Читать книгу The Bees - Laline Paull - Страница 13

The scent of the priestesses faded as Flora went deeper into the warm aromatic criss-crossing of her sisters, their body heat blending their kin-scents together in fragrance and gossip. To listen to their bright voices and understand all they said was a wonderful thing, and she was soon caught up in the major news of the moment, coming through the floor codes and the excited antennae all around her: the rain had stopped, the clouds had parted, the foragers were returning.

‘Nectar comes!’ shouted some bees. ‘The flowers love us!’

The comb shimmered and every bee felt joy running through her feet at the sweet smell coming up from the lower level. The bees pushed back to make a passageway through their numbers, and Flora found herself crammed wing to wing at the front of one cheering group, making space for those who were to come.

The bees redoubled their cheers as a forager ran between their cordon, her throat distended with the precious burden of nectar she carried. Filaments of golden scent drifted on the air behind her, telling of the flower that had yielded its sweetness. Flora stared enraptured as more and more of them came through – sisters of all ages and kin, some with ragged wings, some young and perfect, all with the golden fragrance of nectar streaming behind them.

As the molecular structure of the flowers went into Flora’s brain, a strange sound startled her. Sisters either side of her looked at her with compassion – and Flora realised it was her own voice, moaning incoherently as she tried to join in the cheering. The last forager ran past, the golden filaments of nectar scent trailing behind her, calling for Flora to follow.

The golden fragrance drew Flora on, until to her shock she realised she had passed unscathed through the scent-gates on the staircase to the highest level of the hive. There was no time to wonder at that, for now the party of nectar-bearers were passing down a long corridor whose immaculate pale tiles were inlaid with details of flowers. They were prayer tiles, preparing those who walked on them for the sacred mysteries beyond, and each step triggered chemical verses to unscroll.

At the back of the procession, Flora waited for an alarm to sound at her profane presence on this highest and restricted level of the hive – but a cloud of incense rose up beneath her feet just as from those ahead and joined her to the procession. And then, as the two tall double doors in the middle of the passageway swung open to admit them, her soul filled with joy. Waves of raw floral fragrance billowed out on warm air and as Flora entered the sacred refinery of the Fanning Hall, she beheld the genius of her people.

* * *

A golden mist and soft harmonic chord shimmered from the centre of the great atrium, whose six towering walls were made of interlocking chalices of honey, all capped and consecrated with the Queen’s seal, and curved in to make a domed ceiling. Far below stood hundreds of sisters in concentric circles, all fanning their silver wings. Their faces were joyous and blank and before each was a large chalice of raw nectar. From these vessels the mist and music spiralled into the air as the water evaporated from the nectar, thickening it to honey.

Only now did Flora realise that every forager and receiver of the procession was busy decanting their precious load into open wax chalices, and that she alone had no function there. She knew she should leave – the very presence of a sanitation worker in this holy place must surely warrant punishment – yet it was so wondrous that she could not bear to. From the scented shadows she watched the foragers and their attendants emptying their loads, then straightening their wings and walking out. One of the last young receivers was clumsy and spilled some nectar down the side of a wax chalice, but in her hurry to remain in procession she just glanced down guiltily, then ran to leave with the others.

The tall doors swung closed and the rings of sisters resumed their silver shimmer. The Holy Chord rose up and their wing-beats stirred fragrance through the warm air. To hide in the shadows felt disrespectful so Flora stepped out. Some instinct impelled her to bow to the centre of the atrium, but no sooner had she touched her antennae to the wax floor than her wing-latches clicked open, her virgin wings trembled as her engine fired, and she was lifted off her feet.

Some sisters glanced up, searching for the sound. Flora clamped her thoracic muscles together and dropped down to the wax before they could locate her. She latched her wings tight against her back and looked around in alarm. Bad enough for a sanitation worker to be trespassing here, but to have used her wings—

The extraordinary sensation subsided into her body. To calm her racing brain, Flora looked for any dirt to clean, but the Fanning Hall was immaculate. The only minute element of disorder was where the young receiver had spilled some nectar, now drying down the side of the wax chalice, and the tiles on which it stood.

At the scent, Flora’s belly clutched in hunger.

Desire is sin, Greed is sin—

But surely cleaning it would not be sin?

Careful not to let her profane body touch the chalice, Flora knelt down beside the spill and was overcome with the fragrance of honeysuckle. The living spirit of the crimson-gold blooms warmed her body with energy, and she was licking up the last molecules from the tiles when she heard the commotion outside.

The massed vibration of many agitated sisters came closer down the passageway, voices raised in protest.

‘Honey!’ boomed a deep male voice. ‘Now!’

