The Apiary at Noon

Text 1: The Apiary at Noon, by Ellis March

An original short story extract.

Ruth set the smoker on the grass and lifted the lid from the first hive. The wooden box gave a small sigh as it opened. Inside, the bees moved over the comb in a close, golden shimmer. Ruth leaned nearer. The whole field seemed to narrow to that square of light, and to the fine, patient work of her hands.

A bee struck the veil beside her cheek. Then another. The sound thickened, a low buzz rising into a hurried, insistent whine. Ruth paused with the frame halfway out. A drop of sweat slid beneath her collar. She held still until the movement around her softened, then drew the frame clear. It was heavier than she expected, and the bees clung to it like a living fringe.

By late afternoon the hives stood closed again, their lids dark with smoke. Ruth walked to the far gate and looked back. From there, the apiary was only a scatter of boxes in the grass. Yet she could still hear the hum, faint but everywhere, as if the field had kept a little of the day for itself. She rested her hands on the gate before going home.