The History of Bees

Chapter 26 WILLIAM

The eggs are no more than 1.5 millimeters in length. One in each cell, grayish against the yellow wax. After just three days the larva hatches, and she, because usually it’s a she, is overfed like a spoiled child. Then the days of growth come, before the cells are covered by a wax lid. In there, she creates the cocoon, the larva spins it around itself, a protective garment against everything and everyone. Here, and only here, she’s alone.

After twenty-one days the worker bee crawls out of the cell to the others, a newborn, but not ready for the world, an infant, can’t fly, can’t eat on its own, and barely manages to hang on to the boards, crawling, creeping, searching. On the first days she therefore receives simple tasks indoors and has a short radius. She cleans the brood box, first her own cell, subsequently others, and she’s never alone. There are many hundreds of others, who at any given time are at the exact same phase of development as she is.

Then her work as a nursing bee begins, although she’s still only a child. It’s now her responsibility to feed those who are not yet born. At the same time she attempts her very first flights, testing out her wings, in the afternoon, days with good weather, careful, hesitant. She finds the way out of the flight hole; for a while she circles in front of the hive, before she slowly increases the distance from her home. But she’s still not ready.

She still has tasks in the hive. She takes care of the pollen that comes in, produces wax and carries out her stint as a guard bee. And at the same time, the trips outside of the hive become longer. She’s preparing herself. Will soon be ready. Soon.

And then, finally, she becomes a forager bee. She disappears outside on her own, is free, her wings carry her from plant to plant, she collects the flowery-sweet nectar, pollen and water, for mile after mile. She’s alone out here, but still a part of the community. Alone she’s nothing, a part so tiny that it’s insignificant, but with the others she’s everything. Because together they’re the hive.

The idea began out of nowhere, but developed like the bee itself. I started with sketches, light charcoal strokes on paper, imprecise dimensions, vague designs. Then I became more daring, I measured, calculated, the lines became clearer, I lay the full expanse of the paper out on the floor. In the end I took out a pen and ink and it finally took shape before my eyes, clearer, more precise lines, exact measurements. And finally, on the twenty-first day, the hive was ready. “Can you build this?”

I spread the drawings out across Conolly’s worn tabletop. The table was full of nicks and scratches from many years back, and on top of this it was not completely steady. You would think that he, of all people, would insist on furniture in one piece. Everything in this little sitting room of his was crooked and lopsided: an unmade bed in the corner, a broken chair placed by the hearth. Perhaps he didn’t have the energy to repair his own furnishings, and instead tossed them into the fire when they were beyond repair. The floor was full of sawdust, as if he brought his work in with him, even though he had a workshop in an adjacent room.

He picked up one of the drawings. They seemed fragile in that powerful hand. He held it up to the light in the cramped sitting room, moved a step closer to the peephole of a window, where one of the panes was broken and the opening boarded up with a knotty plank. He had been recommended to me, the best carpenter in the area, it was said, but his surroundings were not convincing.

“The box is fine, but why does it need a slanted roof?”

“Well, it is a house, after all. A building, a home.”

“A home?” He hesitated. “It’s bees you’re talking about, right?”

I couldn’t explain all of this to him, had to come up with a logical reason, speak his language. “It’s because of water. Rain. When it rains, it will run off.”

He nodded; that was an argument he could accept, because it was related to construction, not feelings.

“That makes it more complicated. But it should be fine.”

Then he picked up the drawing of the interior.

“And frames?”

“They’re supposed to hang from the top. It would be preferable with ten per hive, but we can make do with seven or eight. A piece of wax is to be attached to these.”

He looked at me questioningly.

“Beeswax. So the bees can continue to build on it.”

“Really?”

“The bees build diagonal honeycombs by nature, but I don’t want to let them build as they like, which is why I am adapting the working conditions.”

“Right,” he said and scratched his ear, seeming on the whole completely uninterested.

“In this hive, the frames will help them build honeycombs in a line. I want to be able to have a complete overview of the working conditions through the door, and to be able to take the honeycombs out and put them in. That way it will be easier to take care of, observe and, not least, harvest the honey without hurting the bees.”

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then he studied the drawing again.

“I have the cornices,” he said. “But the walls and roof… I’m a little unsure about the materials.”

“I will leave those assessments to you,” I said with all the friendliness I was able to muster. “This is, after all, your field.”

“You’re right about that,” he said. “And the um… the parallel honeycombs will be up to you.”

He smiled for the first time, a broad and easy smile, while he held out that powerful fist. I smiled back and grasped his hand. I could already envision crate after crate of Savage’s Standard Hives being carried out of the carpenter’s workshop and being sold at a good profit for both of us. Yes, this really had all the promise of a splendid collaboration.