Like Robbery

As I lifted the frame free of the box, a geyser of bees rushed at me with buzzing anger.

The heat was like a blanket, forcing me to take shallow breaths between sips of water. It was the first day of summer, but the relentless sun had harassed the Eastern Shore of Maryland for over a week. It had not rained with welcome consistency since the middle of April, and dry and brittle grass stood like needles in the dusty soil that floated sideways in the weakest breeze.

My bees clung to the outside of their hive box, flowing down from the entrances and each other like a writhing, humming waterfall undulating in the oppressive shade of the swaying hackberry tree that sheltered the two colonies. The bees were bearding. Bees exit the boxes where the frames sit next to each other like slices of white bread to regulate the interior temperature of the hive.

I dressed in my bee suit, immediately oppressed by its sleeves and the veil that clung to me in the humidity that was as close as a ghost. I lighted the smoker, but the smoke was stubborn and hard to see in the white cloudless light. I pumped the bellows as I walked to the hives in the corner of the yard. Today, I would not perform an inspection. Since this was my first time harvesting honey, I would only pull two frames, leaving all I could for food as the summer threatened unabated heat and dusty dryness for the next two months.

I unlatched the lid and used my hive tool to break the adhesive layer of propolis from its edges. Bees erupted from the box, making the air around me furious with circling workers. I pried one of the frames a couple of inches above the top of the super, and the box began to vibrate and hum like an engine still in neutral but rising to a threatening crescendo.

Finding another frame of honey covered with fresh, soft wax, I pried it free while bees, wild with rage, covered me.

The frame was full of capped honey and heavy. Dripping honey bent the light filtering through the canopy above and glowed like cut amber on a jeweler's bench. The honey glistened on my gloved hand when it caught the light, but only in a transient sparkle as honey dripped off my fingers and onto the back of bees crawling over the adjacent frames. They shined but kept moving.

As I lifted the frame free of the box, a geyser of bees rushed at me with buzzing anger. They circled my head and chest. The heat, drought, and robbery of their food ignited them in a swarm of aggression I had never experienced. The sound grew louder as the bees bounced off of me like hail. Their aggression unnerved me as I wrestled with a slippery ten-pound frame of honey and possessive bees fighting for its return. I walked away from the hives to my back door. Waiting were two five-gallon plastic buckets. One bucket had holes drilled into its bottom and sat on top of the other. I placed the weighted frame in the bucket vertically. Then, I walked back into the blue shade as the bees circled in unveiled anger.

Finding another frame of honey covered with fresh, soft wax, I pried it free while bees, wild with rage, covered me. I walked it to the bucket.

Instead of frames free of bees, the two I had picked and waiting in the bucket attracted more. Dozens walked over the comb.

I held the frame of honey vertically—one short side of the frame rested in the bottom of the bucket—and gripped the other with my sticky glove. Dozens of bees crawled over my hand and through the honey leaking from the comb. Holding a small square steel spatula at the top of the frame, I pushed into the comb and slowly scraped toward the bottom of the bucket. When I gently pushed downward, the honey and wax rolled off the back of the spatula, curling over and folding into itself like a golden rolling wave. The smell was flowery and herbal. The scent of honey bloomed upwards, and I bent lower to feel the heat on my back and breathe the honey-thick smell as it waved up and into my face.

With the frame scraped clean, I set it aside. Then, I rested the second frame on the beeswax and honey draining into the bucket below. I picked up the spatula, glossy and slippery, and began again. Bees crawled over the broken wax in the bottom of the bucket; one flew in a wobbling circle while others crawled over the sticky edge.

I walked the cleaned frames back into the waving shade under the drooping limbs of the hackberry tree. Bees clouded the air over the hive boxes and clung near the entrance.

Then, I went back to the five-gallon bucket. I heard the slow drip of honey into the bucket like water dripping through limestone on the earth’s first night. Breathlessly, I sat, hearing the honey drip, and waited.