CHAPTER ONE:

Miss Brookstone

 

The sound thundered down the hallway, reverberating concussion to test a man’s patience and to which children delight.

The man in this case happened to be a short, skinny, bent old caricature in a grey suit already two generations out of style and well into its third.  An angry look flashed its way across his face, which was an easy enough feat since the grooves for such an expression were already well worn into his flesh.  He uttered a couple of cuss words beneath his breath before stomping off down the hallway in the direction of the explosive sound.  Along the way he passed a pin-up board with a scattering of messages and one calendar affixed there for general benefit.  According to the calendar, the year was nineteen fifty-one, specifically December seventh.  The name of the school was printed in large letters across the top of the old board; “Beeskeep Elementary and High School,” naturally of Beeskeep, Kentucky.

The transom over the classroom door was dirtied by old smoke from several past explosions, this last only being the most recent.  The sounds of young laughter met his ears as he approached, then he paused to see how much of an angry expression he could work up before grabbing the door handle to dramatically burst in.

“And that, class, is how you do not mix those two compounds.  The insects that do it in the wild have much better control.”

She was waving her hands back and forth, coughing as she said this.  A young woman in her early to mid twenties, her blond hair done up into a beehive bun atop her head, triangular glasses perched primly upon her nose, and a long dress that made of her overall appearance something that might scream “school marm”, save the slender form and red lips which might also speak of something with more potential if not cloaked beneath the bookish exterior.  Her glasses she briefly removed to clean off the thick layer of grey the failed experiment had deposited, though all she succeeded in doing was to smear the smudge around into a diluted swirl before balancing them back on her nose, while her class giggled and laughed at the exhibition.

“However,” she continued, “that is how we learn things.  Nothing is ever a failure, but always a learning experience.”

“Miss Brookstone!”

The grey-man’s dramatic entry into the room was spoiled by the fact of the door handle; it had been in need of repair for quite some time.  The door shook but did not open, causing more giggling and laughter as a result.

“Miss–”

Again the door shook, this time banging as from a weak old man trying to give his best imitation of a ram and failing.

“Miss–”

Now the door finally did give way, nearly tumbling the man into the room and gaining a few more giggles as a result.  Laughter that was immediately silenced as the man looked up with eyes set with a tremor of anger.  Almost in unison, all hands were quickly folded and on their desks, eyes straight ahead, and the only sound to now be heard was the teacher with one last cough.

“Miss Brookstone,” his voice, once he could get the words out, had a vague sound of sand grinding underfoot, “your explosion was heard clear down the hall and most likely all the way across campus.  I have told you time and again–”

“Oh, I am so sorry, Principal Fendish, but I was just demonstrating how a firefly gets its light.  Unfortunately, when I scaled up the experiment, I apparently forgot something.”

“You forgot that your demon-strating violates several natural laws and quite a few city and state ones.  Now, I will not suffer one more incident like this or I will see you fired and your teaching license revoked!  Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Mister Fendish.  Of course I never plan them, it’s just that…”

“Miss Brookstone,” he began in a warning tone.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, then brightened.  “Say, would you like a cookie?  I was about to offer one to the students for doing so well.”

She stepped quickly away from the lab bench and over to her desk, where she picked up a plate of cookies covered in wax paper, and lent a hopeful smile in the Principle’s direction.

“I baked them myself.”

“Miss Brookstone, this is not–”

“I sweetened them with some of my father’s blue honey.  They’re tasty.”

What he said next was more of a ‘harumph’ than a word, then he spun quickly around on heel to leave… and bumped directly into the man that had just come up behind him.  A trim muscular man in his late twenties, tanned with handsomely combed black hair, sparkling blue eyes, and from his shirt to his jeans somehow managing to pull off a professional look while dressed in sneakers.  He was, in every sense of word, appearance, and personality, quite the opposite of Principal Fendish.  Where the Principal snarled from the unexpected dance, he grinned.

“Why Arnold,” the younger man grinned, “I didn’t know you could foxtrot.”

The jest got a few giggles from the students, quickly hidden behind obedient masks as the Principal snarled back.

“Mister Pond, why aren’t you in your classroom teaching?”

“I heard an explosion so,” he shrugged, “like any good human being, my first instinct was to rush over here and see if anyone got hurt.  I assume that’s why you came rushing in?”

The Principal fumed for a second, seemed to grow a little bit angrier, then once he realized he had been verbally out-maneuvered, let off with a low-throated growl and brushed past the man and out the door.  Only when he was clearly out of sight did the students give a collective sigh of relief.

“Forest,” Miss Brookstone smiled at the young man, “I–  I’m glad you came in to check on me.  That is, if I’d been hurt, which I’m not.  Obviously.”

