13. Rowan
ROWAN
STAY CALM OR THE BEES WILL KNOW
The county fair is a test of endurance I have performed for forty-two consecutive years under various names.
Today, I’m simply Rowan, a man who lives in the high timber and produces honey that tastes of clover.
The folding table is draped in a clean white cloth that Marge insisted I use, claiming the bare wood looked too much like a coffin.
I didn’t tell her that for some of the things in this forest, a coffin is a more honest exchange than a transaction for twelve dollars plus tax.
The air in the exhibition hall is thick with the scent of fried dough, damp wool, and the nervous energy of people trying too hard to enjoy their Saturday.
I stand behind my display, seven feet of silent observation in a flannel shirt that only fits correctly because I made it myself.
Humans usually avoid making eye contact with me for more than three seconds.
They feel the weight of something they can’t name, a patience that doesn’t belong in a room with a PA system and a raffle for a lawnmower.
A woman with a stroller stops at my table, her eyes darting from my jars to the scars on my knuckles.
I don’t hide them. They’re the map of a life spent pulling tangled deer from wire fences and redirecting falling hemlocks.
She buys two jars of the wildflower blend, her fingers trembling slightly as she hands me the cash.
I count the change with a precision that borders on the mechanical.
I take this seriously. The honey is the only part of my life that exists on paper, a legitimate trail of bank deposits and tax filings that keeps my arrangement with the Cassidys from fraying at the edges.
Thinking about that sends a spear of worry through me.
If Wren never knew about me or the arrangement, have the taxes for that account been filed? I wouldn’t want her to get in trouble.
Wren is late. Once she got over her surprise that I actually ventured out among humans willingly to sell my honey, she agreed to drive me and the crates here.
She told me she would meet me here after her noon tour, but the clock on the wall above the prize-winning pumpkins says she’s twenty minutes past the mark.
My chest feels tight, a localized pressure that has nothing to do with all the people around me.
It’s the same sensation I get before a storm breaks over the ridge—a shift in the static, a warning that the atmosphere is no longer stable.
I tell myself it’s because she has the keys to the truck, but the lie tastes like the copper tang of a mountain spring after a landslide.
The doors at the far end of the hall swing open, letting in a burst of wind and the sound of a distant chainsaw.
Wren walks through them, her hair a chaotic halo of copper and gold, her father’s hiking boots scuffing against the polished concrete.
She looks exhausted. There is a smudge of dirt on her cheek and a sharp, focused set to her jaw that I have come to recognize as her defense against the world.
When she sees me, her pace doesn’t change, but the tension in her shoulders drops three inches.
I feel it in my own body, a sympathetic release of breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“You’re late,” I say when she reaches the table. My voice is a low rumble, the sound of stones grinding in a riverbed.
“I had to explain to a man from Ohio why his thermal signature was actually just a sun-baked rock,” she says, leaning against the edge of my table. “He wanted a refund. I gave him a brochure for the south-side trails and a look of profound disappointment. It worked.”
She looks at the near-empty crates behind me. “You sold out of the buckwheat? Already?”
“Ten minutes ago,” I reply. “The people of this county have a suspicious fondness for the bitter notes.”
Wren traces the rim of a remaining jar, her finger moving in a slow, rhythmic circle. “Maybe they just like things that don’t pretend to be sweeter than they are. It’s a rare commodity these days.”
She looks up at me, and for a second, the noise of the shouting kids and the bleating sheep in the next pavilion slides away.
There is a stillness in her gaze that mirrors the high-altitude quiet of the ridge.
It is the first time she has looked at me without a mask.
I’m not Bigfoot or the Hotline Hottie. She’s not the lodge owner and curator of the hoax.
She’s just a woman who is tired of lying, looking at a man who is the biggest lie of all.
Wren smiles when an elderly couple stops and buys three jars of honey.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say once the transaction is completed. “The bees need checking before the light fails.”
We load the empty crates into the back of the truck in a silence that feels productive rather than heavy.
“I’ll drive,” I say when I note the dark circles under her eyes.
