Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (22 page)

A brief, violent shudder went through me as I thought of the beehives in my old garden—knocked over by the flight of a murderer, the scent of honey from the broken combs mingling with crushed leaves and the sweet, butcher-thick smell of spilled blood.

This time, though, the only foreign body inside the fence was John Quincy Myers, tall and ragged as a scarecrow, and looking quite at home among the red-flowered bean vines and sprouting turnips.

“There you be, Missus Fraser!” he said, smiling widely at sight of me. “You're well come in your time, as the Good Book says.”

“It does?” I had some vague notion that the Bible might include some mention of bees—perhaps John Quincy's blessing came from the Psalms or something? “Er…Brianna said that I should come and…bless the bees?”

“Fine-lookin' woman, your daughter,” Myers said, shaking his head in admiration. “Seen precious few women that size, and none of 'em what you'd call handsome. All pretty lively, though. How did she come to wed a preacher? You wouldn't think a prayin' man would be able to do right by her—I mean, in the ways of the flesh, as you might—”

“The bees,” I said, somewhat louder. “Do you know what I should be saying to them?”

“Oh, to be sure.” Recalled to the matter at hand, he turned toward the western edge of the garden, where the battered bee skep had been placed on a board atop a rickety stool. To my surprise, he reached into his bulging knapsack and withdrew four shallow pottery bowls made of the soft white glazed porcelain called creamware, which lent a disconcertingly formal note to the occasion.

“For the ants,” he said, handing me the bowls. “Now, there's a mort o' folk what keep bees,” he explained. “The Cherokee do, and the Creek and Choctaw and doubtless some kinds of Indian I don't know the names of, too. But there's the Moravians, down to Salem—that's where I got the ant bowls and the skep. And they got their own ways, too.”

I had a vision of John Quincy Myers, clad in a buzzing blanket of bees, strolling down the streets of Salem, and smiled.

“Wait,” I said. “You surely didn't carry those bees all the way from Salem!”

“Why, no,” he said, looking mildly surprised. “Found 'em in a tree just a mile or so from your house. But when I heard you 'n' Jamie was back in your place, I had it in mind to bring you some bees, so I was a-looking out for 'em, see?”

“That was a very kind thought,” I assured him, with great sincerity. It was, but a small, disquieting question popped up in the back of my mind. John Quincy was a law unto himself, and if we were being biblical today, one might easily call him a brother to owls. He roamed the mountains, and if anyone knew where he went or why, they hadn't told me.

But from what he'd said, he'd been coming to Fraser's Ridge on purpose, knowing that Jamie and I were here. There were the letters he'd brought, to be sure…but the way the backcountry post worked was for letters to be passed from hand to hand, friend or stranger carrying them on, so long as the letters' direction lay in their own path—and handing them to someone else when it diverged. For John Quincy to come here with the specific intent of delivering letters implied that there was something rather special about them.

I had no time to worry about the possibilities, though: Myers was winding up a brief exegesis on Irish and Scottish beekeepers, and coming to the point at issue.

“I know a few of the blessings folk use for their hives,” he said. “Not that I'd call what them Germans say sounds much like my notion of a blessing.”

“What do they say?” I asked, intrigued.

His bushy gray brows drew together in the effort of recall.

“Well, it's…what you may call abrupt. Let me see now…” He closed his eyes and tilted up his chin.

“Christ, the bee swarm is out here!

Now fly, you my animals, come.

In the Lord's peace, in God's protection,

come home in good health.

—

“Sit, sit, bees.

—

“The command to you from the Holy Mary.

You have no holiday; don't fly into the woods;

Neither should you slip away from me.

Nor escape from me.

“Sit completely still.

“Do God's will,”
he finished, opening his eyes. He shook his head. “Don't that beat all? Tellin' one bee to sit still, let alone a thousand of 'em at once? Why would bees put up with something unmannerly like that, I ask you?”

“Well, it must work,” I said. “Jamie's brought home honey from Salem, many times. Maybe they're German bees. Do you know a more…mannerly blessing?”

His lips pursed dubiously, and I caught a glimpse of one or two ragged yellow fangs. Could he still chew meat? I wondered, revising the dinner menu slightly. I could dice the rabbit meat small and stir it into scrambled eggs with chopped onions…

“I suspect I remember most of this'n…

“
O God, Creator of all critters, You bless the seed and make it profitable…
is that right, profitable? Yes, I reckon that's it…
profitable to our use. By the intercession of…
well, there's a passel of saints or somesuch in there, but dang if I recall anybody but John the Baptist—though if anybody should know about honey, you'd think it'd be him, wouldn't you? What with the locusts and livin' in a bearskin—though why anybody'd do like that in a hot place like I hear the Holy Land is, I surely couldn't say. Anyway…” His eyes closed again, and he stretched out his hand, almost unconsciously, toward the bee skep, wreathed in a slow-moving cloud of flying bees.

