The night was greeted by the silence of the cicadas as a warning that the night would be unusually humid for the season. The scent of rain mixed with dry, barren soil, and Marabella looked out the window from her place on the hills behind the house.
Sitting high above the rushing Mediterranean, the house far below had belonged to her family for centuries, given to them as a gift for their valor in the battle of Andalucia by the Spanish King long ago. The surrounding town of Frigilliana was a small village and hadn’t changed much, nor grown considerably since the Kings of old had granted the town the doorway of merchants into the lands of the Moors. Tucked away behind the mountains to the south, it was shielded from the larger roads, and despite the sweetest treasures hiding around its sunny hillsides, the village stood largely undisturbed. Only the roads to Seville were kept in perfect condition. Afterall, their produce was highly desired by the most prominent people of Spain.
Stretching her neck, she looked towards the cave. It was only a few days ago that she had made the discovery. Turning the rock in her hand, she looked down upon the faded symbol. A triangle with a straight line through the middle was painted in red on the grey, stone surface. Inside the cave there had been more strange symbols drawn on the dim-lighted walls, and somehow, she knew that what she had found was special, but as her father stepped up beside her, she placed the rock back into her pocket.
“Did you see it?” her father asked as he inspected the honeycombs.
“What was it?” she asked with shimmering eyes.
“A dancing star, a spirit leaving this world,” her father answered without taking his eyes of the frame in his hand. The nests of the bees were placed on the steep, green hills to allow the sweetest honey to be gathered from the mountain flora. The secret to their success and wealth. Cold purple clouds were shivering above the bright orange sky and from the top of the mountains, the lights of the village shone like the stars above. Marabella nodded in agreement. She knew all about the spirits.
“Look! There goes another one!” Marabella pointes to the striking light that once again rolled across the twilight sky, from the east towards the west and vanished before her very eyes. Her father smiled and turned the frame full of honey in his hand.
“Bees never fly in the dark, not even the queen.” Her father continued as he carefully led a stray bee back into the nest. “You know how to find the queen?” Marabella looked down in shame. She had been told before but as usual had failed to listen.
“Always look for the shorter wings and the long, narrow abdomen with a pointed end, while workers' wings reach almost to the end of their bodies, the queen's wings only reach halfway down her abdomen.” Pointing towards the center of the hive, he found the queen in an instance.
“Come, your mother is waiting.” Together, they gathered the stoneware filled to the brim with honey and waived the sun goodbye below the dimming horizon.
The seasons never seemed to change around the grand mountains of the southern valley. With four seasons combined into one long, humid summer, people hardly noticed the passing of time, and perhaps thus simply forgot that it did. The only real difference was the rain. Somehow, they lived longer than most other people around the peninsula, and age hardly showed on their plain, sunburnt faces. They used to say that it was something in the water. Some believed it was the honey.
“Bring me the fruits of my labor my love,” her father said as he placed himself by the end of the long, wooden table. Her mother sighed before serving the tea, and with a delicate golden spoon added a full, luxurious spoonful of honey. The chairs were covered in colorful garments and fastened to the wood with golden stitches.
“The fruits of our labor,” she added teasingly, her long dark braids shining with shiny, golden embroidery. “You think your precious bees with have anything to eat if it wasn’t for my flowers? Our fortune requires much more than patience,” her mother argued suggesting that her father did not process such virtue. In a land as dry as Spain, caring for the flowers supplying the nectar was indeed a tiresome task, and without her mother’s vicious eye, the gardens would dry up in an instance. The luxurious substance had showered the family with centuries of wealth and prosperity, and as her mother liked to remind her father, there would be no honey-making without the women carrying water from the river every morning. Folding her hands, her father smiled and lead the prayer.
“Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy.” His voice turned serious, and the passage always reminded Marabella of her grandmother. She would have to pray twice in the morning.