Honeyed Memory Wrapped In Waxen Forgetting

20251207

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 1” event.

Anya cupped her mittened hands around the soup thermos and breathed deep of the rich fortifying scent. Ahh. Exactly what she needed for this frosty vigil.
The rest of the family had smiled and shaken their heads when they saw her packing a basket with supplies and wrapping up warm.
“The bees know their way back, grandma. It’s not like they’d forget.”
Of course not, but she knew that if she went to bed she’d lie awake all night, straining her ears. Trying to catch that melodious chiming hum on the wind. Better to wait out here and know for sure that the little ones were safe in their hives.
Each hive had been inspected and cleaned and repaired as soon as cold weather threatened, and a close eye kept on them since. Making sure they were ready for the snow bees’ return - and that no squatters had taken advantage of the shelter!
Anya leant back in her deck chair and peered up at the sky. When she declared it smelt like frost Jamie had unpacked the electric lanterns from the shed and strung them up across the orchard for her. Bless him! He’d been a damn fine catch at twenty and in the fifty years since he’d aged like good damson wine.
To think, she’d nearly turned him down for the dance because he had buck teeth…
Heh. The bees weren’t even back and she was already reminiscing. Some things you didn’t need magic honey to recall clear and bright.
Still no sight or sound of them. Anya firmly shushed the worried little voice which was already fretting that perhaps the weather was wrong or the wind too strong or, or…
That voice was almost never right. And there was nothing she could do either way. So she puffed into the soup steam, dispersing it into the chill air, and told the worries to go with it! Then turned her attention to the flowers.
After all, while snow bees were magical creatures, they needed a nectar source like any other bee. So the hives were surrounded by winter-blooming cherry trees and various flowers which thrived in their shade. Even after the frost hit there would be colour aplenty here!
Was that a chime? Hm. Perhaps her eager imagination was playing tricks on her.
Where did they go, every year? As the last frost melted every bee would swarm out of their hive and fly straight up, as if aiming for the sun, swiftly vanishing from sight. It was, after all, inordinately hard to see such small transparent creatures.
Then, as the first frost settled, they would swoop down and settle into the hives once more. Immediately setting to gathering nectar and brewing honey. Despite how they never ate it. Nor did they seem to have a queen, yet there was never any fewer of them.
How many generations had her family been gathering the fruits of their labour? Yet so little was known about these marvellous creatures. They were surely a gift from some kindly spirit. One who’d foreseen how valuable it was to remember and forget.
Because while the honey was far more popular, the wax was still in high demand. And those who wanted it were willing to pay handsomely. Many were surprised it was so cheap. Some insisted on paying extra. Anya always accepted whatever they felt was right to pay - and put any windfalls aside, to make up the difference for those who couldn’t afford even the regular price.
“We are but stewards.” She always told them.
And when she saw the weight fall off them and pain melt away, she felt sure it was what whoever sent the bees had meant for their gift. Amazing how merely holding that unwanted memory in your mind and chewing a lump of wax could wipe the slate clean. In some cases she was sure it added years to the poor person’s life.
Selling the honey was far more jolly. Seeing eyes light up and hearing people gush about the memory they’d reclaimed.
A loved one’s lost voice… the words to a song that'd faded but never gotten out of their head… where they’d hidden a personal treasure…
Such varied specks of life, gathered and brought home by a drop of ice-clear honey or sip of frosty mead.
Aha! There it was. That crystalline thrumming, the buzz of hundreds of glassy wings cutting the frigid air.
Anya leapt to her feet and peered upwards, her mouth splitting into a grin as the light of the lanterns reflected back a thousandfold. Like the stars themselves were coming home to roost.
Ahh. That buzz massaged her soul. Many visitors said they found it unpleasant or jarring; she never pretended to understand. Perhaps it was familiarity. To her, that sound had always meant all was right with the world. Everyone was home and well.
The sea of lights split into streams, each bee unerringly zooming in on a hive. Did they return to the same one every year? She may never know, for even now she hadn’t found a way of telling them apart. But she knew each hive would be snugly filled.
In moments the tide had flooded in and a lull fell. Catching their breath.
Then the bees started trickling out again, this time to find flowers.
They were fussy creatures. Fastidious in their work. Sometimes they’d try two or three different blossoms before finding what they were looking for. That’s why it was important to offer a broad selection. Cherryblossom, primroses, irises, violas, viburnums… Over the decades the family had figured out what mix of flowers produced the most honey, and tended the orchard carefully the whole year so a buffet was ready.
Anya drained the last of her soup and heaved a contented sigh. Alright. The bees had been welcomed, and had pronounced everything satisfactory. Time to head to bed. After all, the real work of the year started now.

Prompt was “Translucent bees appear after the first freeze. They build honeycombs of memory inside abandoned houses. The honey shows you the thing you lost and never stopped looking for.”