Hive

  I joined Celia and other girls sitting closest to the hub – the flat steel circle that was the centre of the garden house – while the men and women sat behind us, leaning back to back for support. Further out, uncles and aunts lowered themselves onto bamboo stools. Fiona sat apart, closer to the forest border, and I forced myself to watch her. She couldn’t even eat porridge like a normal person. She was slow and stupid, her lips parting as she chewed. She must have sensed my gaze, for she looked across, her blank eyes unsettling me. I shook my head a little, wanting her to know I wasn’t judging, though in truth I had been. She didn’t seem to care, her attention returning to the stewed fruit smearing the edge of her bowl.

  Please, God, I thought. Not that.

  As we ate, Llewellyn stood on the hub to conduct the morning meeting. Secondary jobs were assigned: morning would be for harvesting broad beans, leeks, silverbeet, tomatoes, radishes, sweet potatoes and rhubarb; the afternoon would be for mulching fruit trees, deadheading bulbs and planting more parsnips. It was summer, after all.

  ‘Celia, can you help with the climbers first thing?’

  Celia nodded, then she tapped into my hand. Sorry.

  I drew a circle in hers. Okay, I said, though it wasn’t. I’d wanted her to come with me to find the drip. I needed us both to know I hadn’t imagined.

  Wait? she signed. Afternoon?

  No.

  How could I focus on my morning routine of bees, flowers, forest, then strengthening exercises and meditation? How could I do anything but go back?

  Now, I signed. Alone. Okay.

  I had to go back to the way that morning, even if it meant going without her.

  Geoffrey wasn’t at the threshold to the engine house. Old people could be especially slow in the mornings, with their endless stretching postures and habits of teas, and so, spared his riddles, I let myself under the dropnet and stepped inside the engine house.

  To my chest I clutched the collection box, inside of which was the blue-banded bee I’d trapped by a salvia plant. I hadn’t explained my actions to Penny, the junior beekeeper, and she hadn’t noticed anyway, preoccupied as she was with the other young girls picking dahlias for dye.

  I needn’t have bothered with the bee or the box, for none of the enginers took notice of me. So early in the morning they were engrossed in their own, self-important busyness. Samples were being collected, tested, analysed. Numbers were called out and recorded. Buttons were pressed. Enginers clustered around screens that meant nothing to me, enabling me to walk unobserved through their corridors. Even the four enginers standing on a high platform didn’t realise I was there. I could have been invisible.

  I slipped into the engine-service way and slid the door shut behind me.

  Hand over hand, I felt along the wall, stepping warily around unwanted machines and other unseen things, until I reached the exact place I’d been the day before.

  There, in the darkness, I paused. Exhaled. Concentrated. I hadn’t come because of headpains. I’d come to dispel the possibility of madness.

  That morning, the air had a sharpness to it I hadn’t noticed before. That’s not what alarmed me, though.

  It was the utter silence. Too much silence. There wasn’t a single sound. Not a drip.

  I squeezed shut my fists, then my eyes. Please, God. My thoughts expanded in the quiet. Please. Please tell me I didn’t imagine.

  I held my breath, listening hard, willing that drip to come.

  It didn’t.

  I unclenched my hands and reached up, seeking the curve of the ceiling. Seeking proof. Outstretched, my hands trembled. Head tilted back, my jaw was a clamp as I waited, shook, hoped, until my chest burned and I gasped, inhaling the awful, shameful truth.

  There was no drip now, just as there was no drip yesterday. There’d only been my stupid, stupid imagining.

  Finally I understood: madness had always been coming for me.

  I thumped the back of my head hard against the wall like the stupid girl I was. Stupid for thinking I could beat my headpains. Stupid for thinking I could trick myself, and others. Stupid for pretending. For hoping I was different.

  I scrunched my face tight until my skin stung. I held in my screams. Held in my breath.

  And yet, there was breathing.

  Breathing?

