Read Online Sacred Sierra by Jason Webster - Free Book Online Page B

to proceed, but assumed Arcadio, as the master beekeeper, would have a master plan for transporting the hives back to the farm, one that doubtlessly involved as little stress – both to the bees and to ourselves – as possible. But I was wrong.
    Placing a lighter under one of the lumps of cow dung, he got it smoking a bit, waved it for less than a second at one of the hives and then called over to me: ‘Right,’ he said, ‘take that one to the car.’
    Just like that, with no more preparation? Weren’t the bees going to be slightly annoyed by me simply picking up their house and putting in the back of an ancient Land Rover? Didn’t he have some kind of protective sheet, perhaps, that he could throw over the thing to keep all the bees safe – from us?
    I walked as calmly as I could to the hive he had indicated and went to pick it up. The first thing I noticed was that it was heavier than I had anticipated, so I found myself immediately straining and going red in the face as I lifted it up and started stumbling towards the car. The second thing I noticed was that the bees, quite predictably, were less than amused by the catastrophe besetting their quiet abode and were starting to fly and circle around me with a particularly aggressive sounding buzz. And the third thing I noticed was that these upset and naturally violently disposed bees had discovered a convenient hole in my trousers – in my crutch.
    I have never pulled my trousers down so quickly. Quite how I got the hive back on the floor beforehand to free my hands I can’t remember. All I do remember was exposing myself on the mountainside in front of an elderly farmer as a swarm of killer insects realised that my Achilles heel wasn’t on my heel at all. My body seemed to react faster than my mind could possibly ever do, survival of my procreational capacity suddenly overriding all other processes in my biological machine. With my trousers hanging down around my knees I hopped and skipped as far away from the hive as I could, my hands flicking and swatting like rotor blades to remove the deadly foe from their intended target. No bee was going to sting me down there, no matter what.
    The bees, though, were smarter than me, and simply changed their military objectives: as I swiped and cleared them away, an advance party was crawling up the inside of my shirt looking for new targets.
    With a shriek I felt two of them sting me simultaneously on the belly. The pain was incredible, like searing hot needles pressing deep into the skin. With a gasp I fell to the floor, beating out the other bees and gripping my stomach. Arcadio stood over me, the smoking cow turd still in his hand. The bees seemed to vanish as soon as he appeared.
    ‘You better pull your trousers up,’ he said. ‘They might be coming back for more.’
    An hour later we were back at the farm, two hives somehow sitting in the back of the car. The stings hurt so much I’d thought I was going to be sick during the return journey, jolting around on the bumpy road. Good job I wasn’t in the army, I thought, if a couple of beestings could almost do me in. There wasn’t even any blood. Arcadio drove straight to the house and called out for Salud.
    ‘Bring some olive oil,’ he said. Moments later Salud was dabbing oil on a couple of mounds that had developed on my belly. I was in too much agony to wonder why, but almost instantaneously the pain disappeared, as if by magic. It was so surprising that I sat up with a start.
    ‘Did the oil do that?’ I asked incredulously. Arcadio nodded.
    ‘Swelling’ll take a day or so to go down. By tomorrow you’ll have forgotten it.’
    And he started to recite:
    La Verge Maria
    quan pel món anava
    amb oli de cresol
    tot ho curava
.
    When the Virgin Mary
    Walked the Earth
    She cured all illnesses
    With the oil from her lamp.
    ‘Used to use olive oil in their lamps, see,’ Arcadio explained. ‘It’s good for lots of things.’
    I felt ashamed at how feeble I’d