“
By the intercession of whoever might want to intercede, will You be mercifully hearin' our prayers. Bless and sanctify these here bees by Your compassion, that they might…
Well,” he said, opening his eyes and frowning at me, “it says,
abundantly bear fruit,
though any damn fool knows it's honey you want 'em to be abundant with. Still.” The wrinkled lids closed against the dying sunlight again, and he finished, “
for the beauty and adornment of Your holy temple and for our humble use.

“They's a bit more,” he added, dropping his hand and turning to me, “but that's the meat of it. What it comes down to, I'd say, is you can bless your bees any way as seems fit to you. The only important thing—and you maybe know this already—is that you got to talk to 'em regular.”

“About anything in particular?” I asked warily, flexing my fingers and trying to recall if I'd ever had a conversation with my previous hives.

I probably had, but not consciously. I was, like most gardeners, in the habit of muttering to myself among the weeds and vegetables, execrating bugs and rabbits and exhorting the plants. God knew what I might have said to the bees along the way…

“Bees are real sociable,” Myers explained, and blew one of them gently off the back of his hand. “And they're curious, which only makes sense, them goin' back and forth and gatherin' news with their pollen. So you tell 'em what's happening—if someone's come a-visitin', if a new babe's been born, if anybody new was to settle or a settler depart—or die. See, if somebody leaves or dies,” he explained, brushing a bee off my shoulder, “and you
don't
tell the bees, they take offense, and the whole lot of 'em will fly right off.”

I could see quite a few similarities between John Quincy Myers and a bee, in terms of gathering news, and smiled at the thought. I wondered if he'd be offended at finding out that someone had kept a juicy piece of gossip from him, but on the whole, I doubted that anyone did. He had a gentleness that invited confidence, and I was sure that he kept many people's secrets.

“Well, then.” The sun was coming down fast now; the damp scent of the plants was strong and rays of light knifed between the palisades, vivid amid the rustling shadows of the garden. “Best get on with it, I suppose.”

Given the disparate examples offered by John Quincy, I was fairly sure I could roll my own with regard to the blessing. We filled the four dishes with water and put them under the legs of the stool, to keep ants from climbing up to the hive, drawn by the scent of honey. A few of these voracious insects were already making their way up the stool's legs and I brushed them away with a fold of my skirt—my first gesture of protection toward my new bees.

John Quincy smiled and nodded at me as I straightened up, and I nodded back, reached out a tentative hand through the veil of bees coming in to the hive, and touched the smooth twisted straw of the skep. It might have been imagination, but I thought I could feel a vibration through my skin, just below the threshold of hearing, a strong and certain hum.

“Oh, Lord,” I said—and wished I knew the name of the patron saint of bees, for surely there must be one—“please make these bees feel welcome in their new home. Help me to protect and care for them, and may they always find flowers. Er…and quiet rest at the end of each day. Amen.”

“That'll do just fine, Mrs. Claire,” John Quincy said, and his voice was low and warm as the hum of the bees.

We left, closing and fastening the gate carefully behind us, and made our way down, out of the shadow of the towering chimney and along the eastern wall of the house. It was getting dark fast now, and the cooking fire leapt up as we came into the kitchen, shedding light on my waiting family.
Home.

“Speaking of news,” I said casually to Myers, “you said you'd brought letters. If one is for Jamie, who are the others for?”

“Why, one for the boy,” he said, skillfully skirting the hole Jamie had dug for the new privy. “Mr. Fergus Fraser's boy, Germain, I mean. And t'other for some'un called Frances Pocock. You got somebody here by that name?”

I WAS NO LONGER
amazed by the quantity of food required to feed eight people at a time, but seeing vast, steaming mounds of rabbit, quail, trout, ham, beans, succotash, onions, potatoes, and cress vanish within minutes into the bellies of twenty-two gave me a fresh qualm of apprehension about the coming winter.

Granted, it was still summer, and with luck, we would have good weather through the autumn…but that was only three or four months, at most. We had almost no livestock, other than the horses, Clarence the mule, and a couple of goats for milk and cheese.