  I stilled my head and listened. There were breaths, slow and shallow, warm and close.

  But wasn’t I alone?

  Was this how quickly madness took hold of the senses? One delusion after another? Even my eyes, when I looked down, conjured the outline of a foot that wasn’t mine.

  God.

  God?

  God knew all. God watched all. God worked in mysterious ways. God came for the dead and took them to heaven.

  But I wasn’t dead yet.

  Was I?

  I didn’t want to be dead, so I pushed off the wall and raced for the door, my feet tripping, stumbling, my body twisting as I fell, I think, into the other wall, first my shoulder then my head, and I cried out, perhaps, when I hit the ground.

  I tried to get up but couldn’t. Someone was above me – God? – one hand holding down my wrist, the other pressing against my mouth.

  Was this how God came for people who weren’t ready to die? Did he take them in tears? In terror? Was this how God smelled? Like brine?

  ‘Be quiet.’ It was He who spoke. God. Using my name. ‘Be quiet, Hayley. Be still.’ But I wasn’t still. I bit the fingers and His face dropped closer, his words spraying over me.

  ‘For God’s sake, Hayley, they’ll hear.’

  And they must’ve. For there came the scrape of a door and a thin slash of light from the engine house.

  Geoffrey was standing at the part-open door. I couldn’t see him but I knew the old man’s voice. ‘Wh-what is this?’ he stammered. ‘What is . . . what is going on?’

  What was going on? I didn’t know. I’d come looking for a drip. I was alone with the silence, then I wasn’t. I’d run, hadn’t I? I’d fallen. Then God had held me still and tried to quieten me with His hand.

  And now He was above me, though they weren’t the eyes of God. The eyes were wide and dark and afraid. The pupils shrank as more light found them. Pupils that seemed to be telling me something.

  ‘Who is in here? Wh-what is happening?’

  I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t shift my gaze. Those eyes.

  Then there was a push and a relief as the man eased himself off me. No, not a man, or a boy, but the son. The son of the judge.

  Freed of his weight, I still couldn’t move. Didn’t dare. The son had been in the way with me while I’d cried and banged my foolish head? The son knew that I’d trespassed. What else did he know?

  The son, when he straightened, slid his gaze over my body. I saw him tense. I looked down at myself, seeing what he did. On my dress, just below my stomach, was a wet mark, dark and spreading like blood.

  Before my fingers could go to it, I heard Geoffrey swear then slide the door shut, plunging the way into darkness once more. Now there were three of us inside: me on the floor, the silent son above, and an uncle demanding answers I didn’t have.

  ‘Explain yourselves!’ The sealed way echoed with Geoffrey’s tremulous words. Uncles were accustomed to riddles and chess, not interrogating members of the council, especially the son of the judge. ‘Is this what it looks like?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’ My own voice sounded shrill.

  The son’s, though, was calm. From the darkness his words came honey-thick.

  ‘Uncle, your timing is excellent, as always. Hayley’s had a little accident and we could do with your help.’

  A hesitation. ‘An . . . accident?’

  Like Geoffrey, I’d never heard the word.

  ‘Yes. Now would you mind opening the door so we all can see?’

&
nbsp; Though the dark revealed nothing, I could picture them both: a confused old man and the son, impassive as ever, even now, even here, in a place none of us should be, especially not together.

  What had the son been doing in this way?

  ‘Uncle,’ he repeated, ‘there’s been an accident. Hayley has a wound that requires attention. If you could please open the door we’ll be able to see what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘No.’ A response like a child. ‘Something . . . unlawful has been going on in here. A sin.’

  ‘Simply a misunderstanding, Uncle. After we tend to Hayley I will explain –’

  ‘Adultery!’

  The word made me wince. I knew that word and its awfulness. It was a sin worse than solitude or trespass, lying, wasting or hoarding. It was the reason sleeper doors were locked at night. Adultery was the worst sin of all.

