That all familiar odor. When the foulbrood comes, the hive is inevitably lost. That is known to all beekeepers. It is a bloating fungus, bursting from the larvae, spreading its poison throughout the colony, until it claims it all, and then it, still hungry, still always searching, demands the air grant it a new home.
Yes, the rank and rotting smell, the sticky and stringy, the grotesque collapse that will come, the thousands of furry bodies rolling and lolling in pain, those little intelligences, each uniquely raised.
There is no cure. There is no way to save those afflicted. The only sensible action that remains to a beekeeper is to burn the hive immediately, allowing other nearby colonies to be saved from this terrible fate. It is also a mercy to the remnants of the colony, so that they do not suffer a terrible death, stomachs peeling open and bodies rotting away.
Arthur stood up from the hive, being careful to put the frame he had disturbed back in place. Little fuzzy bodies fell to the ground. Scooping them up with his hand, he looked as the insects, his insects, wriggled in agony.
The only sensible action…
The first plea came from his son, who was visiting at the time. Although he had sensibly used his father’s money to seek education, becoming a corporate lawyer, where the stings hurt less, he was familiar enough with the family business to recognize the smell of foulbrood.
The two were standing in the unbearable heat, the sound of buzzing all around.
“Father, why aren’t you burning the hives?”
Arthur pretended not to hear over the sound of buzzing. It was a tactic he had often used in parenting. He continued hoeing the red earth, overturning leaves and soil onto the corpses of bees.
His son cleared his throat and spoke again. “Father, the hives. I can smell the foulbrood from a mile away. You have to do something about this.”
Arthur pretended not to hear over the sound of buzzing. It was a tactic he had often used in parenting. He continued hoeing the red earth, overturning leaves and soil onto the corpses of bees.
His son walked up and shook him. The hoe made no sound as it fell upon the dirt. “Father, you cannot ignore this. All of your bees are going to die and so will your livelihood.”
At this, finally, Arthur looked at his son – looking up, of course, for his son had received all the proper nutrition that he himself had been denied. He wished to shake his son and tell him that, by letting the bees die, his son will be free, free from his laggard and backward father who was nothing more than an embarrassment, who cussed and cursed and blamed everybody but himself, who was fit only to be visited with a proverbial long rope. But instead, Arthur said this: “My livelihood will not perish, for I have a wealthy and protective son that shall take care of his father. Do I not?” He laughed. “Certainly, you are concerned for me now. But once I die, would you have taken care of all these bees? I don’t think so, and I don’t blame you. The work is tedious, loud, painful, and not profitable. It is not for you. So when does it matter when the hives collapse into dust and slime? If something is inevitable, there is no purpose in delaying it.”
His son glanced into Arthur’s eyes and feared that that his words were serious. “While that may be true, father, but you cannot simply give up what you have done for more than sixty years in a painful instant.”
Arthur picked his hoe back up. “But I can, and I shall.”
And so the first plea was silenced.
The second plea came from his dearest friend.
The two had both become beekeepers at around the same time, all those years ago. By all accounts, they should have been rivals. The two biggest honey producers in the region, each touting their own speciality, each cutting into each other’s profits. And yet, once the day was over and they let down their suits, they came together to the pub to drink and make merry, and any conflict was washed away.
It was only fitting that their friendship came to the end at the same establishment. In their youth, the country inn was freshly painted green and gold, the windows were clear and unbroken. But now? In this empty establishment, the unwashed glasses matched the patrons.
“I know you are not a fool,” said his friend. “So then why? Why do you let your entire hive die?”
Arthur took a quick sip while he was still able.
“Worse, you put my own hives at risk.” His friend tried to meet Arthur’s eyes, which remained averted, downward facing. “The spores of the foulbrood will travel on the air. The poisoned honey will spill into my hives and destroy everything I have made. If you want to commit suicide, fine. That is your right as a human. As your friend, I would obviously prefer if you did not do such destructive things, but I know you well enough that your mind cannot be changed so easily, even from the idle entreaties of a friend. But your ugly inaction directly threatens me, and that will not stand.”
Arthur took another sip.
“I remember,” his friend continued, “when the regulators first came to your property. The amount of violations you had were astounding – matched only by mine, naturally. You had time to fix up some of the major transgressions and walk away with only a small fine. But, without a second thought, you ran to the phone and called me. You told me that the regulator was coming, and that I ought to fix up my property as much as I could. As the investigator ravaged your property and cut your business down to size, you gave me the opportunity to power ahead. I franchised, upsized, upscaled, mechanized, over-employed, while you remained nothing more than a yeoman digging away at his broken combs.” His friend paused. “I will call the authorities tomorrow. They will probably come sometime next week. This gives you ample time to burn the affected hives. Consider my forewarning a debt repaid.”
Arthur rose the glass but found nothing left, so he instead rose from the table. From above, he could see the white hairs that crowned his friend’s skull, the fat and sloth around his cheeks, the once tanned skin turned leathery with age. “There is no debt to repay. Nothing I have done in life has ever been about give and take. And with that in mind, the hives will not be burnt. The bees will live their natural lives, slowing down, until they die as agonizing goo.”
