Telling the Bees

By John P. O'Grady

One summer day some years back a man showed up at the door seeking permission and something else. No ordinary caller, he was dressed in full beekeeping gear:coveralls, high-top Redwing boots, long coated gloves, and a thick veil of dark mesh that hung like an ominous cloud from the broad brim of his white hat. In his left hand he held an old, tin bee-smoker with noxious plumes curling from its stack. What was he doing here? We had no bees. Yet he wasnt a total stranger, or so we told ourselves. Wasnt he the man seen every week at the farmers market, the one who sold the raw honey and beeswax? He had a small table with a hand-lettered sign on it that read "Locally produced." We never bought anything from him, and didnt know anybody who had. Stories around town hinted that his honey was tainted, his bees spent too much time up in the mountain laurel and rhododendron that grew on the mountains. Honey made from those owers is said to contain a toxin that, ingested even in small amounts, leaves you at on your back for a day or more, hallucinating. "Mad honey," the teenagers call it. Not that we had anything against a sweet madness or werent willing to take a chance, but none of us cared for honey. We preferred maple syrup. Before we could ask what brought him to our door, he told us. It had to do with a loss he suffered involving a particular beehive now located in our woods,or in the woods just beyond our woods. So he said. We didnt know anything about any bee hive. He assured us it was out there nonetheless, and it belonged to him. He went on at length about the trouble that had arisen between this hive and himself. A falling out had occurred. About a year ago, the mans mother--whom hereferred to as "the queen beekeeper"--had died. The next day the hive was empty, the bees having pulled the apiary equivalent of running away from home. "They were upset with me," he explained. "Youre supposed to tell the hive when ever theres a death in the house. Theyre sensitive, you know, and consider themselves part of the family. When mother died, I just forgot to tell them. You can understand this, cant you? It was a sad and busy time, so many things to take care of. Mothers last request was that her cofn be lled with honey before

we put it in the ground. Not an unusual desire for a life long beekeeper, so dont look at me like that. "I went out to the hive and gathered all the honey they had in there, but it was hardly enough. I had to call around to every honey warehouse in the region until I nally had what I needed. It was difcult work and involved a lot of driving, not to mention the grieving I was doing--no wonder I forgot to tell the bees mother had died. Its not like I was trying to hide anything from them or go out of my way to be rude. But the bees were peeved, and I dont know if they were offended because I didnt tell them about mother or because I went out and got all that stranger honey for her cofn. Whatever the reason, they abandoned me. Its terrible, and Ive been looking for them ever since. "I nally spotted one of them this morning and followed it up here. The hive must be nearby. I have to tell them Im sorry. I just hope they forgive me and come home." This entire story came to us through the dark mesh of his veil. Listening to it was like sitting on the priests side of the confessional window. We wondered if he had been snacking on his own honeycomb. "Look!" he exclaimed, pointing at something moving across our eld toward the woods."There goes another one now." None of us could see anything where he was pointing. Maybe a dark veil makes it easier to see the hard-to-see things. "Would you mind," he asked, "if I followed that bee into your woods and had a look around for the hive?" We felt a certain sympathy for him based on his story, and his request provided a novel reason to get outside, so we said sure. We even offered to help look for his bees out in our woods, or in the woods just beyond our woods--we were willing to go that far. "Thanks," he said. "Follow me." He darted for the forest and was immediately taken in by it. We were only about a minute behind him but it was already too late. The Catskill Mountains in summer are lush and fraught with obstacles to following even a man lumbering along in a beekeepers suit. The leaves on the trees only serve to

hide the immense lichen-shrouded boulders strewn everywhere. Trunks and leaves notwithstanding, those big rocks effectively hinder all lines of sight, so once the man stepped into the woods, that was it. For a while we could hear the crashing of his progress up-slope through the dark trees and thick under story. Soon, though, it faded away. Before long we were lost. Maybe thats all we were after anyway. We did this sort of thing many a time, and rather enjoyed the aimless gadding about that inevitably brought us out on some faraway and unfamiliar road, where we could hitch our way home. Since we possessed no maps or guidebooks--save for a couple of antiquated and unreliable volumes acquired at ea markets--we came to know our region by employing more rash methods. Friendly fault nders have often suggested that my writing and thinking are caught in a similar drift. Anyhow, since it looked like our mission was turning into another one of those free and easy wanderings, one of us proposed we wait around until a bee ew by, then follow it to the hive and the man. Such a plan was a bit more systematic than was our wont, but we agreed to give it a try. We didnt have long to wait. And we didnt need a veil to see the bee. Keeping up with it, however, was another story. We lost it almost immediately, but at least we now had a condent vector to follow. We were making what progress we could when another bee buzzed by, conrming our course. Then another, and another. We had merged into honey bee rush hour trafc, and remained in it for more than an hour. Our bee line took us deeper into the woods and higher up on the mountain, but still no sign of the hive or its contrite keeper. Just as we were about to give up hope of ever achieving our goal--and muttering that we didnt need the help of any bees to get ourselves lost in the woods--we came upon the tombstone. After that, we forgot all about the hive. We were high in the mountains and far from the usual tombstone habitat. Up here youd sooner expect to discover a bird-of-paradise in bloom. The marker itself was carved from native sandstone, and we found it toppled over, nearly buried in a few human life times of fallen leaves. We might have walked right past it, hadit not been for the partially obscured letters engraved at the top. "Hey, that looks like a tombstone! Whats it say?"

