The
Beekeeper
By Matt
Merrill
The
man pondered over his entire life and every detail that had led up to the
miserable state in which he now found himself.
He
had known since he was a boy. He
was invited to a friend’s birthday party, which was held down by the lake. The water was cold that day, but not
cold enough to stop him and the other boys from splashing around in the
water. After a good while in the
lake, his friend’s mother called everyone to the picnic area where cake and presents
were waiting. He climbed out of
the water and hurried, dripping wet, across the soft, cool grass. He recalled the sudden prick in the
middle of his right foot; a small but sharp, piercing pain as if he had stepped
on a needle. He stopped, wincing at
the pain, and looked to see what it was.
But as he tried to lift his foot something overcame him. He lost his balance and remembered
falling but never hitting the ground.
He
woke up slowly. As his vision
focused he realized he was in the city hospital. He could hear his mother’s voice speaking with another
woman. “But what can we do?” asked his mother.
“Well,
there’s not a lot,” said the other voice.
“It’s very serious. We’ll
give you some medicine to take home with you…” There was silence for a few
moments, then the woman continued, “I’ve never seen anything like it
ma’am. I haven’t been working here
for that long, but people come in with allergic reactions all the time; swollen
hands or feet, or red spots on their skin, but nothing this serious. You’re lucky the sting wasn’t more
severe or he may not have survived the trip to the hospital. Just keep him safe as best you can. Make sure he knows of the danger. And if he’s ever stung again, give him
the medicine and bring him straight here, and just… just pray for the best.”
He
heard a quiet sob from his mother.
He sat up in bed a little and called to her, and though his words came
out chopped up and raspy, his mother had already rounded the corner before he
could finish. Her face was streaked
with tear marks, but they were countered with the largest smile he’d ever
seen. She hugged him and combed
her fingers through his hair and told him how much she loved him.
“What
happened?” he asked her, still not sure.
“You’re
allergic,” she said. “To bees.”
Years
passed, the boy grew into a young man, he moved to another town, and the
seriousness of that life threatening moment became faded with the rest of his
childhood memories. And now, as
hard as he tried, he couldn’t figure out how it happened or what chain of
events had led him to the job, but at the age of twenty he found himself
working on a bee farm.
He
worked for an older man named Harold who lived alone in a small house out in
the country. Harold actually did
beekeeping as more of a hobby than a job, but he was often lonely and had
acquired so many bees over the years and was making a good enough profit off
the honey that he decided to hire an assistant. The young man was given a room in Harold’s home and still
received a generous wage on top of that.
He
hadn’t forgotten that he was allergic to bees, and so he made sure to take
extra precautions. He wore thick
clothing under his beekeeping suit, taped his sleeves and pant legs to his
gloves and boots, and wore a double veil over his face. He enjoyed working with the bees, and
with his protective equipment didn’t feel that his life was being
threatened. Still, he never
mentioned his allergy to the old man for fear he’d lose the job.
All the same, his parents
were not happy when they found out what he was doing for work. They pleaded with him to find another
job. He told them not to worry and
that he would start looking, but he was so busy and content with his current
work that he never found the time to look for anything else.
Three years passed. As Harold grew older he also grew
weaker and with each day he relied more and more on his assistant to do the
work with the bees. Soon Harold
fell ill and could not even leave the house. The young man did the work by himself and would come in each
night to tell Harold about the day and to ask him advice on how to take care of
the bees.
One night he knocked on
Harold’s bedroom door and there was no answer. He peeked inside the room and saw the old man lying in his
bed staring at the ceiling. He
walked slowly into the room and sat down next to the bed. The room was silent for a few minutes
and then the old man spoke. “I’m
giving you everything,” he said.
“What?”
“Everything. The house, the land… the bees.”
“But why?”
“Well who else am I gonna
to give it to?”
“I… I don’t know.”
It was silent again for a
while and then Harold continued. “Anyway, it’s yours. Take good care of it.”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“And… take good care of
yourself too.”
“Yes sir.”
More silence.
“Hey,” said the old man.
“Hmm?”
“You afraid of the bees?”
“What?... nah,” he said,
but without conviction.
“How many times you been
stung? Since you and me been workin’ together?”
“Umm, I haven’t been
stung.”
“Never?!” the old man
exclaimed.
“No sir.”
“You sure? Heck, I’ve been stung at least a
hundred times since I been in this business.”
“Well, I guess I’m just
careful.”
“Hmm…” the old man went
into deep thought, “Well I dunno.
But I’ve just been havin’ this feelin’. Not sure how to say it in words.” He stopped and thought for a while more. Finally he perked up as if hit by
inspiration. “One time I had this
bee. A real smart one. There was a real cold night and all the
other bees froze, but this one flew all the way to the house and found a crack
in one of the windows. He came
right in and made himself at home.
