Chapter 2 Chapter One

One summer afternoon, after returning from a trip abroad, he walked into his stone-and-brick farm cottage and left his luggage at the front door for the housekeeper to handle.He retreated into his study and sat quietly, happy to be surrounded by books and the familiar atmosphere of home.He was away for nearly two months, crossing India on an army train, sailing on a Royal Navy ship to Australia, and finally, he set foot on the coast of Japan, which was still occupied after the war.The journey was as long as it was back—he was accompanied by noisy military men, but hardly anyone knew who the old gentleman who dined with them and sat beside them (he walked slowly, old, always looking in his pocket for a match but never finding one, always with an unlit Jamaican cigar in his mouth).Only on rare occasions would a well-informed officer recognize him, and at this time, everyone would look at him carefully with a look of surprise on their rosy faces: although he was leaning on Two canes, but his body remained erect, and the passage of time had not lost the sharpness of his gray eyes; his snow-white hair was as thick and long as his beard, combed back, very British.

"Really? Are you really him?" "Ashamed, ashamed, it's me." "Are you really Sherlock Holmes? No way, I can't believe it." "It's okay, I can hardly believe it myself." Finally, the journey was over, but it was difficult for him to recall the details of those days abroad.The whole journey was like a good dinner, which made him feel very satisfied at the time - but looking back, it seemed distant and unpredictable, only some fragmented memories scattered here and there, but soon, they also became blurred Impressions are inevitably forgotten in the end.Yet the rooms of his farmhouse had not changed, the regularities of country life had not changed, his apiary had not changed--these things did not require him to rack his brains to remember, not even to use his brain; After ten years of living in isolation, they have long been ingrained.And the bees that require his care: the world changes, and so does he, but they last forever.He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of breathing echoing in his chest. At this moment, a bee welcomed his return—a bee that insisted on interrupting his thoughts, finding him, landing on his throat, and stinging him. worker bees.

Of course, he knew that if he was stung in the throat by a bee, it would be best to drink some salt water to avoid serious sequelae.Before drinking salt water, of course, the thorn must be pulled out of the skin first. Since the venom is released quickly, it is best to pull it out within a few seconds after being stung.He has been keeping bees for forty-four years on the slopes south of the Sussex town - an area between Seaford and Eastbourne, the nearest village of which is tiny Cuckmere Harbor ——During these forty-four years, he was stung by worker bees a total of 7,816 times (almost all on his hands or face, and occasionally on his earlobe, neck or throat; Every time he is stung, he will seriously think about the reasons and consequences of being stung, and record it in a notebook, and he has already collected countless such diaries in his attic study).In the long run, these not very painful experiences have allowed him to explore various treatment methods. As for which method to use, it depends on the part of the body that is stung and the depth of the bee needle: sometimes , with salt and cold water; sometimes, soft soap and salt are mixed, and half a raw onion is applied to the wound; and if the wound is very painful, wet mud or clay can be applied every hour until the swelling subsides, this The method sometimes works well; but if you want to relieve the pain and avoid infection, it is most effective to quickly rub the wet tobacco leaves on the skin.

And yet now—as he sat in the study, dozing in an armchair by the empty fireplace—he was in a dream of panic, a sudden bee sting on his Adam's apple, and he couldn't remember what to do. .He watched his dream self suddenly stand up amidst a field of marigolds, grasping his throat with long, thin, arthritic fingers.The throat has begun to swell, like a blue vein protruding under the palm.Fear paralyzed him, and he couldn't move as the swelling kept creeping in and out (his neck was swollen like a balloon, his fingers were stretched open, and his throat was completely blocked ). There, in the patch of marigolds, he saw himself in a field of red and gold: naked, pale, a skeleton wrapped in thin sugar wrappers.Gone was the entire outfit he had worn since retirement—the cardigans and tweed coats that he wore every day from before World War I, through World War II, and into his ninety-third year. I have been wearing it like this all day, but now, the clothes are gone.His flowing hair had also been shortened to his scalp, and his beard was reduced to a pointy chin and a bit of stubble on his sunken cheeks.The crutches he used to walk also disappeared in the dream-but in the study, he obviously put them across his knees.His throat was getting tighter and he couldn't breathe, but he still stood.Only the lips move, sucking in the air soundlessly.Except for his trembling lips and a black-legged worker bee on his wrinkled forehead, nothing else—his body, the blooming flowers, the high clouds—had not the slightest sign of moving. It was quiet.