Warmth. Light.
Her life begins with gold behind her eyelids. Her knees are curled against her chest and a slick membrane coats her skin. Delicate wings are encased in the same substance, flattened along her back. There is a gentle hum of sound, a beat. She nods along to the rhythm and her legs and arms open up. She is in a cell, and it adapts to the shape and size of her body as she moves. Her world grows larger in stages.
First, an infinitesimal touch moves along her skin. Small appendages work to release the wings from her back. Minute, practiced strokes scoop the film away from her delicate wings, carving out space between them and her skin. When the work is done, her wings flap once, clumsily, sticking together and then pulling apart again with a soft thwack.
Then, sight. When she blinks her eyes open she sees large black eyes staring into her own. Mandibles curiously rove over her skin, fore and middle-legs following close behind them. She sees a larger structure filled with cells just like her own. The yellow-gold light is bright and comforting, and the creatures in front of her are cautious, but kind. They are smaller than herself, and their abdomens are striped with gold and black and covered with fur.
They speak to her without sound.
Welcome, they say, We are glad you are here.
Her first flight is assisted by her new companions. They hover within reach in case she falls, treating her clear, fragile-looking wings with as much care as they show their own appendages. The whir of her wings joins the larger thrum of wing beats. She feels connected to these creatures. Safe.
Why am I here? she asks. They move closer to her, humming.
Hope, they answer.
She does not press further; she is content.
At first, she stays within the hive. In the warm glow of day she curls in her cell, blinking up at the yellow-gold walls. At night, the hive is hushed. She sleeps alongside the workers and the foragers, who dream after a long day’s work.
The bees do not ask anything of her. They let her live alongside them but they tell her nothing more of what her purpose might be, or of how long she might be here.
After a time, they bring her to the queen.
You are still here, the queen says. She is surrounded by bees who offer water droplets and soft caresses. Her cell is wider than the others, and there are many bees watching the exchange.
This is my home. The bee fairy is puzzled. Where would she go if she was not here? She has felt comfortable in this hive and with her companions since she first awoke in her cell. It has been easy to be comfortable since she has always been regarded kindly, with respect. Now, with the queen’s hard gaze trained solely on her, she is wary.
I have a task for you–if you are willing, the queen says.
There is a pause, and above the drone of the bees the hive is hushed. She feels the stares of what seems like hundreds of bees, watching her intently.
I accept, she says. The queen stares at her for a few moments longer, as if waiting for some sign that the fairy is sincere.
Very well. You must find the blue and white, star-shaped flower that grows at the far end of the meadow. Collect the nectar and bring it back to the hive, and I will know you are loyal.
The eyes of the queen and her attendants are full of sadness and hope. Fear and excitement well up in her in equal measure. She wants to please them, wants to belong.
The trill of cicadas and birds surrounds her, joining the comforting buzz of her own companions. After a deep gulp of fresh air, face stretched up toward the sun, she dives down into the meadow and away from the other bees. She swoops and swirls wildly, delighted in the relative solitude, her fears from the day before forgotten.
The day is bright and clear, and there is so much to see. In the back of her mind there are the queen’s instructions–blue and white flowers. Star-shaped–but the rest of her thoughts are as empty and lovely as the day itself. She runs her hand along blades of grasses and goldenrod and flies up to inspect milkweed, her small but powerful wings keeping her steady. Star-shaped flowers greet her, but they are mauve.
She is distracted easily. A caterpillar on the stem of a wildflower fascinates her, scrunching up its body and then lengthening out again to pull itself along. Ants, too, provide plenty of entertainment as they diligently march back to their hill carrying bits of leaves and crumbs.
It is a fellow bee that gently reminds her of her task.
The far end of the meadow, they say, buzzing away from her. Reluctantly, she follows.
The meadow is large, and she soon realizes the instructions from the queen had not been clear. She spends hours zigzagging back and forth among the grasses and wildflowers, focusing so hard on the colors and shapes of each plant that her head begins to ache.
It grows hot.
The bee fairy does not need food or drink, but she finds herself thinking of the water droplets offered to the queen by her attendants. She flies closer to the ground, hoping some drop of water has escaped the sun by sheltering beneath a blade of grass. She imagines holding the fragile drop between her palms, how good it would feel to have one long sip.
Soon after she starts looking for water droplets, she finds the flowers. They spring up in small clusters, and are small enough that she would have missed them if she hadn’t flown so close to the ground.
Extracting the nectar will be more difficult than she thought. She had only imagined finding them, not how she would collect enough of a sample to satisfy the queen. She flies closer, inspecting the center of the flower where there are traces of pollen visible. She tries bringing her lips to the center and sucking gently upwards, but all she tastes is air. The poor flower she’s touched wilts when she releases it. She looks around her for something she can use to extract the nectar. Murmuring apologies to the beautiful, helpless flowers, she rips a flower bloom off a stem with some difficulty and then breaks the stem again a little farther down. She brings the stem back with her to the star-shaped blooms and carefully positions it in the center. Then, sucking carefully, she fills her mouth with the sweet nectar. Before she turns back toward the hive, her cheeks uncomfortably large, she looks at the trampled pile of flowers and wonders at how the bees leave no trace of their work. The flowers they visit remain intact, having benefited from the brief visit. She has left behind a pile of wounded plants, a trail of destruction.
