CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Austėja

The sun drops behind the tree canopies, casting shadows in the undergrowth. Bird calls pacify as they nestle in their nests and the bees return to their hollows after a productive day in the summertime forest. I carve out the honeycomb from the hollow I’m perched at as the bee inhabitants buzz around in a smoke-induced stupor. I place it in the bucket, now full, and lower it by rope to the ground. It lands with a thud.

‘Danutè?’

A moan and a groan. ‘Yes, I’m here.’ She trudges towards the foot of the pine tree, her face reddened from the sun and her eyes drowsy. ‘Can we go to the festival now? I’m hungry.’

‘Yes, it’s time to go home.’

The forest shifts from day to night. The gluttonous sun animals will hibernate and the nocturnal creatures will prowl about in the darkness. When that happens we don’t want to be out here with a bucketful of tempting, sweet honey.

By dusk, only the two of us remain. I sent Senelè back to the cottage a few hollows back when Liudvikas came by to help. He collected from three of our hollows, filling the bucket and carrying it back to the bridge for Danutè to lug the rest of the way home. Senelè coughed and hacked more as the day wore on. It was difficult to concentrate with the constant reminder of her failing health.

There is time, later, to worry about that.

Liudvikas’s arrival was perfect timing. With the additional help, I have harvested fourteen hollows on my first day.

It was kind of Liudvikas to help and he said Dominykas will stop by tomorrow afternoon. As if there is an unspoken agreement among the bičiulystè to help and support us. News has travelled fast, probably with Senelè’s help, about Motina’s condition. Even at the busiest time of bee season, the beekeepers are still generous with their time, blatantly ignoring the encouragement of the Duke to make competitors of us.

As I loosen the rope harnessed around my waist and walk down the tree, one foot and then the other, my legs cry out in pain. Climbing, balancing, lowering, raising, walking and heaving, all day long. My muscles are pleasantly fatigued. It feels good, knowing my body can keep up with the work of any man. That I can contribute to my family. Provide for them.

Hanging from trees has given me plenty of time to think about the fragility of my family. Senelè’s failing health, Motina’s injury. How has it come to this? My little sister and me, left responsible for the honey collection of fifty hollows?

I place myself with steady feet on the ground. Careful not to injure myself, like Motina.

Poor Motina. She will not be happy to stay at home all day, banished from her beloved hollows. And only just having become a master beekeeper! She does not do ‘resting’ very well. Busy, yes. Resting, no, that’s not in her nature. I did not return home for lunch, instead snacking on chunks of rye and the berries Danutè foraged nearby. But Senelè returned with messages from Motina after she emptied each of her buckets back home.

Use the rope, don’t take any risks.

Only take half, no more.

Make sure the bees are calm.

Look after the bees.

Be careful.

This last message was repeated copiously throughout the day. It was as if Motina had spent the whole day perched on my shoulder, chirping away like a sparrow. I know it is hard for her to relinquish control, especially when so much is balancing on this harvest, but I have proved today that I can do it.

‘Can we go to the festival now?’ Danutè asks for the dozenth time. The festival is always the highlight. Physically exhausted but mentally energised by the satisfaction of harvest, the beekeepers gather to feast. To thank the bees, and the gods, for a successful reaping.

I scoop Danutè in close to me and hug her, kissing the top of her head. ‘Thank you for helping me today. I couldn’t do it without you.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

She grins and I laugh, still incredulous over the situation we find ourselves in. But proud too.

‘Let us taste the harvest.’

Danutè’s face lights up. ‘Can we? Motina never lets us until the end of harvest.’

I wink. ‘It will be our little secret.’

I pull out a mass of honeycomb and extract my new knife from my basket, cracking open the wax with a clean slice. Amber-coloured syrupy honey oozes out. Danutè wipes it up with her index finger and places the lot in her mouth. Her eyes roll back in her head. ‘Mmm. This is sooo good.’

I laugh. It is nice to see my little sister happy, indulging in something fun and a little bit mischievous. I sweep some of the honey up and drag my mouth back over the finger. ‘Mmm. It really is good.’

‘Thanks, Austėja.’

I ruffle her scarf. ‘Let’s go. Do you think you can carry the bucket?’

A deep scowl creeps along my sister’s forehead. ‘I’m so tired, Austėja.’

‘It’s okay. I’ll take it.’ I loop the ropes over my shoulder, my muscles groaning with the weight. I check my tools are all in the basket tied at my waist and then heave up the bucket of honeycomb. We stumble along the forest path, my muscles begging me to stop. But I must push on. I fear if I do stop I may not be able to continue. My sister mopes along the path ahead, scanning the grassland. Wary of snakes.

My heart squeezes with guilt as I recall her brush with death.

Time for thinking later – must push on.

The festival awaits us and I feel more deserving of it than ever.

⚜

The herbs tucked into my straw bed have dried out, but their scent lingers. As I lie down, drawing the blanket up over me, my body sinks into the cot and the ache peels away like honey from a comb. Oozing, and relaxed.

I was too nervous to sit at the festival, fearing I may not be able to get back up. My body felt deliciously fatigued and, apart from fleeting conversations with Aldona, Smilte and Elena, who all insisted I reach out for help and sent their best wishes to Motina, I did not speak to anyone else. I could sense Jonas near. Tomas was there too, chest puffed up and bragging about his collection. The Duke made his rounds at the gathering, but I was careful to leave before he could find me.

I was wrong about him. I can no longer pretend he is not a murderer, or at the least the instigator of murder. It is best I keep my distance.

We stayed only long enough to fill our bellies and Danutè, who was sleepy and satiated, did not complain when I ushered her home. It didn’t feel right being there without Motina.

She smelled of mead – more doses kindly donated by Smilte – when we returned, her knee propped up higher than her hip. She was dozing, but her eyes fluttered open as we entered. Her words were slurred, but I could just make out what she said.

‘Proud of you, Austėja.’

I am giddy, drunk on praise. Such affirmation rarely comes from my motina. Those words fill me up more than the feast. If it weren’t for my weary limbs, aching back and the darkened sky, I’d feel bolstered enough to go back into the forest and continue with the collection.

But I must rest for tomorrow. The work must continue. Motina may be in denial, but I know she cannot see out this harvest on her own.

Just as I’m drifting off, Senelè’s cracking feet shuffle across the cottage. My lids are heavy and I cannot open them but I hear her adding a log to the hearth. A crackle and the light behind my lids shine brighter, momentarily, before dulling again.

She half-coughs, half-exhales and then whispers to the fire. ‘Goddess Gabija. Forgive me. Protect my family. If you must take someone, take me. I am deserving of it. Take me.’

The words settle upon me, but sleep pulls me under before I can make sense of them.

I wake at dawn to birdsong. It is light, and the fire dances low in the hearth. Senelè snores. Her night-time whispers tease my consciousness, but I shake them off.

It must have all been a dream.