With Envy Stung: Valley of the Bees #1

With Envy Stung: Valley of the Bees #1

By Amanda L. Webster

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Elderfly Press

With Envy Stung: Valley of the Bees #1

Copyright © 2016 by Amanda L. Webster

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For so work the honey-bees,

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach

The act of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king and officers of sorts;

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home,

Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad,

Others, like soldiers, armèd in their stings,

Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor.

~William Shakespeare, Henry V

Chapter 1 – Such is Their Toil

Attention, bees. Valley giggled. She was glad no one was watching her. Telling the bees of the family’s news was silly. Valley was still a little uncomfortable with it, despite the fact that it had been her responsibility for almost three years now. But Granny Bickerstaff insisted that the old tradition be carried on.

Granny had always taken the beekeeping so seriously back when she was still able to manage the walk to the apiary where the family kept their hive. The bees got more respect from Granny than anyone else in the family ever had. She used to be a completely different person when tending to the bees. A stranger might even see her as grandmotherly rather than as the overbearing matriarch she’d been for as long as Valley could remember.

As silly as carrying on one-sided conversations with insects may be, Valley was not about to take any chances with her family’s food supply. Granny said it was important to tell the bees about what was going on in the family. Otherwise, they might worry and stop producing. Valley reminded herself for perhaps the thousandth time how lucky they were to have such a healthy stock of bees, when so much of the rest of world had none.

Today is my sixteenth birthday, Valley told the bees. She stood in front of the box hive with her arms held out at her sides as though she were delivering a message of utmost importance. A solitary bee hovered in front of her face and waggled its tail end at her.

Why, thank you, Valley said. You are so very kind to think of me.

Another bee landed on her arm and crawled up the inside of her unfolded elbow.

Hey, that tickles, Valley said. The bee crept up her arm, tasting the slick film of dew that had collected on Valley’s skin on her walk through the bottomland mists to attend to her morning chores. Then it spread its wings and flew away. Valley stretched her arms out wider. And that’s all the news I got today.

Valley approached the hive with the metal smoker can that had been around for as long as she could remember. She squeezed the trigger twice to blow a small amount of smoke into the hive. The buzzing inside settled, telling Valley that it was safe to proceed. She lifted the honey super from the top, then worked her way down the hive, disassembling it piece-by-piece until she had reached the frames where she knew she would find her queen bee. It was tedious work, but it was important to check on the queen every few weeks to make sure she was alive and healthy.

One by one, Valley checked the frames until she’d found the one that held her bee queen. The worker bees did their best to hide their longer-bodied queen who always seemed to head for the shadows at the first hint of danger. The queen’s black and yellow-liveried court circled around her, but they were no match for Valley’s sharp eyes. It also helped that Valley’s father had painted a tiny red dot on the queen’s back to make it harder for her to hide.

Yup, still there, Valley said. Satisfied that the queen was alive and well, she replaced the frames and reassembled the hive. A bee buzzed about as if to lecture her for distressing its ruler.

Oh, don’t worry, Valley told the bee. I’m all done disturbing her highness for today. You go get some pollen. I have weeds to pull.

Now that the bees had been taken care of, Valley was ready to turn her attention to her next chore. She ambled down the hill toward the huge vegetable garden that grew in the rich soil below. She kept her arms outstretched as she walked, popping flower heads from their stalks as she went. Her family allowed the wildflowers to dominate the bees’ rocky hillside domain, while the richer bottomlands were reserved for growing produce and grain. Valley flung a handful of flowers into the buzzing air. The petals fluttered to the ground, leaving a trail behind her. Surely, the bees wouldn’t mind her picking a few flowers on her birthday.

A wild bee buzzed about among the flowers for a moment, then disappeared among the trees by the river where the feral bees appeared to make their homes. Granny had told Valley once that the feral honeybees were actually more efficient pollinators than their domesticated counterparts. But it didn’t hurt to have both in case something happened to one or the other. They were all lucky that Valley’s great-grandparents hadn’t liked to spend money on pesticides when they had cheaper means at hand. What was the point of using chemicals in the bottomlands when the floods would only wash them downriver anyway?

No, Valley’s great-grandpa was not about to pay for pesticides for everyone downriver. It was the pesticides that had done in the bees around the world, and it was Valley’s great-grandfather’s frugality and stubbornness that had later saved her family. One would think that the bottomlands would have also been laid to waste from the pesticides that washed in from upstream, but for some reason, it hadn’t had a major impact. The river was cleaner now than ever before. Most of the viable farmland that remained was along waterways, the lifeblood of the Earth. Even the wild honeybees didn’t venture far from the bottomlands nowadays.

It was still early, but the sun was already cutting through the morning mist that lingered in the river bottoms long after the sun had burned it away from the barren uplands. Valley grabbed the thin leather strap around her neck that kept her from losing her battered canvas explorer hat when she wasn’t wearing it on her head. She bunched her long hair up and pulled the hat down on top of it to keep it off her neck. No matter how hard Valley tried, she could never seem to braid her own hair without it looking a mess and falling out an hour later. She would get Aunt Abigail to braid it for her when she returned to the summer campsite for breakfast. For now, Valley wanted to get as much of the weeding done as possible before the sun got too high in the sky. She was not about to spend her entire birthday working the fields if she could help it.

Valley knelt in the dirt, bare knees inching her across the strawberry patch. She grabbed the young shoots of grass by their roots and tugged, pulling them out from under the strawberry buds in quick, efficient jerks. Her toes sank into the warm, crumbly earth as she worked her way down the first row. Long rows of corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, and the other veggies she had yet to weed that morning spread out beyond her. It was a lot of work, but it was better than hanging around the summer encampment where she would only end up having to help her aunt look after Granny.

