Chapter 19 #3
Slow and steady, Zaneta eased her hand inside the entrance, angled downward, until her fingers hit the soft and pliable wax comb.
Bees covered her hand and crawled up her arm.
The only thing she knew to do was hum, the melody of the sea songs comforting her even if these landlocked insects knew nothing of the sea and its mysteries.
Her fingers poked into something moist, and she knew she’d hit some honey stores.
She thrust her fingers through the comb.
It was only about an inch thick; she broke through and tore off a piece small enough to pull back out the entrance.
Slowly, slowly. More smoke, ignoring the ones crawling up her shoulder, buzzing furiously as they stuck in her hair.
“Jar. Jar,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the acrid smoke.
The soldier pushed it to her across the ground using a broken branch, his arm stretched as far as it would reach.
Zaneta couldn’t help her exasperation at his timidity as she stood elbow-deep in the hive itself.
She gave the piece of comb a sharp shake to get the bees off and jammed it into the jar.
He covered the jar with a sack, and she went back for more, repeating the process.
After she’d removed a third piece of comb, the hum in the hive had intensified.
Zaneta kept humming, kept breathing steadily.
She dropped the smoking bundle on the ground outside the hive entrance and backed away.
“They’re all over you!” he barked, and he moved to brush them off.
“Don’t,” she ordered. Zaneta stood still as a stone, waiting, humming.
The bees were not happy, but neither were they suited for flying at night, and the sound of the workers in the hive, already busy repairing the torn comb, lured most of them off her until she was able to shake the others free.
She started to lick her fingers but stopped.
“Amazing!” the soldier exclaimed. “Bravo.” He waited while she washed in one of the freshwater pools nearby, and they walked back to the well house.
He couldn’t stop opening the jar, running his fingers around the edges where the honey had dripped, smacking his lips as he licked the sticky gold stuff from his hands.
“I can’t believe you didn’t get stung,” he said. “Don’t you want some?” He held the jar out to her, but Zaneta shook her head.
“Too sweet. It hurts my teeth,” she lied.
“And I did get stung. Four or five times at least, but no matter. It’s a special treat.
Since you might be leaving soon.” She cut her eyes at him as they walked, thinking he was just arrogant enough to believe that she could have developed some affection for him, might actually miss him when he was gone.
“Wild honey straight from the hive,” he raved. “It’s delicious and still warm.”
“Glad you like it. Eat all you want. You can chew the comb, too. Get every last drop.”
And that’s what the soldier did when they reached the well house.
It had been a long time since they’d tasted sweetness, and he licked the jar clean like a bear fresh from hibernation, savoring the honey until he was sated.
Zaneta laid several handfuls of almonds on a sack between them, and these he ate, too, until they were gone.
He didn’t seem to notice she ate nothing, busy with her weaving, occupied by the byssus.
Toward daylight, in the early hours, the soldier woke with a start. Zaneta sat in the same position, the lyre loom in her hand. She’d watched as he dozed and was not surprised when his eyes sought her out in the dim light.
“Wrong?” he choked. “Wha-what happened?”
“What do you mean, Jan?” Zaneta’s voice was low and measured, just above a whisper. If he noticed she’d used his given name, he didn’t say so.
“Can’t . . . what’s wrong with me?” He was groggy, his speech slurred.
“It was probably too much honey,” she said. “You ate so much of it. Greedy, if you want me to be honest.”
He strained to look at his hands and legs, blinking his eyes slowly in confusion.
“Hexe! Strega.” She laughed when he used the words. No matter which language, it was plain he meant witch, a common accusation in her line of ancestors. He managed to inch away from the wall, his limbs flapping and twitching.
“Bees are funny creatures. They only forage on one source of nectar at a time, and this time of year, they cover those particular yellow flowers. It’s fine for the bees, but that nectar is poisonous to people.”
He groaned and fumbled forward, his eyes on the steps, as if he thought he might climb out and get help, but Zaneta ignored him.
She stood and leaned over him, slid his gun from its holster while his eyes widened in outrage.
“I’ll tell you a story. Do you know,” she told him, “in ancient Turkey, Roman soldiers overran the city of Ephesus? If you’ve never met them, let me tell you the Turks are a notably hospitable people, and they offered those soldiers honey with their supper—the same kind of mad honey you ate, actually.
It didn’t take long for the natural toxin to paralyze the soldiers.
As the story goes, the Turks took their revenge and got their city back.
“The sweetness of that honey masks the taste of the almonds. I don’t know about Germany.
” Zaneta wrinkled her nose. “We Italians love to make amaretti and lots of dishes with almonds, but you must be careful, you see. The bitter ones, like those you ate, are filled with cyanide. Even a little can be bad for you.” Beads of sweat formed on the soldier’s brow as he grimaced with what must have been terrible contractions of his bowels.
“I wish you’d never come here,” she said, blinking back tears.
“I wish none of this had happened.” Her voice broke, finally.
“I know I’m just a Jew to you, less than nothing, but that’s no excuse.
I told you that byssus cannot be sold. It’s against the sacred way of things. ”
The soldier growled, his contempt clear even now.
His breath came in wheezes and gasps as he used the last of his energy to push himself toward her.
With a weak swipe of his arm, he managed to send her lyre loom skittering across the floor, and Zaneta yelped.
It clattered against stone somewhere in the darkness.
The loom! As she turned to leap after it, the soldier’s hand closed around her ankle, and she fell on one knee, wincing as it smashed against the stone floor.
Zaneta jerked away from the touch of his clammy fingers.
He was weak now, too weak to hold her. Still, she recoiled, instinctively kicking at him with her other foot.
He half scooted, half rolled away from the blows.
Zaneta didn’t pity him; she pictured her mother’s face nodding from the back of that truck, intent on her daughter’s escape.
At first, Zaneta was confused when her foot suddenly kicked at nothing.
Then she saw his dim form disappearing into the darkness.
An odd thump echoed in the room, then a terrible silence.
Zaneta scrambled up, her eyes straining to search the ashy shadows.
The well. She dropped to all fours and felt her way along the stone until the well’s maw opened before her.
As her hand waved over the black void, she thought she heard a faint exhale of breath from below.
Zaneta sat back against the wall, a safe distance away from the well’s edge, and pulled her knees up to her chin. It wouldn’t be long. She estimated he would be dead before dawn.