The Beekeeper's Son: Part Three

The following is the second excerpt from a short story written by Olivia Lowery inspired by stories told by her Grandmother when she was young. The Beekeeper’s son takes its roots from Appalachian folklore about old magic and the healing powers of things that came from 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 The stories she told Olivia as a child have inspired many of Olivia’s unpublished works.

You can read 'The Beekeeper's Son: Part One' here.
You can read 'The Beekeeper's Son: Part Two' here. 

The Beekeeper's Son: Part Three

I stepped up on the porch of the old white house, taking a moment to collect myself before going into the chaos that was bound to be waiting for me inside. I could already smell the dinner my sisters were cooking in the kitchen, but the faded green shutters and the old wooden rocking chair bid me to stay. I stood a moment, leaning against the porch banister, trying to decide what to do about the laundry I had neglected this morning. The house was far too small for Momma and the six of us, only two bedrooms. A makeshift partition crafted from an old sheet separated our part of the room from Toby and Jack’s. I waited another moment before pushing the screen door open and walking into the kitchen. I opened the screen door and found myself in a whirlwind of bustling activities. Cooking, setting the table, light singing, and even some yelping from toes being stepped on. The girls were in a hurry, and I knew I shouldn’t have been so long coming home. 

I slid past my three busy sisters and retrieved a spoon from a drawer, knowing there would be time for hellos later. My first priority was getting Momma up from bed. I crept to her door and quietly pushed it open. The room was dark and cool, like a cave. I tip-toed over to her side and sat down easy on the mattress.

“I got you some honey Momma,” I whispered, “It’s fresh.”

“Thank you, baby.” Momma said softly, rising slowly upright in the bed, “I’m gon’ get up here in a minute and finish the cooking.”

My Momma never wore her hair down; it was always pulled in a tight bun on top of her head. But here in the privacy of her bedroom, it hung like a curtain against her cheeks. I uncapped the jar of honey and enjoyed its sweet scent before handing it to her. She ate several spoonfuls in silence. 

“I went with Eli to get this honey,” I said, fishing the silver coins from my dress pocket, “He said it was special.”

Momma nodded and lay back down again, I crept out of the room and into the kitchen leaving the jar of honey behind.

My sisters seemed to have dinner under control. All three of them were walking frantically back and forth, long black hair swaying with every move. They reminded me of Eli’s bees and the hive. I looked up at the old clock. The boys should be here any moment. I hurried into the washroom and cleaned up for dinner, my sisters following my lead.

By the time food was on every plate, Momma had emerged from her bedroom, hair pinned back as she always wore it. She seemed to be feeling better; she was smiling but her headaches always left her weak. As we all sat around the table waiting for the boys to come home, we gossiped about fabrics for new dresses and lace for curtains. I looked around at the table, at my sisters and my mother all smiling and laughing together. I noticed our shared features, the same black hair and pale skin. My youngest sister, Mae, fidgeted in her seat. At six, she wasn't used to sitting still. Every now and again she stuck her finger in the mashed potatoes on her plate for a small taste only to be chastised by Margret. Margret was only twelve years old, but was already claiming the attitude of a young woman. It made me giggle at how quickly she was growing up.

Mother kept wringing her hands as the food sat getting colder by the minute. The conversation was dying out and I was exchanging worried glances with Momma. My third sister, Lucy, got up every so often and checked the door, she always worried. She favored Toby and Jack and she was always put at ease by our older brothers' presences. John and Jack had both went into the mines at seventeen, five years later, we still worried when the twins were late for dinner. No one said a word now, we were all trapped in our own thoughts, what could have happened?

"Let's say grace before the food get's cold," Momma said quietly, trying to remain optimistic. 

We began to eat without them; we’d leave two plates on the stove. They usually hurried home quickly after work, excited for supper and ready to talk with us at the table. The two empty seats at our table made me anxious. We all knew it meant trouble when the boys were late from the mines. More time passed, and we finished our meal. The table was cleared and their plates set aside but the boys did not come. The old cat lay curled up by the warm stove.

An unexpected knock on the door was the most dreaded sound any mining family could hear. An alarm that something had gone amiss. I went to the door, clutching the hem of my dress. Our closest neighbor, Mrs. Cooper, was standing on the other side, still in her apron.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked, her voice serious.

Mrs. Cooper’s husband worked the same shift as Toby and Jack, and they often went to work together. Mrs. Cooper had spent many a night around our table with her husband and my brothers, talking about the lay offs. This was different.

“No.” I said, “They ain’t been home yet. Come inside and have some coffee. You can wait with us.”

Mrs. Cooper, Mother, and I all sat in the old living room chairs. The other girls remained in their rooms making dresses for dolls and putting lace on curtains. Mrs. Cooper’s face was grim, and Mother kept wringing her hands.

“You think they’ll send someone over soon?” Mrs. Cooper asked softly, “To explain what’s goin’ on around here.”

“I’m sure they will soon.” Momma said trying to remain positive. She was rubbing her forehead with the heel of her hand, which suggested another headache was coming on.

