The Hundred: Fall of the Wents (11 page)

The bee had never felt so warm and comfortable in its life. Since hearing the music that had come from Tully’s puzzle box, it had flown unerringly to the sound, driven on by a memory or an instinct that it could not identify. One moment, it had been flying raggedly, near the end of its energies. Then, it had heard the music. It knew that above all else, it must use all its remaining strength to reach the sound. The sound was built into a portal key, and Dull Be
es were trained to fly toward such keys.

The bee’s name was Nizz. He could understand everything he heard—the speech of the Shrikes, of Trilings, and other creatures. He could not speak himself, for he had taken a vow of silence like all Dull Bees. Only upon the moment of his death could he break that vow. As part of the Dull Bee hive he was committed to focus exclusively on his task—speech could distract and lead to loss. Since taking his vow Nizz had worked tirelessly on the task that he had been set, which was simple: to mutely record all that occurred around him. Through the hive mind that bound the Dull Bees, they would catalogue the entire history of the earth, and pass it down for future generations. There was no need for them to speak; they did not add to history. They were not meant to do anything else other than record.

No Dull Bee knew the purpose for this; it was instinct. Perhaps in some distant future they would use their vast knowledge to bring about a change, or a salvation. Until then their memories worked with an intricate skill. If one bee died, the memories would still live on. Each bee stored every piece of information that its brothers and sisters did, and did not think much on the content that it was asked to file away. That was beyond their skills and purpose.

Dull Bees were thought to be stupid—and indeed, their silence and apparent mindlessness gave sense to the misconception—but their memories were greater and longer than any other living creature. And, in some circumstances, they could read minds.

Nizz had not intended to be part of the flying craft that had brought Tully and his companions to the northern lands. He had been in Hen-Hen’s garden with his partner Ozz, observing and recording what they witnessed. They were just two simple bees, flying from flower to flower unobserved.

But as the flying craft had taken shape it seemed to carry an invisible magnetism, and Nizz and Ozz had been borne into the pull of their larger and more powerfu
l cousins, the Boring Bees. The Boring Bees had not noticed the pair, which was not unusual. Dull Bees were thought to be so stupid that they often went unnoticed, until something bigger came along and ate them. Even this cruel fate was accepted as part of the course of life. Nizz and Ozz had both flown along with the craft, their minds cataloguing every turn and twist as they steered northward. They alone, beyond the Boring Bees themselves, knew exactly where they had gone and exactly how to find the way home. They too had witnessed the prophecy at Bellerol.

Nizz had been close to death several times since arriving in this cold land, but now he felt life restored. The pain of the cold had stunned him, but it had not killed him as it had his stronger cousins. He wondered at their weakness; they were big and burly, and he was of ordinary size. He had wanted to read their thoughts during the journey in the flying craft, but the only mind he had been able to reach was that of Ozz. The minds of the Boring Bees were entirely closed off to him. Nizz and Ozz had wondered together at this strange journey but both had focused on remembering every detail.

Since pulling his body through the dark cage of the puzzle box, Nizz had suddenly burst free into warm, hazy sunshine. Below was a meadow of wildflowers, and a cluster of three small and rude homes dug into the banks of a sparkling river. The homes were barely more than pits dug in the ground, but they had roofs of thick tree branches and entryways open to the river. Nizz could smell the blooms in the meadow and he dipped closer. The flowers were gently waving in the breeze. He spotted a vivid red cluster of blossoms, and he alighted on the edge of a petal.

Now Nizz had a chance to look up and assess where he had come from, but he was completely lost. The box through which he had climbed was nowhere to be seen.
He scanned the ground briefly, but if the box had fallen, he did not see it. The box, he knew, was a portal to this world. Very well. It was a fine world, and better than the one he had recently left.

