Water Rites by Mary Rosenblum Page A

They were angry now. She hummed louder, trying to block out their shrill, painful note, groping for the tone of comfort. That was it! A hair lower, she found it, sang it to the bees, pitching it against their harsh sound. It spread slowly through the swirling cloud of bees, lowering their angry song, gentling it.
    Humming, she watched bees land on her bare arms, crawl up the front of her shift. They tickled, but their bodies looked velvety soft. Peace, she hummed. Comfort. And she stroked one of the black-and-brown bodies delicately. A hand brushed the bees gently away, and Nita looked up with a start. She had forgotten about the Bee Man.
    “Come away now.” He was frowning, but he wasn’t angry. “We’ll let them settle down.”
    He was pleased with her. Pleased! Afraid to breathe, afraid she’d shatter this precious moment, Nita followed him back to the pack.
    “I’m glad you like bees.” The Bee Man smiled at her. “The last kid I hired was scared to death of them.”
    Nita looked down at the dust as he pulled off his scarf. She wanted to ask him about the bees and their song, but the words stuck in her throat like they always did.
    “I’m going to lose this hive.” The Bee Man shouldered his pack, his pleased feeling fading. “The tamarisk doesn’t need my bees. They come from cell cultures, so they don’t have to bloom, and the salt’s killed off most of the native plants. I’d move the hive if I had a place for it, but the wildflower bloom in the hills is bad this year.”
    The dusty wind blew through the Bee Man’s words. Nita let him walk ahead as they climbed into the hills, threading their way between straggling oaks with drooping dusty leaves and tall, tall firs. They walked for the rest of the afternoon. It was a long walk, up into the dry, folded hills of the hills. The dust didn’t burn up here. It was just dust, but you could still taste salt on your lips. They followed a cracked, curving road that led past a cluster of houses, a church, and a boarded-up store, sitting on the edge of a narrow creekbed. The street was empty and Nita didn’t feel any people.
    “You can still pump water from some of the deep wells up here in the coast range,” the Bee Man said. “So a few people still farm up here —vegetables mostly. This is Falls City, where they hold the market on Sundays.
    Alberto and Ignacio went to the market in the valley occasionally, and sometimes Mama went too, but Nita had never gone. She followed the Bee Man up the dry riverbed; it was hard going now, and she was tired. She couldn’t remember walking this far in her whole life. You only went as far as the fields, and then you came home. The riverbed was full of rocks and evening shadows, and they had to climb around an old waterfall. The honey jugs bumped and banged, and the pole snagged on the rocks. The Bee Man held out a hand to her, offering help, but she pretended she didn’t see it. If she worked it right, people would forget she was there, and then their feelings didn’t bother her so much.
    “Almost home,” the Bee Man said at last. He turned down a narrow streambed that led up into the slope above the larger creekbed they’d been following.
    Small green plants with waxy leaves grew between the rocks under their feet, and a few firs spread shadowy branches above their heads, turning the bed into a tunnel of twilight. Nita paused. Bees? She heard them, saw them streaking down into a narrow crack in the rocky fence of the bank. They sang a different song, this time. Louder. Harsher. Curious, Nita went closer, trying to catch the new note.
    “Nita, don’t!” the Bee Man yelled.
    Bees erupted from the crack, whirling toward her like a gust of dark wind. Nita cried out at the first stings. She dropped the jugs and tried to run, but the pole tripped her. Bees swarmed over her, burning like fire as she clawed at them.
    Then the Bee Man was slapping at them, hissing through his teeth as the bees stung him, too. He