Read the Story
Guess the Song
here's a clue...
He wasn’t there. Qwian scanned the gathered villagers again
while the Headman spoke the words of blessing for the honey hunt. The familiar
ritual brought her no comfort and she barely listened until mention of her own
name burst into her self-doubts.
‘Qwian was chosen by her father, whose
passing we grieve. And she has been visited by the dream so she must lead the
honey hunt in his place. Her shoulders are slight, with much resting on them.
Today the bees will make their own choice, confirming or rejecting.’ Gurratan’s
voice was clear and sharp as the diamond he was named after.
Qwian shivered in the dawn chill and her
heart hammered like war drums. Where was he? Surely he would not let her go on
the hunt without one gesture to wish her well. He knew she might die this day,
falling like her father had, one year ago, to death below the cliffs. What if
the bees slashed the bamboo ties of her rope ladder, as they had done to his?
When they argued last night, she’d told
Tau that she must walk her own path and if she died hunting honey, this was her
fate, like her father’s. Of course he retorted that death would find her more
easily half-way down a cliff attacked by giant bees than if she sat
cross-legged, weaving in her family hut, like the other women.
‘I am not like other women,’ she’d told
him and his eyes gleamed like stones wet with river-water but he had not kissed
her to make up. He’d turned away, stoking his fears to a blaze of resentment.
He could not even come with her. The Headman’s son was too precious to the
tribe’s future to be allowed to hunt honey. He could only wait to know if all
who set out returned and waiting was a humiliation fit for women, not warriors.
So he’d told her.
What if she did die today? Her thumping
heart told her that she would. Her father had said she must have the honey
hunter’s dream to follow in his footsteps so she’d told the Shaman of the one
where she climbed down a rainbow in pursuit of a dark red monkey. This
satisfied everybody although Qwian was sceptical about the way men’s interpretation
of dreams suited their plans.
Maybe she had never had the honey hunter’s
dream. Tau was not here because all the omens were bad and she would die.
Gurratan would be forced to buy a honey hunter from another tribe and the bees
would be angry at such disrespect. She did indeed carry a heavy burden on her
slight shoulders.
Gurratan brought the rite of well-wishing to
an end but it meant nothing to her if Tau was not here. The Headman handed her the
two long bamboo spears with square wooden ends that she would need for her
work. Her father’s spears, recovered undamaged from the shrubs around his
broken body, by the bees’ will. She had been there, his apprentice, when he
fell to his death and now the spears were hers. In such a manner did a child
become an adult. She bowed her head in acceptance as she took them.
‘Do not taste the honey,’ hissed Gurratan,
for her ears only. ‘You are still only a woman even if the bees accept you as
our honey hunter. If your father had
been blessed with sons, we would not have come to this.’
© Yunchuan luo |
As she raised her head, she felt some shift
in the scene, the presence of the newcomer, before she saw him, coming out of
the shadows at the back of the gathering. Dawn sunlight bronzed hair that hung
straight as weighted threads on a loom. Tau. His face granted no smile but he
raised one arm slowly, put his hand on his heart and offered it to her in mime.
Qwian’s open palm caught his invisible heart
and placed it on her own, in a gesture that could have been acceptance of
Gurratan’s words. But was not. Her heartbeat steadied and now she was ready.
She would not die this day because she was born for bees.
Now
she could smile and so she did. ‘The day begins well,’ she told her team of
twelve hunters and she turned her back on the village to lead the way with her
spears through the surrounding jungle to the place of preparation.
On the previous day, the honey hunters had
carried bamboo ropes, slats of wood and a wicker basket to the sacred clearing
above the high cliffs. They’d braved the freezing river, helping each other
across on the slippery stones. Two men had been caught by leeches and their
wounds were still bleeding. This time they knew all the danger spots and could
move more quickly without their burdens, chanting songs to bring courage.
When they reached the place of
preparation, they needed no word from Qwian to set about their tasks. The ropes
and slats were assembled as ladders and the bamboo-shoot joints were double-checked.
Nobody spoke of the death of Qwian’s father but she knew they all carried the
blackness of it, like the rage of bees. This day’s harvest would be in homage
to him.
With nods and whistles, their work at the top
of the cliff was done and the group split into two as the May sunshine grew
stronger. One team took the pathway down to the base of the cliffs, avoiding
the bees.
Last year, Qwian had been among them.
She’d gathered wood and saplings for the fires, secured the rope sent down from
the top. She’d shinned up the rope carrying leafy brushwood and lodged it in
crevices, just below the huge scallops of honeycomb, so that the smoke would
reach the bees without hurting them. The roar of the giant bees drew her, spoke
to her in a language she did not yet understand.
‘Be patient,’ her father had said, before
he fell to his death.
She’d been fanning flames upwards, proud
of her work with the brushwood, when he reached out with his spear to dislodge
more comb. The cliff was black with giant bees, clouded with smoke but she saw
him stretch, saw the ladder tilt impossibly as a slat gave way. He should have
been held by two security ropes.
