My First Queen by Katja Kaine

I was seventeen years old when I made my first queen.

It was three weeks after my birthday, when pa got me a brand new hive. Even though there wasn’t yet room in the main colony, I was so excited that Davey said I could have a slide from his hives to put in mine. I’d seen him do it a hundred times or more – you just slide out a slide, make sure it ain’t got no queen in it, and slide it nice and gentle into your new hive. Soon enough, those little drones, they realize something’s up. They ain’t got no queenie.

So they go ahead and pick one of the larvae or one of the eggs to be their new queen. The Lord above only knows why they pick that one and not any of the others – I reckon it’s just random. Like life, I guess. Anyways, they start doing things to it, putting it in a little peanut shaped shell, feeding it some special cocktail of pheromones they got going. Then, sure enough, a coupla weeks later, out pops a bee that’s different to them other bees.

She bigger, sure, but that ain’t it. She’s got some magic, something inside her that makes her able to make more bees. To spawn a colony.

So there I was, sitting on the porch in the pounding heat, the kind of heat that makes you prickle and sticky all at the same time, all ready and waiting, the day my first queen pushed her little antennae out.

She was beautiful. I know you think I’m just saying that because she was mine, but man, she really was. Her delicate little antennae waving all around, tasting the air over them huge eyes with all them tiny reflective spots like shattered glass. Her body was black as deep space, with amber stripes – the same colour as the honey she was gonna make for me. Her wings looked like they were made of water membrane stretched over hair-thin twigs. She crawled out into the baking sunshine on top a the hive and vibrated them – like trying ‘em out. She did it again. Then again a bit longer.

“Go on, girl!” I encouraged her. Softly – I didn’t want to scare the little thing.

I swear she glanced at me for a moment then, and then she was off. Veering one way and then the other, like a drunk on a bike. I leapt up and sprinted after her, practically dancing, whooping and clapping my hands. I chased her all round the yard, then bent over and put my hands on my thighs, breathless, as a drone intercepted her. They span around like some kinda dog fight, spinning like a helix then shooting off at crazy angles, passing so close by my eyes I caught my breath. Then, as I watched – lips parted, tongue moist – they joined in mid-air and mated.

I felt a bit bad, a bit wrong, watching them doing that. I know they’re just bees, not important or nothing. But I felt bad anyways. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Then, without never having landed, they wrenched apart. My breath caught in my throat but by the time I’d straightened it out, my perfect girl was off again. She didn’t pause to watch her discarded lover tailspin to the ground and land on his back, legs twitching, fractured eyes flat.

My queen went through another nine beaus before she was done – her sacs filled with enough male bee juice to keep her going for a lifetime of making those little bee eggs. From that one little creature, my entire swarm would be spawned. A whole generation of bees would be her little ‘uns. Our little ‘uns.

I sprinted to overtake her as she headed home to the hive by the house. She moved sluggish now, tired from her exciting first day – and heavy. I took the stairs up the creaking wooden porch two at a time and stood beside the hive, panting from the heat and exertion, ready to welcome her home.

Too late, the gentle sway caught the corner of my eye. Too late, I remembered. Remembered Pa getting all red faced and bothered the day before. Swearing that black buzzing vermin wouldn’t contaminate our BBQ meat no more. As we wolfed down our t-bones, even as the flies tickled our lips, he rummaged around in the kitchen drawers, and came back looking mighty triumphant. He unfurled the sticky rolls like a pair of whips, and nailed them to the crossbeam.

My thumb-sized beauty veered towards it, drawn by its bug-enticing scent. A slice of a moment later I lunged to save her, letting out a pinched cry of panic. I swiped at the glue-coated ribbons and yanked hard as they dragged at my skin. I had to destroy them, bury them… but I was too late. Enthralled, queenie chased the deadly tape, and before I could crumple it out of harm’s way, she made contact.

I cried out, a visceral, pleading scream for it not to be.

But it was.

She stuck at a strange angle, confused. To someone else it mighta been comical. But to me, my heart was shattering into a hundred pieces. It was undignified, to see her stuck there by the side of her head and abdomen. One wing folded painfully back on itself, already half dissolved by the sticky poison, the other thrumming hopelessly. Her legs waggled in the air, weak and helpless.

I slumped down on the porch, still holding the fly paper with my perishing beauty attached. A whole generation, thwarted by sticky tape.

Her buzzing filled my ears, raging around my skull. The noise got more desperate, more panicked as she realized how serious it was.

Gritting my teeth and swallowing down the hard lump in my throat, I folded the tape over and crushed her with a moist crunch.

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Katja L Kaine lives in a hippyish commune in Yorkshire with her husband, two cats, dog, kangaroo toddler, a chess genius and a guitar hero. She splits her time between writing novels, writing about novels, and writing novel writing software. She also runs a writing group where the critique varies from harsh to brutal.

Photo: Nyochi

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