The warmth was intoxicating. Nizz felt relaxed and sleepy, worn out from the journey that had delivered the young companions to the northern country. The craft had been the death of his companion, Ozz, who was his lifemate. She had died there before him in the snow, and he could not even speak of it due to his vow. Before Ozz had died, she had broken her silence.

Ozz had simply said, “Thank you. My life has been good. Do not let the stories die.”

It was what all Dull Bees said, in one way or another, upon the moment of their death. When Ozz spoke it, it seemed true. Her life had been good. She had been a brave good bee. Nizz and Ozz had never shared words, and at the moment of her death he longed to speak aloud. But his bond of silence was even greater than his love for Ozz. He remembered everything she had learned. He wondered if, without his hive to record them, his memories of everything that was occurring now would be lost. He was learning some of the great story—the story beyond the world he once knew—but there was no one to share it with anymore.

He had been prepared to die too, should it come to that, but something in him had rebelled. Nizz was frightened now, as he was accustomed to having others of his kind always at hand in great numbers. He was as painfully alone as he had ever been.

Now, in this brave bright world, he found he no longer mourned Ozz and the others of his hive quite as keenly. The peace of this land held him aloft like a current of warm air. He felt a sense of guilt; he had left his own world and his mission of recording history for this unfamiliar world. The music had been too strong to resist. It had sent a message to him that he could not ignore. Perhaps that was part of the plan, mused Nizz.

Nizz decided to investigate one of the rough homes along the winding river. Perhaps someone there could tell him where he was. Before he could descend further, however, he heard cries of alarm and the crackle of fire, and he saw that one of the peaceful dugout homes below was in flames. Bees did not care for fire, and his instinct was to flee. But curiosity drove him onward, and he could see small forms running from the fiery fall of tree branches that formed the roof. They were like nothing he had ever seen. He thought he knew everything under the sun but this was new.

Efts? Ells? Nizz was not sure. The creatures did not have wings or scales, and if they had been Ells they surely would have flown high to escape the fire. They were not Wents, for Wents were much more stolid and could not move with that kind of speed.

Nizz searched his long memories and found something of them there, hidden deep. He knew that they were children. They were humans.

The small creatures that had fled the building were now standing by the edge of the river and engaged in a furious argument. One had
long waves of pale hair framing her face, and she berated the other—who was thin and small, with big brown eyes—in a hysterical stream of angry words. Nizz could understand everything she said.

“You stupid thing!” cried the girl. “You’ve ruined everything, everything! How could you? Playing with fire; you could have killed us both.”

“Was a mistake,” mumbled the boy. “I’m sorry, Natty.”

“You’re sorry?” shrieked the girl. “You’ve burnt our home!”

The argument went on for a while, the boy contrite and the girl called Natty increasingly furious, until finally she went to sit by a rock at the water’s edge. The boy, whose name was Bax, went to join her at the river’s edge. He threw stones into the water until she snapped at him to stop.

“We have to think,” she said, casting glances back at the now smoldering ruin of her family’s home.

“Natty,” he said, after a time. “They shouldn’t have left us kids alone. If they hadn’t left us kids alone, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Please shut up!” she said, and went back to thinking.

After a while: “We can’t stay here anyway. There’s nothing left for us. And the thing might come back.”

“They shouldn’t have left us alone,” murmured the boy, and then sunk his head to his knees.

“They couldn’t help it!” she said. “They couldn’t help it. You saw…you heard.”

“Still, they shouldn’t have left. Something bad was bound to happen with just kids around,” said Bax. He picked up his head.

“Maybe they’ll come back?” he said. “If they come back we’ll be in trouble, for sure.”

Natty stared at him.

“You know that they won’t be coming back, don’t you?” she said. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and laughed a little bit. “No one’s going to get in any trouble anymore. We’re it, Bax. But I think we’ve got to leave this place.”

