The Honey Thief (5 page)

‘Why have we stopped here, Abbas?’ he once asked the boy, and Abbas said, ‘Sir, I cannot guess.’ It was Abbas’ habit to address Ahmad Hussein as ‘Sir’ whenever he was asked a question. Ahmad Hussein did not say, ‘Relax, call me by my name,’ for he knew that the boy would find that difficult for a time. He also knew that Abbas was concentrating more on his grandfather than on beekeeping. But that would change, too.

Ahmad Hussein looked about left and right, behind, ahead. He looked at the sky. He looked at the grass. Then he said, ‘Abbas, what do you think of this field?’

Abbas said, ‘It’s a good field.’

‘Yes, but is it the right field, little brother?’

‘Yes, it is surely the right field.’

‘But is this the right place in the right field?’

‘Yes, it is surely the right place in the right field.’

‘Should we have a look at another field?’

‘No, this is the right one, Sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Why is it the right one?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then will we look at other places?’

‘Sir, I can’t say.’

‘Abbas, I have a question for you. The question is this: can a bee catch a cold?’

Abbas smiled. ‘Can a bee catch a cold? No. It is impossible, Sir.’

‘It is not impossible. A bee can catch a cold.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have seen a bee sneezing.’

‘No!’ said Abbas. Then before he could stop himself, he said, ‘God will punish you for telling lies!’

Ahmad Hussein laughed. He was teasing Abbas, but when a boy was as full of sorrow as this one, perhaps teasing could help.

‘I have seen a bee sneezing,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘When I said, “God bless you!” the bee said to me, “You say, ‘God bless you,’ Ahmad Hussein, and yet look where you have placed our house! You have placed it where the cold wind comes across the field!” It was true. I had placed his house where the cold wind troubled him. So now I am more careful. Now I place the beehives away from the cold, and away from the afternoon sun. Do you see now why we must take our time when we look for the right place in the right field?’

Ahmad Hussein spent five days teaching Abbas all of the things that had to be taken into account when placing the hives. Twenty-five judgements had to be made, he said, before the hives were set down in a field, and he not only told Abbas the twenty-five judgements, he wrote them down on paper when the two of them ate their lunch on the fifth day.

When Ahmad Hussein had finished his lunch, he said, ‘Do you know, Abbas, something happened in this field when I was your age that I would like to tell you about. Will you listen?’

Abbas said, ‘Of course, Sir.’

‘I came to this field all those years ago looking for the beehives of another man. At that time, I knew nothing of bees but I knew I liked honey. So I came here and stole the honey, just enough to satisfy my desire. It was the third time I’d stolen honey from the hives. Does that surprise you?’

Abbas was blushing. He said, ‘Surely you didn’t do such a thing!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘I had the devil in me sometimes when I was a boy. I stole the honey. But because it was my third theft, someone was hiding in the grass and waiting for me, waiting for the honey thief. Before I knew it, a man had hold of my neck. A stick came down on my behind, once, twice, twenty times, and I screamed and struggled. They were hard blows! Very hard! Then the beating stopped and I stood crying and rubbing my behind – dear God, how much it hurt! The man who had beaten me with the stick – he was watching and laughing. He said, “What did you enjoy most? The honey or the beating? Or was one better than the other?”’

‘Did you apologise for what you had done?’ asked Abbas. He was shocked to hear that his teacher had stolen the honey. Such a thing would never have occurred to him.

‘Did I apologise?’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘No, Abbas. I picked up a stone and threw it at the man. It hit him on the arm. Then he chased me all over the field, this very field in which we’re sitting, down that way and over there, by the trees. He caught me, of course – he was very fast, faster than me.’

‘And he beat you again?’ said Abbas.

‘No, he didn’t beat me again. He held me by my ear and laughed. Then he said, “Now you will work for me!” and he took me home to my father and told him that I must become his apprentice. And why? Because when I had stolen the honey, I had not angered the bees. This is a rare thing, to steal honey without making the bees angry. The beekeeper saw that I had something special to bring to the craft.’

Ahmad Hussein drank some water from his bottle and passed it to Abbas.

