A Modern-Day Fairy Tale
Queen Apis the Fourteenth was worried. One of her workers had reported that the developers were there again, barely a year after the township, by the slimmest of margins, had turned them away. Naturally the drones pooh-poohed her worry. But what did drones know? They were lazy, unconcerned, and only interested in one thing. Apis knew whom she could trust. Yet she needed to be absolutely sure, so as not to alarm the whole colony unnecessarily.
Unfortunately she was confined by tradition to her cell — an elaborate one, to be sure, with enough royal jelly to last her for life — in a supremely happy hive. So, with apologies to the messenger, whom she was loath to offend, she sent out two more to confirm the sighting. The moment they crawled back in, Apis knew she had not been misled. The girls were clearly sad, all of their eyes downcast, their wings drooping almost to the floor of the hive.
Developers, according to apian lore passed from queen to queen, were there for one reason: to destroy, reshape, and deface (“beautify,” they called it!) the landscape. Queens Apis the Eleventh and Thirteenth had received reports from nearby townships during their reigns: farms giving way to high-rises, paths to paved roads, meadows and trees to close-cropped lawns, quiet to noise, the scents of nature to exhaust fumes.
And beehives were always the first to go. As if the carefully planted flowers and trees didn’t also need pollinating. Such shortsightedness! So typical of the corporate mentality: uproot, build, sell, pocket the money, and move on to the next act of despoliation.
Mr. and Mrs. Honig, who owned and lovingly nurtured Queen Apis’s hive, had participated in one township meeting after another to block further residential or commercial development. They didn’t want their legacy of farming plowed into the ground forever; and they also loved their bees, the more so because they had been unable to have children. But then, maybe calling it quits was for the best, so that their nephews and nieces wouldn’t fight over title to the farm. The bees were aware of their owners’ valiant struggle and saw to it that the Honigs’ honey jars were never empty.
So far the farm had survived, thanks to the collaboration of other beekeepers, but Apis was afraid that, later if not sooner, their way of life was doomed. Those commercial interests were insatiable — and they had money, whose lure none of the bees understood.
Then the unthinkable happened: Mr. Honig had a massive heart attack. Despite the best efforts of his doctors, the devoted care of his wife, and all the extra honey the bees could make, he died.
The bee colony was silent. Not a buzz was heard for a full twenty-four hours; no bee left or entered the hive. But Apis realized that mourning alone was not enough; she wanted to honor her owners with a substantial gesture. So on the second day after Mr. Honig’s death she convened the colony, and was greeted by the heartwarming sight of more drones than had ever shown up before.
A robin, struck by the unprecedented inactivity of the hive, watched anxiously from a tree.
“My dear children,” Queen Apis began, “we’ve spent many happy summers here, but I fear the good times are over. Now that Mr. Honig is gone, who’s to advocate for us? Can Mrs. Honig continue to run the farm alone? Won’t she be tempted to sell out and retire?”
A mournful buzz arose from the assemblage as the meaning of their queen’s words sank in. “O what shall we do?” they wailed in unison.
Apis knew that her leadership would be tested, and when her worst fears came true she was prepared. The hive would have to go, and her beloved children would have to find other homes — facing she knew not what obstacles. So she assembled them once more and told of her plan.
“The Honigs fought bravely for us year after year. We owe them our appreciation.” She called on the worker who had first warned her of the invaders’ appearance and directed her to sit at her feet. Next she took an unprecedented step and called for a volunteer drone. All the drones eagerly waved their wings, hoping they’d be called on. What could their queen possibly have in mind that required the service of a drone? Each vied with the others to satisfy her.
Apis was moved to smile at the drones’ willingness to come to the aid of the family, although the ambiguous meaning of her smile escaped her happy volunteers. After a while she picked one and directed him to sit next to the worker. The buzzing ceased as she held up her wings for silence.
“This is your mission,” she began, addressing the two chosen ones. “It may take time and I don’t want either of you to fail because you’re exhausted. So spell each other when necessary. You must command Mrs. Honig’s attention non-stop.”
“But what shall we say to her?” the drone asked. This was not what he had expected, but still he felt honored.“It’s a simple message,” Queen Apis answered, “and once she truly hears it, she’ll fill in the details of her own accord. Above all, be persuasive.”
Apis explained, and both her subjects nodded understanding.
She then summoned another worker to inform the robin waiting in the tree as to her intention. With a mixture of sadness and understanding, the robin also nodded his head. That same day he took council with his flock and asked for the perpetual commitment of them and all future generations, for they would eventually be called to duty — for countless years to come.
At the funeral service Mrs. Honig wept bitterly — for her husband, for her farm, which she knew she could not maintain alone, and for her beloved bees. But she too, like Queen Apis, knew that tears alone would not be enough. She must do something to keep her husband’s memory alive after the shock of his loss had abated, not only in her mind but also in the collective minds of all who had known him. The headstone on his grave would not suffice; every other grave in the cemetery had one, and they all bore such predictable, unimaginative inscriptions.
But what could she do? She was too tired to think.
Once home, she removed her bonnet and was greeted by an eerie silence. So this is what loneliness felt like! Was she experiencing a taste of the rest of her life? She undressed, lay down, and went to sleep.
