Exit, a bee charmer

The floor is sticky with spilled honey, some fresh, some old that Aristaeus hasn’t gotten around to lapping up. There are three windows, with blinds pulled down past their sills, but cracks of light squeezing through small tears, illuminate a solitary carpentry table, littered with different shapes and stains of wood. Beneath the table is a bundle of hair-covered blankets, moulded into a large oval shape. An abandoned white stick lays beside them. There is only one photograph, damp and mildewed, of a young woman laughing, dressed in a beekeeping hat and veil. All around the walls stand numerous hand-made bee hives, detailed but crooked. The air is thick with the smell of dust, entangled with wood and underlined with nectar, and a deafening drone of buzzing presses its presence on the room from somewhere outside. 

A delicate knock on the front door breaks the silence and a slow shuffle can be heard behind the table. Aristaeus sniffs at the noise and then returns his attention to his moth-eaten dog toy. Stumbling noises follow the stooping shadow of a man across the room and into the hallway. Impatient grunting accompanies the sound of unclicking locks and as the door opens and light spills in. The triumphant light gives life to the shadow and reveals an elderly man in a white coat and dark glasses. 

“Hello?” Horace calls into the porch. 
“Good morning.” A woman’s voice responds, “I wonder if I could trouble you? I heard you sell the best honey for miles around.”
“Who told you that?”
“You hear things,” her smile lifting her words, “I would so like to try some?”
“I don’t have time for visitors.” Horace begins to close the door.
“I can wait.”
Horace frowns and his conviction in closing the door falters for a moment before he slams it shut. His dark silhouette moves back across the room, stopping at the table and snatching at the half-made beehive. He falls, and consequently re-centres himself on his chair. 
The darkness inside the room mirrors the dusk outside by the time the constant drone of the bees has steadied Horace’s temper and aids his concentration. His fingers feel every edge of the hive, committing the angles and shapes to every tip’s memory and with a softness one might reserve for a loved one, he moves further parts of the hive into place. His hands feel along the table top for a knife which he uses to carve out wording on the base. Using his thumb as a guide, he digs at the letters until the name is complete. He runs his fingers over the engraving, tracing every curve until the end. He smiles and kisses the letters.

***

Horace is awoken the next afternoon by another knock at the door. Peeling his unshaven face from the table, he curses Aristaeus for not pre-empting the visitor with a cursory bark. Aristaeus whimpers in his sleep at the sound of Horace rising from his chair, but remains oblivious. 

Horace opens his front door to the scent of grass and fresh nectar. “Hello?”
“Hello again.” Chirps the voice of the woman from the day before.
Horace’s mood instantly changes, “You again. What do you want?”
“May I come in and have some honey please?”
“No.” 
“Your bees are so happy, I know they make delicious honey.”
“Get off my porch.”
“You should be proud.”
“Go away.”
“May I try some honey?”
“I do not have time today, maybe another time.” 

Horace closes the door. As he re-enters the room, Aristaeus’ head snaps up and he whimpers, his eyes alert at the sudden noise. Hearing this, Horace shuffles over to his aging friend, bends down and feels for his head, ticking behind his ears. Aristaeus gives his hand a nudge with his snout and licks Horace’s face. 

“Warn me next time that woman comes to the house, Rista, okay?” 

Horace slouches over to the opposite wall where he keeps beekeeping equipment and places the hat and veil on his head. It is old and tatty with several small tears on the back but he will not part with it, and after placing it on his head he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The fibres inside seem to strain against the pull of his breath and scents of perfume and peppermint from many years before are almost given new life. Stumbling toward the back door, he pats his leg toward the direction of the anticipating Aristaeus who follows him out into the garden.  
If you did not have the privilege of observing the garden, you would not believe that the dreary bungalow could neighbour such a place. The grass seems to bounce with every step Horace takes and the borders release such an array of fragrances that a different smell tickles every inhalation. It was as though Flora herself had picked her favourite flowers and thrown them with chaotic love, down into the garden where the thick bushes were eager to catch them. You can hear the sounds of insects and birds that have been attracted by the wildness, but this is almost completely drowned out by the constant buzz to the left. 

37 bee hives stand in rows to the left of the garden, each one hand-made and engraved, each one slightly off-balance. A hundred bees drift in and out of the hives, exchanging places with what must be hundreds more working inside; the sound of their buzzing is like the hum of a tradesman, busy at work. There is a strong, almost nauseating smell of wood, wax, flowers and honey that makes your nose wrinkle. 

