Chapter Eight #3
“I may not know every thought that passes through a woman’s mind, but I think I know what yer wantin’ now.”
I almost smile, but rise and follow him into the damp morning.
He leads me to the far side of the island, beyond the grove of slender birch trees—their bark curling like paper—past the grave marker, where wild lavender, yarrow, and stonecrop cover the ground.
I haven’t explored this remote section of the island—there’s nothing here, mostly rocks and shrubs, no chores to be done.
And I haven’t wanted to venture near the burial ground, a place that feels like his.
Not to be disturbed. A reminder of what he’s lost.
But we pick our way through the overgrown terrain, and when we round a stand of rocks, almost to the sea, I see a wooden structure, low to the ground. And I hear the sound.
Bees.
I look to Clay, and he nods.
I knew there were bees on the island: I’d seen them in the garden but assumed they were strays who’d become marooned on the island last time it made landfall. But here sits a wooden beehive, a dozen bees buzzing lazily through the air.
“It’s a small colony. They dinnae produce much, so I tend to leave ’em be,” he says. “But we can harvest a wee bit of honey for our morning tea. And the propolis is good when yer under the weather.”
“How do you harvest it?”
“Gently,” he answers. “Walk with me, and do as I say, and ye winnae get stung.”
“I think I’ll wait here.”
His mouth pulls into a smile. “If ye want honey for that tea of yers, ye’ll need to summon some bravery.”
I frown, but he reaches out and takes my hand, and I let him pull me forward.
The sound of the bees grows louder, a steady hum that makes me feel slightly off-balance, almost drowsy.
At five yards away, several bees begin swirling around us, as if inspecting our intentions.
“Slow yer breathing,” he instructs. “An’ yer heart rate. They can sense fear.”
“I am afraid,” I whisper.
“Nothin’ to be scared of. Just the unknown, is all.”
I want to make some comment about how the unknown is precisely what I’m afraid of, but I keep my mouth shut, eyes ahead, trying to keep my breathing steady.
We reach the wooden box—square, perched a couple feet off the ground—and he pauses, observing the bees as if he’s studying their movement, their temperament.
Bees swirl lazily around my head, mostly docile, but some begin landing on my arms, my shoulders, and I try not to flinch, resisting the urge to swat them away—an action I’m certain would stir up anger within their tiny bee minds.
“I’ll pull a frame out of the box, and ye fill the jar,” he explains, handing me the mason jar and the knife.
I take them, my jaw constricting. I remember as a kid being stung by yellow jackets during late summer, and it hurt like hell.
Nana said they were more aggressive at the end of the season, when their food supply dwindled.
I have no idea if a honeybee sting is as painful, but I’m certain a few dozen stings all at once would be excruciating.
Clay turns to look at me. “Ellie, just breathe. An’ go slow.”
I nod, unable to argue.
He removes the top cover—which looks like a small wooden roof for the hive, keeping the rain and weather from spilling inside—then places it carefully on the ground. The bees hover close to him, curious about this sudden activity.
“You sure about this?” I mutter.
He smiles at me but doesn’t answer.
I swallow, no longer drawing in air as I watch him slide out a narrow frame from inside the box. It’s shaped like a window frame, but instead of glass, the interior is a sheet of sticky, fragrant honey and wax. Instantly, my mouth begins to salivate.
“Use the knife,” he says, “to scrape off a corner of beeswax.”
I lean toward the frame where he holds it in the air. It looks heavy, weighted by the golden syrup, the bees growing more active as they gather around us.
I’ve used this knife in the kitchen many times before, but it suddenly feels awkward in my hand, clumsy.
I touch the blade to a clump of wax, sliding it behind the comb.
I’m careful at first, unsure how much force I should use, but the wax breaks free and I manage to guide it into the open mason jar, filling it a quarter of the way.
A long breath leaves my lips, honey dripping down my fingers, and I look to Clay. “Should I try to get more?”
He nods. “Aye, then we should leave them be.”
I place the knife back on the frame, wedging it beneath the comb, but the bees are growing more anxious, and one buzzes near my ear, inspecting me.
I turn my head slightly, trying to urge it away, but it returns, landing at my temple, its legs carrying it to the corner of my eye.
I wince, blinking rapidly, trying to shimmy it loose, but it’s determined now.