  I heard a sigh. The son’s. ‘Uncle, you are clearly mistaken.’

  ‘I know what I saw.’

  What had he seen? The two of us, together. The son above me, his hand at my mouth to silence me. Was that what adultery meant? I’d thought it meant more.

  ‘Uncle, if you could please just open the door . . .’

  ‘I will not.’

  Another sigh and then a sound, barely more than a twig-snap. Out of the dark came a flare – a quick vivid flame. It was shocking, and brilliant, and I had to look away. Even then, blinded and blinking, I questioned what I’d seen. Had that been real? Or imagined? How much of this – the son in the way; a trembling uncle; a remarkable flame – was the work of madness?

  But when I dared to raise my eyes again, the flame was still there, burning.

  How could it be? There was only one fire in the world: the ovenfire, given by God in the first days, burning endlessly in the kitchen. Everyone knew that. Fire was precious, and dangerous.

  Yet here was fire, not in the kitchen oven but held in the hand of the son. Impossible fire that sprung from nothing and now cast light onto the son’s wrist, arm, chest, chin and mouth as he formed these careful words.

  ‘Uncle, no adultery has been committed here. You do realise who I am.’

  Geoffrey stared, as did I. Fire reflected in the wet eyes of an uncle who’d thought he’d seen it all. Dazed, he licked his thin lips, looking between the face of the son and the astonishing flame.

  ‘What trick is this?’ he said.

  It’s no trick, I thought. It’s magic. The son could magic fire and make it dance between his fingers.

  Again the son spoke softly, steadily. ‘Uncle, let us be clear: what you stumbled upon is an accident.’

  ‘Accident?’ Geoffrey repeated uncertainly.

  ‘The judge sent me to mend the old vent-holes.’ The son raised his eyes towards the ceiling, then lifted the hand which held the fire. I watched, transfixed. ‘The bees have been sneaking through. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes, I knew, but . . .’ Geoffrey’s neck trembled. ‘You were here together. Just the two of you.’

  ‘Hayley entered to catch a rogue bee, as she is supposed to. She was surprised to see me in here while I sealed up the vents, that’s all.’

  Surprised to see him? I hadn’t seen the son. He’d been in the dark and hadn’t announced himself when I’d entered. He’d been doing nothing but leaning against the same wall I had. All that time, as I’d cried and banged my head, he’d been beside me, unspeaking and unseen.

  Now, the son’s tall shadow flickered across the bare walls behind him. How calm he seemed, even when he lied.

  ‘In her surprise, Hayley fell. It was simply an accident.’

  The son was lying for both of us: he knew I hadn’t come seeking a rogue; I knew he hadn’t been mending the vents.

  Geoffrey’s head shook. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t like it.’

  The son laughed. ‘You don’t have to like it, Uncle. Some days, we don’t like our jobs much either – do we, Hayley?’

  ‘No,’ I said, quickly.

  Geoffrey’s face turned to find me again where I lay. His eyes looked over me. I looked too. In the golden gleam of the flame, I saw the wet smudge of blood on my dress. It confused me until I reached my fingers under my dress and felt a small sharp shard that was sticking out of my skin. I pulled it free and studied it, recognising a sliver of the rogue collection box. Other pieces, I now saw, were sprinkled either side of me. The box must have shattered when I’d fallen, or when the son had fallen upon me.

  ‘It’s from the box,’ I said as I pushed myself to sitting. ‘It’s broken.’

  I’d forgotten all about the bee until I felt it tickling the hair at the back of my neck. I raised my hand, too late, as the blue-banded murmured and flew up towards the ceiling.

  Stunned, I couldn’t even recall the word for bee, I could only make a noise and a gesture which the son understood. Get it. Trap it. This was my job, after all.

  And I was glad for the bee then – my excuse; my lie – as I watched the two men pursue it, moving instinctively to solve a problem they understood: the importance of preventing a bee from slipping into the engine house and threatening precious engines. The light swung erratically as they chased, the bee zigzagging upwards and away, its high-pitched hum a sharp echo in that airless place.