Had he slipped them to reach that tempting
honeycomb, just out of reach? Had the
jerk on the two security ropes been too much for the trees that held them on
top? Had the knots come loose? In the confusion of smoke and fire, fall and death,
cause was irrelevant. The bees had decided.
When the first whistle came from below, Qwian
looked over the edge. She saw the first wisps of smoke and the first black
clouds of bees swarming in panic two hundred ladder-steps below. She could
glimpse the team of fire-starters, like ants scurrying in and out of flames
another hundred ladder-steps or so further down the cliff.
Her stomach filled with wings. Tau was
right. A woman could be safe weaving in her hut.
The men beside her gestured, whistled back
to those below. All was ready. It was time.
She donned the honey hunter’s veil, her
only protection. Anything more would show disrespect to the bees, deny the bond
they shared. She murmured the words due to the gods, attached the two security
ropes and started to climb down the ladder into the smoke and black buzz, into
the heart of bees.
Then
Qwian was lost, choking in fumes, her entire body vibrating in the wrath of
bees that bounced off her veil, her arms. They were almost weightless but there
were so many she was suffocating in bees. Thousands of them in contagious
panic. She must fly! She pulled on one of the security ropes, the signal to
lift her up again, get her to safety. She could not do this!
Nothing changed. Was this how her father
died? Wondering why he’d been abandoned?
A rope whistled down beside her, snaking
through the blinding white, dangling an empty basket that stopped close enough for
her to hook it with a spear. The men were good at their jobs. They’d
interpreted her jerk of panic as a sign to send down the basket and they’d
guessed where she was on the cliff face. They’d guessed well.
Already she was adapting to short breaths,
closed mouth, listening to bees and echoes, marking the position of the
honeycomb each time she had a clear view of the glistening hives. She made a
tentative stab, swung a little on the ladder, stabbed again. She would do this. She grew used to the
swing of the ladder as she stretched more, became braver, determined to
dislodge the first comb.
© Patricio Sánchez |
Nearly
severed, Qwian thought. She used one spear to position the basket and then
gave a last jab with the other. Stretching the last sticky dollop of dark red honey
as it ripped free, the comb dropped into the waiting basket, which jerked with
the weight. Immediately, the basket was lowered by the top team to those on the
ground.
Qwian swung on her ladder, waiting for the
empty basket to come back up, so she could fill it again. She was a honey
hunter surrounded by her bees. Her mouth opened in laughter and at that moment
a breeze of bees lifted her veil and smacked her mouth with a morsel of
honeycomb. She licked it instinctively, the mad honey made from rhododendron
nectar. Aphrodisiac honey, that made men crazy or healed them. Forbidden honey
that she should not taste.
Fly, the bees told her. Fire!
Dangerous!
She understood them in their language but
it did not seem strange. Their voices were in her head.
‘We are not robbers but guests in your
home. Thank you for the gift of honey,’ she told them politely, licking the
last bit from a corner of her mouth as blackness zoomed around her, too fast to
be more than fuzzy shapes.
We will need you, they told
her. Your hive and ours. Never forget
our gifts and your promise.
Her head swimming, Qwian saw the smoke
curl into a girl’s face surrounded by bees. Then the girl was running through a
forest. A bee tattoo glittered on her thigh, came to life, took flight. The
smoke blanked white and the vision was gone, broken by an empty basket,
returning from below.
Remember, the bees buzzed. Then
they stung her so she would not forget but she just laughed. The stings did not
hurt her. Qwian shook her head to clear her thoughts of honey madness.
She heard the bees say, We must protect
our queen. We must protect you… and then all she heard was humming. She set
to work once more, careful to take only outer honeycomb, leave the heart of the
beehive safe, where the new brood was in capped wax cells. Where the queen was
at work, laying eggs. Protect the queen.
After four heaped basketfuls of comb, Qwian’s
work was done and she jerked on both ropes to show she was coming up. The
ascent was slow, her limbs suddenly stiff with fatigue, and she let the men
help her onto firm ground. Her legs shook as if she was still swaying on the
ladder and she disguised her weakness by sitting.
Someone passed her the leather bottle and
she eased her throat with freezing river-water. Waiting is women’s work,
she thought. On the ground below, the men were mashing comb and straining the
precious honey into their containers. On the top, ropes and ladders were
untethered and dismantled. Qwian had earned her moment resting.
When the honey harvest arrived on the
cliff top, each man saluted Qwian, kissing her spears in reverence.
‘The bees have recognised your father’s
daughter,’ they said.
More could not be said without transgressing
the mystery of bees and Qwian had no desire to ask questions. She too was
reluctant to talk about her experience. And of course she could not say she had
tasted the honey. She merely looked on, indulgent, while each man took his
allotted gulp of honey and became talkative, foolish or quarrelsome, as was his
nature.
Although each felt the urge, nobody
returned to the honey-pot for more. Nobody wished to go home in the shame of
drunken sickness, remembered only in jokes. This harvest was their triumph,
worth a fat year for the village.
