Sect Year 8 · third month · night of day 3 · the silent life: the terraces above the river, his fifteenth year
The swarm left the hive yard on a warm morning in late spring, and Ossel was the only one on the third terrace who saw it go. A dark cloud rose out of the boxes in a slow spiral, humming, and drifted over the terrace wall. When he ran to the edge he found it already settled in the plum tree on the lower terrace. The branch bent under it. The cluster hung from the bough like a loaf set down on a shelf, brown and close and shifting, and the whole tree seemed to hum with it.
Odo had gone down the valley road at first light with the honey crocks on the cart. He had left the boy the yard and the lids and a warning.
“Don’t chase a swarm,” Odo had said. “It’s the only thing in the valley that knows where it’s going.”
Ossel stood in the yard with the warning in his ears and watched the cluster through the leaves. He wanted to go. He could feel the wanting in his legs, a pull like the rope when a raft went past below. A small brown bird came down onto the coping of the wall, sat for a moment with its head on one side, and flew off again toward the river. The swarm did not move. It was waiting, as he…