“It’s okay, Beatrice,” Forest Pond grinned, “I mainly came to make sure that Fendish didn’t try to rip out a lung while you were still coughing it up.”

The children giggled and laughed once again, a couple of the girls in the class silently mouthing what might seem to be, “Go for it.”  For a moment she abandoned her school-marm persona in favor of a grin, then quickly back to a prim and proper demeanor as she addressed him.

“I thank you for responding so quickly and I am sure that Principal Fendish was concerned about my well-being as well.”

“That’s what I like about you, Beatrice.  You can see a ray of sunshine in anyone.  Well, I’ve a science class to get back to.”

He started to turn around, then paused as a thought struck him.

“Oh, there’s a professor in town who wants to lead a nature hike through our local grass and woodlands?  I thought it might be educational.”

“Oh yes, I’d love to come, Forest,” she beamed.  “I mean, are you going as well?”

“A chance to listen to one of the top professors in his field talk about insects and plants and stuff?  A little out of my field, but I wouldn’t miss it.  This Saturday at one.  See you there.”

He left with a handsome smile and gentle closing of the door, and in his wake Miss Beatrice Brookstone was not the only female there to sigh and gaze longingly.  She was, though, the first to recover herself and return to her role as teacher.

“Well, I think the smoke’s cleared enough.  If you’ll just turn to page forty-seven of your biology text, there are a couple of corrections to the book I’d like to make.”

Whatever corrections they may have been would have to wait for another day, for at that moment the school bell rang, and with its utterance a stampede of young feet was unleashed.

“Okay, that will be all for today,” she said above the sounds of rising bodies and marching shoes.  “For homework, do problems one through three.  Oh–”  She held up the small plate of cookies, lifted off the waxed paper, and placed it on the end of the lab bench, then very quickly reached back to bring out a small paper cup of cheery syrup that she placed next to the cookies.  “Don’t forget to grab a cookie on your way out.  That’s only one per customer, remember.”

“Thank-you, Miss Brookstone.”

“Thanks, Miss Bee.”

“Thank-you,” rang out a chorus of little voices.

A scattered train of thank-yous as each snatched a cookie, dipped it once into the cherry syrup, then nibbled it on the way out, leaving Beatrice to smile fondly after her charges until the room was empty of all but herself.

---

Later in the day, it would not be an explosion that would interrupt her afternoon class, but something a bit more planned.

“But Miss Bee,” one student asked, “why do we need to do these drills?”

“Superintendent Hinkley just wants us to be ready.”

“In case that awful red scum should come crossin’ our borders,” one boy stated.

“Billy,” she said in a lightly scolding tone, “where did you hear something like that?”

“My father.  He said thar’s gonna be a nuclar war and when thar is we gonna pound the livin–”

“That will be quite enough,” she said.  “I will hear no cussing in my classroom.  But, to answer the question, it is to make sure that we are prepared in case the worst does happen.  Just remember what Bertle the Turtle says.  When you see the first flash or hear the sirens, just remember to run, duck, and cover.  Now, the sirens you’ll be hearing are only for practice.  Just remember to be sure you each have your name tags on you.  Then, when you hear the sirens–”

“Miss Brookstone?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“I forgot mine at home.”

“Well, just don’t forget again.  The Superintendent wants you to wear it every day.  Just around your wrist.”

“Miss Bee, why do we need our name tags?”

“My daddy says it’s because when the Bomb gets us they’ll know which one–”

“We’ll have enough of that, Timothy.  Now, we don’t believe that anyone will be dropping bombs on our little town, but when the siren sounds, stay away from the windows, then go to–”

The siren sounded right then, a loud blaring trumpet that could wake the dead and, at the least, caused a ringing in Miss Brookstone’s ears as it wailed across the campus.  Several students covered their ears but performed as instructed.  Orderly out the classroom door and down the hall under her direction to the area on the campus grounds that had been designated for her class.  Most of the other classes were disorderly, some kids screaming, a couple fighting, several holding their ears and shouting at the siren’s noise, and few actually standing in their lines.  Miss Brookstone’s class was the only one to be in complete order, a fact which disturbed Principal Fendish as he performed his scowling inspection of all classes.

“You pass,” Fendish said.

To which, once he was out of sight, Miss Brookstone nearly bounced on the balls of her feet with delight.

“That’s a gold sticker for everybody,” she announced.

“Thank-you, Miss ‘Rookstone,” they said in unison.

“That’s very good, class, but it’s Brookstone.”

“‘Rookstone,” one young man repeated, then realized his mistake and tried again.  “Brookstone.”

He grinned sheepishly, then attention was turned to what Principal Fendish was saying to the student body in general.

“With the exception of Miss ‘Rookstone’s class, you’ve all done quite the misera’l jo’–  Job. Now go ‘ack to your classrooms ‘efore I keep the whole lot of you in detention.”