When she approaches the queen with her meager offerings, carefully depositing the nectar from her cheeks into one of the honeycombs back at the hive, she expects laughter. What she has brought seems so inconsequential. But the queen is pleased when she sees the nectar.
The flowers you found will help us to make honey that will heal us, the bees trill around her, their words overlapping. They are pleased as well. Thank you, thank you…
It is my honor to serve you, the fairy says. Pride courses through her, hot and electric.
The queen’s next words are grave, though.
One day you will fade, fairy. It happens each time the humans forget us and our importance. You are here because they remember. Because they care. Beware when they stop caring. I do not know where you will go when they do, but it will not be here.
The bee fairy feels cold for the first time in her short life. She knows without being told that her visit with the queen is over. She feels hollow. Alone. Her fear makes the hive seem smaller than it was. When she is back in her cell she curls her feet close to her chest, remembering her birth.
It is the queen’s subjects who give her the next task. Dragging her away from her cell, they tell her that they love her, that they want her to stay forever. They tell her that the queen can be won over.
Build the queen a comb in the time between sunrise and sunset, they say, so that she may know you are a diligent worker. This comb will be a haven for the queen, and she will live in it from the time it is finished until she dies.
When she proves reluctant to start, they show her how to chew the wax, mold it, and shape it. They show her how to turn nectar to honey with just the power of her own wingbeats. They make small corrections in her work, watching the slow progress she makes as she builds one cell, then another.
The product of her labor looks nothing like it should. Her hexagons have elongated sides and they droop worryingly whenever she steps back to look at her progress. There is nothing elegant or polished about the irregular masses of wax and the openings that are either too small or too large. Even the shades of yellow are mismatched and uneven. The sight of it makes her want to fly back to the meadow and abandon the tasks and the hive. What will the queen think when she looks at this catastrophe? But it does give her a purpose, and for that she is grateful.
The bees continue to offer gentle suggestions, unconcerned with her lack of proficiency. They hum appreciatively as she works, as if the work itself is the thing to be proud of and not the product it creates.
She is coming, they tell her.
The fairy looks up to see that the sun has dipped to a point just above the horizon. Her jaw is aching from chewing the hard wax, and her fingers are stiff from pressing it into shape. The wings that she takes such pride in have beat tirelessly the whole day, and she is ready to fall into a dreamless sleep.
She hears the royal drone of the queen and her attendants and forces herself to focus. Perhaps the results of this task will determine if she remains or fades to nothing. Perhaps by sheer force of will she can keep the humans from forgetting the bees; if she learns enough of their ways, maybe she will become a bee herself and will no longer be just a fairy living alongside them. She allows herself to hope.
When the queen approaches, the observers stop their gentle interruptions and the bee fairy stops her work. She flies to the right of the structure, bowing her head as the queen flies nearer.
There are a few moments of anxiety, then the queen nods slowly.
You have gotten further than the others, she says, I am pleased.
The fairy lets out a long breath and grins so wide it hurts her cheeks.
Your third and final task will be to guard my new comb with your life to show your bravery.
The queen speaks to her directly, and her old hard stare has softened at the edges. The queen has settled into her new living quarters along with her attendants, and the fairy has rested long and hard, waking to a new day and a new task.
Worker bees bring the fairy a long spike plucked from a thistle plant. It is the size of her forearm.
Be careful to only hold it this way, they caution, we have added venom to the point.
They give her little instruction beyond striking fast and hard at whatever might threaten the queen’s new honeycomb. The fairy finds it agonizing to sit and wait for an attack. Her wings beat consistently, body hovering in the air near the comb. She is afraid to leave it. Though it is crude and unappealing, it is something she has made, and she is proud of it because the queen was pleased.
A few bees hover to her right and left, ready to assist if needed. She waits, eyes straining to catch the slightest movement. Her hand grips the thistle hard, knuckles white and muscles taut with anticipation. Her experience with violence is limited to the flowers she decimated in her quest to bring back nectar. She does not know if she will be able to strike when the need is greatest, but she has completed two tasks and is desperate to complete the third. She wants to earn her place in the hive. She wants to remain here forever.
In the corner of her eye there is a flutter of movement. It is only a beetle, uninterested in the fairy or the hive she is guarding. Her grip on the thistle relaxes. She releases her tongue from the roof of her mouth, opening and closing her jaw to loosen the tight places in her face. She dozes mid-air. One day passes, then another. She rests in small spurts.
On the third day, a drone louder than the bees reaches her ears. An aggressively yellow and black insect rises to her height from a nearby copse of trees. It is larger than the queen, and grows larger as it approaches. The fairy waits, watching it without blinking, her grip on the thistle point tight once more. She tells herself she is ready. The insect inspects the structure she guards, feeling along the cells with its front appendages. The fairy thinks of the queen, huddled alongside her attendants.
