Darius Bell and the Crystal Bees (5 page)

Hector Bell had been writing short stories for as long as Darius could remember. According to Cyrus, he had been writing them for as long as he could remember as well. The results stood in tall piles around their father's writing room, stacks of yellowing paper. The further you went down each stack, the older and more yellow were the pages.

The stories Darius heard about always seemed to mirror very closely events that had happened at Bell House, and to feature people who seemed very similar to the people who lived there – including Darius himself. But Darius had never actually read any of them, and nor had Cyrus. His mother had, but whenever Darius asked her about them she always said something like ‘They're very . . . interesting,' or ‘Your father really tries very hard, you know,' which didn't really tell him anything about them. And she didn't encourage him to try to persuade his father to let him read some. ‘He'll show you in his own good time,' she would say, almost as if she felt that Darius was lucky that time hadn't arrived.

Sometimes Darius wondered how his father ever managed to produce those yellowing stacks of stories. There was a desk in his writing room, but that didn't necessarily mean that Hector spent all his time sitting at it. Or even most of his time. Whenever Darius knocked to come in, his father never showed any hesitation in throwing his pen down as if he had only been waiting for the distraction. And that was when he was even at his desk. More often Darius found him sitting in the armchair that was in the room, munching on a snack and gazing dreamily out the window, and more often than that, he would be lying on the long sofa that stood opposite the armchair, having a snooze.

This time his father was at his desk, but a plate of dates and pistachios and a little bowl of dipping honey were waiting. As soon as the door opened Hector threw down his pen.

‘Perfect!' he cried, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘A companion for my afternoon snack.'

‘Hello, Papa,' said Darius.

Hector took the plate and bowl to the sofa. ‘Come on,' he said.

Darius sat beside him.

Hector picked up a date, expertly extracted the stone with a small thin implement he kept specifically for the purpose, stuffed a pistachio inside it, dipped it in honey, and held it out to Darius.

‘Thank you, Papa,' said Darius.

Hector prepared a date for himself. Together, they popped the dates in their mouths. Darius chewed slowly, savouring the sweet stickiness and salty nuttiness of the concoction. Hector did the same. They smiled at each other, then Hector prepared two more.

These were moments Darius had loved since he was a little boy, sitting with his father on the long sofa in the writing room and eating sweet, sticky treats. He allowed himself to enjoy them now, putting out of his mind the reason he had come. He tasted the soft, dark flesh of the dates, and the crunch of the nuts, all coated in the sweetness of pumpkin-flower honey with its slight, almost imperceptible tinge of burntness. Neither he nor his father spoke. Sometimes even Hector Bell – who never used only one word when three words would do – knew when it was better to use no words at all.

Eventually the dates were eaten. A few extra pistachios remained, and Darius and his father dipped these as well.

Then Hector sat back and heaved a long, satisfied sigh.

Darius gazed at the honey bowl. There was only a thin film of honey left, a light coating of golden-brown.

‘Go on,' said Hector.

Darius shook his head.

‘Go on,' said his father again, smiling.

Darius picked up the bowl and ran his finger over the inside, then sucked the honey off his finger, as he had done ever since he was a little boy.

Hector picked up the bowl when Darius had finished and poked his finger at a couple of spots of honey that Darius had missed, then sucked the honey off it as well. ‘Pumpkin-flower honey,' he said, raising the finger he had just cleaned and waving it expressively. ‘Can you think of any honey more delicious? Any honey more delicately scented, more delightfully flavoured, more tantalisingly—'

‘There won't be any this year,' blurted out Darius suddenly.

Hector stopped, finger in the air. ‘Why not?'

‘There are no bees.'

Hector frowned. ‘No bees where?'

‘In the hive in the pumpkin field.'

‘That's very odd, Darius. Why shouldn't there be any bees in the hive?'

‘They're all dead.'

‘Who killed them?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Does Mr Deaver know?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Shouldn't he find out?'

‘I think he's trying.'

‘Well,' said Darius's father, and he cleared his throat. ‘The death of one bee,' he announced solemnly, as if he was a great expert on the matter and had studied it extensively, ‘is not a matter of great concern – other than to the bee, I suppose, and his friends and family. The death even of a number of bees is not a concern – with the same exceptions. But the death of a hive – an entire hive, and particularly one responsible for a honey as noble, as vital, as
necessary
as pumpkin-flower honey, which is, after all, not merely a honey, but a queen of honeys, a queen bee of honeys, one might say the crowning glory of the honey species, if one can use such a term, which I believe one can, since honey, if not a species, is at least a thing of such extraordinary importance, of such overwhelming attributes, of such unparalleled—'

‘Papa, there are no bees.'

‘munificence, a gift, as it were, to humanity, and not merely a gift, but a life-force, a boon, a spiritual—'

‘Papa! There are no bees! Anywhere!'

Hector Bell stared at his son in silence. ‘I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Darius.'

‘There are no bees in
any
of the hives. They're all dead.'

‘All of them?'

‘There are none left. Every hive the Deavers have is empty.'

‘Well, the Deavers have been very careless, haven't they?'

‘Papa, I don't think it's their fault.'

‘How do we know? That's the point, isn't it? We don't know. According to what you've told me, we only have their word for it.'

‘I really don't think it's their fault, Papa. There are no bees anywhere in the city. They've all died.'

Hector Bell raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

‘Papa, there's not going to be any honey at all this year.'

Hector Bell shrugged, as if he didn't want to hear it.

‘And there won't be any fruit and vegetables either. Papa, did you hear me?'