Arthur took a few mangled bills from his pocket to place on the table, but his friend caught his hand. “No, Arthur,” he said. “I imagine you will come around. Your little rebellion is just a passing phase, an old man trying to take control of a life slipping away. A second childhood that we will all have to suffer. It happened to me too, but all I did was buy a Ferrari.” His friend gave his card to the bartender. “Call me when you burn the hives. We’ll have lunch together.”
His friend started to walk out of the establishment with confident swagger, knowing deeply that his plea would be taken on, until he heard Arthur’s voice behind him. “I told you. There is no give and take. I warned you about the regulator, it was not out of any sort of kinship or friendship, or even out of a sense workers solidarity, fucking over governmental authorities. I did it because I had your wife bent over a dresser and wanted to distract you.”
It did not matter that what Arthur had said was obviously false, that with even a second small thought, his friend would have realized that which he said was impossible, but it was enough to make an old man turn jump up and begin to run, or more like hobble, pointlessly trying to defend some sort of irrelevant masculine honor that ought to have long since fallen to the wayside, a kind of property-focused pathology, a weakness that Arthur knew well because he too suffered from it.
As his friend beat upon his chest, as grey spittle battered his face, as the patrons tried so piteously to pull apart the erstwhile companions, Arthur could feel every attachment fading, every bit of his life being pulled apart like meat, and could only think how wonderful it was to throw everything away.
And so the second plea was silenced.
The third plea came from the regulator. He was clad in black and leather boots that clung to his sweaty and hairy legs like power. His stylish aviator sunglasses gave him vision adequate enough to see a farm in flagrant violation of nearly twenty different beekeeping codes, values and practices. Behind all those violations, sitting on a rocking chair under the unbearable sun, was the perpetrator. The two had met many times before. Beekeeping was a small world, and besides, Arthur was a flagrant and constant rule violator – but he was always careful to never overstep and lose his license.
But the regulator found Arthur in a vastly different mood today. His expression was vacant, his skin burnt and peeling.
The regulator tipped his hat, as impolitely as such politeness could be mustered. “Good day.”
The perpetrator continued to rock, saying nothing.
The regulator coughed quietly. “Under the powers given to me under the Beekeeper Act 1997 section 36(c)(ii), I am able to conduct a summary inspection and search of your property. Is there anything you’d like to say before I take a look?”
The perpetrator continued to rock, saying nothing.
The regulator coughed a bit more loudly. “In that case, I’ll inspect the property now.” He made a grand display of slowly walking forward, showing off his imperial goosestep.
The perpetrator continued to rock, saying nothing.
At last, this got to the regulator. He would accept mewling, he would accept anger, he would accept bargaining, but he could not accept this passive silence. What is the point of having authority if there is complete deference? This would not stand. “By God, Arthur, you are throwing your life away. For what? Did you lose a bet? Do you want to kill yourself? You should know, suicide is still a crime in this country and I will have to cite you for it.”
Silence. Terrible silence.
The regulator sighed. “I’m going to let you off with just a warning, Arthur. But you have to fix this soon. We are both in this industry to see bees flourish, not perish. They say bees could go extinct in thirty, fifty years perhaps. And only we can save them.”
At that, Arthur spoke. “That is incorrect. Not the point about extinction – that is inarguable. In the future, the wealthy will pay for to see captive bees in artificial habitats – with an added price for the privilege to be stung – while outside the dome, all the earth and flowers are completely dead. But we cannot save the bees. We humans can only destroy the bees. If we had never been born – all of us – the bees would be flourishing. So why deny our very essence? By protecting endangered species, we are denying human nature, denying a way to make a true mark on history. I will play my part in eradicating the bees. I can only hope that you do yours.”
And although the regulator had already begun to furiously scribble out citation after citation, fine after fine, all Arthur did was rock back and forth.
And so the third plea was silenced.
The fourth plea came from his wife, long gone. He had not heard her voice for many years, but crackled and old as it was on the phone, it still held the same tone as all those times he had done wrong.
“So will you do it? Will you burn the hive to save all the rest?” Their son must have told her, in desperation and anxiety about the state of his stubborn father.
He paused, thinking of many responses to say.
Finally, he said: “If I burn the hives, will you come back?”
And so the fourth plea was silenced.
The fifth and final plea came from the bees themselves. Crumpled and broken on the ground, they were oozing black goo from their little broken bodies.
Arthur picked one up. It so desperately wanted to move, but in its fungus throes it could only twitch helplessly. He placed it back down on the ground to die alongside all the rest.
He was alone on the property. The barn door was peeling paint. His wife and children were long gone. His friends were all drinking at the pub. Not even the government paid him any attention any longer. And now, the all the hives were dead.
What was it for? Pride or something else? Arthur did not know, never thought to know, did not want to know. He spoke aloud – It was worth it – and by speaking it aloud, it must have been true. He had everything that a man could ever want: complete and total control.
The sun had begun to set. He stood up straight, turned around, and went back inside to have dinner alone.