All Beekeepers know that when something important takes place you should tell the bees. Births, marriages, deaths of course. An apprenticeship, a long journey, going into service, when a family member enlists with the army or joins the crew of a ship. And not just the family, other household members, friends, distant relations, irregular visitors.
The apparent indifference of the bees to this news does not dissuade us. We know what happens if we neglect this duty.
The Beekeeper’s Daughter knew the bees were not indifferent. She knew because she was her father’s daughter, and she knew because she was her mother’s daughter, the Candlewife that had used herself up in making her. When she spoke to the bees she knew the bees listened, and when the bees spoke, as they did irregularly, she heard what they had to say.
As she spoke to the bees with words, so she danced through the village. Her father the Beekeeper was awkward and difficult to talk to; her mother the Candlewife had a brief and uncanny life. Their daughter had fitted into village life from the moment her father had carried her to the market in a basket with pots of honey and bundles of candles. And if she used gestures more than words, and her presence as much as either, she was always there, coaxing the bees away from people and onto the plants, selling the produce to those with coin, giving it away to those without, building up the store of goodwill.
The Beekeeper’s Daughter showed the maidens there was nothing to fear from the bees, if you treated them with respect. And she taught them her dances, entertained the village on holidays, all the young women twirling and whirling.
The last time the Giant had passed by the village the Beekeeper’s Daughter had been just a youngster, clinging to her father’s legs. And the Giant itself had not stepped into the valley, treading across pasture and scrubland up in the hills.
The bees tried to warn her. She did not understand, they had never danced the Song of the Giant before. And they did not understand, not fully. It was just more news for them, another piece of the tapestry of information.
So when the Giant appeared one dawn, knocking down trees in the Common Wood, then weaving to break the willow dams of the fishponds, then back again to pass through the cherry orchard, no one expected it, not the villagers, not the Beekeeper, not the Beekeeper’s Daughter.
And not the bees, one of whose hives was carried away.
The Beekeeper’s Daughter went up to the hives to tell them the news of the village, of how Old William’s shed had been destroyed by the wind of the Giant’s passage and how the lower paddock had a great foot-shaped depression. How Jack Foolish had dived in the pig wallow to avoid the Giant and the pigs had broken out and fled into the hay barn, and were refusing to leave.
The bees told the Beekeeper’s Daughter that a Giant had come, knocked over several hives and departed with a hive trapped on his body.
Bees do not get excited at the loss of a bee, and even the upending of a hive is a matter of resignation. It is in the nature of bees that the individuals wear out and die, that hives split and swarm. Still, we know it is in the nature of a loss to them.
The Beekeeper’s daughter was incandescent. She was the guardian of the bees. She protected them, housed them, showed them where to harvest, destroyed pests, kept away dogs and foolish boys. How dare some Giant come and wreck the hives. How dare some Giant kidnap her bees.
She went straight home, packed up her belongings, kissed her father goodbye, and set off after the Giant.
Maidens are foolish; though the Beekeeper’s Daughter was less foolish than most. The bees had told her what was down the road so she hoped to be prepared.
Towards sunset she came across a great tall wagon sitting in the middle of the road. A pothole had appeared, one shaped like a toe, and the wagon had fallen afoul of it. One wheel had been taken off, and left propped up on a tree trunk. No one was repairing it; the donkeys had been unhitched and two figures sat by a tiny campfire, almost hidden in the roadside bushes.
“We should wait for a passing carriage and beg them to help us,” said one in a horrible scratchy voice, like two wasps buzzing at each other.
“Then while you distract them with your tale of woe, I can rob them of their geegaws and gimcracks,” said the other, this voice grating and echoey like two stone jugs being rubbed and banged on each other.
“Swap out their horses for our donkeys,” said the first sharply.
“And roast one for our supper, a great feast.” The second sounded greasily excited.
“We’ve already got this mutton, fresh borrowed from the field, dripping tallow onto your spitting fire.”
“My fire wouldn’t spit if your stolen sheep were not all fat and bone.”