‘Ridiculous! Darius, what are you talking about? First no honey, now no fruit and vegetables. What next? No sun? No moon? Your imagination is getting away from you. You know I'm all in favour of imagination. A literary man like myself, where would I be without it? And yet there are limits, Darius. One doesn't go around frightening people willy-nilly with rumours of no honey and no fruit. If you want to write a horror story, write it! Don't spread rumours as if they were true.'

‘It's not a story! Listen to me, Papa. It's basic science. The bees—'

‘Science!' cried Hector in horror. ‘Darius, spare me. I'm a man of literary sensibilities.'

‘No, Papa. Listen. It's not hard to understand. The bees are needed to pollinate the flowers.'

Darius's father stared at him blankly.

‘Pollination, Papa. That's what makes a flower into a fruit. The pollen from one flower goes to the other. Surely you've heard of that?'

Hector shrugged slightly.

‘Look, Papa, the bees go from flower to flower collecting nectar, don't they?'

Hector frowned. ‘I suppose so . . . Such questions, Darius! Why are you asking me if you already know the answers?'

‘Papa, listen. The honey that bees make comes from nectar. The nectar comes from flowers. As they collect it, they also collect pollen on their bodies. When they go to the next flower, the pollen brushes off. In some cases, it's actually the beating of their wings that releases the pollen, and it's actually the same flower that pollinates itself, but that's a different form of pollination and isn't as common as . . .' Darius paused. His father was staring at him with a glazed look in his eyes. ‘Don't worry about that, Papa. The point is, in general, the bees take pollen from one flower to another and that's how the flowers get pollinated. And that's how we get our fruit. Do you understand, Papa? That's how it happens.'

Hector still had the same look in his eyes.

‘Papa, no bees – no fruit, no vegetables. Nothing. Not for us, not for the Fishers.'

Hector Bell nodded. ‘I see.'

‘Papa?' said Darius doubtfully.

‘I heard you, Darius. No bees – no fruit. Isn't that what you said?'

‘Yes, unless we do something. It's serious. It's really serious.'

‘It certainly sounds it.'

‘That's why I'm telling you.'

‘And so you should!' said Hector loudly, recovering his poise. ‘Quite right, Darius. You're very sensible. I don't know how many boys would be as sensible as you at your age. I wasn't, I'm sure.'

‘So you understand, Papa?'

‘Say no more! Understood.' Hector looked around the room, then yawned. ‘I'm rather sleepy. Are you sleepy, Darius?'

‘No.'

‘An afternoon nap? Always good for the brain.'

Darius shook his head.

‘Forty winks? You can have sixty, if you like.'

‘No, Papa. You heard what I said, didn't you? It's serious.'

‘I know. Leave it to me, Darius. You did the right thing to tell me.'

‘Thanks, Papa.' Darius got up. As he left, his father was stretching himself on the sofa.

Outside, Darius felt a sense of relief – real relief, this time. That hadn't been as hard as he had expected it to be. Somehow, when he had been thinking about it, he hadn't known how he was going to bring himself to break the bad news to his father. And yet, once he blurted out the first part, it was easy. You just have to tell the truth, thought Darius, no matter how bad. It was much worse if you tried to hide it.

Hector Bell had more than forty winks, and probably more than sixty. He didn't wake up until Darius's mother came looking for him in the writing room.

‘I had the most peculiar dream,' he said as he sat up.

‘What was that?'' asked Micheline.

‘Darius came and we ate dates and pistachios with pumpkin-flower honey, and then he told me there was going to be no more honey and no more fruit . . .' Hector paused. His gaze rested on the empty date dish and honey bowl. ‘Actually, I don't think it was a dream. He did come! He actually did come.'

‘And is that what he said?'

Hector tried to remember. ‘It was something about bees and fruit, Micheline.' He chuckled. ‘He tried to explain it, but to be honest, I didn't understand a word of it. He bamboozled me with science. I'm a literary man, Micheline, with literary sensibilities. Almost romantic sensibilities, as you've often said yourself. Science? It's a closed book. Closed, wrapped, and tied up with string. I don't understand it. Never have, never will. Can't be helped, that's just how it is.'

‘But what was Darius saying?'

‘Something about bees and fruit. He's such a clever boy, but honestly, Micheline, it was completely ridiculous.' Hector frowned, trying to remember the details. ‘That's right! He claimed there'll be no fruit, not just for us, but for the Fishers as well. Can you imagine that? No fruit for the Fishers? I'd like to see that! I'd like to see Fisher not produce a fruit. There's no farmer in the world who produces fruit like Fisher.'

Micheline looked at him quizzically. ‘I wonder where Darius got that idea.'

‘If it was true, Micheline, don't you think we'd have already heard from Mr Fisher? If Fisher comes and tells me, then I might believe it.'

Darius's mother frowned. Maybe, she thought, she should go and find Darius. Or Mr Fisher. She considered it. But she would make a fool of herself if she went off to Mr Fisher to check if there was going to be any fruit when he had never failed to produce fruits before. In fact, if Mr Fisher took it the wrong way, he might feel insulted. And surely if something so horrendous was about to happen, Mr Fisher would have come and said something. Hector was right about that.

‘It's impossible,' said Hector. ‘Whatever it is, Darius misunderstood or got it out of proportion or . . .' He smiled. ‘I know! He was playing some kind of prank. Playing some kind of prank on his old papa. Cyrus probably put him up to it. Wanted to see if I'd jump up and run off to Fisher. Well, I'm not going to do that.'

Micheline smiled slightly. Hector was taking it a little too far. The idea of making her husband jump up and run off anywhere would have been rather far-fetched, even for Darius and Cyrus.