Day Fifty-Seven: Taking a Gamble (Part Two) An Extra Chapter for PatrickJS

After hastily combining lunch and dinner into a single meal, I began my preparations. The setting sun had already bathed the world in crimson, but time was not pressing—after all, the smoking would take place at night, so I could proceed slowly and make sure not to overlook any steps.

To be honest, I wasn’t even certain if nighttime was necessary; it was just a sudden memory that surfaced. I couldn’t say for sure, given that I had never gathered honey before.

Claiming I wasn’t nervous would be a lie. Fear had started to gnaw at me, and thoughts of backing out flitted through my mind. But once I make up my mind, I rarely change it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, this food was to me what meat is to a wolf or grass to a sheep—utterly irresistible.

I selected some slender branches and completely dried, flammable vines from the lower level of the treehouse and placed them all in a plastic basket. I also packed a pot lid, which was to play a crucial role. There was an old flashlight left behind by that person, though I wasn’t sure if it still worked, as I had never used it in order to save its battery. I kept it carefully tucked under my bedding.

Heart pounding with anticipation, I pressed the button. A beam of light shot out, casting a circular glow on the tree trunk wall—it worked! My worries eased a little.

Before darkness set in, I ventured outside the yard to gather some green vines. They were still growing, and when I chopped them with my hatchet, sap dripped from the fresh cuts. These vines were to help generate smoke. I also cut a handful of wild grass, name unknown, intending to throw both the vines and grass onto the fire; the smoke would billow up at once. This was basic knowledge, something I seemed to recall from a classroom lesson, now finally put to use.

There was a weed here, one whose blossoms resembled dandelions; its flowers caught fire easily, and, most conveniently, it grew in abundance around my treehouse. It became my tinder. I picked dozens of the blossoms, yet they barely filled my palm. Still, the small, round bundle—about the size of a rice dumpling—should suffice to start the fire.

Beyond these, I had other things to prepare. I don’t have much courage, to be honest. From the pile of clothes left by my predecessor, five sets remained; there had originally been six, but one was torn to shreds during my struggle with the wild boar and was later fashioned into a pair of shorts. Not perfect, but better than nothing; after all, the sensation of emptiness, with things swinging loosely, is a discomfort I can hardly bear.

Of the remaining five sets, one consisted of a long-sleeved jacket and trousers—the very set I needed. I put it on; it grew uncomfortably hot, sweat quickly soaking my back. But for a desire I could hardly resist, I would endure.

Oh, I almost forgot: I also brought along a short-sleeved T-shirt, intending to pull it over my head when the time came, leaving only my eyes, nose, and mouth exposed, with the rest of me as covered as possible—just in case. As long as I was careful, there shouldn’t be any major mishaps. My greatest fear was for my hands; the pain of a bee sting on the fingers, so closely connected to the heart, would be unbearable.

For the final preparatory step before departure, I took a pack of cigarettes, lit one by the fire, and took a few drags. Then, slinging the plastic basket over my back, hatchet in hand and cigarette between my lips, I headed for the suspected hive. One cigarette burned down to its end, and I used it to light another. By the time I was halfway through my second, I had reached the spot.

There wasn’t a single bee visible on the dead wood outside. I couldn’t even be sure this was truly a hive. But since I was here, there was no turning back without trying.

Soon, I set the fire alight: the cigarette butt and the flammable blossoms quickly ignited the branches, and flames rose near the dead wood. The wind usually blew from the sea toward the forest, so my chosen spot was, under normal circumstances, ideal—but tonight, there was no wind.

I slowly laid the green vines and fresh grass onto the burning pile. With crackles and pops, smoke began to rise; once I completely smothered the flames with grass, thick clouds of smoke billowed forth, leaving only the occasional spark and flicker of flame beneath.

The smoke was ready. Now, I needed to funnel it all into the dark hole in the dead wood. Unfortunately, fate was not on my side and there was no helpful breeze. No matter—I had prepared for this: the pot lid!

Yes, the pot lid, which now served as a giant fan. Standing above the smoke, I waved it vigorously, directing the dense clouds into that black opening. Before long, bees began to emerge from the hole, beating their wings furiously as they shot up into the sky, fleeing the smoke-filled area as quickly as possible.

Of course, it wasn’t only the bees; I, too, was nearly choked by the fumes, tears streaming down my face. More and more bees swarmed from the entrance, so many they made my head spin.

“So many!” I gasped, mouth agape in astonishment. I’d imagined, at most, a hundred bees, but now I saw at least a thousand. The interior of the hole was filled with swirling smoke, and more continued to pour out.

After about three minutes, the exodus slowed, and soon only a few stragglers remained. Outside, however, clouds of bees darted anxiously back and forth.

My window of opportunity was brief; I had to act quickly. I flicked on the flashlight and shone it into the hole.

Inside, the dead wood was hollow, and the space hung thick with honeycombs. In the beam of light, I could clearly see which combs brimmed with honey and even noticed the powdery pollen.

In a corner, a few bees lingered, catching my attention. One of them seemed different: larger and longer than the others, but with comically small wings. It probably couldn’t fly—a deformed bee, perhaps.

I didn’t give it much thought. Instead, I drew my Swiss army knife and began carving out the honeycombs. I didn’t take them all; even among those heavy with honey, I left about a third behind. I wasn’t sure if this would make a difference, but my intention was simple: leave something for the bees, in hopes they’d continue to thrive here, so that I might return for another harvest.

If this approach worked, then this place would become yet another reliable source of food for me.