She flies up to the hornet, and it notices her. The large black eyes stare at her, and there is no warmth in the look. The fairy trembles as it brushes its appendages against her skin, inspecting her. She is sure it can taste her fear. Attached to its abdomen is a stinger, poised to strike. Her eyes dart back and forth between the stinger and the hornet’s hard glare.
This is the last test. It is the way she will prove her worth to the queen. Her gaze hardens when she turns back to the hornet, and she strikes quickly at the abdomen, before she can second guess herself. Her thistle point grazes the hornet’s thorax, but her blow isn’t strong enough to break the skin. The hornet clicks angrily and aims to bury its stinger in her stomach.
She dodges the first few desperate swings, then is struck by the stinger in her thigh and then again in her torso. The cuts are deep and the blood pours out thickly from both wounds. She is stunned by the impact, frozen in place. Her wings skip a beat and in her distress the thistle point with the poison falls out of her grip and drops out of sight.
With a start of panic, she realizes she cannot fight back. The thistle point is somewhere on the ground beneath her, and she doesn’t have the strength to retrieve it. The hornet’s stare doesn’t change. There was no warmth in its gaze from the start, and there is no warmth now. It latches onto her arms and flies backward, away from the queen within the honeycomb. The endless drone of its wings overpowers the fairy, and her wings are no match for its strength. It clicks and hums with precision as it clutches her.
She struggles against it for a moment before she goes limp, convinced this is the end. Her torso and leg pulse with a dull ache of pain. The queen and her bees fill her thoughts, and with one last push of strength she reaches up and grabs at one of the hornet’s powerful wings, crushing it between her fingers. Then she lets out a sharp, high cry. It is a last warning for the bees so that they can get to safety.
The hornet hovers, off-kilter, one side lower than the other. One large wing out of four is in tattered strips. Without warning, it drops her. The fairy falls quickly towards the ground, her heart leaping to her throat. She wonders briefly if she will be able to find her thistle point, then feels silly for thinking of that when all hope is lost. There is no time left to think of the disappointment of the queen or her own failures. The earth approaches, larger and larger, and then before her mind can process the change, she realizes she is flying parallel to the ground instead of toward it. Three bees are propping her up, their touches infinitely gentle when compared to the hornet’s grip.
Her vision is blurring. She sees shapes and colors, but finds it difficult to focus. The pain is overwhelming, and blood now covers her middle and is dripping down to her ankles and toes. When her rescuers fly her past the hornet, she sees that it is surrounded by bees from her hive. They have closed in on it so that she can barely make out the shape of the insect within. That is the last thing she sees before she slips into a dreamless sleep.
There is an audience when she wakes, and her vision is clear enough that she notices that the queen is among them. Her skin feels different. Less there than before. The bees have coated her wounds with honey and bandaged them with leaves.
The comb–is it safe? she asks.
We have taken care of the insect you fought, and the comb is intact. We thank you for the alarm you gave us, and your bravery.
Is it enough? the bee fairy asks the queen, panicked, can you make me stay?
For the first time, the fairy sees a flash of sympathy within the queen’s stare.
Child, what gave you the idea that the tasks would help you stay? The humans decide your fate, not us.
But then–what were they for?
The queen allows her attendants to flank her.
So that you can see how we live, and carry that knowledge with you to wherever you go when you are not here. Maybe then they will see our worth. Maybe then they will remember us.
The disappointment and sorrow hang low in the belly of the bee fairy. She stares hard at the glow of the hive, the yellow-golden light that has been present since her short life began. It feels false now. Wrong.
You have gotten further than the rest, the queen says kindly, you have shown us that you are a true companion to our hive, and that pleases me. Rest now, fairy, and know that you have done much to be proud of.
The next time the fairy wakes, she finds she is less here than she was before. Instead of solid flesh, her skin is thin as the wings on her back. She is a sketch; a fading thought. The bees congregate around her, upset. They know she is leaving. They understand in a way that she does not, for they have seen it happen before. She tries to stay. Every part of her small being yearns to remain in the hive with the bees. She tells herself she belongs here. It is her home.
And yet, she is different. She does not look like them. There is a part of her that is from somewhere else, and now she must return to it. She knows this, but it makes her heart feel like it will split in two. This is the only home she’s known, and she will miss it dearly. In her final thoughts, she thinks of the thistle point, and wonders if she will find it in the place where she is going. Maybe the comb she made for the queen will be there, too, and she can have small reminders of the time she’s spent here. Maybe her hands will show traces of pollen from a blue and white, star-shaped flower. There is a slight smile playing on the fairy’s lips in the moments before she fades, and her eyes glint like honey in the sun.
The bee fairy is gone in the whisper between one wingbeat and the next, and the bees mourn her.
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E.B. Sommer’s work has been featured in The Daily Tomorrow, Manawaker Flash Fiction Podcast, and The Stygian Zine (among other places). She is an Associate Member of SFWA and resides in Minnesota, where she lives with her family and their two dogs, Sam and Sally. A full list of her published stories can be found at www.ebsommer.com. |