1782 words (7 minute read)

V: maybe so

Ogma claims that he's getting too old and creaky to carry on with things alone, which isn’t particularly convincing. The man keeps four beehives, and he can lift an entire super full of comb and honey. Alima made the mistake of offering to wash the dishes instead of fleeing the house after breakfast, and Ogma comes in after checking on the bees.

"Good, I need one of the young folk," he remarks. "Alima, do you want a few pounds of free honey? I just need help getting some stuff to the shed."

"Free honey? No problem!"

---
Two hours later, something feels loose around her left-side ribs. She only lifted the three smallest hives over to the dolly, then onto the low platform in the shed. According to Ogma, they are "somewhere around" thirty or forty pounds each. She didn't come close to touching the four biggest supers, which Ogma carted right to the shed without fail.

"What are you on about, man? Trying to break a poor little girl's back?" Marian tucks an ice pack between Alima's shirt and the couch cushion, though her scolding lacks true ire. "Ach, girlie, he does this to every new person. The only one who knowingly volunteers is Owen."

"Boy might be mad, but he's good with the bees," Ogma says, in his usual not-quite compliment.

On the plus side, Ogma gives her a small plate of honeycomb--both in apology for pulling a muscle, and so she can decide what honey to get. They are bite-sized pieces around the length of her fingers, with different colors and textures: Deep amber, rusty orange, peach, and nearly bronze in addition to the usual shades of yellow.

Clover honey is soft and sweet as always, but she can already get decent clover from most of the stores. The pink-tinted strawberry honey from Ryan Connell's farm is lovely, light, and warm like summer, but it would be like eating gourmet chocolate for breakfast.

The darkest honey is thick with a nice bite; Ogma tells her that it's buckwheat honey from George Harraldson's farm, and very popular. Then comes the Irish wildflower honey, which is zesty and playful--much different from the warm, content tang of California wildflowers, but it shares the feeling of ancient soils and welcome.

The last sample she eats is a delicate peachy shade, nearly as pale as the clover honey--but it has a magical sting, and a strange, heavy finish she's never encountered before.

"Is this from a healer's garden or something?" She asks after a bite, and turns the rest over in her fingers. It tastes a bit like solitude, which is uncommon due to the nature of bee life. "It has that sort of... punching feel that you get from those types of honey. Like honey from sweetgrass, or old forests."

"The plants themselves aren't that magical," Ogma says. "But the Cliffs of Moher are." He types in a note on his phone. "So two pounds of buckwheat and two pounds of the Moher blend, or some other combination?"

"No," she says, and sticks the rest of the Moher honey in her mouth. The magical note mellows out to an aftertaste. "Maybe one pound of buckwheat and three pounds of the Moher honey. Buckwheat's great, but it's way too thick for coffee or baking."

"Such is the problem with buckwheat," Ogma says. "No trouble, lass, we've got a lot of customers who can't get enough of it."

"We don't get many who like raw magical honey," Marian remarks, swooping down on the rest of the plate. "But you took some traditional magic courses in college, didn't you?" She asks through a bite of strawberry comb, to Alima's nod. "Built up a tolerance, I bet; a lot of folk your age don't like Moher honey straight from the hive."

She shifts the ice pack a bit farther right, winces from her ribs' protesting, and settles back down.

---
Marian takes her aside for a few minutes after lunch. There is a little jar of peach-pale honey, with a few errant crystals lining the rim, and a half-finished roll of paper towels on the table. "What does it remind you of?"

She takes a spoonful of honey, rolls it in her mouth to let the magic settle.

In the back of her head is her room when she was sixteen, with lacy red curtains and a pine tree's shadow stretching in from the backyard. She's doodling in a sketchbook, between texting her best friend Danielle. The fragile sweetness of rice cakes floats in through the door--it's New Year's Eve, an hour or two to midnight, and Mom is cooking.

"Home." It is too cold and thick to come out properly, and her voice breaks somewhere along the line.

"What's that, sweetie?" Marian is gentle, but not surprised with asking.

"Home," she repeats, and takes a paper towel. Or three.

---
Danielle calls her on Saturday, when she's just about recovered from her impromptu strength-training with Ogma. "Hey babe, how's your fresh new start in a foreign country?"

"Met the people in town, found a car, pulled a muscle from being stupid."

"Say what?" Danny asks, and Alima laughs.

"I'm staying at the innkeeper's house since I ran out of time at the actual inn," she explains. "Ogma keeps bees. He offered me free honey because he 'needed a young person' to help him with lifting.”

