Try Wait

A mysterious buzzing sound around the main house had been swirling around my sub-consciousness for several days. My mind must have put it in one of the far corners of my brain in a file marked “Signs that Casselle is going Crazy” and forgotten about it.

But when I noticed the giant swarm of bumblebees around the front cottage my mind quickly re-filed “mysterious buzzing sound” into conscious memory. The swarm was like nothing I’d seen before. It was dark and massive and full of fury. I courageously looked under the cottage awning to see what the jazz was all about and it was there that I was confronted by a giant nest of clustered bees.

Thousands and thousands of them working furiously on their hive.

I was horrified.

And yet I could not take my eyes off of them.
They seemed to have an energy so frightening and intense that it captured me and stuck my feet in place.

Later, after I had pulled myself from their trance I called the bug man. I am fond of this bug man for many reasons. Number one reason: he kills centipedes and scorpions that would otherwise feast on my flesh. Number two: he calls me “sweetie” and “honey,” (terms that endear me to someone immediately).

The Bug Man comes the next day with his special bug killing arsenal, takes one look at the nest and says that he will have to kill them unless I can find some bee keepers to come and take the nest.

I frantically call two folks who keep bees but not one answers.
I have guests coming in two days and the Bug Man will not be able to come back this way until too late. It is now or never.

I wait a few more minutes for my phone to ring with hope that the bee keepers will respond but… nothing.

I look into the sad eyes of the Bug Man and give him the go ahead nod.
I feel as if I have just pushed the button to have the atom bomb dropped on Nagasaki.

Minutes later an entire colony of bumblebees, thousands and thousands of them, lie in a puddle in the bushes, their hive in shambles. A few stragglers who were away collecting honey during the massacre fly around in vain looking for their home, for their queen, only to find the sick smell of poison and a pile of bodies.

Just as the Bug Man loads up the last of his equipment the phone rings; “We would love to come and collect your hive!” she says.
I am speechless.
Eventually I squeak out “They’re gone.”

The tears swell up in my eyes.
I try to hold it together for the Bug Man but he knows he better get away quick-like or he is going to have one broken down, sobbing, inconsolable, caretaker on his hands.
He speeds away to his next appointment just before the tidal wave of shame and sadness and anger washes over me. I run to the shower in hopes that I might wash away the great crime I have just committed. But I fall apart anyways and great waves of sobbing choke out my heart.

There is a popular saying here in the islands about taking your time.
"Try Wait," they say when us mainlanders are pushing and racing around like we got a lion at our back.
"Try Wait."

If I just would have waited 15 minutes.
If I would have not let fear guide me I could have saved them.
The colony could be on its way to a special new home where they could buzz, buzz, buzz all day long and be no harm to anyone.

My mother, who is visiting this week, saw the cracks appearing in my already rocky sense of self and got on the internet to find some validation for the crimes I had just committed. “They say swarms in July mean there is no queen so the hive would not have been useful to the bee keepers anyway.”

I decide not to remind her that it is the end of August and that the rules of "mainland" seasonal rituals don't necessarily apply hear to the tropics.

I stare out the window and look down at the bumble-bee mass grave under the palm trees and cry a little more. I say a little prayer but I know it’s no use. In my faith, you don’t get away from atrocities like this no matter how much you pray.

Days later I am still hearing the buzzing sound.
I think I'll try wait next time.