I knew there were bees on the island: I’d seen them in the garden but assumed they were strays who’d become marooned on the island last time it made landfall. But here sits a wooden beehive, a dozen bees buzzing lazily through the air.
“It’s a small colony. They dinnae produce much, so I tend to leave ’em be,” he says. “But we can harvest a wee bit of honey for our morning tea. And the propolis is good when yer under the weather.”
“How do you harvest it?”
“Gently,” he answers. “Walk with me, and do as I say, and ye winnae get stung.”
“I think I’ll wait here.”
His mouth pulls into a smile. “If ye want honey for that tea of yers, ye’ll need to summon some bravery.”
I frown, but he reaches out and takes my hand, and I let him pull me forward. The sound of the bees grows louder, a steady hum that makes me feel slightly off-balance, almost drowsy. At five yards away, several bees begin swirling around us, as if inspecting our intentions. “Slow yer breathing,” he instructs. “An’ yer heart rate. They can sense fear.”
“I am afraid,” I whisper.
“Nothin’ to be scared of. Just the unknown, is all.”
I want to make some comment about how the unknown is precisely what I’m afraid of, but I keep my mouth shut, eyes ahead, trying to keep my breathing steady. We reach the wooden box—square, perched a couple feet off the ground—and he pauses, observing the bees as if he’s studying their movement, their temperament. Bees swirl lazily around my head, mostly docile, but some begin landing on my arms, my shoulders, and I try not to flinch, resisting the urge to swat them away—an action I’m certain would stir up anger within their tiny bee minds. “I’ll pull a frame out of the box, and ye fill the jar,” he explains, handing me the mason jar and the knife.
I take them, my jaw constricting. I remember as a kid being stung by yellow jackets during late summer, and it hurt like hell. Nana said they were more aggressive at the end of the season, when their food supply dwindled. I have no idea if a honeybee sting is as painful, but I’m certain a few dozen stings all at once would be excruciating.
Clay turns to look at me. “Ellie, just breathe. An’ go slow.”
I nod, unable to argue.
He removes the top cover—which looks like a small wooden roof for the hive, keeping the rain and weather from spilling inside—then places it carefully on the ground. The bees hover close to him, curious about this sudden activity.
“You sure about this?” I mutter.
He smiles at me but doesn’t answer.
I swallow, no longer drawing in air as I watch him slide out a narrow frame from inside the box. It’s shaped like a window frame, but instead of glass, the interior is a sheet of sticky, fragrant honey and wax. Instantly, my mouth begins to salivate.
“Use the knife,” he says, “to scrape off a corner of beeswax.”
I lean toward the frame where he holds it in the air. It looks heavy, weighted by the golden syrup, the bees growing more active as they gather around us.
I’ve used this knife in the kitchen many times before, but it suddenly feels awkward in my hand, clumsy. I touch the blade to a clump of wax, sliding it behind the comb. I’m careful at first, unsure how much force I should use, but the wax breaks free and I manage to guide it into the open mason jar, filling it a quarter of the way.
A long breath leaves my lips, honey dripping down my fingers, and I look to Clay. “Should I try to get more?”
He nods. “Aye, then we should leave them be.”
I place the knife back on the frame, wedging it beneath the comb, but the bees are growing more anxious, and one buzzes near my ear, inspecting me. I turn my head slightly, trying to urge it away, but itreturns, landing at my temple, its legs carrying it to the corner of my eye. I wince, blinking rapidly, trying to shimmy it loose, but it’s determined now. It crawls down my cheek, to the edge of my mouth.
“Clay,” I hiss.
He looks at me, arms still holding up the frame, his own torso covered in bees. “Stay still,” he says calmly. “It’ll leave as soon as we do.”
I shake my head, my heart rate starting to spike. The bee makes its way along my upper lip, and I’m certain it’s going to sting me—its movements are different from the others, more aggressive, like it’s assessing an invader—which I am.
“Ellie—” Clay starts to say, but the panic in my chest turns to terror, and the next few movements happen so fast I hardly register them: I yank my hand away from the frame, spinning around to swat the bee from my face with my elbow—the only part of me not holding the mason jar or the knife. The bee instantly darts away, and I stagger backward, shaking the rest of the bees from my skin. I hear Clay behind me let out a quick gust of air, and the sound of the frame hitting the ground.
I turn and see him gripping his hand, blood dripping through his fingers, droplets covering his boots.
“Shit,” I say, knowing instantly. When I swung around—moving wildly, frantically—I must have slashed the blade right through Clay’s hand where he was holding the frame, only a few inches away. “Clay!” I start toward him, but he waves me back.
“Walk to the house,” he says, voice cool and steady.