We brushed away the upper layers of detritus, exhuming a name: Rip VanWinkle. "No way! This is a joke, right? He was just a character in a story." "Well, who would make a tombstone for him, and why put it up here?" "Think a bodys underneath there?" "I dont know. Lets dig some more." With our hands, we removed further layers of forest debris, going down through the moldy horizons of soil that had begun to consume the stone. Our works melled like old books. Soon a graven image was revealed, just below Rips name. It looked like a mountain lion--around here theyre called panthers--surrounded by seven stars, or what looked like stars. Maybe they were bees. Hard to tell what they were because the stone was so timeworn and soiled. The panther also had something in the grip of its jaws, perhaps another star or a bee. We kept digging. We were past the organic layers and into the mineral soil and unconsolidated glacial till. By this point we were using sticks for digging tools. As we labored away, an inscription began to emerge, scrolling up from the earth as we scratched our way deeper into it: Just above, upon this crest, For twenty years Rip took a rest. Now hes gone where all men go . . . We had reached a point where the tombstone was broken off. The lower half with the remainder of the inscription was missing. We continued to dig, hoping to get to the bottom of it, but turned up nothing except more mineral soil and glacial till. We were disappointed not to have the complete text of Rip Van Winkles epitaph, but still we had this tantalizing fragment. In the years since, weve spent many a satisfying hour down at Pandoras Tavern discussing the questions the tombstone raised for us: Was this really Rip Van Winkles grave? Was he a real person, and not just the offspring of an authors imagination? And if he was real, did he actually encounter that strange band of men in the wilderness, just as the story says?

You remember the story, dont you? Rip wanders off into the mountains with his dog one afternoon, ostensibly to do a little squirrel shooting but really hes trying to get away from his workaday duties and the clamor of his wife. Back then they didnt have sports bars and golf courses and mens groups; instead, a man went squirrel shooting. After hiking along for many hours and occasionally discharging his rearm into the trees but never hitting anything, Rip runs into this crew of oddlooking men dressed in quaint and outlandish clothes. Apparently theyre having a party up here in the mountains--theres a keg of potent mead and everybodys playing at ninepins. Funny thing is, though these fellows are trying to whoop it up, none of them breaks a smile or even says a word. Its as if they cant decide whether to have a bachelor party or a funeral reception. Rip is recruited to pour the mead into agons and serve it to the somber revelers. Hes happy to do so and, as a naturally thirsty soul, helps himself to repeated draughts of the brew. Before long his senses are overpowered and his eyes are swimming in his head. Finally, he passes out--for twenty years. When at long last he awakens from his slumbers with one of those what-did-I-dolast-night headaches, theres no trace of the strange crew or his dog. In addition, his rie is rusty, his beard is white, and his joints ache. If what the epitaph on the tombstone says is true, then we had come upon the very spot where the events in the story took place. Should the Park Service ever nd out, theyd turn it into a National Historic Site, build a road up here, and put in a visitor center. The problem is we were never again able to nd that spot with its tombstone. On that long ago day, after many hours of roaming back down the mountain and through the forest, we nally broke out on a road. We were in an urgent haze of excitement. We couldnt wait to tell the world of our discovery. Rip Van Winkles tombstone--think of what this could mean! Well, what the world--at least our small part of it--thought was we were nuts. Either that or making the whole thing up. Especially when, a few days later, we led a group from the local historical society up the mountain in order to show them the tombstone. Its easy to lose your way up there. We couldnt locate the spot. Matters werent helped any when the next week, seeking corroboration, we went to the farmers market looking for the man who sold the honey. He wasnt there,nor was he in the weeks following. Finally we asked around and were told he had moved away, taking his bees and mad honey with him. Now there was no

way of knowing if he was even the one who showed up at our door that day. We never saw him again. Events such as these certainly cast doubt on our impulsive methods of reckoning: the world demands proof and all we have is our word. But if youll take mine for it, I assure you that tombstone is out there. We did nd it once,way back when we followed the beekeeper into the forest. I myself have continued to look for Rip Van Winkles tombstone--often in the company of friends--but alas, no luck. My understanding companions, however, usually enjoy the hike, and all of them like the story. Their favorite aspect of the tale, more often than not, concerns the last extant line of the epitaph: "Now hes gone where all men go . . . ." People have always been intrigued by the question of where it is, exactly, that all men go. And for that matter, where do they come from? Whether pertaining to esh-and-blood historical gures or mere ctional characters, questions of coming-into-being and passing-away remain vital. A few weeks after our dismal performance with the historical society, a jar of honey showed up at our front door. A note attached to it read: "Thanks. Fred." Was it from the beekeeper? Did he actually locate the hive, tell the bee she was sorry, and bring them home? Was this was his way of thanking us for our help? Even if that was so--and we never did nd out for sure--none of us were willing to try that honey. Those bees had been living too long on their own up in the wild reaches of the mountains. Who knows what unfamiliar nectar they may have been sipping. Or perhaps the jar left at our door was simply an accident.This Fred had made a mistake, confusing our place for that of someone to whom he owed a debt of honeyed gratitude. Or more likely, the whole thing was just a prank by one of the many skeptics we encountered in telling of our experience. No matter. Lets just say something like along these lines is what happened. Thus our mysterious beekeeper--that veiled man on a quest for forgiveness--is still out there in the forest, high up in the Catskill Mountains. Like Rip Van Winkle,he ran into a strange crew of sourpuss men playing at ninepins and trying to have a party. He wound up serving as their bartender and helping himself to repeated draughts of their wicked mead. If thats the case, he ought to be waking up any day now.