It crawls down my cheek, to the edge of my mouth.
“Clay,” I hiss.
He looks at me, arms still holding up the frame, his own torso covered in bees. “Stay still,” he says calmly. “It’ll leave as soon as we do.”
I shake my head, my heart rate starting to spike. The bee makes its way along my upper lip, and I’m certain it’s going to sting me—its movements are different from the others, more aggressive, like it’s assessing an invader—which I am.
“Ellie—” Clay starts to say, but the panic in my chest turns to terror, and the next few movements happen so fast I hardly register them: I yank my hand away from the frame, spinning around to swat the bee from my face with my elbow—the only part of me not holding the mason jar or the knife.
The bee instantly darts away, and I stagger backward, shaking the rest of the bees from my skin.
I hear Clay behind me let out a quick gust of air, and the sound of the frame hitting the ground.
I turn and see him gripping his hand, blood dripping through his fingers, droplets covering his boots.
“Shit,” I say, knowing instantly. When I swung around—moving wildly, frantically—I must have slashed the blade right through Clay’s hand where he was holding the frame, only a few inches away. “Clay!” I start toward him, but he waves me back.
“Walk to the house,” he says, voice cool and steady.
I do as he says, moving quickly toward the house, the last of the bees lifting from my arms, vanishing back to their pillaged hive. At the front porch, I set the jar of honey on the steps, then finally look down at the knife. The blade streaked with blood.
Guilt plummets through me. “Oh fuck,” I say, when he comes up behind me. “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I—that was so stupid, I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine.”
He starts up the steps, but I grab his arm. “Let me see.”
He shakes his head, but I reach out, touching his hand and forcing him to release it. The cut is small but deep, blood rising steadily to the surface along the base of his thumb. “We need to stitch it,” I tell him.
“Nae.” He pulls his hand back.
“Look,” I say. “That cut is deep, and it’ll only get infected if we don’t close it up.”
He exhales, looking down at his hand.
“Wait here,” I tell him.
For once, he does what I say, and sinks down into one of the chairs, pulling the handkerchief from his back pocket and pressing it to the cut to stanch the blood.
I return a minute later with a needle and thread, and a glass bottle of white liquid I found in the bathroom that smells of rubbing alcohol.
I kneel in front of him, and he looks pliant, like he’s lost all his courage.
“You have no fear about climbing onto the roof or disturbing beehives, but you’re afraid of a small needle? ”
He shrugs, looking me in the eyes.
“I’ll be as careful as I can,” I assure him.
He allows me to take his hand, and I pour a small amount of the white alcohol onto the cut.
He winces but doesn’t pull his hand back.
I washed my own hands at the kitchen sink, but I can still smell the faint scent of honey on them as I thread the needle.
Blowing out a long breath to steady myself, I ease the sharp end of the needle through his skin along the edge of the cut, and he lets out a small moan—this time trying to yank his hand back. But I grip it tighter.
“I ain’t a sweater that needs mendin’, that’s my skin,” he remarks.
“I never said I was any good at this,” I reply with a smile. “But if you keep flinching, you’ll end up with more holes in you than you already have.”
His shoulders relax, and he lets me pull his hand closer so I can finish the stitch.
I never thought I’d be able to stomach so much blood—or suture someone’s hand back together.
But I stare down at my work, impressed. I turn his hand in the morning light, inspecting it—ensuring the thread will hold—and suppress some dormant urge to lay my lips over it.
His palm is rough, strong, the sweet scent of honey coating his fingertips, and there’s something about touching him—the closeness, the comfort of another person’s skin…
It feels like something I’ve missed. Like…
I can feel him watching me and I quickly release his hand, rocking back on my heels.
“Sorry,” I repeat, looking away from him. “I should have been more careful with the knife.”
He nods, lips tugging upward. “Just glad ye were here to sew me up.”
“So I am good for something after all.”
He pushes himself up from the chair. “Dinnae let it go to yer head,” he says with a wink. “We shed a little blood to get some honey. I’d say it was worth the trade.”
Two days later, the afternoon warm, the winds calm, I move through the kitchen preparing rosehip tea and I find myself humming a tune—an Adele song that I remember watching her sing live on TV years ago.
“But if by chance you’re here alone
Can I have a moment before I go?”