‘The beekeeper who beat me that day, his name was Esmail Behishti. You knew him well.’

Abbas’ eyes opened wide. ‘My grandfather!’

‘Yes. That famous man, your grandfather.’

Ahmad Hussein could see that Abbas was distressed. Perhaps it was hearing that the very man he was mourning had once been capable of beating boys with a stick. Or perhaps he was upset to hear that Ahmad Hussein had thrown a stone at his grandfather, even though it was so long ago. He left the boy alone with his thoughts for a few minutes, then he said, ‘We’ll put the hives here, in this place.’

Together, Ahmad Hussein and Abbas walked back to the far side of the field where the horse and cart had been left, and the hives.

*   *   *

That day and the next and for weeks and months, Ahmad Hussein taught Abbas how to find the right places for the beehives. He taught Abbas slowly. All of Ahmad Hussein’s lessons were slow lessons. He taught Abbas to respect the bees. He said that the bees knew that they would be robbed of their honey, but they made it anyway. If a bee was a creature with a mean spirit, it would make no honey and starve itself to death to spite the beekeeper. Instead, the bee made enough honey for himself and his tribe and enough for Ahmad Hussein, too.

In those weeks and months of slow teaching, Ahmad Hussein taught Abbas to respect the bees. The boxes of blue and white were the factories of the bees, Ahmad Hussein said. Inside the boxes, each bee did his work, according to a plan devised by God. He said God made his plan for the bees a very long time ago, when He first saw the need in the world for bees. Each bee had a brain. Into this brain God put the plan for making honey. The home of the bees at that time was not in white and blue boxes, but in hollow trees. To hold the honey, the bees made a
khani zambure
within the hollow trees. They made it from wax. Where the bees found the wax is a mystery. The
khani zambure
is made up of many small shelves, and on each shelf the honey is stored. It was the intention of the bees to eat the honey all through the year. But one morning many years ago, a man of great intelligence, a Hazara, discovered the factory of the bees in a hollow tree, and he tasted the honey. Because of his great intelligence, the first beekeeper of the world built hundreds of boxes of white and blue where the bees could live in greater comfort than in a hollow tree. And the bees made honey for him and for his family.

Ahmad Hussein showed Abbas the
khani zambure
, the honeycombs, inside the boxes. They were like trays that could be lifted out. They dripped with the honey of the bees. But when the trays were taken from the boxes, the bees became angry, so it was necessary for Ahmad Hussein to wear a veil and gloves and to chase the bees from the boxes with a strange device that made smoke. Bees don’t like smoke. It gets in their eyes just as it gets in the eyes of people and they fly away for a time.

The anger of the bees raised a question in Abbas’ mind: ‘But my grandfather saw that you had a gift for stealing honey. You didn’t make the bees angry.’

‘That was luck. Bees are always angry when we take their honey. But maybe it was a bit more than luck.’

Something was troubling Abbas, as Ahmad Hussein could plainly see.

‘What is it?’ he said. He was very patient.

At first, Abbas was reluctant to say more, but finally he spoke up. ‘Sir, are we not stealing the honey of the bees? Are we not stealing their food?’

‘Certainly we are stealing their food,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘It would be a lie to say we are not.’ Then he added, ‘I make the bees work for me. They are my slaves.’

Ahmad Hussein looked at Abbas sideways with a smile. He knew that the boy would be shocked to hear him say that the bees were his slaves. In the past, many Hazaras had been made slaves by powerful people in Afghanistan.

‘And the sheep, too, are our slaves,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘And the goats. And the horse here that pulls our cart. But there is a difference, isn’t there, Abbas?’

‘Surely!’ said Abbas. Then he said, ‘Is there?’

‘When a man is a slave, his heart breaks,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘That is the difference. The bees are angry, but their hearts are not broken.’

*   *   *

The trays from the hives were taken to a wonderful machine that Ahmad Hussein carried with him on his cart. Abbas was fascinated by all machines. He saw science in their workings, science and its laws. But the machine had to be set up carefully, and Ahmad Hussein made sure that Abbas understood each step. So painstaking was Ahmad Hussein that Abbas’ excitement got the better of him and he began to hop from one foot to the other.