He dismissed the assembly, but as Miss Brookstone marched her children back to the classroom, she could not help but wonder.

“Curious,” she said to no one.

Then, as she listened through the hubbub, she heard others having trouble saying their ‘B’s as well.  Not everyone, but enough to be noticed.

“Curious indeed,” she pondered.  “Maybe that siren has everyone’s ears ringing.  Hmm.”

The day would end with Miss Brookstone still wondering about the odd little incident.

---

“‘ut Miss ‘rookstone, didn’t that b-blow up last time you did it?”

The question came from a blond-haired young rebel who dared to wear jeans to school instead of the assigned dress pants.  He was also a little braver than the rest and, as Miss Brookstone held the two beakers ready to blend together over the Bunsen burner, he was right up front while the others were discreetly hiding behind their workbenches.  Miss Brookstone, looked across the counter and gave him a cheery smile.

“Not to worry, Johnny,” she said.  “I know where I went wrong last time.  This time, when I mix these two compounds, we will get a soft glow, much like a light bulb.  The insect world has a lot of wonders in it and this is one of the things they can teach us.  Fireflies perform this sort of chemistry all the time and only recently are we learning to duplicate it.  Now, to proceed.”

She was wearing a cap with a clear plastic face-shield attached to it, currently snapped in place in front of her face; a fact which had not escaped the attention of the students.  Those in the row closest to their teacher had their face-shields on as well, in addition to ducking safely behind their lab benches.  As the contents of one beaker was being carefully poured into the other, even brave Johnny chose to duck.  The chemicals combined, then as she put down the one now-empty beaker, she started to slowly mix the other with a glass stirring rod, waving it gently over the open flame.

The class continued to hold its collective breath in anticipation.

It seemed like forever, though it was mere seconds, before the mixture began to glow.  Faint at first, then brightening until it was like a lamp to light up a foggy night.  Moments passed and nothing exploded.  Finally Miss Brookstone released the breath that she too had been holding.

“There class, see?  This is a form of phosphorescence.  A bit brighter than expected, but at least it–”

The classroom door burst open and a sour-faced Fendish scowled his way in as his sharp voice scratched like sandpaper on the ears.

“Miss Brookstone, I just wanted–”

“Huh?”

“A ‘omb!  Is that a ’omb you’ve made?!”

“Bomb?  Where?”

A few simple words to be the cause of what accompanied them.  At the word “Huh?” Miss Brookstone snapped around, the mixture in her beaker experiencing a somewhat more than gentle swishing about as a result and being dipped far closer to the open flame than she had intended.  The mixture started to rapidly bubble and boil as a result.  Then at the word “bomb,” Miss Brookstone dropped the boiling beaker, rushing her hands up before her face in reflexive defense.  The beaker left her grip, flew through the air, and headed on a direct course for Principal Fendish.  Not to worry, though; it never hit him.

The beaker exploded in mid-flight, a flash of brilliance that had the Principal screaming from the assault on his eyes, bits of shattered beaker showering down about him.

“I’m ’lind!  Miss ‘rookstoooone…!”

“Oh, I am so sorry, Mister Fendish!”

“You’ve had it this time!  Where are you.  Put my hands around your throat so I can strangle you!”

As he stumbled around, his feet scuffing at the bits of beaker glass on the floor, Beatrice rushed over to help him.  Her attempt was met with something less than enthusiasm.  His arms flailed around and when his vision started to clear it was Miss Brookstone’s face he saw up close, the same one that had just thrown the bomb at him.

“Attacker!  Come to finish me, have you?”

“No, Mister Fendish, I just–”

But as he reeled back a frail fist with the intent to actually punch the lady, something got in his way.  A little something that bit into the back of his hand.

“AAAAAA!”

It was just a single small bee come buzzing along to make a passing attack at the offending hand, then quickly zipping back somewhere behind Miss Brookstone’s hairdo.  The Principle let out a yelp, stumbled back, and would have hit the floor except for the waiting hands behind him.  He struggled a bit, still screaming, when a calm voice spoke.

“Are you okay, Mister Fendish?”

“Attacker!  She tried to kill me.  You saw it!  Wha–  Huh?”

He looked up to see the smiling face of Forest Pond.  Then he realized the other man’s arms were holding him by the armpits at a most undignified angle.  Loss of dignity quickly overcame the pain throbbing through his hand; he righted himself, shook loose from the assist, and scowled back at the man.

“That will ‘e quite enough assistance, Mister Pond.  ‘ut you’re my witness, she tried to attack me with that ‘omb.  Then that horrible ‘ee tried to–  Why, I shouldn’t ‘e surprised if I’ve an allergy to the horrid little creature.”

