On the fifty-ninth day, the utilization of the remnants of the beehive (Part Two) — an extra chapter for Qian Xiaoge

Not a single bit of the honeycomb went to waste; I had processed it all into pulp, and now it was time to begin my experiment. Whether it succeeded or not didn’t matter much to me—this was merely a trial run. After placing the remains into the pot, I added clear water and set it atop the fire. I had loaded the fire with plenty of wood, knowing it would need to burn for a while before the honeycomb could melt.

Under the fierce heat, bubbles soon began to rise in the water. I knew it would boil soon, but the honeycomb residue showed no sign of dissolving—only floating up and down, swirling through the pot with the bubbles. As the water boiled and churned, I could see the honeycomb dregs swirling, gradually shrinking and melting away.

“There’s hope!” I was overjoyed at this discovery. Everything was proceeding just as I’d imagined, filling me with delight. Wanting to ensure every bit of honeycomb dissolved, I let the pot boil for a full thirty minutes. Yes, I didn’t want to waste a single precious piece.

Now all that remained was to wait for the boiling water to cool. I set the pot down on the ground to let it cool naturally. I could clearly see that, apart from a few undissolved fragments, a visible layer of oil floated on the water’s surface.

This must be beeswax, I thought, gazing at the pot in rapt anticipation, almost as if enchanted. Every minute of waiting felt like torture—perhaps ten minutes had passed, or maybe thirty, but the water was still too hot, far from cooling and solidifying. More time was needed.

I smoked a cigarette, pacing the yard in an effort to soothe my impatience, but it did little good. My curiosity kept urging me to check, but I knew the water wouldn’t cool that quickly—it was pointless. If I didn’t find something else to do, I’d be driven mad by this anxiety. Fortunately, I thought of a task: transplanting wildflowers into the little garden. It was hard work, but it seemed a good way to channel my restless energy.

This time, I selected only the varieties with the highest survival rate from my previous attempt. Experience really does help—last time, the loss of so many wilted flowers had pained me. Now, I was confident that more than ninety percent would survive. Soon, the bottom of the plastic basket was filled with wildflowers I’d chosen. Just as I was about to leave, something chilling caught my eye.

I froze, clutching the basket in my hands, and in a matter of seconds, cold sweat covered my back and brow.

I was truly terrified—paralyzed with fear—because there was a snake at my feet.

Its head was sharply pointed, and from at least two meters away, it was poised with its head raised right at my ankle. Perhaps my movements had startled it, for it looked furious, assuming an aggressive stance, ready to strike at any moment.

I dared not show hostility. Though I knew it could sense my presence from my body heat, I gambled that if it perceived no threat from me, it might let me go. I wanted desperately to kill it, but there was no way I could be sure to do so before it bit me. All I could do was pray it would suppress its anger.

If I’d known such misfortune awaited me, I’d have gladly stayed by the pot, watching the water cool—at least that would have been safe, wouldn’t it?

The standoff continued. The snake neither fled nor attacked. Its tongue flickered in and out, and I turned pale with fright. I tried my best to control my nerves—I could not move.

Cold sweat soaked my back, and my arms ached from holding the basket. At last, it seemed to decide I posed no threat, and it slithered into the grass.

“Whew…” I finally let out a long breath. Next time I venture into such thick grass, I should probe the way with a stick to scare off any snakes or other creatures hiding within, lest I find myself in such danger again.

On the way back, I felt relieved—had I taken a slightly bigger step and trodden directly on that snake, it surely would have bitten me without hesitation, injecting all its venom into my veins. I would have died quickly and in no time become nourishment for this patch of grass.

Thank goodness! What a narrow escape!

Though my heart was still pounding and my breath came fast, I forced myself to finish planting the wildflowers in the garden, freshly fertilized with wood ash.

Afterward, my impatience got the better of me and I rushed into the lower level of the treehouse—I had to see if the beeswax had formed as I’d envisioned.

I saw it! I saw it! A solidified chunk of oily substance floated on the surface—it had congealed!

No one could understand how excited I was at that moment. I had actually succeeded!

I had managed, through my own reasoning and imagination, to make beeswax! In the past, I wouldn’t have believed it myself.

Gingerly, I lifted the solidified beeswax and examined it from every angle, trembling with excitement.

Yet, as I looked, I noticed a problem: this small chunk of beeswax was riddled with impurities—bits of unmelted honeycomb and the like. This troubled me. I worried that impure beeswax couldn’t be used to its full potential, especially since the amount I had was much less than I’d expected.

Originally, I’d hoped to make several things from this beeswax, but with so little, I decided to start with beeswax candles.

First, though, I had to find a way to remove the impurities, which gave me quite a headache. In the end, I resolved to use the simplest method: pour out the water, place the beeswax back in the pot to melt again, and as it solidified, the impurities would settle at the bottom. I could then scrape them off easily.

This method was tedious, but it worked. After the wax cooled again, all the residue was left at the bottom, and I scraped it off with my Swiss Army knife.

Finally, I cut open an aluminum can, twisted together a few strands of cotton from my bedding to make a wick.

After melting the beeswax for a third time, I poured it into the can, soaked the wick in the wax, and set it in the center, tying one end to a small twig laid across the top of the can. Once the wax solidified, the wick would be perfectly fixed in the middle.

At last, it was done. Blackie still hadn’t returned! Who knows where that rascal had gone today, not coming home at all…

Success! Looking at the yellow beeswax candle after it solidified, I felt utterly satisfied. Yes, I had already lit it—it was much more stable than a tallow candle. Once lit, it wouldn’t go out, unlike tallow candles that often sputtered out from lack of fuel.

And beeswax candles produced no black smoke and smelled wonderful! Truly fragrant! Tallow candles, by contrast, carried a burnt, greasy odor.

If I ever run short of firewood, this beeswax candle will last me a long time…