Jamie and Bree spent half their time hunting, and we had a good supply of venison and pork hanging in the smoke shed at the moment, but even with hunting, trapping, and fishing by all hands, we’d likely need to trade for meat (oh, and butter!) before snowfall—and someone would have to go down to Salem or Cross Creek and bring back oatmeal—lots of oatmeal—rice, beans, parched corn, flour, salt, sugar…Meanwhile, I’d need to plant, pick, dig, and preserve like a mad thing in order to have enough to keep us from scurvy: turnips, carrots, and potatoes in the root cellar, along with garlic, apples, onions, mushrooms, and grapes hung to dry, tomatoes to be preserved by sun-drying or immersion in oil, if the bloody hornworms didn’t get them…oh, Christ, I couldn’t miss a day of the sunflower season; I needed all the seeds I could get, both for oil and for protein…and the medicinal herbs…

My mental list was interrupted by Brianna’s announcement that supper was ready, and I plumped down at the table next to Jamie, suddenly realizing all at once how hungry I was, how tired I was, and grateful for respite as well as food.

The Higginses had all come up for supper in order to hear John Quincy’s news, and with Ian, Rachel, Jenny, and the baby, the kitchen was a solid mass of people and talk. Luckily Rachel’s basket was a generous one and Amy Higgins had provided two enormous game pies made of doves and turkey, as well as the bread, and the pervasive scent of food acted like a sedative. Within moments, the only words heard were muffled requests to pass the corn relish, more pie, or the rabbit hash, and the kitchen worked its everyday magic, providing peace and nourishment.

Gradually, as people became full, conversation began again, but in a subdued fashion. Finally, John Quincy pushed away his empty tin plate with a deep sigh of repletion and gazed benignly round the table.

“Missus Fraser, Missus MacKenzie, Missus Murray, Missus Higgins…y’all done us right well tonight. I ain’t et that much at one sittin’ since last Christmas.”

“It was our pleasure,” I assured him. “I haven’t seen anyone eat that much since last Christmas.”

I thought I heard a muffled snigger behind me, but I ignored it.

“So long as we’ve a crust in the house, ye’ll always eat with us, man,” Jamie told him. “And drink, I hope?” he added, producing a full bottle of something undoubtedly alcoholic from under his bench.

“I wouldn’t say no, Mr. Fraser.” John Quincy belched slightly and beamed benevolently at Jamie. “I cain’t insult your hospitality, now, can I?”

Ten adults. I reckoned quickly through the available drinkware and, rising, managed to sort out four teacups, two horn cups, three pewter cups, and one wineglass, which I set in proud array on the table in front of Jamie.

While I was so occupied, though, John Quincy had opened the ball, so to speak, by producing a handful of letters from somewhere inside his tattered vest. He squinted thoughtfully at them and handed one across the table to Jamie.

“That ’un’s yours,” he said, nodding at it, “and this one here’s for a Captain Cunningham—don’t know him, but it says
Fraser’s Ridge
on it. He one o’ your tenants?”

“Aye. I’ll see he gets it.” Jamie reached across and took both covers.

“Thank ye kindly. And this’n here is for Miss Frances Pocock.” He waved the remaining letter gently, looking round for its recipient.

“Fanny!” Mandy shouted. “Fanny, you gots a letter!” She was red in the face with excitement, standing on the bench next to Roger, who was clutching her round the middle. Everyone turned, murmuring in curiosity, looking for Fanny.

Fanny herself rose slowly off the barrel of salt fish she’d been sitting on in the corner. She looked about, confused, but Jamie beckoned to her and she reluctantly came forward.

“Oh, so you’re Miss Frances! Why, ain’t you a comely lass, now.” John Quincy unfolded himself from the bench, gave her a low, courtly bow, and put the letter in her unresisting hand.

Fanny clutched the letter to her bosom with both hands. Her eyes were huge and had a look in them like those of a panicked horse on the verge of bolting.

“Hasn’t anybody ever written you a letter before, Fanny?” Jem asked, curious. “Open it and find out who sent it!”

She stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes swiveled to me, in search of support. I set the butter aside and beckoned her to come put the letter down on the table. She did, very gently, as though it might break.

It was no more than a single piece of rough paper, folded in thirds and sealed with a grayish-yellow blob of what looked like candle wax—grease from it had spread through the paper, and a few words showed black through the transparent spot. I picked it up, as delicately as I could, and turned it over.

“Yes, it’s definitely your letter,” I assured her. “
Miss Frances Pocock, in care of James Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, Royal Colony of North Carolina.
”

“Open it, Grannie!” Mandy said, hopping up and down in an effort to see.

“No, it’s Fanny’s letter,” I told her. “She gets to open it. And she doesn’t have to show it to anybody unless she wants to.”

Fanny turned to John Quincy and, looking up at him with great seriousness, said, “Who gave you the letter to bring to me, sir? Did it come from Philadelphia?”

Her face seemed to grow a shade paler as she said this, but Myers shook his head and raised a shoulder.