“All fat and bone, are you speaking of the sheep or yourself?” The sounds of a struggle broke out.
“Hello, the camp,” said the Beekeeper’s Daughter, and she was standing over them already as they looked up, a spindly hob grasping the wrists of a thick-bodied goblin.
“Well, Madam, hello, welcome.”
“Welcome twice, miss, please sit, join us at our poor fire.”
The skinny hob sprang to his feet. “Alas, we can offer little, for you see our wagon has broken down.”
The larger one shook his head in sadness. “Until it is mended we block the king’s highway and impede traffic, putting us at risk of the law. Can you help us, mistress?”
“Yes, mam’selle, we cannot get the wheel on. What do you have in your basket in the jars and packets? Is there such as can aid us?”
She turned swiftly, and long fingers were pulled out of the basket with a crack and a moan. “Do you think you are unknown to me, Loblaw? Your conniving, thieving ways?”
“Oh no, no, your grace,” said Loblaw the Hob, trying to hide behind his hands – and succeeding as they were big hands, and four of them, emerging from his jacket. “Not me, I am as honest as the day is long. She knows my name!”
“Don’t be so foolish, my lovely, she is just a lucky guesser. Now, milady, what is it in your basket? I smell honey and I smell wax. Why yes, those would help us ease the wheel back on, you might be able to do it all by yourself, as I and poor Loblaw here are exhausted.”
She turned to him. “I know you too, clever-tongued Demi-Farthing. Honey would stick and be of no help. Candlewax would harden when cool, jamming the wheel when you tried to move.”
“She knows your name as well!” cried Loblaw. “How can this be?”
“Your worship, we beg your forgiveness,” said Demi-Farthing the Goblin. “We did not recall your honor, who must have been introduced to us at some fine tea party. Did we spill your wine? Spoil your strawberries? Tip the vicar into the duck pond? We are truly and entirely sorry.”
“You have what you need to grease the wheel,” said the Beekeeper’s Daughter, who had heard of the exploits of this pair through the medium of bee-dance and bee-complaints. “Put a pan under than mutton, collect the fat, and rub it on the shaft and inside the wheelstock. It will slide on and turn nicely.”
“Oh, goodwife, how kind you are,” said Loblaw happily, finding a battered tin plate to put under the dripping mutton. “We offer you our thanks.”
“Spinster of the parish,” said Demi-Farthing in a grim voice, moving the spit so it was over the plate rather than the fire. “I suppose we owe you a favor for this. Perhaps you will share our camp.”
“Thank you kindly, but I must get on. I am sure that you will find some way to repay me.” And she heaved up her basket and went on her way to the happy farewells of Loblaw and the inscrutable grunts of Demi-Farthing.
The next day she crossed hill and dale, pasture and field, stream and wood and village. Everywhere she went she knew who to speak to and who to avoid, the gossip of the bees having forewarned. Everywhere she went she found disruption from the Giant’s passage, knocking over walls and fences, scaring livestock, diverting streams.
As the day came to its end she came to an inn, the Hanged Man, sitting beside the Gallows Bridge. As we know, a place with a bad reputation. It sat at the farthest limit of the news the bees brought. Across the river was unknown territory.
A shed had collapsed into a great footprint, the river had spilled out recently. She was still on the trail of the Giant. The place to find news was the inn, a dark and foreboding place.
With eyes bright and a light step she walked in as the sun set across the river.
“Well hello there, girl. And what might you be after?” asked the innkeep, her face hidden by the shadows.
“News from across the river. And dinner and a bed for the night.”
“Where do you come from, girl?” asked a body by the fire, wrapped up in grey, moth-eaten blankets.
“Across hill and dale following the Giant’s trail.”
There was some stirring in a far corner. A tall lean figure stood slowly. “And how will you be paying for your dinner, and your bed, and your news.”
She smiled thinly to them. “I have candles to light up this dark room. And honey to sweeten your meals.”