“In a city known for its honey?” Forest grinned the wider.  “I would think you would have discovered that earlier.  As for the bee, did you know that, except for the queen, when a bee stings someone, the stinger rips out the back half of their gut?  That little guy gave his life trying to fend you off.  I would think that rates at least a little sympathy.”

“Very little,” the Principle snorted between clenched teeth.  “I have a lance stuck in the ‘ack of my hand now, and all ‘ecause–”

“Why don’t you go to the nurse’s office, Mister Fendish?” he suggested.

“I will at that,” Mister Fendish scowled, then cast a sharp eye at Miss Brookstone.  “B-but upon my return, I will see you discharged for this malicious act.”

“But Mister Fendish, it was an accident,” Miss Brookstone pleaded.  “You startled me.”

“It was an attack, and that’s the way I’ll say it to the district.”

“They’ll probably fire you first.”

“What?  Who said that?”

The voice had come not from Mister J. Forest Pond, but from one of the students, all of whom were still ducked behind their lab counters.  But now one brave head poked up slowly from behind a bench; the same young man that had spoken out to Miss Brookstone before the accident.

“I d-did, sir.”

“You.  What is your name, young man.  Speak up so I know who to make the pink slip out to.”

The blond-haired young lad wearing his not-up-to-school-code jeans swallowed his fear, raised up his chin and spoke in a voice that sounded far braver than he may have felt at that moment.

“Johnny Jack, sir.”

“Well, you insolent young–”

“I was just saying that they’d probably fire you ‘efore Miss ‘rookstone.  What with her father making the honey and all.”

It was a reminder that stopped the craggy old man in his tracks, though fury built upon his face alongside a sudden surge of doubt.  Mister Pond used the pause to expand upon the boy’s observation.

“He’s right, Arnold.  That blue and green honey of his just about funds this school.  Then there are the tourists who come down to see him pull it right out of the hives that way, and–  Well, is it really worth a little flash in the pan?”

The building frustration was plain to read on Fendish’s face, and if he’d ground his teeth any tighter he would have been spitting out powder.  In the end, he relented with a displeased growl and turned for the door.

“I’ve got a nurse to go see.  Miss ‘rookstone, we will talk ab-bout this later.  And you, young man, come to school dressed properly from now on.”

You could feel the tension leaving with the crusty old man, and so it was with an honest sigh of relief that Miss Brookstone regarded Mister Pond.

“Thank-you Forest,” then to young Johnny still standing behind his counter, “and thank-you, Johnny.  Though I don’t think my father pays all that much to this school.”

“Income taxes, property taxes, the business he attracts,” Forest shrugged.  “I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.”

“So, you lied?  For me?”

“Just… pointed out some possibilities.”

“Well, you do seem to keep coming to my rescue.”

The children were standing up from behind their lab benches and could see the slight smile that their teacher was trying to hide as she regarded her rescuer.

“Nothing more than any proper knight would do for a lady,” he said with his usual grin.  “And it’s a lot easier when my classroom is just across the hall.  Speaking of which, I believe we both have a class to get back to.”

“What?  Oh, yes.”

She suddenly realized that thirty young faces were trying their best to hide their smirks and grins and that the conversation had drifted her feet to within a short distance of Mister Pond’s.  A brief moment of some discomfort which she broke by making a point of straightening out her hair to break the tension.  The bee that attacked Principal Fendish flew out of its hiding place in her hair and Forest turned away to hide his amusement under pretense of returning to his own classroom.

Before he could make it out the door, the school bell rang and the stampede began.  Beatrice called out the homework assignment, and Forest dodged aside to keep from being run over by a pack of teens.

“‘ye, Miss ‘rookstone.”

“See you tomorrow, Miss ‘ee.”

A small rush of students going by saying much the same thing, while Miss Brookstone finally decided to offer a quick correction.

“What is with everyone’s linguistics today?  That is Bbb…  Excuse me, Bbrr–  Now that is most curious.  I can’t even say my own name today.”

Thinking it a result of her harrowing experience with the Principal, she took in a deep breath and tried once more with her name.

“B-beeeat-trice B-b-b-rooook-sstone!”

By the time she got it out, her classroom was empty of all save Forest.  She shook her head in confusion while he offered a curious look and helpful hand.

“Having some trouble?” he said.

“Maybe it’s this whole thing with Mister Fendish, but I just can’t seem to say my full name.”

“The man gets on everyone’s nerves.  Don’t worry about it, Beatrice.”

“Well, I suppose…”  She started back for her desk to clean up her things, then stopped and looked back at Forest.  “But that’s the other thing.  Everyone seems to be having trouble saying their ‘B’s.  Ever since that air raid drill.  Curious.  Maybe those atomic bombs they’re always talking about have let loose some sort of radiation?”

“I never noticed anything,” he shrugged, “but I could keep an ear open, if you’d like.”

