When the child first arrived, the bees didn't mind so much. He was only little. But as the years went by, he got older, bigger, and less wise.
When his parents weren't watching, he threw stones and heavy sticks at the hives. And most of the time they hit their mark, the boy was the pitcher for his Little League team. The bees weren't pleased at all, however, by his practicing. Several went out and swarmed him, stinging if they could, but they were never heard from again.
Finally the queen called an assembly. All bees mature enough to have a job gathered in the centre of the hive.
"Something must be done about this boy." Her voice resounded throughout the hive.
"What, though? We've tried stinging. And lost many good bees," an older bee called out.
"Not stinging," the queen replied. "We need something better."
"I've been thinking." A young drone stepped up. "The boy eats our honey on a biscuit each morning. I say, we poison the honey, and be rid of him for good."
The rest of the hive was appalled at such extreme measures. But the queen looked thoughtful. "That could work. But where do we get poison?"
"I've thought of that too. There's a wisteria plant growing behind the shed. We could put it in the honey. Then when he eats it, we're free."
The queen nodded. "Then let's fetch the wisteria."
They began immediately.
The child continued to terrorize the bees, but they tolerated it, knowing that soon enough he would be dead, and they wouldn't have to put up with him anymore.
They watched in nervous excitement through the fog as the big man collected their poisoned honey. "The hard part is over," the queen told the bees. "Now we wait."
The boy was outside. He'd eaten his breakfast and was searching in teh creek for large rocks to throw at the hives. Suddenly he felt a pain in his stomach. He tried to ignore it- he needed these stones- but soon he was stumbling along the bank, doubled over, clutching his stomach, and vomiting into the water. It wasn't long before, blinded by tears of pain, he slipped and fell into the knee-deep stream. He curled into a ball and lay there, too anguished to move, letting the water run over his head and into his lungs.
"It's done," a scout panted to the queen not much later. Celebrations commenced. The queen gave all the workers the day off, and they all ate honeycomb and thought of what peaceful lives they would lead now that the horrid child was disposed of.
The boy's mother went searching when her son didn't come back for lunch. Peanut butter and honey sandwiches were his favorite. She herself, along with her husband, disliked honey and wouldn't eat it. Her husband kept bees to sell the honey to their neighbors, and of course for their son.
Stepping carefully along the creek, she kept an eye out for his orange t-shirt. When she saw it and the body of her little boy submerged in water and completely lifeless, she screamed.
Her husband came running. He scooped up the body and carried it back up the hill to the house, sobbing wife trailing behind.
They buried him under a tree, not five yards from the beehives.
The bees laughed as they made honey from the pollen of the flowers on his grave.
