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
The Beekeeper's Son: Part Two
The forest was darker here, not even a bird sang under the tall
pines. I felt suddenly anxious and misplaced as we approached a clearing in the
underbrush. A half rotten tree lay across the moss covered ground; a low hum like
static could be heard under our breathing. Eli sat the potato sack at his feet
and emptied its contents quietly. I recognized none of his beekeeping tools in
the dirt in front of me. His brow furrowed in immense concentration as he
fumbled for something in his pockets.
“Stand back,” he whispered, picking up a mason jar full of
an unidentified liquid.
I took a few steps back and watched him walk to the fallen
tree, his steps light even on the leaves surrounding the clearing. His
concentration never broke as he gathered a pile of leaves beside the tree,
poured the liquid from the mason jar over them and set fire to them with the
matches he fished from his pocket. The pile of leaves caught flame with
enthusiasm but within seconds, it stifled out leaving clouds of deep grey smoke
surrounding Eli and the fallen tree. Eli, walked back to the potato sack and
crouched in front of his tools. I crouched beside him, hoping for an explanation
or to be put to work. After deliberation, he picked up a small dinner bucket and
stood again. By now, the low hum had gotten louder, a frenzied static that made
my ears itch.
“Eli, you’re not wearin’ enough clothes to get into that bee
hive,” I whispered, my eyes surveying his faded button up shirt and worn out
trousers.
“These are my bees, Violet,” he replied his eyes filling
with a sense of pride, “They know better.”
I watched as Eli made his way to the fallen tree; I was puzzled by
his behavior. He approached like a cat to a mouse, slow and steady. As he put
more leaves on the fire, he began to hum under his breath. Some old hymn that I
recognized but the words were lost in my memory. I sat stiff as a board, hoping
not to draw any attention to myself.
Eli stooped down beside the tree and pulled a pocketknife
from his trousers. Dinner bucket and knife in hand, he went to work. He
whispered softly while he worked, coaxing his bees. When he didn’t whisper, he
hummed, and when he didn’t hum, he whispered. Curious as to what he was doing, I
stood, trying to catch glimpse of Eli’s craft. Eli had his hands elbow deep in
that fallen tree. Bees flew about him but did not sting, and he sat there smiling. I
slowly tip-toed to his side hoping the bees wouldn’t mind.
Up close, the situation wasn’t as calm as it seemed from my
previous position on the ground. I knelt beside Eli. The bees in the hive were
making a racket while they flew around my head. A few even landing and crawling
through my hair. I shook ferociously to make them fly off.
“They won’t sting you,” Eli assured me in a whisper. “They know your Mother is sick.”
Just then, Eli pulled his hand from the tree. With his hand
came a mass of honeycomb accompanied by at least a hundred bees. Eli was not
bothered as they crawled up his arm and flew about his head. I had never been
fond of insects, especially bees. Eli, on the other hand, seemed to be
perfectly at home as he drew an arm covered with his bees close to his face and
gently blew, causing them to vacate back into the hive. Eli blew on the
honeycomb before dropping it into the dinner bucket.
Handing me the bucket, he ushered me away before quickly
returning to his supplies on the other part of the clearing. In a rush, he
covered the fire while humming and made his way back to where I was sitting.
The bees were calming down now; the static sound was becoming softer and less
frantic. They knew that it was over; Eli would be taking no more honey today.
Eli gathered his supplies in a hurry and motioned for me to
follow. I hurried back the way we came behind him before he finally turned at
sat down on the musty forest floor.
“Well,” he said on an exhale, “That’s that.”
I looked at him, my mind filling with questions but no words
came out.
“What was all that?” I asked.
“Violet, beekeepin’ has been in my family for years and
years,” he struggled with an explanation, “I can’t tell you why I have to do
all that stuff, but it works. The bees just know me.”
“How do bees know you?”
“They just do.”
“But, I don’t understand, Eli. How do they know you?”
“I don’t know how it happens; it just does. It’s just a
fact.”