Maybe it was wrong of Valley to be glad that Granny could no longer talk since her stroke, but she didn’t care. Valley did feel sorry for Aunt Abigail, though. Abigail had taken charge when her mother-in-law first fell ill, and everyone else seemed content to leave Granny in her care. Since Granny lost her voice, life on the farm seemed to have grown easier for everyone except Abigail. Valley and her father, Ethan, mostly avoided Granny and Uncle Jacob, while Abigail acted as ambassador to all.

The rumble of an ancient tractor reached Valley’s ears. She stopped weeding and stood to see where the sound was coming from. The tractor rounded a bend in the dirt road that led past the garden. The fried-potato smell of homemade biodiesel wafted toward Valley as her father maneuvered the vehicle over the hardened ruts left after the last big rain. Valley stepped across the rows and went to wait for her father at the edge of the garden.

Ethan pulled the tractor up beside Valley and cut the engine, letting it coast to a stop. The air was suddenly silent in contrast to the racket of the rumbling machine.

There you are, Valley called. Where you been? You were gone by the time I woke up this morning.

Ethan grinned and hopped down from the tractor. What are you doing out here pulling weeds on your birthday? he asked. I was going to do that for you as soon as I got back.

That’s okay. I don’t mind, Valley said. She hugged her father. His arms circled around her. She inhaled the scent of recycled motor oil on his rough cotton work shirt. Valley pulled away from her father and looked up at him. Been up to the house? she asked.

Yup, he said. He made his way across the garden and stooped to pull weeds where Valley had left off.

Valley followed and began to weed the next row. They worked in companionable silence.

I figured I’d go up to the barn and start all the equipment, check everything over, Ethan said after they’d finished their first row. One of the wagons was sitting on a flat tire. I’d rather fix it now than have to do it later when I’m in a hurry to harvest the fields.

We still got a bit before we have to worry about the harvest.

It’s never too early to start worrying, Ethan said. He stood up and stretched. It’s a good thing we’ve still got one young’un around to keep the garden weeded. He reached out to tousle her hair, but she ducked away from his hand, rolling her eyes. Dang, my back’s getting old for this, he said.

Leave it, Dad, Valley said. I don’t need the whole day off just because it’s my birthday.

Ethan took Valley by the hand. Have you been up to the top of the ridge to look at the fields lately? he asked. You should see the view up there this morning. Come on. The weeds can wait a few more minutes.

Valley followed her father up the hill from the garden and past the storage sheds. The garden and sheds sat on the rise that overlooked the river bottoms where the family always camped for the summer. It was high enough to save their food stores in case a flash flood pushed the Little Wabash over its banks out of season, but close enough to the summer encampment where they could keep watch over it. They had to climb the last few feet, grasping at low shrubbery to pull themselves up to the top of the ridge. Once they breached the top of the small cliff, Valley was surprised to find that the small clearing that lay at its top was covered in tall grass and surrounded by healthy trees.

Valley stood and dusted her hands off while she examined the clearing. She hadn’t been through this way since winter, when she would cut through the pastures behind the family farmhouse and take the path through the woods to get to the beehives. She had never seen the clearing as lush with foliage as it was now.

Ethan settled at the edge of the cliff with his legs dangling over the ledge. He patted the ground next to him, and Valley took a seat at his side. The two of them gazed out over the fertile bottomlands.

Just look at all that corn, Ethan said. I’ve never seen it so tall this early in the season. It’ll be a bumper crop this year, as long as some disaster doesn’t hit us.

Uncle Jacob will be happy to hear that, Valley said. He’s a lot less cranky when he has extra grain to trade. Her eyes followed the curve of the river as it trickled past the wooden lean-tos of their summer encampment. It was a bit more rustic then their winter home on Valley’s great-grandparents’ old farm, but it was home all the same. Valley could just make out Aunt Abigail cooking breakfast over the outdoor hearth with Granny sitting a short distance away, scrutinizing her work. The family’s two adult cows grazed at the ends of their picket lines. Untethered, their new calf butted at its mother’s side. Several chickens scratched at the dirt where Aunt Abigail had tossed grain to them earlier. She had found a bounty of eggs that morning and was planning to make Valley a birthday cake. Uncle Jacob was likely sitting with his fishing pole in the shade by the river, his back against an old oak tree and a hat pulled down over his eyes.

Look, Valley, Ethan said. He pointed across the corn and wheat fields toward a patch of land closer to the river. See how fast the trees are taking over those old fields we quit planting after Granny had her stroke?

Valley could hardly tell where the old acres were anymore. The land was growing over with saplings and shrubs instead of their usual crops. The forest was taking the land, reclaiming ownership like a winning government after a war.

It’s funny how fast Mother Nature takes over when men stop holding her back, Ethan said.

Valley nodded. Do you think we should cut the brush back before we lose those acres for good?

Nah, he said. Let her have them. We’re growing plenty of corn and wheat to keep ourselves fed, and we’ll still have plenty left over to trade. We don’t need that extra land. We never did, really. Granny always liked people thinking we were the richest family in the county, is all.

Don’t you like being rich?

Don’t make much difference to me, Ethan said. I don’t mind working for my keep, but I’d rather take life easy once in a while than work myself to death just so the rest of the world thinks I’m better than them.

I like how things are now, Valley said. Who wants to work from sunup to sundown if you don’t have to?

A girl after my own heart. Ethan grinned. "Let’s get that garden weeded, and then we can