‘Abbas, what is troubling you?’ said Ahmad Hussein, though he knew well. ‘Do you want to relieve your bladder?’

‘I want to see the machine making honey.’

‘If you want to see the machine making honey you must be patient. Can’t you see that the machine has to be put together with great care?’

‘Yes, yes, I can see!’

‘Do you think the machine puts itself together?’

‘No, it doesn’t put itself together!’

‘Who puts the machine together?’

‘Ahmad Hussein, you know the answer!’ said Abbas. It was the first time he had addressed his teacher without saying, ‘Sir.’ ‘It is you who puts the machine together!’

‘Then how can I put the machine together if I am watching you wriggling in your trousers?’

The machine came in six parts. The biggest part was a pair of large steel wheels enclosed by a metal covering. Between the two rims of the wheels, inside the covering, slots had been made. The wheels stood on a welded frame and on this frame the wheel was made to spin very fast when a handle was turned. The handle was attached to a smaller wheel with teeth on it, called a cogwheel, and this smaller wheel combined with a wheel still smaller, called a pulley wheel. The cogwheel and the pulley wheel were joined by a belt of rubber. At the bottom of the wheel a drum had been fixed, and from the drum ran a length of rubber hose.

Ahmad Hussein slid the trays into the slots of the machine. It was possible to put ten trays inside at one time. When the machine was full of trays, Ahmad Hussein sealed it shut and turned the handle. At first he turned the handle slowly, then he turned it faster. The speed of the turning made the honey fly out of the trays and gather in a reservoir at the bottom. The honey then dripped through the rubber hose into big tin buckets. After a time, instead of dripping out of the rubber hose, the honey began to flow into the tin bucket.

For Abbas, this was the first truly happy day he had known since the death of his grandfather. His delight was written all over his face. Ahmad Hussein said, ‘Do you see what has happened, Abbas? The bees go to the flowers and from the flowers comes the nectar, the
assal
. Inside the factory boxes of the bees, the nectar becomes honey. And now the honey flows into the bucket. Is this not a great wonder?’

*   *   *

On the journey back to the village that evening in the cart, Abbas carried in his lap a large metal tin of the honey made that day. In the tray of the cart behind, a further twenty tins of honey were packed into four wooden boxes. Ahmad Hussein said, ‘Tomorrow I go north to the forest hives. The honey of the forest hives tastes different. Will you come? Will your father agree?’

‘I think he will agree,’ said Abbas.

‘And you – will you agree?’

‘I will certainly agree.’

‘Is this a life you might choose, Abbas, the life of a
perwerrish dahenda
?’

‘Gladly, Ahmad Hussein.’

‘A slave driver – will your conscience permit it, Abbas?’

‘It will.’

The country they passed over was all Hazara. They didn’t have to fear being robbed, something that could happen in other parts of Afghanistan. As the horse picked out its path, Abbas sat in thought. Ahmad Hussein didn’t make a sound for a half hour other than to murmur snatches of songs. But when he thought it was time to interrupt the boy’s thoughts, he nudged him with his shoulder.

‘Are your thoughts a pleasure to you?’ asked Ahmad Hussein. ‘Share them with me.’

Abbas remained silent for a minute more, then he said, ‘Do you believe that bears can talk?’

‘Can bears talk? A strange question! No, a bear cannot talk except to another bear.’

‘Have you ever seen a snow leopard?’ said Abbas.

‘Yes,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘In the high mountains I saw a snow leopard. It carried a dead weasel in its jaws.’

‘But a snow leopard can’t sing, can it? It can’t sing songs, as we can?’

‘No, a snow leopard cannot sing.’

‘Someone told me that snow leopards could sing,’ said Abbas. ‘And that bears could talk. I didn’t believe him, but then I began to doubt my own doubts.’

Ahmad Hussein called to the horse, ‘Hi, hi! Stay awake!’ To Abbas he said, ‘I was told the same stories.’

‘Yes?’ said Abbas.

‘Yes,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘By the same storyteller.’