“Bees can’t know anythin’; they’re bees Eli.”
“But they do, Violet. They know.”
He took the dinner bucket from me and a spoon from the sack
he had laid beside him. He started to work on the honeycomb. Pressing down on
the honeycomb until the golden honey oozed out and gathered in the bottom of
the bucket.
“Eli, how did the bees know my Momma was sick?” I asked,
watching the honey in the bucket.
“I told ‘em.” he said, uninterested.
“You told 'em?”
“Violet,” he said looking right into my eyes, “I always tell
the bees. The bees have to know their honey ain’t being taken for greed. If
you tell the bees, they won’t sting.”
I stared at the crushed up honeycomb in the dinner bucket. I thought about Momma and the how she thought this honey was her cure and I thought about Eli, who believed his bees were magic. I almost wished I could believe it too.
Eli pulled an empty glass jar from his sack and poured the
honey from the dinner bucket into it, dropping half the comb in the jar with it
before capping it. The other part of the honeycomb he split between us. I
chewed mine slowly, savoring the flavor and enjoying the sensation of the honey
spilling into my mouth.
Eli stood and began walking again, and I followed, happier going down the trail then I was coming up. I was humming now, the same song Eli used for the bees. Eli turned his head and smiled at me. I was no longer uncomfortable with our silence as we walked. The sun was beginning to peek from behind the clouds, and the sound of our honeycomb chewing was louder than the bird’s song. Mason jar full of Momma’s honey in hand, I walked briskly but freely behind Eli reaching out to touch tree limbs and other blooming plants.
“How come this land ain't owned by the company?” I asked
offhandedly, thinking about the coal mines located just several miles to the
east of our current location.
“They tried to buy it, but Pa said no,” Eli replied, simply,
“They can’t take every bit of land for those mines. It ain’t right. I don’t
care how bad we need the coal.”
I was shocked; no one in town ever talked ill of
the coal mines. Eli seemed disconnected from the poverty that surrounded home. We
reached Eli’s cabin in a short time, but I wasn’t ready to leave. Now the idea
of going home so soon made me want to run into the forest with Eli again. I
wanted to spend more time with his bees. The idea of my old cat and my sisters
didn’t seem as inviting now, but the boys would be back from the mines soon and
Momma needed to be out of bed by that time. I followed Eli all the way back to
his porch before I reached for the money Momma gave me from pocket
of my day dress.
“Eli,” I said softly, “Thank you for the honey.”
Eli came to stand on the step above me, looking straight into my eyes. I looked around nervously, slightly embarrassed of my backwards tendencies. My face was hot, I knew I was turning red again.
“Of course, Violet.” He replied with a voice smooth as silk.
I held out the handful of silver coins that had come from my
pocket to Eli. He shook his head and covered my hand with his.
“No.” he said with a half-smile, “It's a get well gift, for your
Momma. Take it.”
I took the jar of honey from his hand and noticed how our fingers brushed against each other on the cool glass of the jar. We held our hands there for a moment, Eli
kept looking into my eyes. The wind picked up slightly
and sent a chill up the skirt of my dress. I shivered.
“Well, better be getting’ home soon,” I said quickly,
praying that my face would return to its normal coloration, “Momma will be
wantin’ this honey and there’s no dinner made, and lord, I can’t even imagine
how much laundry needs to be done.”
He nodded but didn't move. He had a calm expression in his
eyes, a softness that implied he had something more to say. He was thinking
again, but I wasn’t sure what about. The honeycomb in my mouth was starting to
get soft and slimy, it had lost its flavor and texture. I nodded back to Eli
and started towards the yard holding the honey close to my heart, leaving the
chewed beeswax in the grass somewhere behind me. I did not look back to see if
he was watching me go.
The walk home was long and lonely. My pace considerably
slower than the brisk walk I has used to get to the beekeeper’s cabin. My mind
wandered as I wondered, still humming the forgotten hymn, there on the dirt
path back home I thought of bees, honey and the beekeeper’s son.
END PART TWO.