Water Rites by Mary Rosenblum Page B

wrapped his scarf around her head, yanked her to her feet. Sobbing, Nita stumbled blindly along in his grip as he pulled her into a run. Hot pain spread across her skin as the Bee Man dragged her up the stream bed.
    “Keep running!” he panted in her ear. “Just a little more and it’ll be all right . . .”
    They were running uphill now. Rocks stubbed her toes and Nita fell again. This time the Bee Man didn’t make her get up. She curled herself into a ball, face pressed against her knees, afraid that she would hear the bees following her, humming loud, humming angry as Mama.
    “Here, now. Here, this’ll help.” The Bee Man was back, unwinding the scarf from her face, coaxing her to sit up.
    Nita sucked in her breath as cool wetness soothed the hot burning. Mud? She touched the tawny smears he was dabbing onto her dark skin. It was mud, and it helped.
    “I’m sorry. I should have warned you about that damn nest, but I didn’t think.” The Bee Man dipped more mud from the plastic bowl in his hand. “They call them killers for good reason. The whole nest’ll come after you, and, if it happens, you run. That’s all you can do. If you don’t, you can get enough stings to kill you.” He grunted. “They came up from South America, a long time ago. From Africa, before that. They do real good in the Dry, but you can’t work with ’em and they don’t give much honey, anyway. I would have taken out that nest a long time ago, but it’s way back in the rock.” He combed a dead bee out of Nita’s tangled hair. “You’re not swelling anyway, so you’ll be alla right, I guess.”
    Nita looked down at the bee, too full of pain to even nod. It didn’t look any different than the honey bees. Killers. That felt right. It matched their ugly, violent song. Nita shivered, fear crawling up her spine. She knew the killers’ song now.
    The Bee Man set down the bowl and stood up. Nita watched him disappear into a tent made out of faded green plastic. Rock shelved out above her head to make a shallow cave that breathed cool, damp air on her burning skin. They were on a flat space, like a rocky shelf above the streambed. In the thickening darkness, Nita could barely make out a big, blackened cook pot on a ring of stones, and a stack of chopped branches. A light went on inside the tent, making the green walls glow.
    “Those killer stings hurt. I still jump and I hardly even notice the honey bee stings any more.” The Bee Man ducked out of the tent, a jug in one hand and a small solar lantern in the other. “This will make you feel a little better, anyway.” He poured pale, golden liquid into a plastic cup.
    Dry with thirst, Nita gulped at the liquid. It wasn’t water. It tasted sweet, with a faint honey smell, and it felt bubbly on her tongue. She held out her empty cup hopefully.
    “Not too much, or you’ll have a headache in the morning. This stuff has some kick to it.” He filled her cup half full of the bubbly honey-water. “There’s plenty of water. Bees showed me a little seep-spring back in the rock. It hasn’t dried up yet.” He nodded at the cool darkness under the overhang. “If you’re hungry, there’s bread and some dried fruit in that basket. Not fancy, but edible. I was going to hire another boy at the market,” the Bee Man said slowly. “Alberto asked me to take you, instead.”
    He was afraid, she realized suddenly. Of her? Nita swirled the last of the honey-water in her cup, frowning a little. Why should this man, taller than Alberto, be afraid of her?
    “Water’s in that jug there, drink all you want. You can use this sleeping bag.” The Bee Man stood suddenly and picked up the honey-water jug. “Don’t wander off, okay? You could get lost, and you can die of thirst, even this early in the year.” He paused in the doorway of the tent. “Damn it, Alberto,” he muttered. “We’re even. I’m never going to live this down.”
    He was afraid. Afraid. What did he mean, anyway? Nita