“Thank-you, but I really wouldn’t know what to have you look out for.  Just everyone dropping or stuttering on their ‘B’s.”

She reached for a broom and began to sweep up the glass on the floor, then stopped and looked back to Forest.

“Everyone except you.  I haven’t heard you stutter once.”

“I don’t stutter.”

“I mean on the ‘B’s.  Everyone but you seems–  Sounds ridiculous, I guess.  Maybe you were just farther away from– whatever caused it.”

“If you wish, I could do some research on the known effects of radiation.  See if anything comes up.”

“Oh, would you?  This is starting to get a bit unsettling.”

He replied with a wide sweeping bow, pantomiming the action of taking off some imaginary wide-brimmed hat into a flourish with his bow, eyes then looking up.

“T’would be my pleasure, my lady.  Ever your faithful knight.”

The jest got the desired response.  She giggled, a rare smile finally crossing her face; one that briefly lit up the sunshine of her face, let sparkle her honey-colored eyes, and revealed for just a moment the beauty that lay hidden beneath the prudish glasses.  Forest said no more, just looked at her as if considering something, then straightened up.  He turned around, leaving Beatrice to clean up for her next class.

The only others watching Miss Brookstone as she swept up the remains of the last class, were perhaps the half dozen bees that had now gathered by the window, swarming over their brave and now-ailing comrade that had dared to sting Mister Arnold Fendish.

---

It was late at night.  The school was closed, nearly all in their homes watching one late-night television program or another, or perhaps just snuggling.  All except for one window beneath the steeply pitched roof of an old Victorian home on the Brookstone bee farm, from where a yellow light shone out into the night.  The light was coming from Beatrice’s room where she sat at her desk pouring through several books that lay in piles around her, a small lamp providing a soft glow.

Her small room was filled with as many books on botany, biology, and insects as most young women her age would have magazines on the latest fashions, makeup tips, and ploys to trap handsome young men into marriage proposals.  There were shelves filled with the litter of science and discovery.  Pictures of insects lay strewn on almost every flat surface or pinned to the walls.  Her desk faced up against the window, a place she preferred for her study.  In the background, her record player emitted the hum of insect sounds that she found restful and an aid to concentration.  She wore a long, cotton nightgown, her hair let down into rolling tresses of gold, her glasses for once placed off to one side of her desk.  In the light of the half moon leaking through the window, some might say that she looked quite pretty.

“‘eatrice?” she heard coming from down the hall past her closed door. “Will you be wanting anything more?”

“No, mother,” she called back.  “I have everything I need.  Thank you.”

The books currently before her were on loan from Forest’s stockpile.  A book on nuclear radiation, another on acoustics, and another on the effects of auditory stimulation on the human brain. Beside her was a large open jar of blue honey, a spoon held in her hand to slowly snack with during her studies.

“This is beyond me,” she said to herself.  “But there has to be a reason why everyone is dropping their ‘B’s… and why I seem to be having trouble saying my full name.  Beee-B-b–  I swear!”

She swallowed another spoonful of blue honey, took a deep breath, then tried again.

“Beatrice Brookstone.  There, but I had to have the honey to do it.  Strange.”

She then looked briefly from her studies and saw it: a single bee sitting on the inside ledge of the window, almost seeming to be directing its attention at her.

“What?  The honey helps me concentrate, okay?  Always has.  And why are you away from the hive in the dark?  Go home.”

The moon’s light was picking up the blond color of her hair, reflecting off it in what seemed to be nearly a glowing aura, the light of her inner beauty for once allowed to shine out before she broke the moment by swishing a hand around at the bee.

“Come on, shoo.  I don’t like people staring while I study.”

The bee flew up, buzzed twice around her head, then was off, leaving Beatrice to her studies.

“That’s better,” she sighed.  “I’ve just got to find out what’s going on around here…  Maybe if I could get Fory to explain some of this to me.  Did I say, ‘Fory’?  What has gotten into me?”

Another spoonful of honey and she was back to the books.  As for the bee, it had gone, but in its place two more buzzed around outside, watching.

---

The weekend came and Beatrice was off to town, getting groceries, exchanging books at the library, and running her normal errands.  No Saturday-night social plans as most people would have.  Not for her.  She was either too busy studying, teaching, or helping out with the bee farm, that having a social life never really occurred to her.  No time for it.

Though perhaps that Nature-hike that Forest had invited her to might be interesting.  On a purely intellectual level, of course.  Just a chance to relax and observe the insects she so loved.

“If I hurry,” she said to herself, “I think I can still make that Nature-hike.”

