The Bee Emissary Chapter 6

Moving around the cabin property unnoticed for years, we hid in plain sight, waiting, observing.

Chapter 6:

Moving around the cabin property unnoticed for years, we hid in plain sight, waiting, observing.

We deliberated before making our presence known, contented to observe rather than intervene. The summers of 2026 and 2027 broke records, with climate deterioration escalating beyond any projections, driven by the heat and drought.

We had to act.

The Grandfather’s fondness for his grandson was touching to see. The only loving father Robbie had ever known was him.

With each passing year, We noted Grandfather struggling, challenged more and more to support flowers and my sisters.

When Robbie left for his last year as an undergraduate on Labor Day, loneliness returned, but Grandfather stayed busy.

Autumn’s approach brought quiet to northern Door County. As he walked across the land where his cabin stood, Grandfather pondered. Knowing Ned would go to Florida in November, he expected an almost deserted road except for a couple of houses.

We came to adore him for his dedication to his environment, the hives, and his devotion to Robbie. I sensed his actions, thoughts, and feelings as he went about his day. It had been years since my first attempt to speak with Grandfather, but today we will try again.

Grandfather inspected the shoreline. The cedar trees looked healthy despite the summer heat and drought. He noted a few mature thistle plants had escaped his wrath. He found a stick and dug down while talking to himself. “Come here, you little rascals. I’ll grab you by the roots and yank you out. Of course, you’ll reward me with ten more of your offspring next year.” He stood upright, trying to catch his breath. “Ah, well. See you next summer.”

Feeling dizzy, Grandfather steadied himself against a tree. Turning to the shoreline, he smiled.

Although brown, the tall grasses at the water’s edge still swayed in the wind from the lake. Grandfather marveled at this kinetic art. The only sound was the wind carrying the smell of the lake.

The county was becoming quieter, the cold and snow just weeks away.

Before the first snow, the tourists visited fall festivals that worked their way up the peninsula until the coup de grâce of the Sister Bay fall fest, held in the middle of October. Ned wryly called it Fall Down Fest because of the copious drinking.

Grandfather often thought of his daughter and grandson. He hadn’t visited Robbie in Madison yet. With his last months of college approaching, now was a good time. The rare communication with his daughter, Rachel, saddened him. With the world descending into chaos, worry was constant and without end or remedy. And he missed his Lois, his rock, his best friend. He would have gone to pieces after Lois died if not for Robbie to look after, and for Robbie to look after him.

Summoning the courage before school, Robbie recounted a recurring dream that had haunted him since his mother left Milwaukee. Grandfather wondered if the dream foreshadowed both the deteriorating climate and his demise.

With measured steps, Grandfather walked toward the road, noticing the enveloping scent of cedar. Looking up, he saw the tall trees, their branches gracefully forming a cathedral-like canopy. It felt sacred, humbling. He thanked them for this seasonal gift. Passing the garage, he arrived at the six beehives. Once vibrant, the poplar trees now shed their leaves, creating a russet carpet around the hives. The profound stillness amplified every subtle sound — a solitary leaf falling, the crunch of dried grass beneath his feet, a faint bird song.

His keen sense of hearing surprised him; the hush of summer transforming into the tranquil elegance of autumn always produced a feeling of contentment.

He gently lifted the lid of each beehive and checked the nine frames inside, supporting the honeycombs. There was adequate honey to get the bees through the coming winter, but not enough to harvest. He stood by the last hive, reflecting on their future.

Sensing the time was right, we spoke.

“Grandfather.”

He startled, hearing the whisper, reacting to this unexpected and uncommon greeting. He shook his head. Who would call him grandfather in such an ethereal voice?

“Grandfather.”

He paused. A soft buzzing sound arose; tension left his body. He felt the embrace of the warm autumn sun on him; the air was calm and dry; he closed his eyes. He listened intently.

“Grandfather, please listen.”

Grandfather’s voice broke as he addressed the unseen specter. “Who, who’s speaking? Where are you?”

“I have gone by many names. Some call us Apis Dea, and I am everywhere.”

Grandfather grew concerned, as this might be a sign of dementia or an impending stroke. He had never heard of an Apis Dea.

“And what do you want of me?” Grandpa felt foolish, still half believing that he was hallucinating.

“Grandfather, we need you to do something for Robbie.”

Grandfather’s eyes widened, finally recognizing a voice from long ago. A voice that he had dismissed as his imagination.

Grandfather replied, “I’m listening.” He stood, head bowed as if in prayer, his expression reverent, intently hanging on every word that only he could hear.

Afterward, Grandfather returned to his house, wrote some notes, and spoke of this experience to no one, not even Robbie. He looked online for some clues about Apis Dea and found it was Latin for bee goddess.

The waning sunlight cast a red hue, barely illuminating the table where Grandfather sat with nighttime closing in. The voice that he had heard earlier did not return. He sat alone, thinking about all he had experienced that day. A metal box lay on the table, now filled with notes and documents. He understood the need to prepare for a future that he might not see, but that would nonetheless arrive.

He closed the box and planned to bury it the next morning. As the padlock snapped shut, Grandfather spoke in the darkness as if in a prayer. “I love you, Robbie.”