Wren raises an eyebrow as she pulls the keys out of her pocket. “Can you drive? You’ll excuse my skepticism, but I’ve only ever seen you materialize out of a tree or pop up behind me. I figured you didn’t need to drive because you move so fast.”
I have an extremely human urge to roll my eyes, but instead, I just take the keys from her and open the passenger-side door for her. A smile is playing on her lips as I settle in behind the wheel.
My hands are large on the steering wheel, the vehicle feeling like a toy under my control.
Wren leans her head back against the headrest, her eyes closed.
She doesn’t talk, which is a mercy, because she usually can’t shut up.
Most humans feel the need to fill the gaps in the air with noise, as if silence were a predator they could keep at bay with enough syllables.
Wren just breathes, her inhalations steady and deep, matching the rhythm of the engine.
The road narrows as we climb, the pavement giving way to gravel, then to the packed dirt of the access trail that leads to the edge of my territory.
The air changes here. The smell of exhaust and fried food is replaced by the scent of damp earth and the sharp, medicinal tang of crushed needles.
I pull the truck into the clearing near the creek and cut the engine.
The silence that rushes in is absolute, a physical weight that settles over us like a shroud.
“How far?” Wren asks, opening her eyes. She looks around at the wall of green as if she’s expecting it to move.
“Not far,” I say, reaching into the back for the smoker and the veils. “But you have to be quiet. Not just your voice. Your blood. The bees can hear your heart if it’s hitting the ribs too hard.”
We get out, and she stands by the tailgate, watching me prep the pine needles for the smoker.
I work with a deliberate slowness, my movements unhurried.
This is not the reactive strength I use to ward off drones or tourists.
To protect a forest, you must be a wall.
To tend a hive, you must be the air. You must be so still the world forgets you are there.
“You don’t wear a suit,” she observes in a hushed voice. She’s looking at my bare arms, the skin bronzed and mapped with old silver lines.
“A suit is a confession of fear,” I tell her. “If you expect to be stung, you will be. They can read the shift in your chemistry before you even reach for the lid. They know when you’re bracing for a fight.”
I hand her a simple mesh veil, the only concession to her humanity.
She slides it over her head, her face becoming a soft-focus blur behind the dark netting.
I don’t wear one. The colony at the old site knows the scent of my skin as well as they know the nectar of the fireweed.
They have known it for longer than Wren has been alive.
We walk through the undergrowth, moving away from the established trails.
Beneath our feet, the ground is spongy with moss and decaying leaf litter.
I lead the way, stepping over fallen logs with a grace that usually surprises people of my size.
Wren’s breathing is a bit faster now, her boots catching on a stray root.
I stop and wait for her to find her own rhythm.
“Stop,” I whisper when we reach the break in the trees. “Listen.”
At first, there is nothing but the wind in the hemlocks.
Then, a low, tectonic hum begins to vibrate in the air, settling in the marrow of my bones.
The hives are in a natural amphitheater of gray stone and ancient cedar, white wooden boxes that look like discarded teeth against the dark green of the forest. Thousands of tiny gold-and-black bodies move in a shimmering cloud above them.
Wren freezes; her hands clench at her sides. Her instinct is to flee, to flinch, to protect the vulnerable skin of her neck. It is the most human reaction possible—the terror of the small against the many.
“Stay calm or the bees will know,” I say, stepping closer to her until the heat of my body is a secondary atmosphere for her to inhabit. “They’re not afraid of you. They’re afraid of what you might do because you’re afraid.”
Gently, I take her hand. Her fingers are ice-cold and trembling against mine. I don’t pull; I just hold. I wait for the tremor to subside, for the frantic thrum of her pulse to settle into something sustainable.
“Deep breaths, Wren. From the belly. Let the air move through you like it moves through the trees. You’re just another part of the landscape. A stone. A stump. Nothing worth stinging.”
When she closes her eyes and breathes deep, the tension bleeds out of her neck and her shoulders relax completely.
It takes a full minute, but eventually, her hand goes limp in mine.
I can still smell the sharp, metallic tang of fear emanating off her, but it’s lighter now, as if she has placed it in a box and closed the lid.
It’s an impressive display of will. Most humans can’t manage it.
“Good,” I whisper. “Now, walk with me.”