Nature-hike aside, though, this Saturday morning’s running around was a bit different.  More puzzling, in a word.  She continued noticing the odd problem people were having with the letter ‘B’, while she could only seem to say her own full name correctly after a spoonful of her father’s blue honey.  The butcher shop was especially disturbing when Mister Callum, the butcher, repeated her order as, “Two pounds of ground ‘eef, a slab of ‘acon, and a couple cups of some chicken b-b-boullion.  Will that ‘e all?”  When she saw the barber shop she decided to cross the street.

Another odd thing was, none took notice of it except when she pointed out the omission.

“Miss ‘rookstone!”

She sighed and came to a stop.  She knew that grating tone and didn’t even need to turn around to address the foul man.

“Mister Fendish, I am not right now in school and not blowing anything up, nor do I plan to.  I am simply running a few errands.”

She then turned to face the crooked old man.  She was of a modest height for a woman, at five and a half feet, but Fendish was an inch shorter and bent in ways that suggested the centuries had not been kind to him.  At least, that was the joke running around the school.

“‘efore your latest experiment b-b-blew up in my face, I had something to tell you, Miss ‘rookstone.  For whatever unfathomab-ble reason, you’ve ‘een nominated for teacher of the year.  After what I am sure will ‘e a fixed vote, I may ‘e forced to present you with the award at a public assembly.  I just thought you should be warned.”

“Warned?  But this is delightful!  My students like me that much?”

“Can’t understand it myself.  B-b-big load of–  Hey, get that away from me.”

It was a bee swooping down at him, apparently aiming for the same now-bandaged hand that had previously been attacked.  But as he tried to shoo that one away with his frail hands, another came down from behind Beatrice.

“What do you do, train these things?  Get them away from me.”

“They’re just bees, Mister Fendish,” she told him.  “Probably found the tone of your voice rather disturbing.  I certainly have no control over them.  Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a Nature-hike to attend.”

Without so much as a proper good-bye, she turned around and walked away.  In the process, though, she happened to see her reflection in the window of the dress shop when the encounter happened.  She saw herself wearing her normal beehive hairdo, but in addition, there were several bees buzzing around the top of her head.  While Mister Fendish was running off in a screaming fit, she was taking curious note of this oddity.

“Maybe they smell the honey on me?  I don’t know…”

She let it go with a shrug and continued with her errands…

---

“Excuse me, but do you know a Mister Brookstone?”

She was finished with her errands and on her way to the Nature-hike when someone else stopped her with his question.  It was a stranger; tall slender man with angular features, square chin, and a dusting of close-cropped hairs that acted as more of a shadow than an actual beard.  He was a grey man in a grey business suit with graying brown hair and green eyes.  The type of man that could either be a corporate officer or an accountant, but little else.

Beatrice sighed and turned around.

“Duncan Brookstone is my father.”

“Ah, good.  Then I do have the right person.  My name is Mister Charles Z. McCreedy, President of McCreedy Foods and Health Products.”

“Oh, you’re that man who wants to buy Dad’s honey.  Some sort of big deal?”

“What I want, Miss Brookstone, is to buy out the secret of his various colored honeys.  How does he get them to be that color, what does he feed his bees, and so forth.  I believe they may have significant health properties.”

“I remember my father mentioning a Mister McCreedy, but he doesn’t want to sell any secrets, just the honey.”

“I am aware of his response, but I was hoping that you could convince him otherwise.  Money is not an issue here.  You could find yourselves to be quite well off.”

“Money is not an issue for my father, either, Mister McCreedy,” she responded with a kind smile.  “He is quite happy with his bees and if he’s happy, my mother is happy.  I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“He can keep the bees,” McCreedy said in an even tone.  “I just want to know how he gets his honey to be red, blue, and the rest.  Think of yourself, then.  Some of that money would be yours.  Think of what you could do with it.”

Something about his tone bothered Beatrice.  Not angry, yet somehow threatening.  A corporate shark with a dispassionate face looking at her as if she were a bug and he the kid with the magnifying lens.  She shuddered slightly before again shaking her head.

“I am most sorry–  Charlie, is it?”

“Charles McCreedy,” he emphasized through gritted teeth, “and I must assure you that I will do anything to get those secrets, though I would rather it be less painful for the both of us.  Just tell your father that I will increase my price to a full hundred thousand dollars.”

Beatrice would have swallowed her gum had she been chewing any.  As it was, she could feel the eyes nearly pop out of her head, and from the grin on McCreedy’s face, she knew it was the reaction he expected.  But Beatrice, while shocked by such an offer, could be a bit headstrong.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Mister McCreedy, but the answer is still, no.  Now, if you don’t mind, I really do have something to get to.”

She started to pull away but his hand on her shoulder stopped her and he spun her around.

“I will get what I want, Miss Brooks–  Ouch!”

