Day Fifty-Nine: Making Use of the Remnants of the Hive (Part One)

Last night, I spent hours pondering—there’s still much honeycomb left, but I’ve already collected all the remnants from before. Although I truly have little understanding of the process of making beeswax—in fact, I have no concept at all of how it’s produced—I still tried to imagine it using the scant knowledge I possess.

Surely, the leftover honeycomb can be melted down somehow. Or at least, I think so, though I can’t say for certain. But even if it can be melted, the question of how—by what method—makes my head ache. How exactly should I go about it? I chewed on another piece of honeycomb, mulling it over.

This feeling of being stuck is excruciating. I need to step outside for some air, or I’ll go mad from the frustration.

Today’s weather isn’t as pleasant as the past few days; the sky is thick with clouds. I’ve come to understand the patterns of weather here—perhaps tomorrow or the day after, rain will fall. Whenever the sky turns this cloudy, rain follows soon after. But let it rain if it must; I have nothing to worry about now, so long as it’s not another violent storm like last time.

Rainwater? That’s it! Suddenly, the answer came to me and I could hardly contain my excitement.

This dilemma over dealing with honeycomb remnants has plagued me until now, but at last, I have a plan—at least, the beginnings of one. Previously, I wondered if I could simply throw the honeycomb remains into a pot and boil them. But I dismissed the idea, thinking the honeycomb would surely burn.

Now, though, I see it differently. If boiling the remnants directly would burn them, then boiling them with water should prevent that. When the wax melts, it ought to float to the surface, solving the problem of heating with water. Once the water cools, the beeswax should congeal on the surface, and I’ll be able to collect it.

Of course, this is just the guesswork of someone inexperienced. The real answer will have to wait until I try it myself.

There’s no rush to begin the experiment; much honeycomb remains uneaten. I might as well use this time to rest a little and gather some firewood in the nearby woods—making good use of the weather to stock up on useful things.

Mouth full of honeycomb, I wandered the damp forest, picking up vines and branches. I startled a few small animals—most darted away before I could see what they were, but I caught a clear glimpse of a lizard, about twenty centimeters long. It quickly turned and dashed off when it saw me. Such small creatures don’t frighten me, but neither do I bother them. There are many mushrooms and fern-like plants in the woods as well. To be honest, I’m tempted to taste them; the mushrooms are colorful, some with tiny dewdrops glistening on their caps.

Of course, this is just idle thought. I wouldn’t risk my life on wild mushrooms. I’ve tasted them before, once as a guest in a friend’s mountain village—delicious and fragrant, the soup a milky white, just a shade paler than crucian carp broth, with crisp mushroom slices I still recall fondly. But without certainty, I wouldn’t dare try these here. Still, seeing them brings back the memory of that wild mushroom soup.

This, I suppose, is a small interlude. Soon I’d gathered a heap of firewood, and the honeycomb in my mouth was chewed down to a wad of residue. It was time to return.

I spread the firewood out in the yard, letting the sun bake the moisture from it, so I’ll have plenty of dry wood to see me through the long rains.

After spitting the chewed honeycomb residue into my collection basin, I stuffed another large piece into my mouth and headed down to the firepit beneath my treehouse. The fire has burned continuously since I moved in; after so many days, the ground beneath is blackened, and a mound of ash has accumulated. I used to simply rake the ash aside, never really dealing with it, but now the pile has grown.

What I fear most is the little black dog wagging its tail by the firepit—it’s a disaster. Every time it does, it’s like a dust storm erupts. Wood ash is quite handy; I’ve used it to wash clothes before, and it cleans quite well. It also makes good fertilizer, which is exactly what I intend to use it for now.

I don’t have anything like a dustpan, but when the next rainy day comes and I have nothing to do, I’ll try to weave one. It shouldn’t be too difficult—my standards are modest.

Using a basin, I scooped up some ash, added water, stirred it thoroughly, and then sprinkled the mixture evenly over the little garden. Though the wildflowers are now few, I’ll soon replant the garden with fresh transplants.

Altogether, I spread six basins of ash over the garden, blanketing the entire patch. That should be enough, I think—at least, I hope so. Next, I turned to the potato seedlings and the ones from the drift bottle. A little fertilizer should help them grow faster. To be safe, I decided to fertilize only half for now; if the seedlings can’t handle the ash, at least the other half will survive.

When I reached the vegetable plot, I was surprised to find the seedlings had grown so much—their tiny leaves had unfurled, new green shoots sprouting with vigor.

The potato seedlings have oval leaves and stems about a quarter the thickness of a cigarette, with clusters of two or three stems growing together, pointing in different directions but not far apart.

The seedlings from the drift bottle seeds are also green, but their leaves are narrow and conical, each with a single stem bearing six slender leaves. The lower leaves are even narrower, and the newest at the top is almost heart-shaped.

I’ve never seen such seedlings before, but I can be fairly certain they’re not flowers—perhaps an ornamental plant, or most likely, a vegetable. Flower leaves usually don’t look like this.

After spreading the ash, I resumed chewing honeycomb. The initial delight had faded; now it was a chore. My mouth was tired of the sweetness, and even my facial muscles ached from the endless chewing. Still, I had no choice—since yesterday, I’d discovered many little bugs trying to steal my honeycomb. Though I got rid of them in the end, I didn’t want to leave the leftovers overnight again.

At last, by some unknown afternoon hour, I’d chewed through all the honeycomb—though the last few pieces I rushed through carelessly.

Now, finally, I can begin my experiment…