Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #109 by John E. O. Stevens & Gregory Norman Bossert & Scott H. Andrews

Author:John E. O. Stevens & Gregory Norman Bossert & Scott H. Andrews [Stevens, John E. O. & Bossert, Gregory Norman & Andrews, Scott H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: _Beneath Ceaseless Skies_ Online Magazine
Published: 2012-11-28T13:00:00+00:00

Superstition, n. Unattributable knowledge. From superstare stand over (i.e. in awe or superiority)? Or superstes, that which survives?

Words mislead, Caleb had said. “There are no answers in here,” Mel muttered. “It’s just a, a....” The word was under “C”: catechism, catalyst, ah, “It’s just a catalogue of questions.”

Catalogue, n. A list or register, perhaps from º±Ä± away? »³µ¹½ to choose?

Choose, Mel thought. Away.

That night, after Cook drifted to sleep, Mel carefully rolled up the shade, and then the sash, slid out of sheet and robe, and lay naked in the moonlight. Things do change, Mel thought, and ran a hand from thigh to collarbone and back. Meaning can be found, if you go searching, if you are attentive. There are other answers, and other fields.

The next morning, Mel woke early. Cook was rolled face to the wall, still smelling of nuts and spice and golden crusts. Mel took a deep breath, and snuck out down the hall, into the main wing past the master bedroom, where Pearse snored softly by the sunken, stained bed. And then down the stairs and out through the kitchen, where Neff sprawled and sniffled in the ashes. Ralph had left a half-finished casket on the kitchen path, made of panelling and the parlour floorboards this time, as if determined to take the House back to timber; Mel could see him standing out in the barley field, looking south away to the distant forest.

The hive was dark, the rising sun blocked by the bluff, but Mel could feel it rumbling in its niche.

Mistress sweet, Mistress sharp,

Mistress black, Mistress gold,

Your lady lives, and here I am.

But I’m leaving.

The rumble swelled and stopped, and the bees came out. No explosion of rage, this time, nor a solemn parade like that nighttime visit. The bees spiraled out and settled onto the cliff face until the flint was covered.

Something glinted in the dim mouth of the hive, a reflection of the waxing western sky surrounded by a deeper black. A leg appeared, big as a finger, and then another, and then a triangular head larger than a fist, crowned with golden fur. The hive entrance bulged and stretched and finally tore and the thorax came through, likewise robed in fur, and then the great abdomen banded with black as dark and glossy as the flint and fully as long as Mel’s forearm.

The queen clung to the hive for a moment, and shook loose her wings. Then she leapt out and up, a long loop to land on Mel’s chest. Mel looked down into the dark faceted eyes. Her wings fluttered, catching the dull light like glass. Her stinger hung like a claw over Mel’s belly; at its tip a clear drop swelled and clung, the size of a grape.

“You can come with me,” Mel said. “If you dare.”

The queen climbed up, claws catching cloth and flesh and hair. The stinger brushed the length of Mel’s neck, the venom boiling down to the collarbone. Mel gasped and knew the mark had burned itself back in, swirling red proof of birth and change.

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