An errant bee took that moment to decide that the back of his hand might be a good place to take a break and, in the process, happened to misplace its stinger on a sensitive portion of skin between his fingers.  His grip was released immediately as he shook his hand and sought some way to get the stinger out as fast as he could.  Beatrice took the opportunity to make for a very quick walk away from him and in full view of other passersby.

“Please don’t approach me again, Mister McCreedy,” she called back “or I may be forced to contact the authorities.  And remember; unless that was a Queen, some bee just died trying to teach you a lesson about rudeness.  Good day.”

She left the grey man cussing quietly as she made her way quickly across town, hoping she had run out of people to bump into before she could get anywhere.  As it turned out, there was one more person that she quite literally bumped into.  So quick was her pace and so distracted her thoughts that she nearly didn’t see him.

“Oh!  So, sorry, Mister–  Forest?

She nearly dropped her bag and wouldn’t have been a bit surprised had he developed a black eye.  But his body seemed as firm as the smile on his face as he looked at her kindly.

“No harm done; I like bumping into people with gorgeous golden eyes.  In fact, I was looking for you.  The walk is about to begin.”

“Sorry,” she said, averting her eyes, “but I bumped into two people on the way here.  Fendish, and a little man that wants the secret to my father’s honey.  I didn’t tell him anything, of course.”

“Well, I should hope not.  Those honeys are famous all over the county.  Now, ready?”

“For a walk through the woods listening to one of the greatest biologists around?  I was ready yesterday.”

“Then let us depart.”

He put out his elbow for her to hold, as if in mock chivalry or perhaps not.  She ignored it, however, but not to rebuff him.  She spotted the professor and walked on ahead to join the others…

---

“Yes, Miss ‘rookstone, what is it this time?”

They were an hour into the hike, and at first the professor had done well in pointing out the correct names and habits of the flora and fauna in the area.  But when it came to insects, it was Beatrice who had the upper hand.  Not that she meant to ridicule him, she just liked to see things done exactly right.

“I just wanted to point out that the insect you called an assassin bug is not an assassin bug, though it can be easily confused with such.  However, if you look up on that branch over there, you will see an actual assassin bug.”

The visiting professor could only nod and agree.

“Apparently Miss ‘rookstone is right yet again,” he sighed.  “Now, if we can get on with this, I’ve another appointment to get to… Somewhere, I’m sure.”

Beatrice may have been completely ignorant of the professor’s plight, but Forest was chuckling to himself until Beatrice fixed him with a look.

“Now what is so terribly funny?”

“You,” he admitted.  “You’ve done about as much lecturing on this hike as he has.”

“Oh,” she said, taking on a shy demeanor.  “You think maybe I embarrassed him?  I didn’t mean to, it’s just the teacher in me.”

“He’s probably just having an off day,” Forest shrugged.  “I am still impressed by your breadth of knowledge.  Even for a biology teacher, it’s impressive.”

“Just instinctive, I guess.  I’ve always been interested in bugs and stuff.  But what about you?  I know your field isn’t biology.”

He just held his gaze on her for a moment before answering.  Triangular glasses sitting primly on her nose, her blond hair done up in a towering beehive hairdo that defied any true estimate of her real hair length, she was the perfect portrait of the little school teacher.  And yet, if one were to look beyond, deep into those honey-colored eyes…

“My interests…,” he began, then shook himself awake with a quick grin.  “Just general science.  Nothing special.  I like hikes like these because it puts me in touch with the land of my birth.”

“Oh, then you grew up in a rural area?”

“Much like it, yes,” he said as they walked.  “Though I never had anyone to really walk with.”

“Well, now you have a whole bunch of us,” she said with a smile and a nod in the direction of the group.

But a moment to see her smile, a moment he enjoyed very much but was brought to a close too soon by Beatrice’s own eager interests and keen observational skills.

“Oh, Professor!” she turned away and called out.  “I think I just spotted a perfect specimen of pterophylla camellifolia!”

Forest couldn’t help but chuckle as she ran on ahead to corner their guide once again.

“Well,” he said to himself, “at least it has been amusing.”

The hike ended after two hours, which for the visiting professor, was about one hour and fifty-five minutes too long.  It wasn’t that Beatrice meant to embarrass or correct him so much, it was just that she really did know quite a lot about her field and had a hard time not displaying that fact.  Beatrice and Forest ended up walking out of the field and onto the small road where they had met, while the Professor ran on ahead to his own car despite many entreaties for some last questions.

“Just ask Miss ‘rookstone,” he called out over his shoulder.  “I’m sure she’s got all the answers.”

The tires of his car screeched in his haste to go, leaving everyone no choice but to turn all eyes in the direction of Miss Brookstone.

“I had a great time,” Forest began as he looked down at her.

“Even with my running commentary?” she said with a bashful glance downward.

