Day Fifty-Seven: A Gamble (Part Two)

I made a mistake—a serious one this time. I only brought a single basin, thinking I would only get a little, but I was wrong, utterly wrong. The basin was soon completely filled with honeycomb, and returning for more was simply out of the question. Left with no choice, I placed the excess honeycombs directly into a plastic basket. Every drop of honey lost pained me deeply. At last, I cut down two-thirds of the honeycomb, leaving the rest for the bees to sustain themselves.

In the corner, a few bees seemed hesitant, clustering together as if wanting to advance but not daring to. I didn’t pay them much mind, though; the fire had already died out, the smoke was beginning to dissipate, and I needed to leave quickly. The bees buzzed restlessly around, and I knew that once the smoke cleared, they would soon return to their hive. Hoisting the plastic basket onto my back, I dashed away as fast as I could.

Perhaps some bees caught the scent of honey, because a small group began to chase after me. Startled, I almost leapt into the air, my feet flying even faster. Heaven knows what would happen if they caught up to me, but one thing was certain: it would be disastrous—utterly disastrous! The mere thought of being attacked by a swarm made my scalp tingle and sent shivers down my spine.

"Run!" Without any hesitation, I ran for my life. I had to get out of there as quickly as possible. The bees pursued me relentlessly for quite some time, but they underestimated the strength humans can summon in moments of crisis. In the end, I outran them, leaving them far behind. When exhaustion finally caught up with me, I glanced back and saw not a single bee in sight.

Success! My first attempt had ended in triumph. Yet, watching honey drip down the sides of the plastic basket filled me with anxiety. I had pushed myself to the limit to escape the bees, and now my legs felt heavy as lead. The fact that I hadn’t collapsed was already a testament to my endurance.

I don’t know how long I staggered on, more like a walking corpse than a living person, relying purely on willpower to battle against the fatigue and soreness in my muscles. At last, I made it back to the treehouse.

When Blackie came bounding over to greet me, I shuddered in fright; I couldn’t withstand a pounce from him—one jump and I’d surely topple over. Luckily, my mind was still sharp. I quickly retrieved a piece of honeycomb from the basket and tossed it to him. Just as I expected, the glutton was thrilled, leaping up to catch the honeycomb in his mouth and biting down eagerly.

He squatted nearby, devouring it rapidly. In the beam of my flashlight, I could clearly see golden honey trickling from the corners of his mouth, making me instinctively lick my own lips.

After about five seconds, I snapped back to reality—the honey was still in my basket! I needed to process it quickly; any delay would be a desecration of such precious food.

I immediately rushed to the lower level of the treehouse and rummaged out some clean bottles with lids and a drift bottle I had saved. These had all been used before and were spotless. I even found the funnel I’d made from a plastic bottle, washed and dried it quickly. My movements were swift and efficient, driven by the pain of honey loss—I couldn’t bear to waste another second.

I picked up the honeycombs outside the basin, squeezing the honey directly into the bottles through the funnel in the most primitive way. The moment the honey was pressed out, its fresh aroma filled me with delight, a cloying sweetness tantalizing my senses.

I wanted so badly to taste it.

But now wasn’t the time. Just the honey outside the basin filled more than two bottles—when I set out, I’d thought half a bottle would be a triumph. This far exceeded my expectations.

I set aside three pieces from the honeycomb in the basin, not squeezing them out. These had the most visible pollen and an especially enchanting fragrance—not just one singular scent, but the mingled perfume of a whole garden in full bloom, the kind of aroma that lingers in the air and is the ultimate pleasure.

Blackie had long since finished his piece of honeycomb; I didn’t even notice him spitting out any wax, as if he’d swallowed it all. I tossed him another piece, warning him that it would be the last. He seemed to understand, no longer wolfing it down but instead lying beside the honeycomb, licking the honey off with his tongue.

When all was done, subtracting the remaining two pieces, I ended up with six bottles of honey in various sizes—enough to last me a long time. Honey has so many uses: it can be mixed with water, added to roasted meat, or even used as an occasional seasoning.

I licked every last drop of honey off my hands. This honey wasn’t as sickly sweet as I’d imagined; instead, it was perfectly balanced, but its aroma was incredibly intense. The store-bought honey I’d had before couldn’t compare at all.

Of course, the remaining two pieces were my ultimate goal—I wanted to taste the unadulterated blend of honeycomb, honey, and pollen.

I pinched off a large chunk with my fingers, opened my mouth wide, but in the end only nibbled a tiny piece. I couldn’t bear to eat more at once, afraid that such deliciousness would make me lose all reason and prevent me from savoring it properly.

“Mmm…” The moment it touched my tongue, an explosion of flavors burst in my mouth; the rich taste of pollen surged up my nose, and with every breath, I could sense the fragrance lingering.

The fine pollen, the chewy, gum-like texture of the honeycomb, the silky honey—all combined in each bite, making the entire experience a pure delight. The pollen, mixed with sweet honey, was continually swallowed as I chewed, until my entire mouth, throat, even my stomach, was suffused with sweetness, and my breath was conquered by the floral aroma.

Just that tiny morsel lasted me at least ten minutes of slow chewing. I nearly forgot who I was, where I was, or what my situation was—none of it mattered anymore. All that mattered was how deeply I had fallen under its spell.

At last, I spat out a slippery wad of residue—it must have been beeswax, though I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. I was already reaching for a second bite.

I had expected raw honeycomb to be bitter, or sour, or to have some off-putting flavor, but instead, it was sweet and fragrant beyond imagining.

As I savored this treat, I started to worry about the bees. Would they be all right with a third of their hive gone? Would they abandon their home? If they left, would I have to seek out another hive? But if they stayed—how wonderful that would be! I could enjoy this delicacy for a long time.

Before going to sleep, a problem I’d nearly forgotten suddenly occurred to me. Well, no urgency—I’d handle it tomorrow.