Trog

This originally appeared in the SBA magazine but for the sake of anyone here who didn't see it, and who enjoys the stories, here's the first of the Tales to celebrate today's visits by my bees to the snowdrops

Oh, there was such a buzzing and dancing in the hive that night! Fresh food at last after a long winter huddled round the summer harvest, trying to keep warm on calories alone.

“Y’know, I’m heartily sick of clover honey.” said one.

“Aye, you can’t beat a bit of fresh snowdrop nectar.” said another.

Another, a guard bee at the hive entrance, sniffed the calm evening air.

“T’other lot have got gorse.”

“Good for them! Maybe we’ll raid ‘em tomorrow.”

“I don’t advise it,” said the first, “they’re a pretty butch lot, even though there are fewer of them.”

“They’re Amazons.”

“Eh? What’s a bookseller got to do with the price of fish?”

“Amazons: a tribe of warrior females from antiquity.”

“They’re antique warriors? Come off it! I wasn’t hatched yesterday!”

“No, you weren’t. You had the cell next to mine and it was September. We were raised on bramble. Wonder if there’s any left in the store combs?”

“Ha! You must be getting old, all nostalgic for your grub-hood!”

A loud and merry buzzing further up the comb interrupted them. An Eightsome Reel was underway, waggle dances having been banned in case any young bee should get carried away and fly off into the moonlight. This was followed by The Dashing White Beekeeper and the guard bees found themselves tapping their spare feet to the rhythm.

“Speaking of the Dashing White Beekeeper, did you know it came round today to have a word with us?”

“No. What about?”

“Yesterday the neighbours called to complain about brown spots on their washing.”

“Ah. Well it was the first fine day in weeks ...”

“Serves them right for hanging out washing on the Sabbath”, interrupted a bee known as Beatrice. The others waggled their antennae in a wry fashion. (Beatrice was inclined to be rather waspish but her strong protestant work ethic had certainly come in handy during the autumn foraging.)

“... and a bee’s gotta do what a bee’s gotta do.”

“Apparently it was finest Egyptian white linen and the beekeeper reckoned it served the neighbour right for showing off but is a bit worried compensation may be demanded.”

“Shame! It’s probably covered by insurance, though. Or we could give a little extra honey this year to make up for it. I’ll say this for the human; it does give us excellent working and living conditions. The new foundation we got last year was a delight to work.”

A Canadian Hive Dance was beginning. Had the beekeeper been passing at the time, it might have been a little puzzled by all those thousands of stamping feet but, fortunately, it was nowhere nearby.

Down by the hive entrance the guards were getting restive. “About time we had a go. When are we off duty?”

“When the next shift deign to come down to relieve us.”

“If they’re in any fit state when the time comes.”

The Queen announced the final dance: "Strip the Willow ..."

The customary response was roared throughout the hive:

“... of all its pollen before the bumblebees get the lot!”

The New Season was well and truly underway.