“It ain’t likely from Philadelphia, but I cain’t say for sure where it
is
from, darlin’. It was give into my hand in New Bern, when I happened to be there last month, but wasn’t the man who wrote it what give it to me. He were just passin’ it on, like, as folk do.”

“Oh.” The tension had left her shoulders, and she breathed more easily. “I see. Thank you, sir, for bringing it.”

She’d at least
seen
letters before, I thought; she slid her thumb under the fold without hesitation, though she loosened the seal, rather than breaking it, and set it down beside the unfolded letter. She stood close, looking down at it, but I could easily see it over her shoulder. She read it out loud, slowly but clearly, following the words with her finger.

“To Miss Frances Pocock

From Mr. William Ransom

Dear Frances,

I write to enquire after your health and well-being. I hope you are happy in your present situation and beginning to feel settled.

Please give my earnest thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Fraser for their generosity.

I am all right, though very much occupied at the moment. I will write again when the opportunity of a messenger offers.

Your most humble and obedient servant,

William Ransom”

“Wil-yum,” she murmured to herself, her finger touching the letters of his name. Her face had changed in an instant; it glowed with a sort of awed happiness.

Jamie moved slightly, beside me, and I glanced up at him. His eyes were warm with firelight, reflecting Fanny’s glow.

FANNY FLED WITH
her letter, and, puzzled, I leaned toward John Quincy.

“Didn’t you say that you’d brought a letter for Germain, too?” I asked under the rising hum of talk.

John Quincy nodded. “Oh, I did, ma’am. I give it to him already, though—met him coming back from the privy.” He glanced round the room, then shrugged. “Reckon he might have wanted to read it in private—was from his mother, I think.”

I exchanged wary looks with Jamie. Fergus had written in the early spring, with assurances that all was well with his family. Marsali felt as well as a woman eight months’ pregnant could reasonably be expected to feel; and he also listed the various objects he was sending north to Cross Creek for us. On both occasions, he’d sent brief but fond wishes to Germain. I had read one letter to Germain, Jamie the other—and on both occasions, Germain had just nodded, stone-faced, and said nothing.

Germain didn’t appear for dessert—slices of Amy’s bread with apple butter made by Sarah Chisholm as payment for my attending her younger daughter’s childbed—and I began to be seriously worried. He might have chosen to eat or stay the night with a friend; he often did, with or without Jemmy, but he was supposed to tell someone when he went visiting, and usually did.

Beyond that…I couldn’t think of any reason why he would choose to be absent when there was a visitor.
Any
visitor, let alone a colorful one like John Quincy Myers, whose very appearance promised entertaining stories as well as news. People would be coming by to visit for the next few evenings to hear him; I knew he’d be staying for a bit—but for tonight, he was ours alone.

Mandy was curled up on Myers’s lap at the moment, gazing up at him in wonder—though in her case, I thought it was his massive gray-streaked beard that was interesting her, rather than the story he was telling, which had to do with a case of adultery in Cross Creek last month that had resulted in a duel with pistols in the middle of Hay Street, in which the participants had both missed their opponents but had hit, respectively, a public water butt and a horse hitched to a gig, which had—the wound being minor but startling—caused the horse to run away with Mrs. Judge Alderdyce, who was sitting in the gig while her groom fetched a parcel for her.

“Was the poor lady hurt?” Bree asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” John Quincy assured her. “Madder ’n a wet hornet, though, and that’s pretty mad. When they stopped the gig and helped her out of it, she stomped right down the street to Lawyer Forbes’s rooms and made him write up a lawsuit ’gainst the man that winged her horse, right that very minute.”

The humor in Bree’s face changed in an instant at the mention of Neil Forbes, who had kidnapped her and sold her to Stephen Bonnet, but I saw Roger lay his hand over hers and squeeze. She sucked in one cheek for a moment, but then turned to him briefly and nodded, relaxing.

“Didn’t she take care of the horse first?” Jemmy asked, openly disapproving.

“Jim-Bob Hooper did,” Myers assured him. “That’s Mrs. Judge’s groom, what had been driving. Bit o’ salve and a nose bag—had the poor beast fixed up peart in no more than a minute.”

Jamie and Jemmy nodded as one, satisfied.

Talk turned back to the cause of the duel, but I didn’t stay to hear it. Fanny had come quietly back and was sitting on the end of a kitchen bench, smiling to herself as she listened to John Quincy talk. I bent to whisper in her ear as I passed.

“Do you know where Germain is?”

She blinked, pulled away from John Quincy’s spell, but answered readily.

“Yes’m. I think he’s on the roof. He said he didn’t want company.”