stood still. He had started up the slow rise of the western slopes, but could not walk again for a good few minutes. Only when he realised how late it had become did he force himself on again. There was no sun visible to judge time by, but it was certainly well after noon: the light weaker than before, the day less convincing. The slope was steep, hurt the old man’s lungs. He stopped more often, tried to keep his breathing even, but still to keep going. Could see the last swell of ground now, which would take him out of the valley. His fingers were dead-white, gripped around his sticks, and he didn’t like to look at them. Nor at the clouds over the brow of the hill, heavy with rain to come. He hoped the boy’s village would be close. That they might feed him there, drive him home, or offer a bed to rest on.
No trees at the top, no shelter, but then nothing to obscure his view, either. He looked for plumes of smokefrom stoves and chimneys, or for low clumps of houses, strips of cultivated land, for walls and fences. The sky was grey and low over the unfamiliar country, rolling on for days in all directions. The old man stood and held in his rasping breath, watching for signs of life in the land ahead.
Wind, treetops, water, clouds. No human movement or human sound.
__
The rain came, swallowed the land, the old man. He was not strong now, let it take hold of him. Was aware, after some time, of having left the bone-jarring slope behind, of being back on the flat plain of the valley. He did not look for a marker to fix his course, but kept his head down, face out of the pelting rain, eyes almost closed.
His thoughts circled, uncontrolled: the empty land beyond the valley, the child in his house that had come from nowhere. Could no longer picture the boy’s face, his form, only grass and rain: sought him out and now he was gone from him again.
The storm was above, but the old man’s sticks found the ground ahead and he did not falter. He felt little in these hours, not cold or wet, nor pain or hunger. He saw the bees held under by his father’s hands, spoke a few words aloud as he stumbled.
– Old stock. Too late in the season. They would have died anyway: too weak to suffer the winter.
Soon the light would fail and he was too slow now to make it home before nightfall. He thought of his own bees, under the beeches, waiting for the warmer weather. Then of the dream he had, the day the boy came: no fear, just a slight figure on the ground in front of the hives, sleeping. The rain let up, and he could see the first low rise ahead, the familiar trees on the grey horizon.
The day was almost gone when he reached the clearing. There was no snow by the hives, the ground was dry, and while the wind touched the tops of the trees, below them it was still. Just warm enough for his bees to be flying.
The old man watched the small bodies navigate the outside air, listened to the strange barking sound of his breath. He filled his lungs, but his heart could not find its familiar rhythm. He moved in closer to the hives, standing between them, letting their comforting hum surround him.
No blossom yet, but his bees were busy, bringing out their winter dead. Small carcasses on the dark earth before the hives. He laid himself down beside them.
The Crossing
He has been there since dawn; head down, keeping pace with them.
Marta can see for miles along the broad riverbank, and she has kept one eye on his progress all morning, urging her children on, hoping they haven’t seen him. Marta is frightened. They were making headway till they hit the river. Every hour’s delay brings danger closer. And now the man . She has been walking her family along the wide surge of water since late yesterday afternoon. The anger from the east at their backs, she has kept them moving, one eye behind her, the other on the thick swirls of current churning the water slowly over and under.
Pressing on, praying for a way across, Marta carries her
No trees at the top, no shelter, but then nothing to obscure his view, either. He looked for plumes of smokefrom stoves and chimneys, or for low clumps of houses, strips of cultivated land, for walls and fences. The sky was grey and low over the unfamiliar country, rolling on for days in all directions. The old man stood and held in his rasping breath, watching for signs of life in the land ahead.
Wind, treetops, water, clouds. No human movement or human sound.
__
The rain came, swallowed the land, the old man. He was not strong now, let it take hold of him. Was aware, after some time, of having left the bone-jarring slope behind, of being back on the flat plain of the valley. He did not look for a marker to fix his course, but kept his head down, face out of the pelting rain, eyes almost closed.
His thoughts circled, uncontrolled: the empty land beyond the valley, the child in his house that had come from nowhere. Could no longer picture the boy’s face, his form, only grass and rain: sought him out and now he was gone from him again.
The storm was above, but the old man’s sticks found the ground ahead and he did not falter. He felt little in these hours, not cold or wet, nor pain or hunger. He saw the bees held under by his father’s hands, spoke a few words aloud as he stumbled.
– Old stock. Too late in the season. They would have died anyway: too weak to suffer the winter.
Soon the light would fail and he was too slow now to make it home before nightfall. He thought of his own bees, under the beeches, waiting for the warmer weather. Then of the dream he had, the day the boy came: no fear, just a slight figure on the ground in front of the hives, sleeping. The rain let up, and he could see the first low rise ahead, the familiar trees on the grey horizon.
The day was almost gone when he reached the clearing. There was no snow by the hives, the ground was dry, and while the wind touched the tops of the trees, below them it was still. Just warm enough for his bees to be flying.
The old man watched the small bodies navigate the outside air, listened to the strange barking sound of his breath. He filled his lungs, but his heart could not find its familiar rhythm. He moved in closer to the hives, standing between them, letting their comforting hum surround him.
No blossom yet, but his bees were busy, bringing out their winter dead. Small carcasses on the dark earth before the hives. He laid himself down beside them.
The Crossing
He has been there since dawn; head down, keeping pace with them.
Marta can see for miles along the broad riverbank, and she has kept one eye on his progress all morning, urging her children on, hoping they haven’t seen him. Marta is frightened. They were making headway till they hit the river. Every hour’s delay brings danger closer. And now the man . She has been walking her family along the wide surge of water since late yesterday afternoon. The anger from the east at their backs, she has kept them moving, one eye behind her, the other on the thick swirls of current churning the water slowly over and under.
Pressing on, praying for a way across, Marta carries her
Similar Books