“Let me run down the road and see if I can find somebody,” I said, getting up to put on my shoes.

A second knock on the door stopped me; I inhaled deeply before opening it, praying that this wasn’t the company representative giving us grim news. Instead of a man with a long face and a suit, it was a boy I recognized from down the road, about eight years of age, out of breath from running.

“Mine explosion,” He hollered in short spurts. “The Mountain’s on fire, don’t know who's still down there and who’s out.”

I could hear Mrs. Cooper praying even from where I was standing, her words running together in a slur of memorized faith.

“Are you sure there are folks still down there?” I said, taking the boys shoulders in my hands.

“Yes. God help us all. Hell’s broke loose over on the mountain. Men runnin’ around with burnt places on their skin, women screamin’. I’m tellin’ you, ain’t nobody gettin’ out of there alive,” he said as he jumped off the porch and started for the road, running as fast as his little legs could carry him. I put on my coat and before I could hear Momma tell me to stop, I was gone.

The mountain towards Eli’s cabin was ablaze with a ferocious, red smoke, black as pitch, rolling from the mountain and onto the road; it was causing my vision to become blurry and my breathing to be short. I began to lose my sense of direction, but I kept running forward. In all the smoke, I might as well have been running with my eyes closed. The blaze had the whole mountain covered; I was almost to Eli's cabin when I began to hear the popping and searing of the wildfire.

Suddenly, I hit something hard, falling back onto the road behind me. I felt a hand searching for mine in the blur of smoke and suffocation. I was coughing and gagging, with tears flowing down my cheeks. Still lying in the dirt, I could see Eli by my side, helping me up.

“You’re ‘spose to run away from the fire, yanno that?” He said, pulling me up to my feet.

Everything was tilting and spinning, and I couldn’t make words. Eli had his shirt pulled up over his nose and was using it to filter the smoke. He was holding me up because I couldn’t stand.

“Toby… Jack…” I coughed, “I have to get to the mines.”

“You can’t get there, Violet. It’s already gone; nobody could’ve survived that explosion,” he said, putting the top of my dress over my own nose.

I suddenly felt as though another fire had started inside of me. I attempted to thrash out of Eli’s arms and run for the mountain. I was going to get to my brothers. Eli held me tighter. I balled my hands up in fists and beat on his chest, but I was too weak to have any effect.

“You can’t go up there,” He kept repeating, “and we have to get you out of this smoke.”

“No!” I screamed with all the voice I had left. I broke free from Eli’s grasp and attempted to run. I made it several feet away before falling to the ground in a heap of coughing and crying. I kept picturing my brothers in the blaze, their faces burnt black.

Eli was beside me again, helping me back up. I couldn't stand for coughing, he had to lift me up into his arms. He ran as fast as he could back the way I had come. When we came out of the smoke, we stopped and collapsed in a yard by the road; my vision was being compromised by a black ring around the edges that slowly took over until I could see nothing at all.

Time stopped in place. I couldn't feel or see anything for what seemed like years. I was trapped inside of my own mind. Humming was the sound I remember from the deep sleep I fell into. A hymn that sounded familiar but the words were lost in my memory. The weight of a wet rag over my mouth, lifting every so often, followed by a mouth full of sweet liquid. All I remember: my skin burning and my chest aching. Mother’s mumbled prayers and floating, every so often, into a world where honeybees crawl on my skin for hours on end but never sting.

I didn’t see Eli again after that. The explosion burned that whole hollow and he lost his bees. I never saw my brothers either. The following month is recalled by me in a sequence of  funerals and doctors appointments. Hymns sung from songbooks and a picture of my brothers on the alter in church there was nothing left to bury. The smoke I inhaled when I ran into the fire turned my lungs black as the faces of the men who died that night. The doctors gave me shots in my arm and told me I was lucky. I told them I didn't think so. Momma’s headaches got better after Eli’s last jar of honey, but she still misses having it in her tea.

That hollow still smolders. The men from out of town say that the coal deep in the mountain may burn for a hundred more years. After the explosion, Momma took the two empty chairs from the kitchen table out behind the house and broke them apart with an axe. I didn’t ask her why. My sisters didn’t like to cook over fires in the stove anymore, and they would sit far away from the fireplace even on the coldest January nights. I remembered Eli asking what I would do if that mine shut down; I guess in a manner of speaking it has shut down, but I still don’t know what to do. There are still nights in which I wake up thinking I’m covered in a blanket of bees and coughing from smoke that isn’t there.

Every now and then, I remember the beekeeper’s son and how he might have kissed me that day on the porch. I like to think that he has moved on and that he is somewhere else, out of the mountains that took his bees. I like to think he’s raising birds now.

THE END

***

Acknowledgements

For my Mother, who always encouraged me to tell stories, whether it be to portray, narrate, or author. Who recognizes my talent even when I fall short. For my Grandmother, Violet, who started my love for storytelling and whose love for me during her time on earth inspired me to create and enjoy, for her personality that attributed to my own, for her name, and for her stories that have always remained so close to my heart. I love you, I love you, I love you.