He was the only one to survive the night. So I decided to keep him as a pet. I was lonely you see… I even gave him his own room in the
house. The very room you stay in
now. Of course, I had the room all
made up for a bee, not a person; with potted plants all around.” He stopped to think for a while, making
sure his story was going where he meant it to go. “Anyway,” he continued, “It was the darndest thing. That bee just loved the light bulb in
that room. Anytime I had the light
turned on it would just fly circles around that thing. He loved it! But it wasn’t good for him, see? And I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen to me. No, sir,” Harold chuckled at his story
for a moment and then became serious again. “Why do you think he did it? What was he getting out of that light? Anyway, one day I forgot to turn the
light off. Left it on all
day. And when I came home after
work I found the little guy dead on the floor. Not sure what killed him. Maybe got burned by the light, or maybe he spent so much
time buzzin’ ‘round up there that he just forgot to eat and starved to death.”
Harold stopped to think again.
“Anyway, the feelin’ I been havin’ is that maybe you’re like that bee in
some way. Not sure how… you’re a
smart boy, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just promise me you’ll be careful, ok?”
“Ok,” was all he could
reply. But he didn’t understand
the story, or he hadn’t tried to understand the story. Why hadn’t he listened then?
Harold died in the
night. The young man was sad to
see him go. They had become good
friends over the past three years.
He stayed in the house and worked with the bees for another year. He met a beautiful girl, fell in love
with her, and married her. When he
first told her of his allergy she was surprised, but not angry. She did not fully understand the danger
at that moment, but she cared dearly for her husband and his safety, and made
sure he was always well-protected before he went out to work each day.
On
one especially hot day his wife watched him work from the house, and thinking
he must be very exhausted from the heat, she decided to drive to town and buy
him some ice cream as a treat.
When her husband had finished with his work for the day, he walked slowly
back to the house. Entering, he
stripped off his suit, gloves, boots, and veil and collapsed in the first chair
he could find. He hadn’t seen his
wife leave and so he called for her.
The response he heard was not hers but a soft buzzing sound. He looked
around wearily, trying to find the source. Of course he recognized the sound. It was a sound he heard everyday. Only usually he heard it multiplied a hundred or even a
thousand times. Perhaps that’s why
he didn’t realize what it was at first.
Or maybe he was just too tired.
The buzzing grew louder and then stopped suddenly. He looked down and saw it. A bee, sitting right there on his bare
arm. He froze. He couldn’t remember how long he must
of sat there. He tried not to
breathe. He had already been
sweating from working outside, but now he was sweating even more
profusely. He hoped and prayed and
waited anxiously for the bee to fly away. The front door opened behind him, and he heard his
wife enter the house. The bee flew
away.
“Hi
honey,” she said coming towards him.
“How was your…” her words trailed off when she saw his face. “What’s wrong?”
“What?”
he asked, still dazed. “Oh, it’s
nothing.”
“Something’s
obviously wrong,” she persisted.
“What happened?”
He
gave in and told her what had happened.
The first thing she did was make him put his bee gear back on while she
hunted down the stray bee and killed it.
“This is a problem,” she said after dropping the dead bee into the
garbage. “You need to get a new
job.”
He
nodded his head slowly in agreement.
“Ok, you’re right. I’ll
look for one.”
But
time went by and he didn't find a new job. He looked through the help wanted ads in the newspaper every
now and then, but he had little to no experience in other occupations and
what's more, nothing else interested him.
"Bees are what I'm good at," he told himself.
His
wife asked him everyday the first week, "Did you look for a new job
today?"
He
was honest. He either responded
with "Yes, but I didn't find anything." or just "No. Not
today." The second week his wife only asked him three times. The third week twice, and over the
course of the following month she never asked him more than once a week. She
loved her husband dearly and she still hoped and prayed that he would find different
work, but she didn't want to be bothersome to him and so eventually she stopped
asking altogether.
Another
year passed and they had a son. He
was a healthy beautiful baby. The
man and his wife grew more deeply in love as they raised the boy together.
He
still had the bees. In fact, he
increased his number of hives with every year. His honey had become very popular, not only in their
immediate town, but in many of the surrounding towns, and grocery stores would
order large amounts of his honey to sell in their stores. In the following four years the number
of hives he had increased to nearly ten times of what it had been when he
worked for Harold. There were now
so many hives that he had to hire several helpers. With the extra bees he was making a lot more money and he
was able to buy nice things for his wife and child. He saw that it made them happy, and so he was happy too.
His
son, now four years old, was very interested in his father’s work, but the
boy’s mother explained to him that his father had a dangerous job and that he
was not allowed to go out because he might get stung, and it would hurt badly.
So he was forced to watch his father work from the window of their home.