Nizz had followed the conversation with great interest while he sipped pollen from a flower at
the river’s edge; now, as the children rose to go, he buzzed near them to get a closer look. Their skin was pale and unblemished, and their limbs like those of a young Eft. Nizz longed to ask a question of them, but did not know if they would even understand him. They might think him a fly and swat at him. No, his vow of silence would remain unbroken. He would follow them, and observe.

The children walked to one of the dugout homes and, after a heated discussion about stealing and whatnot, entered it and emerged with a bulging sack.

“We need food, too,” said Natty. The garden behind their own burnt house had escaped the flames, and they picked vegetables and fruits and put them into the sack as well. Natty shouldered the burden while Bax scratched a hasty note on a stump with a charred stick:

“Have gone to find more peeple. Sorry about the howse. Natty and Bax.”

They could write! thought Nizz. This was not something that bees could do—in fact, only the most educated Dualings and a few rare Trilings knew this gift. Yet these young did it naturally.

The children started off along the river’s edge, trading turns with the heavy sack. There was not another sound beyond the low murmur of their voices as they complained and urged each other on; Nizz did not hear even the drone of other bees foraging for pollen. The sun was hot, and beat down on them. He determined to stick with the children as the only living things he’d yet seen in this strange, dreamlike land.

The children paused after about an hour of struggling up the riverbank with the sack. Natty threw it down and a few potatoes spilled out.

“How are we gonna cook them?” complained Bax. He had a small, elfin face with bright brown eyes; Nizz thought that he looked a bit like Tully, minus the sea-green eyes and the Eftish scales.

“Maybe you could start a fire,” said Natty slyly, and the children burst into exhausted laughter. “You did bring the flints, did you?” she added sharply, and Bax nodded.

Bax fell back in the grass and tossed a potato high in the air, and caught it. Natty took out a tomato, slightly dented and scarred from its ride in the sack, and bit into it like an apple. The juice ran down her chin.

Nizz alighted on a tiny white flower, which bent under his weight, and tucked some pollen under his legs. He was suddenly afraid; if there were no other bees here, how would he survive? He was used to being part of a hive. Just as these children were used to being part of a larger group, he supposed—a group that had apparently abandoned them. At least these two creatures had each other. In his short journey with them up the river, he had grown fond of them despite their small bickerings and complaints.

The day grew longer and still the children did not move onward. They ate tomatoes and beans and threw stones in the river. “Lazy little mites!” thought Nizz. “Find your people!” But he could not speak to them, and indeed they had not even noticed his existence. Nizz realized that without the hive mind he was accustomed to, he had also grown lazier. He was not cataloguing everything as precisely as he should. He was being caught up in what he saw. He felt a strange sense of independence, and with that came fear. He was cut off from his
kind, perhaps forever. Everything he saw would be wasted and lost.

Night drew closer. The children pulled blankets from the sack and tucked them around themselves. As the dark came on, Bax seemed smaller and afraid.

“I wish the grown-ups were here now,” he said. “Even though they’d yell at us for sure for burning your house down.”

“Yell at you, you mean!” retorted Natty, but then she was silent and tucked her head down to her knees.

“And Mama,” said Bax, mournfully. “I want my Mama.”

“Oh stop!” said Natty. “You’re making me sad.”

Natty wanted her Mama as well, or anyone’s Mama. Bax’s mother was the same as her own mother to her, as the group of people had been so small and tightly knit that they may as well have been one family. She paused. “If we hadn’t hid when that shadow came, we’d be like they are all now…missing. Gone.”

“It was because of me we hid,” puffed Bax proudly. “Was because I ran.”

“Coward,” said Natty. “You left me.”

“The shadow was awful,” she said then. “It seemed to…eat them up.”

Nizz perked up and buzzed softly closer to the children. What shadow? He had also heard tell of a shadow back in the city. But the children didn’t speak more of it, and eventually they fell asleep swathed in their blankets. Nizz also fell asleep, tucked into some clover. He was close enough to hear them if they got up to leave, but far enough so that neither of the small creatures would roll on him.