“Will you drink with us, girl?” This last from one who sat by the lantern, their face clearly visible, the darkness shadowing their eyes and mouth from the life they’d led.
“Do you have mead? No? I will happily drink your ale.”
“Four ales, Innkeep. And one for yourself.” He stood and stalked over. She slipped by him to where the Innkeep had turned to the barrels.
“When did the Giant pass this way?” she asked.
“You’ll pay for these ales first,” said the Innkeep.
“Aye, and all else you have,” said the blanket-wrapped man.
“You’ll stay with us tonight,” said the lean one. “And then your questions will be answered, such as they are.”
The Beekeeper’s Daughter sighed. “Is this the hospitality your mother would expect you to offer, Rommina? And how long has it been since you spoke to her down at the market crossroads. A shame it is, now that she has fallen ill.”
The Innkeep paused at this news. The bees were not so indifferent, and if they did not understand humans as well as might be hoped they had been told of illness and of daughters who had not visited. The Beekeeper’s Daughter reached out, shut off the tap, and took the tankard.
“Hand over your basket,” said the lean one, her narrow face threatening.
“And that pretty cap and cloak,” leered the blanket-wrapped man.
“Better do as we say, girl,” said the dark-eyed one, and though the most terrible, by speaking he lessened his aspect, to merely a man with knives at his belt and blackness in his heart, as we might find in any village.
The Beekeeper’s Daughter took a sip of ale and drank it as though it were sweet and fresh. “Do you think your child will be proud of you, Alexis? She with her foster family at Berrymarsh, does she know how you make the coin you send her? Would she think this an honorable profession?”
The lean one could not meet her eyes, turned away. The bees do not parse all the intricate details of the human dance, yet they had been told of children and fostering and presents sent and received.
“Are you a witch?” asked the blanket-wrapped man. “A sorceress who has stolen our secrets?”
“Someone has talked,” growled the dark man. “Someone has gossiped about us.”
“Would a witch have news of your lover, Masurius? The one you thought dead? The one you left in a coma to take revenge, and along the way fell in with these others. To walk a dark and bloody path rather than stay at the side of your sweet love. In Troumouth-by-the-Sea where even now they mourn your passing.”
Masurius stared long and hard. The bees know what they are told, and the lover had had a long recovery, resting in a meadow by the sea, rehearsing the story. Surrounded by the hives. And if they had not meant to be overheard, they had told the bees anyway.
“And what of me?” The dark one stepped forward, closer now, still out of arms’ reach, still maintaining a distance. “I am Karl Hiddenblood, thief and killer. I have no shame in what I do, no fear of appearing diminished. My black acts are done because I will it, and no words of yours can sway me from my course.”
She straightened up and looked deep in his face, into the dark. “Very true, Karl Hiddenblood. All I have heard of you is death and worse. There is no one who has spoken your name with love, no one who has wished to pass on good news to you. Not one person who might turn you from your path, and not one who will stop you. Not one to help you.”
“I need no help.”
“No, indeed. But you do need your knives and the belt they depend from. And two greater thieves have taken them while we were talking. Have you not, Loblaw and Demi-Farthing?”
He reached for his waist, to find that the belt was gone, and the knives, and now two long-fingered hands reached out to pull his trousers down. He called for help from his former companions but the Beekeeper’s Daughter had spoken true. Not one of them came to his aid. Instead Loblaw and Demi-Farthing trussed him up with his own belt and breeches and slung him into the stables.
It was a long night and in the morning Rommina left on the road to the market crossroads to see her mother. Alexis was left in charge of the inn and she opened all the windows and doors to air the rooms and began drawing and heating water to scrub the floors, to make it a place to be proud of. With Rommina went the donkey wagon and Loblaw and Demi-Farthing and a bundle tied up in the back, the two fae creatures wondering if there was a bounty to be had from the Shire Reeve.
As for blanket-wrapped Masurius he would not stay and he would not face his past. So when the Beekeeper’s Daughter crossed the bridge he went with her.