“Because of your running commentary.  Say, I know it’s early, but do you want to go for an early dinner or late lunch or something?  My treat?”

“I’m sorry, but I need to help my father out with the bees today.  Promised.  Besides…,” she looked around at the circle of hikers the Professor left behind, nearly all of them with questions written clearly on their faces, and grinned sheepishly, “I think it’s going to be a good twenty or thirty minutes before I make it out of here.  Maybe some other time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said as he stepped away.  “See you Monday.”

The small crowd of hikers closed in around her, loaded with the questions the Professor had left unanswered.  She answered every question and, in many cases, with more than mere textbook knowledge, lending a sort of personal flavor to her responses.  Mister Forest Pond grinned while he watched the crowd gathered around Beatrice.  By the time she had a chance to look up, he was gone.

---

Later that day, Beatrice was out by the hives helping her father.  Duncan Brookstone, tufts of scraggly black hair sticking out from beneath his beekeeper’s hat, was harvesting combs of honey into a series of large jars while Beatrice carried the already filled jars back to the shed behind the house.  As usual, she was ignored by the local bee population.

“Got some green honey this time, Bee,” he called out, “and I think I see some red honey over in Hive Four.”

“That’s great, Daddy.  Everyone will be wondering how you did it.”

“They can wonder all they want,” he chuckled.  “I can’t tell what I’m not sure of myself.”

She grinned at the remark.  Everyone throughout the county wondered how he did it, but the truth was that her father wasn’t sure himself.  He knew that it had something to do with the types of plants the bees used, but beyond that, the bees did all the work.

She carried her heavy load into the shed and set it down on the shelf when something startled her.  It flew right up to her face, buzzing angrily.  Not a bee but a wasp, and it seemed intent on going for her the way the bees seemed to enjoy giving chase to Fendish.

“Hey, cut it out.  Shoo, shoo!”

She bobbed her head but it came back for another pass, so she ran to the back of the shed, looking for anything to help defend herself.  She could hear it buzzing, then felt a sharp sting on her neck.

“Ow.  That hurt.”

She whirled, one hand reaching out for the nearest weapon.  She grabbed an old newspaper off the floor and came face to face with the wasp as it charged straight for her nose.

It came out of nowhere; a bee bulleting straight into the angry wasp, the pair of insects rolling around through the sky as the bee tackled the wasp mere inches away from her face.  She let out a startled gasp then watched curiously as the two seemed to do battle in the air.  The wasp charged, the bee dodged and counter-struck.  Then the bee turned to charge while the wasp brought up its much larger stinger to parry with.  A brave little bee fighting an insect nearly twice its size.

Beatrice saw the paper she held and quickly rolled it tightly up, then stepping towards the aerial struggle, called out.

“Hey, Mister Wasp.”

It paused, turned to face her call and saw nothing but a very large rolled up newspaper coming in for the kill.

“Got ‘im.”

Her swing flattened the wasp against the wall, but her triumph was short lived for she saw that she had side-swiped the bee it had been fighting.  The little thing spun around uncertainly before her then spiraled to the ground with a final plop.

She quickly discarded the paper and bent down for a closer look at her tiny hero.

“Oh, poor little thing.  I guess you were defending me.  That’s a strange thing for a bee to do, but then, these have been a strange couple of days.”

It lay there, its wings moving in an attempt to fly but to no avail.  One of its front legs was bent at an odd angle.

“Well, gallant knight, you appear to have a broken arm.  Otherwise you look like you’re just stunned, is all.  Here.”

She retrieved her paper and unrolled a section from it then used that to carefully scoop up the bee into and gently use it as a bed to carry it up with.

“I’ll take you someplace safe, my little hero.  And I think I know what’ll fix you right up.”

She carried the bee back into the house, grabbing a jar of blue honey on her way through the kitchen, then on up to her room where she set the bee carefully down on her desk, still in its newspaper stretcher.  It wasn’t long before she was depositing a drop of the honey down next to the wounded bee using a convenient toothpick.

“I don’t have to be a biologist to know that bees like honey.  Eat up, there’s plenty.”

She watched as the bee crawled towards the drop, then reached out and began to lap some of it up with its tiny mouth pieces.  Beatrice was simultaneously fascinated and relieved at the exhibition.

“Well, it may take a few days for you to recover, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.  You defended me from that mean old wasp, and some of your family protected me from Principal Fendish.  I guess that’s no more strange than people dropping their ‘B’s or the trouble I’m having with my own name.”

Somewhere in the distance she heard her father calling out for her, so after placing down another drop of honey, she quickly sealed up the jar and left it on the desk.

“I’ve got chores to do but I’ll be back later.  You can watch me grade papers while you’re having more of that honey.”

She left the room for her chores, unaware that behind her the tiny bee was lifting up its head, almost as if it was watching her leave.