The trek homeward was lighter in spirit than the outward journey, not just because of the honey’s effect. Now the men could tell stories of past hunts and talk of Qwian’s father. She felt his approval like a warm blanket on a cold night.
They called out as they approached the
village, to let all know they were returning. This time, Qwian did not need to
search for the one person who mattered. Tau, in front of the other villagers,
did not wait for her to reach him but rushed towards her, heedless of custom.
‘You came back,’ he said.
‘I will always come back,’ she replied,
losing words in a kiss that tasted of mad honey. ‘For the honey,’ she murmured,
kissing him again. ‘And you.’
Did you guess the song title?
A Taste of Honey - Piers Faccini, Luca Aquino
website: www.jeangill.com |
Jean Gill is an award-winning Welsh writer, photographer and registered beekeeper living in the south of France with two big scruffy dogs, a beehive called Endeavour, a Nikon D750 and a man. She was the first woman to be a secondary headteacher in Wales and, as she is mother or stepmother to five children, life was always hectic. Best known for The Troubadours Quartet, ‘a whole bag of Discovered Diamonds’ (Helen Hollick), Jean’s latest novel is eco-fantasy featuring a shape-shifting heroine and her fellow bees.
Discovering Diamonds has reviewed Jean's Troubadour Quartet
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There will be another story inspired by a song tomorrow!
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The Full List of Authors
December
4th Helen Hollick Promises, Promises
5th Paul Marriner Memories
6th Pam Webber One Door Closing
8th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Sticks and Stones
9th Judith Arnopp Secrets
10th Erica Lainé Silk Stockings
11th Anna Belfrage Hold Me, Love Me, Leave Me?
12th Annie Whitehead Frozen
13th Tony Riches Alas, My Love
14th Clare Flynn, Zipless
15th J.G. Harlond The Last Assignment
16th Elizabeth St John Under The Clock
17th Alison Morton Honoria’s Battle
18th Jean Gill The Hunter
19th Patricia Bracewell Daddy's Gift
20th Debbie Young It Doesn't Feel Like Christmas
21st Ruth Downie Doing It Properly
23rd Elizabeth Chadwick The Cloak
24th / 25th CHRISTMAS BREAK
27th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Just The One... Or Maybe Two
28th Deborah Swift Just Another Day
30th Cryssa Bazos River Mud
31st HAPPY NEW YEAR
Note: There is copyright legislation for song lyrics
but no copyright in names, titles or ideas
As a bee lover I found this story fascinating - we must take care of our bees, plant bee-friendly flowers and shrubs in our gardens. And, of course, enjoy the honey they provide us with!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Helen. Becoming a beekeeper is something I'm very proud of, especially starting from NO knowledge and doing the practical training all in french, here in Provence! Honey hunters are still at work in this way, in Nepal and rhododendron honey does create hallucinations - or do worse!
DeleteWonderful story Jean - of trust, respect, tenacity... and such lovely world-building.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Annie! I drew on the continuing traditions of Nepalese honey-hunters but took them into my eco-fantasy world, back in the past...
DeleteA story of grit and hope set in a beautifully depicted different world.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Anna!
DeleteTotally captivating! I was taken into another world entirely, yet one that I could recognise. well done, Jean
ReplyDeleteThank you, Richard!
DeleteExcellent story, resuced me from the brink of madness induced by lost Christmas mail - thank you. I didn't guess the song :/
ReplyDeleteChristmas madness is more prevalent than that brought on by rhododendron honey! I thought the last line would give the song away for sure but I've been absolutely useless at guessing the songs - have scored 1 out of 18 (2 if I count my own :) )
DeleteIve only guessed two but I must confess, I don't really listen outside my own playlist :/
DeleteA wonderful evocative story. It certainly added to my enjoyment of my morning coffee. And I'd no idea that rhododendron honey had such properties! I wonder if they keep bees up at Cragside which has the most amazing rhodies. mmm. Appropriate song choice too!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Clare! Strange but true re 'mad honey' and it's still harvested in the traditional way in Nepal by VERY brave men!
DeleteWonderful writing, so much said without unnecessary words. I love this version of the song too, just right for your story.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jane!
DeleteWhat a beautiful story to come home to!
ReplyDeleteAs ever, your writing is original and evocative: "his eyes gleamed like stones wet with river-water".
And for once I actually guessed the song!
Thank you, Alison - that's a compliment I shall treasure! - and congratulations on guessing the song!
DeleteAn entertaining and inspiring tale in a time and place where women were deemed inferior to men. I loved the descriptions which brought the story to life. 🌺
ReplyDeleteThank you! So many brave women have been 'the first' to break through assumptions about our roles and I salute them all!
DeleteA sweet little story! Fascinating details about how people with limited technology get honey from almost inaccessible places! And I liked the link to the novels as well - I'll be looking out for that when the next one comes out!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Paul. I have read of an almost spiritual link between bees and individuals, in our time - certainly the people believe it to be spiritual - and I've watched Nepalese honey hunters on video. I think the courage, teamwork and trust shown in this work, which is also a sacred ritual, link the human race with all of nature, present with past.
Delete