The lands across the river seemed uninhabited. Yet there was a road through meadows of golden flowers. It became a lane through strange trees that bent back and forth on themselves. A path through hills where rodents played hide and seek amongst the black and silver gorse.
Then on as the track wound through stone trees and dusty grass, a marsh of singing fish and a red-tinged forest where eyes peeped from every leaf. Everywhere they went there were signs of the Giant’s passing, flattened undergrowth, knocked-down trees, the edges of the path crushed. It seemed as though the Giant had weaved back and forth, zig-zagging across the countryside. Masurius looked here and there, feeling there was someone watching, unable to find them.
A bee came out of the forest and danced to the Beekeeper’s Daughter. She plunged into the woods, the blanket-clad man following. They came out on a long grey beach, the circling birds screaming, the sea foaming mutedly onto the shore.
Lying there, enormous, was the Giant, too big to be understood at once. Inspecting the grey-and-brown-and-black body individual parts could be made out. A toe there, stubby and gnarled until the size reimposed itself. Here an elbow, bent over sharply. A cavern surrounded by a gnarled whirl turned into an ear with observation. And from every part hung strands and tatters of white cloth, whipping in the breeze.
The bees streamed from the ear to the forest and back again. The Beekeeper’s Daughter and her companion followed them within the body of the Giant.
“The flesh is hard, tough, like wood,” said the blanket-swathed man.
“It has been impregnated with salt,” said the Beekeeper’s Daughter, the bees having told her of how the flesh oozed white crystals. She knew of this method, though she herself preserved things with honey. How many hives would be needed to pickle the Giant!
“There are black patches, filling nooks and crannies,” said Masurius.
“Any injury has been sealed with tar,” said the Beekeeper’s Daughter, the bees less familiar with the substance but the smell and slight tackiness unmistakable. For such purposes she might use wax, an entire summer’s worth perhaps for each crevice filled.
She lit a candle as they went further, turning and rising through the passage.
The bees led her through the labyrinth of dried flesh, passages opened up as the body dried and contracted. At last she came to the Giant’s Heart. She found the beehive, and beside it a great bottle, sealed with tar, half-full of salt with a letter inside.
She opened the bottle and read the letter.
I must be brief. The Giant waded past our shores every thirteenth year for time out of mind. So we were surprised to find his body on the strand, lying dead. Rather than let him rot I chose to salt and seal him.
We stood him upright to make a navigation point for the ships, attached sails and vanes to move the arms and legs to show the wind for those travelling along the shore. Today the Giant broke loose from his bindings. Taken by the wind, he began to march blindly across the shallows to the southlands.
My companions have escaped and now there is only I left. I will take a sail and jump, hoping to fall to the water safely. I leave the custody of the Giant’s Body to whoever finds this, knowing that only those born to magic can find the Giant’s Heart.
With hope and good wishes for you, whoever you are.
The Windjammer’s Child.
The Beekeeper’s Daughter frowned at this, at the foolishness of sailors and those who would claim a Giant’s body for their own use. And she frowned at the bees who were at work on the same foolishness.
“What shall we do now?” asked the blanket-clad man.
The Beekeeper’s Daughter thought. She listened to the bees. They passed on news, of creatures in the forest lying in wait, of the dust and smoke rising from an inn, of two fae creatures who were hunting a running man along the road to the market.
Of the seabirds screaming at each other overhead.
All the news that we know the bees can pass on, the news they are told and what they learn for themselves. Sometimes maidens are foolish, and sometimes they are wise, and as we know sometimes they listen to the bees.
“I will tell the bees what has happened. Give them the news. And then I will go outside and tell the gulls.”
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Neil Willcox lives in South East England, the grandson of a beekeeper who told the hives about his birth. He is the co-editor of Voidspace in Conversation, an anthology of essays and interviews on interactive arts. His fairy tale adjacent stories and poems can be found scattered across the internet in places such as Corvid Queen, Crow And Cross Keys, and Roi Fainéant. He can be found online at nightofthehats.blogspot.com and on Bluesky as @neilwillcox.bsky.social. |