “I thought Toby was go’na take her to Charlottesville to get that seen about.”

“Yeah, well since the lay-offs down in the hole he’s afraid to miss a day’s work and you know momma ain’t go’na miss church on Sunday,” I said with a light laugh.

"The honey will help," he said lazily. "If she wants dinner done by seven, we ought to get it now."

“We ought to go?” I asked. I was shifting my weight again; I was too impatient to wait for Eli to harvest honey.

“You do want the honey, don’t you?” He said, “We have to ask the bees.”

“Ask the bees?” I blinked a few times, trying to understand.

“I wouldn’t take anything from you without asking, would I? That’s stealing.”

I gave in and stepped up on the porch beside him, deciding whatever he had in mind was something unavoidable. I surveyed the landscape of the acre and a half the beekeeper and his son shared while he fetched his boots. The April sky was like a starched blue dress shirt, I could see the small rolling hills and tall grasses tumbling over each other in the wind like waves towards the little porch. My valley was a pretty place when you really looked at it, and forgot the dirty faces of those who lived here. The view sent my stomach turning; it hurt to hate a place that was so beautiful.

When Eli returned with his boots and a potato sack thrown over his shoulder, we began our walk up a bare path into the forest. The trees in the forest  were just beginning to get their leaves, allowing the sun to cast odd shadows onto the mountain path. Like silent guides, these shadows were our only traveling companions. We were quiet, both of our minds somewhere else. Mine at home with the old cat curled up in front of the old wood burning stove and idly wondering when the boys would be home covered in coal dust. Eli’s mind I guessed was full of bees. Eli was tall for eighteen winters, his hands twice the size of mine. His jaw was not quite set for adulthood, but not round like a young boy. Eli wore a permanent expression of contentment that allowed no one to feel anxious around him. Even I, the nervous wreck I tended to be, felt calmed by his gentle presence. His shaggy hair was always in his eyes; every so often he lifted his hand to push it out of his way. It was then I realized that I enjoyed being in the forest with Eli; he didn’t seem to mind me being there either.

"Violet,” he asked, interrupting my wandering thoughts, "What’re ya go’na do if that mine shuts down?"

"That mine ain’t never shuttin’ down, Eli." I said almost defensively. Eli’s expression changed slightly, he pursed his lips together. Then I asked suddenly, "What’re you go’na do if all the bees all die?"

Eli looked into my eyes for a very long time. So long I started to wonder if he was looking for his answer deep inside of my pupils. We stopped walking while he searched for his answer. My face was hot even in the cold April wind.

"I suppose I’ll raise birds then," he said plainly and began walking again.

For the next few minutes, we didn't speak. I was a little embarrassed at my defense towards the mines and a little mad that Eli would put me into such a fret. My brothers had all began working the hole last spring when the new company had come in, but with the money being low like it had during the winter months the new company was laying folks off left and right. My brothers were kept on for their young age and ability work harder for longer hours. This was the only non-union mine in 3 counties and though the work was hard my brothers were thankful for the opportunity. The contents of the potato sack clanged and clashed with each step Eli and I took. The trees became more clustered and the sounds of forest life grew louder as we made our way up the path.

Eli finally spoke, “Alright. No more talkin’. We’re almost to the bees.”

End Part One.