Horace approaches the first hive and devotes himself to his task with automatic precision. As he works, his slow shuffle evolves into a gentle dance, as light and as smooth as a ballet. He glances back toward the main garden. 

“How long are you going to be?”
The young man barely hears her as he tends to his bees, his eyes fixed on a collapsed piece of wood inside a hive. “Not too much longer, dear.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll just wait for you. As always. Maybe I’ll catch the eye of some other fella while I wait.”
Horace looks over to his wife, smiling at her as she teases him. She smiles back and begins to hum Elvis’ ‘Can’t help falling in love’ to herself. Miming a face of shock at some disembodied man in front of her, she takes an invisible hand and begins dancing around in a feigned waltz. Horace walks over to her.
“May I cut in?” He raises his eyebrows at the air in front of her and smiles cheekily back in her direction before taking both her hands and placing one on his waist. Leading with the other hand, he takes her spinning around the garden, faster and faster until they both collapse on the grass, laughing, and trying to catch their breath.
The woman looks up at the sky, “Who would have thought it, Horace?”
“What, that I would be able to steal you away from yet another handsome suiter?”
She laughs. He loves it when she laughs. 
“I never dreamed we would have this.” She looks around in awe, “Our beautiful home, our bees, our shop.” Tears begin to bead at the corners of her eyes. 
Horace sits up and scoops her into his arms, kissing her on the nose.
“I love you.” 
“I love you too.”
Horace grins, “I was talking to the bees actually.”
The young woman playfully punches him in the stomach. He laughs and rises to avoid any more swings. Bending back down, he gives her a further peck on the lips before returning to the bee hive.
As he reaches his hand deep inside the hive, feeling for the broken timber, his wife calls over at him again, “You really should wear your veil, Horace.”
He smiles back at her, “It’s fine, Maggie, they haven’t hurt me yet.”
Maggie sighs. 
“I know, I know.” She smirks, “You little bee charmer.”

Exhaling deeply, Horace returns his attention to the hives he can no longer see. There is a single tear running down his cheek. He begins to hum the same Elvis song Maggie had hummed all those years ago and the bees seem to chorus with him. 

“Hello Horace.”
Horace jumps and snaps, “Who’s there?” He wipes away the tear and turns toward the sound of the voice. 
“It’s me again.”
“Oh, leave me alone.”
“I only wish to speak with you, Horace.”
“How did you get in here? You are trespassing.” He gropes at the air in front of him. He falls.
“I’ll call the police.”
“You do not have a phone Horace.”
“I do!”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. And I’m going to call them right now.” Horace walks across the garden toward the bungalow. “I’m warning you woman,” he calls back behind him. 
“You don’t have a phone.” Says the woman’s voice, now from somewhere in front of him. 
He turns his head back around, “How did you…? What do you want? Leave. Me. Alone.”
“I’ve missed you.”
Horace frowns. “I don’t.... Who? … Get away from me…” He falters with every word. His heart is racing as, barely keeping his balance, he reaches the front door. 
“Hello?” He calls behind him, straining his ears in every direction.
There is no answer. Horace steps over the threshold and closes the door on the light. Of course he does not have a phone. He never believed in being at the disposal of anybody who decided to interrupt his peace with that incessant ringing. He used to argue about it with Maggie.

“What if you are at the shop and I need to get hold of you?”
“I’m sure you can wait until I’m home to tell me how handsome I am, Mags!”
This comment warrants a hearty shove in the arm from Maggie. She smiles just for a moment.
“Maybe I’ll need help with the bees.”
“They look after themselves. They’re bees, not children.”
Maggie looks away. 
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“What if I get hurt?”
“Maggie, they won’t hurt you.”
He hugs her close to him and strokes her hair. It smells of nectar. 

Horace shakes his head and sniffs, removing Maggie’s beekeeping veil. He can still smell the nectar even now. Stumbling back across the room, he pauses to pick up his latest bee hive and once again, he pulls his fingers across the engraving: Maggie.

Dropping the veil and hugging the hive to his chest, he walks over to the darkest corner of the room. There is no light here; even the light trespassing through the tatty blinds cannot reach it. He stands there for some time, shedding silent tears as the night draws in.

“I’ve missed you.” Her voice is barely audible this time. 
Horace doesn’t even flinch. He feels an absent hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing.  
“My bee charmer.”