Bee-yard Along the Black Bear

After his father’s funeral, Steven was surrounded by friends and family and suddenly couldn’t breathe. He grabbed the key to his dad’s truck and left.

Although he hadn’t acknowledged it, he knew exactly where he was going.

He drove east out of town until he reached the twin bridges, then turned south along the river until he found the dirt path carved along the forest's edge and the field. At the end of it was an old farmyard, and in the middle was his father’s last beeyard.

A beekeeper from the next town over had been asking about it, and Steven needed to see what he was selling.

He pulled in and stepped out of the truck. The hives were arranged on pallets, five to the left of the truck, five to the right, forty in total. Each were turned a quarter to the others so the bees could find their way home and not accidentally end up in another hive. The grass had grown wild around the bases—his father hadn’t been out here in weeks.

The sun felt warm on his face, and a gentle wind rustled the treetops. All around him birds chirped, animals rustled in the leaves, and the gentle hum of the bees thrummed beneath it all.

He was still in his dress clothes, but he didn’t care. He pulled off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt at the collar. The hat and veil were under the seat. He slipped it on, tying it snug around his chest. In the truck’s utility chest box was a smoker and strips of cardboard. Steven set to work.

He rolled a strip of cardboard tight and lit it, building up a good flame before putting it in the smoker. The hive tool felt good in his hand—solid, familiar weight even after twenty years.

At the first hive, he puffed the entrance lightly and pulled the tall grass stems away from the base, clearing the flight path. Outside frames first, then work in. Don’t roll the queen. He lifted the outer cover, inserted the hive tool under the inner cover, and cracked apart the wax that sealed it tight. Another shot of smoke over the top, and the bees settled.

Working from the outside and moving in, Steven pulled up each frame to study the wellbeing of the hive. They were full of honey, and bees crawled across their surfaces. Although he worked without gloves, none bothered his bare hands. He slowed when he reached the centre frames, scanning for the queen. First frame—brood cells, nurse bees, but no queen. Second frame, same. On the third frame, he scanned it once, then again more carefully. He considered rechecking the first two frames, but told himself to continue. On the fourth frame, he found her—long and dark. He was careful not to linger, then slid everything back into place.

He moved to the next hive, puffed the entrance, pulled the grass, and repeated the process. Then the next. By the time he finished the twentieth hive on the left, his dress shirt was dark with sweat under the arms and stained with wax and honey. He could smell smoke and sweat on himself. Should have worn coveralls, he thought, but there was no stopping now.

He returned to the truck and took a long drink from his father’s water jug. The water was cold and metallic, and he savoured it. He leaned against the front grill and reached through the open driver’s window to the dashboard. Inside the compartment was an old notebook and a pen that barely worked. The pages were filled with his father’s scratchy handwriting—yard notes from years past, hive counts, queen status, feeding records. Steven found a clean page and started his own notes beside his father’s faded entries: twenty hives checked, twenty queens found, all strong.

He studied the old house as he rested. He’d explored these abandoned farmhouses as a kid while his dad worked the yards. His father had taught him to be cautious—watch for loose boards, holes in the floor, places where the structure might give way. Most were cluttered with the remnants of abandoned lives—furniture, magazines, old televisions, cooking utensils left behind for reasons Steven had never understood. But this one had always been his favourite because it was different. Clean. The family had taken their belongings when they’d left, leaving only the bones of the house itself.

He used to climb to the second floor and watch his father from the window above. His dad, already in his fifties, in work shirt and slacks, moved methodically from hive to hive. During breaks, his father would smoke, and though Steven had never tried it, something about it looked tempting. Up high, the bees hovered above the yard.

Steven walked over to the entrance and peered inside. The floors were bare but clean, the walls still papered, and the afternoon sun filtered through the windows. He stepped inside, and darkness wrapped around him. Sweat cooled on his skin. He climbed the stairs toward the window where he used to watch his father work.

When he reached the second floor, he was surprised to see a woman sitting there, silhouetted in the bright window, her sundress haloed in yellow by the backlight. A big hat obscured her face.

A chill touched the back of his neck. His skin prickled. He was no longer sure it was merely the cool of the dark interior. He thought about leaving, but chose to stay. “Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

The woman didn’t turn or answer. No matter where he stood, the sun shone in his eyes, keeping her face in shadow. She shimmered slightly, there but not there. He wasn’t entirely sure he was seeing her at all. He didn’t feel intrusive. More like he had stepped into a moment outside of time.

He watched her for a moment longer, then backed down the stairs, not taking his eyes off her until he could no longer see her. When he reached the first floor, he walked out into the daylight.

He approached the first hive on the other side of the truck. Something felt different. The work was easier. He figured it was because he’d already done half the yard, but it felt less mechanical somehow. Less about the steps.

By the second hive, his hands were working before his mind caught up. Puffing the entrance, pulling the grass, lifting covers, checking frames. The motions flowed without conscious thought.

By the middle of the second half, he wasn’t thinking at all. Time moved differently. His body moved from hive to hive, frame to frame, and above him, the woman watched. Once in a while, he’d look up to see if she was still there. Occasionally, she’d disappear from the window, then return a moment later.

As he worked, he began to realize something. The hives were thriving despite having been left alone for weeks, maybe months. The queens were strong, and the bees kept at their work gathering honey. His father had built something that could survive on its own.

When he finished the last hive, Steven was hot and sweaty again, but he felt good. His shirt was ruined—honey-stained and dark with perspiration. He looked down at himself and laughed. He didn’t care.

He grabbed some grass, shoved it into the smoker's funnel, and tossed it in the truck box. He took another long swig of water—cold and metallic—and savoured every moment. He washed the stickiness of the honey off his hands.

One final look up to the woman. He wouldn’t see her again, but he was okay with that. He climbed into the truck, reversed, and never looked back.