‘Please Your Malenesses,’ cried a female voice. ‘Stop!’

* * *

Flora leapt back in alarm as a party of drones barged in and swaggered down the centre aisle towards her. They were huge and pungent with big handsome faces, sun visors over their eyes, and their thick fur was styled with pomade. The shimmering circles of sisters slowed their wings and turned their faces towards the intruders. No one noticed Flora.

‘Sir Poplar, Sir Rowan, Sir Linden, all noble sirs,’ cried another sister running after them, ‘let us send to Patisserie or—’

‘We said we want honey!’ shouted another drone.

‘A proper deep suck of it,’ called one more, ‘none of your dainty little sips.’

They began stamping their great armoured feet on the comb, chanting for honey and nectar. The mist from the chalices evaporated, revealing the sisters’ distressed faces.

‘Keep fanning, pretty sisters,’ called one of the drones. ‘We do not linger, we are on a mission of Love! And you, old girl by the door with the long face – good cheer from you too, for we fly for the honour of our hive!’

‘Worship to Your Malenesses.’ A senior Sister Prunus dropped him a deep curtsy. Flora joined in as all around the other sisters copied the obeisance. As she went low she stared at the drones’ armoured feet, their powerful tendons and thighs, and the underside of their huge thoraxes. Their smell was high but not unpleasant, and her breathing spiracles dilated to inhale more deeply.

‘Might we most respectfully suggest, Your Malenesses’ – and Sister Prunus rose to her feet – ‘that because of the constant rains, and this time of austerity, you might confine yourselves to our recently gathered nectars? For instance—’

‘Honey is our want, so honey we must have.’ The drone threw a big muscular arm around Sister Prunus and his scent drifted across her face. ‘Think now of those foreign princesses, waiting for us. How fatigued, how impatient for love must they be? Would you bind them in chastity a single moment longer? Or shall we fill our bellies with the strength of this hive, then free them with our swords?’

Sister Prunus gasped at his lewd gesture, her antennae waving wildly. The big drone laughed and released her, and all the sisters laughed too, avid for more of his scent. Sister Prunus quickly groomed herself to hide her shining face. Then she stepped forward and clapped all her hands.

‘Their Malenesses will take their Right of Access.’

* * *

Trapped between the disapproving sisters at the doors and the gluttonous drones, Flora remained where she was. The drones made very free in the Fanning Hall and, like every other sister, Flora watched in astonishment as they tasted different honeys, slurped from effervescing pails of raw nectar and whirled fanning sisters out from their sacred circles to dance with them. The one who pawed Sister Prunus was boldest, and his kin was Quercus.

‘Linden!’ His shout echoed around the holy chamber. ‘Come here, you fine little runt, and taste your namesake – lime-blossom is good eating!’

‘Only the best for me.’ A small drone straightened his neck-ruff and crossed to where Sir Quercus stood gorging. When he bent to taste it, the other pushed his face in it, then grabbed him by the fur and pulled him out, laughing at his jest.

‘A king’s share, to console you for your certain failure.’

Sir Linden wiped his face of honey and forced a grim smile.

‘You are too sure, my brother. For I hear of queens who will favour wit over strength.’ He pulled his ruff straight. ‘Such a one will be mine.’

‘Ha!’ Sir Quercus patted him so hard he staggered. ‘My wit is all pent in my prick, so I shall triumph with her as well.’

‘Unless a crow choose you first and snap you in its great blue beak!’

The sisters gasped at the mention of the bird.

‘More likely take you,’ said Sir Quercus, ‘who can barely keep up with a butterfly. Though you’d not make much of a feast.’

Sir Linden continuing his grooming. ‘Unlike you, so large and magnificent.’

‘You speak truly.’ Sir Quercus turned to the sisters. ‘Fortune favours me, does she not, ladies?’ And he swelled his sturdy thorax, raised his fur in three tall crests on his head, and pumped his male aroma so it rose up around him in a cloud. Some sisters swooned, and some, like Sister Prunus, spontaneously applauded.

‘Who will groom me?’

Several sisters rushed forward and other drones unlatched their wings in invitation and they too were attended. Flora began edging to the doors.

‘You there – wait!’ Sister Prunus came towards her. ‘We have not called for Sanitation – what in the air is a dirty flora doing here? Did housekeeping leave the scent-gate down again?’

Flora was about to answer, then held her tongue. She nodded and grunted.

‘Oh, these shortages are becoming abominable. The wrong kin everywhere – and yours so stupid and slow you cannot follow the simplest track.’ Sister Prunus looked at Flora suspiciously. ‘Unless you were stealing!’

