They loved to sing. And would do so, gentle melodies, each time they went to harvest the hives. During that time, there always seemed to be other singers around them, the voices raised in gentle accompaniment. Even the bees seemed to calm during this. Once the honey was harvested, two small jars were left on the stoop, and the singer went to their home to process the rest. -- Anon Guest
Laurie sang to her bees. They were good company, and frequently sung along with her. Or, that was what she thought. The rest of the village thought she was strange, but she was used to that.
Used to the whispers that she was fey-touched, strange, unnatural, and other such nonsense.
Most people spoke to their hives, Laurie knew, telling the bees the news of the family, or the town, or just plain gossip. Laurie sang it. She sang songs about what her neighbors said about her. She sang songs of market prices for honey or of wax. She sang songs of the mean things people sometimes whispered when they thought she couldn't hear them.
Those people often came to grief in weird, slightly educational ways. Laurie sang to her bees about that too. She sang of how the townsfolk blamed her for incidents that she clearly had no hand in. Sang of how they whispered, sorcery, or witchcraft, or curses... but how they still treated her horribly.
The truth that nobody wanted to face was that Laurie just liked to sing. What seemed to happen around Laurie was not part of the equation, but they made it part of the equation. One of the village boys, obviously on a dare, asked her once how she did it how did she do the things she did to people around her when they called her horrible things.
Laurie said, "I don't do anything. If anybody's doing anything, it has to be the bees - and I know they're too small."
The boy scoffed and called her a fraud and a charlatan, and declared that they would find out how she did it one way or another. Hook or by crook. After that day, there was always somebody watching Laurie's farm, from one point to another, sometimes thinking they were hiding, but definitely not.
She paid them no mind. They weren't important to her. Her bees were all the mattered.
Her bees never stung her like the village gossip did. Her bees never said mean thing in their lives. Their little, tiny insect lives. Her bees were her bees and they never did a thing wrong.
When it was time for the honey harvest, Laurie went to town and paid a few silvers for two very fancy honey bottles. The rest were plain and ordinary and unremarkable, but those two, she said, were special.
"And who are you gifting these to?" Asked the Glassman. "Greatfather Langeven?"
"Don't you know?" said Laurie. "The first part of the harvest always goes to the good spirits."
Sure enough, two fancy glass jars of honey were left, carefully, under the hives. And the next morning they disappeared without a trace. Nobody touched them. Nobody had taken them. Nobody dared look at them because they were surely witchcraft.
For all the next year, Laurie had extraordinary good luck. Her milk never soured. Her eggs never spoiled. Her chickens were abundant and so were her crops. And her bees as always sang along with her, all unknowing that a Brauniin was singing too.
[Photo by Jenna Lee on Unsplash]
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