The next morning found her somewhat refreshed, but the expanse of unoccupied bed next to her reminded her that her life had changed forever. With a deep sigh she got up, made herself breakfast, and turned her mind to the practical necessities of living. All the flowers left in her living room would not feed her; she needed bread, meat, and milk, among other supplies. So she donned her coat and bonnet and set out. On her way to the market she became aware of a thought buzzing around in her head, but she couldn’t make out just what she was thinking. She even found it hard to focus on her shopping.
Silence returned after she removed her street clothes at home, but she couldn’t think what to do next. If only she could bring order out of her confusion!
That afternoon she decided to visit the grave and place some of the donated flowers on it. A wind had sprung up and she needed a head cover, but no sooner had she tied her bonnet than the buzzing began anew.
Oh well, she thought, at least it was better than total silence.
As she approached the cemetery, she suddenly stopped in her tracks. Without warning, a plan had materialized in her head. Feeling as if relieved of a heavy load, she resumed her walk with resolute step, brushing away a tickling sensation on her cheek as she went. She deposited the flowers, wiped away more tears — and stopped again. Something else had changed: she no longer heard the buzzing!
Back at the hive brother and sister reported on their mission. “Well done,” said Apis. “Let success be your reward, and don’t fall to arguing whose voice was the more persuasive!” The drone gave the worker’s wing an affectionate squeeze as they promised to be faithful to their queen’s command.
On her way back from the grave, Mrs. Honig wrote a check and handed it to the man in the office. “Give this to the manager and have him call me right away.
”She was barely home when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Honig, this is Chris Everrest, the cemetery manager. I just stopped by the office and Joe gave me your check. That’s an extraordinary gift! I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Mrs. Honig. “You know the path that leads to my husband’s grave?” Before he could answer, she added, with breaking voice, “Our grave; it’s mine too, you know.”
“Yes, I do, Mrs. Honig. And I hope it’ll be a long time before you claim your half.”
“That path is pretty bare on both sides, don’t you agree?”
Everrest didn’t answer right away. Was Mrs. Honig unhappy with the way he managed the cemetery? Should he defend his grounds plan, and risk irritating a donor? He disciplined himself and decided not to challenge her. “I suppose it is.”
“I’m not criticizing the cemetery,” Mrs. Honig went on, as though sensing his anxiety. “I just have an idea, and I’m willing to pay to have it implemented. That’s what the check is for. It’s postdated, in case you didn’t notice.
”Everrest covered the phone while giving a sigh of relief. Then he said, “Anything I can do will be my pleasure. What did you have in mind?”
She told him. After a moment’s thought he said, “Come into the office. Let’s talk.”
That fall a group of gardeners planted a young male holly next to the path, some twenty feet from Mr. Honig’s grave. In due course it produced flowers and attracted bees, which went about gathering their pollen. No one had ever seen so many bees around a single tree. People wondered why and where they came from, and why they seemed uninterested in the other flowers in the cemetery. Mrs. Honig wondered too, but she had an idea that she was embarrassed to share with her friends, lest they laugh at her.
For shortly after her husband’s death Mrs. Honig had indeed sold the farm. The pain of severing the last connection to her old life was eased by the developer’s generous offer. On top of that, an acquaintance living two miles away bought the hive intact and relocated it out of harm’s way. The bees, from queen to drones, shed sweet tears of gratitude and vowed to follow Mrs. Honig anyplace they could serve her.
Mrs. Honig was at peace and unafraid of death; she had done her duty by her husband and her bees. As fate would have it, though, she lived another ten years, during which the holly grew into a sturdy tree casting a comforting afternoon shade on Mr. Honig’s grave. Inevitably, Mrs. Honig’s day came and she was laid to rest next to her husband. That week the gardeners returned to plant a female holly across the path from its predecessor. It too gained stature with the years and produced flowers.
Queen Apis the Twenty-first convened her colony. “Now you know where to take the pollen; you don’t have far to go.”
Next summer all the queen’s workers, ignoring flowers closer to home, commuted daily to the cemetery. Here they shuttled back and forth across the path near the Honigs’ grave, carrying pollen from anther to stigma. The result was a spectacular proliferation of red berries in the fall, which fed flocks of robins during the snowy winter that followed.
The birds dropped the seeds in places far and near to germinate. Within the cemetery boundaries the sprouts were cut off, in the course of routine maintenance, as soon as they broke ground. On its outskirts natural forces permitted uncounted numbers to grow. Generation after generation of hollies followed.
The cemetery is a quiet place. Visitors, undistracted by noise, muse as they read headstone inscriptions, noting dates and wondering about the lives and times of the deceased. They admire the plantings. Some are curious about the pair of hollies. One such visitor, meeting another on the path, asked:
“Do you know anything about these trees? They seem to be the only ones in the whole place. They’re nice.”
“Oh, you mean the Honig Hollies,” the stranger replied with a smile.
“What a peculiar name!” “The Honigs — you see their names on that headstone — made a generous gift to have them planted. They didn’t say anything about having the trees named, but Chris Everrest, the manager, told me that he liked to think of them as the Honig Hollies. In fact, he plans to tag them with their names, Mr. on one side of the path and Mrs. on the other. You should see the birds picking the berries in the winter. It’s a beautiful sight! So much life in a place supposedly reserved for the dead. Then, in the summer, the bees constantly buzz back and forth. I’m not afraid of them, and I’ve never heard of anyone being stung; they seem happy just doing the job Nature assigned them.”
The birds and the trees were doing their assigned jobs just as conscientiously. No living person remembered the events that brought this team together, but less than a stone’s throw away Mr. and Mrs. Honig rested in blissful peace, because they knew.