  With a thud, the buzzing stopped. It was Geoffrey who’d done it, his palm flat against the wall. He shouldn’t have killed the bee, but I didn’t care – there were plenty of others and, besides, it was further proof that I’d indeed come here chasing a rogue. When Geoffrey eased his hand from the wall, there it was, flat and real. He flicked away the squashed thing then, with a wince, squeezed the heel of his hand that was already swelling.

  The son broke the silence with a whoop. ‘I can hardly believe my own eyes, Uncle. Your timing is remarkable!’

  ‘It is, you were so fast!’ I added, knowing how old men valued flattery. Geoffrey’s chin lifted slightly, and I caught an inkling of pride.

  The son saw it too. ‘I’ll tell the judge how helpful you were. You’ve got the reflexes of a teenager, did you know?’ He clapped a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder as he passed him. ‘I mean, you’re fit as a fiddle. Just look at you.’ The son was stepping through the way between us, moving to the door of the engine house. There, he turned. ‘And sharp as a tack, to boot.’

  Geoffrey’s lips parted to speak, but before he could question or argue, the son had slid open the door. As he did so, the flame leapt back into its holding-tool, which the son then slipped back into his apron pocket. Such a smooth transition. As smooth as the son himself.

  He became a silhouette that simply stepped out to the engine house, where machines whirred and clunked, and voices called, in the manner they always did.

  Geoffrey and I remained. With the light that streamed in, I could see how sweat beaded on the old man’s upper lip and how his eyes glistened with bewilderment. He was trembling as he rubbed his swollen palm.

  When he turned to me, his face was pale. He seemed pained to see me, and I felt different now, under his scrutiny. To Geoffrey – and to the other uncles and aunts – I’d always been a clever girl, good at riddles and beekeeping, conscientious with chores. And now? I didn’t like how he gauged me.

  ‘I don’t know about that tool of the son’s,’ he muttered, ‘but I know what I saw. You two were in here . . . together.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I said, testing out the word.

  Geoffrey’s tongue wetted his lips. ‘This doesn’t sit right with me. Any of it. Even the rogue. This is a strange place for a bee to come, wouldn’t you think?’

  I nodded. Everything about the engine-service way was strange: how it should ease my headpains; how it should drip water one day and not the next. Stranger still was to find the son in the dark, then have him stop me, quieten me, stare me down. Despite the smooth lies from his lips, there’d been fear in his eyes.

>   All of this was strange, but at least it was real. None of it was of my imagining.

  ‘I’ve solved your riddle,’ I told Geoffrey, wanting to please him. ‘It’s a secret. Once I am shared –’

  He snapped, ‘I don’t care. Go to the sickroom. Get your wound tended.’

  Then, with a final grimace, he stepped out into the engine house.

  Alone, I slumped against the wall. Only then did I remember why I’d come.

  The drip.

  I looked up to discover the old vent-holes had been newly sealed, just as the son had said. There were fresh, wet circles of mending. He hadn’t lied about that.

  One of the circles, though, was larger than the others. It was further along the way, above the place where I’d stood the day before. It was the exact part of the ceiling where the water had dripped.

  Even as I stood and watched, the wide circle seemed to shimmer, its edges creeping in as it dried. It shrank until it vanished, until no proof remained that there’d ever been a mending, or a drip.

  Alone in the way, there was just me and a lingering salty-sweetness.

  My skin chilled with goosebumps as the truth rushed through me.

  There had been a drip! The drip was real and the son had mended it.

  I gasped freely, eagerly. A sob. A laugh.

  I hadn’t imagined!

  I couldn’t wait to tell Celia and so I raced back to the garden, relieved and weightless, buoyant with joy.

  I’m not mad! The realisation blossomed in my mind. I’m not mad yet.