But
every night the man would come into his son’s room and tell him about his day’s
work, and what interesting creatures bees were. His son, being young, was impressed with everything he told
him. He could have chosen to teach
his son any number of things, so why did he always choose to tell him about the
bees?
One
day, when his wife was washing dishes in the kitchen and suspected her son to
be playing in the other room, the boy snuck quietly out the front door. He tiptoed down the porch steps, and
then finding himself in the clear, ran toward his father in the distance. The
man had his back turned and so he didn't see his son running towards him. He didn't turn around until he heard
the scream from his wife as she ran out of the house. She had happened to glance out the kitchen window and seen
her son running towards the mass of hives in the distance. The man waved at his
son to go back, but the son only ran faster, excited to join his father in his
work. The bees also became excited
by all the noise and commotion.
First, they swarmed around the man because he was closest to them. They tried to sting him, but his thick
clothing protected him. Then, to
his and his wife’s terror, they swarmed around the boy. Hundreds of them, stinging the small
boy’s arms, legs, and face; anywhere the skin was exposed. The boy screamed in fright and pain,
and within moments had fallen to the ground unconscious. The man yelled and tried to wave the
bees away, but this only made them angrier and they continued to sting the
boy's body. The wife could not do
anything. She collapsed to the
ground crying out a prayer for her son.
The man then scooped his son up in his arms and ran with him to his
truck. His wife managed to climb inside, taking the boy from him and holding
the limp body in her arms as they drove in quiet panic to the town's
doctor. His wife cried silently,
bent over her son, combing her fingers over his body and removing stingers
wherever she found them.
They
arrived at the doctor's. The man,
still in his bee suit, brought the boy in and laid him on the examination
table. The doctor treated the boy
while he and his wife waited outside the room. They said nothing to each other as they waited anxiously for
the doctor to reappear. The man
tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. He calculated and recalculated his
son’s odds of being ok. But when
the door finally opened and the doctor appeared, his expression did not prove
or disprove any conclusions he had come to. He looked straight at them, but he did not smile. He looked confused. The man and his wife both braced
themselves for the news.
“May I ask you a few questions?”
“Oh…
umm, yes of course,” replied the man.
“Are
you aware of any existing health conditions your son may have had?”
“No,”
said the wife. “He was a perfectly
healthy boy as far as we could tell.
We’ve never had to bring him to the doctor for an illness before.”
“I’m
sorry to have to tell you this,” said the doctor, “but your son has died.” The
man’s heart sunk. His wife let out
a sharp cry before burying her face in her hands. “He was gone before you even
brought him in to me. He has a lot
of stingers in him, but what surprises me most is how fast the poison took hold
of him. Is there any history of
severe allergies in either of your families?”
The
man’s wife looked at him. The man,
already shocked by the loss of his son, did not realize at first what this
question meant. After a hesitation
he answered, “Yes, I’m allergic to bees… I stepped on one when I was a child
and almost died.”
The
doctor’s expression went from confused to a blank stare. He looked the man up and down,
examining his bee suit, gloves, and boots. “But you… you work on a bee farm.”
“Yes,
that’s right.”
“I
don’t understand,” said the doctor.
“You knew you were allergic, and yet you surrounded yourself with them?”
There
was a pause in the conversation.
The man looked at the ground.
“What
were you thinking?” asked the doctor.
“I
don’t know,” was all the man could say.
They
said nothing on the ride home. His
wife was too sad to cry so she just stared out the window. He would have wondered what she was
thinking, but he was too busy trying to understand things for himself. The doctor's question still throbbed in
his brain. What had he been thinking? Why had he done it? Why? Why had he justified
it? Why hadn't he listened to the
warnings? Why didn’t he listen to
his parents, or to Harold, or his wife?
Did he want to prove something?
What would he be trying to prove?
That he was strong enough? That he could handle it, and even be good at
it? He hadn't proved
anything. His son was dead. His wife was heartbroken, and he...
what did he feel? He felt like his
life was over. He wanted his life
to be over. What could he do now? There was no way to fix this
mistake. Nothing he could do
now. He didn't even feel that he
deserved to exist. He wanted to
disappear. He didn't know how he
would ever face another human being, or even worse, God.
When
they got home his wife went inside while he stayed in the truck. He sat there all night, his mind
tormenting him with every thought.
He pondered over his entire life and every detail that had led up to the
miserable state in which he now found himself. He did not feel that he deserved
to talk to God, but when he could not stand one more minute with himself, he
closed his eyes tightly and muttered a humble prayer. He did not know what to pray for but he prayed all the same.
The darkness of the night surrounded him and he expected God to strike him down
at any moment, for he felt that he fully deserved it.
The
next morning the sun rose. Birds
sang. It was a beautiful day. And the man was still there.
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