IMPORTANT FAMILIES OF THE GATHERING
The Downings
Gideon (apiarist) and Sarah, Samuel, Ellerie, Merry, Sadie
The Danforths
Cyrus (farmer), Rebecca, Mark
The McClearys
Amos (Elder and owner of the general store) and Martha
The Dodsons
Matthias (Elder and blacksmith) and Charlotte
The Schäfers
Leland (Elder and shepherd) and Cora
The Briards
Clemency (parson) and Letitia, Simon
The Buhrmans
Calvin (tavern owner) and Violet
The Lathetons
Edmund (carpenter) and Prudence
The Fowlers
Gran (poultry farmer) and Alice (schoolteacher)
THE RULES
as drafted by the Elders and Decided by at the first Gathering of Amity Falls
A rope of great cords will not fray, snap, or weather. The Falls stands strong if we all bind together.
Tend your land, your beasts, your field, and prosperous bounties the Falls will yield.
Fifteen harvests children sow, then to the Gathering let them grow.
Seek not to harm your fellow men, for Amity’s wrath circles round again.
Let from your lips no false words pour, damning characters evermore.
When neighbors reach for helping hand, extend your own, as God commands.
Enter not the forest deep. Beyond the Bells, the dark fiends keep.
The smoke smelled of burning pine needles, dark and sweet. It seeped from the hive box in front of me and danced across the fields, caught on a balmy breeze. Papa pressed down on the bellows to release another cloud, training it carefully toward the tall wooden structure’s entrance. His head bobbed as he silently counted the passing seconds. Finally he nodded.
Even though my hands were completely covered, they shook as I approached the hive. I’d never been allowed to help remove frames before, and I wanted to make sure I did everything exactly as Papa said. With a muffled groan, I strained to hoist the heavy lid before setting it aside in the grass, careful to avoid three drowsy bees crawling across its top.
After puffing more of the smoke deep into the box, Papa stepped back, allowing me full access to the hive. “Take out one of the super frames and we’ll inspect it.” His voice was muffled under the thick netting swagged about his face.
Though I could only see the limned highlight of his profile, he looked pleased. Proud, even. I prayed I wouldn’t let him down.
Usually I was in the kitchen with Mama, Merry, and Sadie during harvests. Samuel helped Papa, bringing in the heavy, honey-laden frames for us to process. I’d hold them upright while Mama ran a wide knife down the combs, slicing off waxy caps with practiced ease. The dripping frames would go into a large metal drum, and Merry and Sadie would take turns cranking the handle until all the honey had spun free and was ready to be filtered.
I glanced toward our farmhouse now, imagining my sisters jostling for space around the hearth as bottles were boiled clean and set out to dry. They’d be squabbling and begging for Mama to let them go out. It was too pretty a day to be spent over a hot fire and iron pots. A hawk screeched overhead in tacit agreement, spinning lazy circles in the late-August sunshine.
“Ellerie,” Papa prompted, drawing me back. “The first frame can be the trickiest. Sometimes the bees seal the edges over with resin. You might need to chisel it free.”
“Won’t that upset the bees?” I peered down through the slats of the frames. The ever-present hum had died down, but I could still see some movement in the lower boxes.
“Not if you do it right,” he teased unhelpfully. I sensed his smile behind the netting. “The first time my father let me take the frames out, I was stung six times. It’s a rite of passage.”
Growing up with beekeepers for parents, I’d certainly been stung before, but it wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat. I’d kept the entire household up with my first sting, sobbing through the night—not for my swollen hand but for the poor bee who had died in the process.
Reaching under my own heavy netting, I wiped at the sweat trickling down my face, debating where to start. There were eight frames in this section, each spread out with uniform precision. I chose one near the middle and gently wiggled it back and forth, testing the sides. It moved easily enough. I held my breath as I pulled it free, careful to not brush it against any of the others on the way out.
“Let’s see, then.” Papa leaned forward, studying the bees’ work.
Lacy patterns of honeycomb sheeted over the frame, some filled and capped but most empty.
He clucked his tongue, considering. “Not yet. Could be a late harvest this year. Too much snow last winter. Put it back.”
With the utmost care, I eased the wooden frame back into its slot, then breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now the next.”
“We check every one?”
His head bobbed. “If you go through the trouble of smoking the bees, you need to make sure to thoroughly inspect the hive. Honey isn’t the only thing we’re concerned with. We’re stewards for the hives, protectors of these bees. We need to make sure they’re healthy and their needs are being met.”
He set the smoker down and lifted the top box, peering into the lower chambers. After setting aside the first box and counting the second’s frames, he took one out, and gently brushed aside two bees clinging drunkenly to the combs.
“Tell me what you see.”
I squinted through the veil. There were more honeycombs, as golden as a stained-glass window. At the center of almost every cup was a tiny white speck, no bigger than a barley seed. “Those are the eggs, aren’t they?”
“Very good. What do they tell us?”
I felt uncomfortably on the spot, like a knobby-kneed schoolgirl no older than Sadie. “That the queen is laying?” He made a noise of affirmation, encouraging me to go on. “So if she’s laying, that’s good, right? A healthy hive?”