"Oh, baby girl." Danny's head-shaking is nearly audible. "You never believe old people who say they need help." She laughs and fiddles with a button. "So, how are you besides your failure at beekeeping? Meet anyone?"

"I'm in the middle of something," Alima admits.

"Good something, or bad something?"

"I-don't-know something. I met this guy Malachy on a hike. And he's sweet and all, but he's just... heavy. He lost his parents three years ago and now he's taking care of his little brother. He offered to let me stay at his place after I finished up at the inn, and it turns out he hasn't done that for five years since one of his friends nearly got killed because he was gay, aaaaand nobody really says too much because it... you know."

"Mm-mm." Danny shakes her head again. "I bet he’s hot. Hang on, I’ll ask Auntie Celeste--"

"Danny!" She thunks her head against the wall. "The hoodoo priestess?!"

"It's Vodun and mambo, Alima," Danny corrects. "Auntie! Alima met a hot Irish guy--"

"Oh my god." Alima can't bring herself to hang up, though; if the doctors hadn't recognized Danielle DeTour when she came to visit, Alima might still be mute.

Celeste takes Danny's phone and her skirt rustles heavy against the couch. "Hello, Alima. You have a heavy-hearted Irish boy, don't you?"

She heads to the fridge and pours a cup of milk. She's not that thirsty; she just wants something in her hands. "I don't have him, we just run into each other a lot because it's a small town." She sips, and the milk makes her shiver. "And please say Danny told you the heavy thing."

"She said your luck matches," Celeste technically answers. "And yours is so very heavy."

"Okay, what do I do?" She grabs her notebook and pencil in case she needs a list.

"Talk to your host," Celeste replies. "American magic might not work as well in Ireland."

Part of her doesn't want vodun-related help, but Alima's throat is suddenly dry. She gulps down milk like she's in the desert. "So is it--"

"Danielle!" Celeste orders suddenly.

"What's up, Auntie? Pleeeeease tell me she 'fessed up--"

"You give me a moment to talk." Celeste is no longer just Danielle's aunt; her voice is darker and curt.

"Yes, Auntie." The door shuts placidly in the distance.

"Your host is trustworthy," Celeste says to Alima, "but he is only human. Have you cut your hair again?"

"My... hair?" She checks the end of her braid. "No, the new moon was about two weeks ago."

"You remember how to throw it out. Bury it, burn it, rinse it down the drain," she says. "Whatever you do, never sweep it out like dirt."

"I know, Celeste, I have too much hair for that."

"The wild men have already seen you," Celeste says to her. "If you leave your hair around and someone finds it, even the cunning man will have a hard time helping you."

"I..." There is no more milk for her to get her bearings. "Is there anything else?"

"Blondie needs to smile more!" Celeste is back to being Danielle's aunt. "Take him out for drinks, or let him take you out. 'Course, whoever takes whoever out, you bring at least one condom. Boys are verrrry forgetful, and sometimes it’s on purpose--"

She can't help laughing in embarrassment as she heads to the sink. "You always say the condom thing!"

“And not one baby-daddy in sight.” Celeste retorts with a smile. “Same with Danielle. Always laughs, never gets knocked up. Much better than the reverse, no?”

Her fingers stiffen suddenly, and she nearly drops the cup. "I never said his hair color."

“No?” She can hear Celeste smiling again. “Well, you have a track record. Three blonds, a Spanish boy--”

“--and the Blackfoot guy, yes. I... remember who I dated, Celeste.” She smiles in return, but it is a shaky one.

“You take care now,” Celeste finishes. “Don’t want anyone stealing that hair of yours, do you? They clip it on the bus sometimes. Or in crowds.”

“Ha, I would kill someone who did that!”

Celeste laughs with her, and then calls her niece again. “Go on, Danny, I don’t want to eat up her phone bill.”

“We were talking about the hot Irish guy?” Danny asks, and Alima coughs.

“He’s not--I mean, not that he... isn’t--not...” God, what was she saying? Fuck this noise. “Danny, I’ve been here what, two or three weeks? I’m not dating anyone yet!”

“Ye-et,” Danny grins. “I bet he’s blond, baby, you have a track record. Three blonds, a Spanish--”

The cup clashes against the metal of the faucet. “Owowowow!” Alima sticks an unharmed finger in her mouth. “Sorry, Danny, I dropped my cup. It’s just a scrape, though.”

“Ouch. Be careful, baby girl.”

“No problem.” Alima hangs up, though she feels a little guilty.

Next Chapter: VI: odds