Flora urgently shook her head and put her antennae low. Her kin behaved cravenly, she had seen and hated it so many times – but now she did the same, backing away as if in terror. She bumped into someone behind her, and Sister Prunus smacked her on the head between the antennae.

‘Your Maleness, allow me to apologise.’ Sister Prunus smiled sweetly. ‘Please forgive the soiling contact. I will call a higher kin to groom you clean.’

‘From Sanitation, is she?’ It was Sir Linden, the only drone unattended. ‘Are they all so hairy? Do not trouble yourself, Sister Primrose, today I have a mind for something different. This one may groom me.’

‘Your Maleness – a flora?’

‘Do not question His Maleness’s particular preference.’ He looked at Flora, and she saw how honey was still caught in his fur. ‘Bring me some spurge nectar.’

‘Spurge? Your Maleness jests!’ Sister Prunus laughed hysterically. ‘He knows that we would never serve it, corrupt as it is from the Myriad’s feet.’ She folded her hands. ‘You will not find it in this hive.’

‘Oh. A pity, for I heard it was good, with a cricket’s kick.’

‘Your Maleness, nobody here would say that, for no forager—’

‘It was no forager, Sister Plantain—’

‘Prunus, Your Maleness.’

‘As you wish, madam. But it was a fine dark fellow at Congregation who stank of it, and he said it made his dronewood hard as the twig we stood on.’

‘Stop, please! Your Maleness speaks too boldly—’

‘At least, I think that’s what he said, in his thick and foreign tongue.’

‘Foreign?’ Sister Prunus recovered herself. ‘From what direction? I only ask because the Sage like to be informed of all immigrants in our neighbourhood.’ She lowered her voice. ‘In case of disease, you see. Also, they take our nectar.’

‘Calm yourself, Sister, this Congregation was further than you could fly.’

‘Oh, I am just a house-bee, I did not presume! But – Your Maleness is not thinking of inviting any guests? Our pantries are emptier than we would like—’

‘Do you not think I have enough competition as it is?’ Sir Linden looked gloomily at the other drones being groomed. ‘In any case, the dark fellow was last seen leading the field in pursuit of a very fine princess, and is probably now king in some sumptuous palace. Run and tell your dreary priestesses that.’

‘Fresh news, I shall!’ Sister Prunus bobbed a curtsy, rejuvenated with excitement. ‘News is always of value to Sister Sage – thank you, Your most generous Maleness.’ She ran off.

Flora started after her, anxious to be gone.

‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Sir Linden pointed to his crotch. ‘You have to groom me. I can’t be the only one without someone.’

At his strong smell, another pheromone lock burst open inside Flora’s antennae. Her mind flooded with disordered images—

—larva babies in their cradles – a shrivelled wing pulled taut—

She felt him trying to push her down.

‘Are you deaf? Groom me when I tell you – it’s the Law.’

A baby on a hook—

Flora shoved him away and ran out into the prayer-filled corridor. He followed.

‘I am a Prince of the realm! You will obey me!’

Trapped between the drone and a phalanx of identical Sage priestesses marching towards the Fanning Hall in a cloud of incense, Flora hunched herself down like the lowliest sanitation worker.

‘How dare you—’ Sir Linden lunged for her and slipped in the path of the Sage priestesses. Unable to pass a male without obeisances, they were forced to stop while he got to his feet, cursing wildly.

Flora did not look back but ran as fast as she could. She almost missed the small dark doorway, but as she dashed in to hide, the ground fell away under her feet and she tumbled, for it was not a room, but a staircase.

The steps were deep and steep and she kept her wings tight against her body as she struggled to right herself. Falling against an old wax wall, she clung and listened for pursuit from above.

There was neither scent nor sound, only the pumping of her own blood and the thirsty pull of air into her breathing spiracles. Flora forced her panic down. Her newly functioning antennae told her she was on the lowest level of the hive, and the final flight of steps levelled out into a narrow corridor that led to a door. She crept forward to scan what was beyond.

Through the old wax she first detected the distinctive odour of her own kin, and then the long inert forms of bees. It was a worker dormitory, and a cleaning detail. Deeply relieved, Flora opened the door – and stepped into the morgue.

Several of her kin-sisters stared back in equal surprise, then emitted a strange sound, that might have been laughter. One signalled her to close the door, then they continued taking bodies down from the racks. For the first time, Flora became conscious of a definite intelligence behind their strange faces. With a start of excitement, she understood that these floras were from the top echelon of Sanitation, taking the cadavers to the landing board, to fly them out of the hive.

Flora bit hold of the biggest, heaviest corpse she could see, a bald old sister from Patisserie with hidden pollen in her pockets. Then she followed her kin-sisters out of the morgue towards the sun-warmed wood of the landing board, and the vault of sky beyond.