The Clan of Wisdom

Hugh nursed a green tea at his usual table on the patio at Magh Mel, his favourite haunt these days. Magh Mel was a translucent place, where the
veils were thin, and it stimulated deep reflection, artistry, and communication. He'd been working intensely on a paper on the Faerie Realm, and
was up for a breather. He shut the lid of his laptop, closed his eyes, and drank in the scent of the flowers and the breeze that ran through the trees.

A few minutes later he opened his eyes and surveyed the garden. Usually the place was humming with visionaries: programmers, artists, writers,
musicians, intellectuals, entrepreneurs, and assorted magical people. Today there were just a few others, none of them regulars.

Two tables over, a jaundiced man carrying drinks sat down with a thin, waspish woman. By the gate, beneath a bower of roses, a young college
girl studied. Her books, hair and notes spread over the table. Her dark eyes narrowed and concentrated. Fingers coiled loosely around a beaker
of cold coffee.

"Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay! Sheeet! Poootah! Ay! Ay!"

The voice was reedy and accented. It was jaundiced man ~ his sallow face belying an angry spirit. He shouted, waving his arms to ward off a
honey bee that had slid under the green darkness of the canopy over his table. The wild bee swung deftly round his hands and buzzed out. Wasp
lady pursed her lips. College kid didn't even look up.

Hugh loved bees. He'd had an affinity for them from childhood, when he'd wandered the hills and glens on summer trips to Scotland. He lay in the
heather sometimes, with the wild bees humming round him, entranced by the subtle rhythms of their song and their magical presence that seemed
to boost life and vision. "The Clan of Wisdom," Granddad had called them.

He'd been reading up on their connection to Faerie when the commotion broke out: "I have heard the Hidden People like the hum of
swarming bees." The text lingered with Hugh as he watched the bee whirl once round the garden, fly straight into his tea, and die.

He quickly fished the creature out, but he knew it was too late. He'd seen its essence dissolve into the tea in a brief explosion of light. Hugh
glanced about. College kid and wasp were both engrossed ~ one in information, the other in a sizable margarita. Sallow man stared incredulously
as Hugh carefully wrapped the bee in a napkin. He leaned forward, muttering. Hugh ignored him.

Somehow Hugh knew this was a special event; one of those rare opportunities when the deeps of magic break in on the mortal world and a
bridge could be made. He'd keep the tea leaves and make oil and tincture from them later, though at that moment he didn't know why. He didn't
know then that next morning he'd find four more bees dead on the corners of the mat outside his door. Or that dozens more would follow, dead
and dying. He'd find them in many places, outside on his path, in the yards of friends. One even fell out of Melissa's purse and died in his hands.

Usually, when he was able, he'd take them into his room where he'd set up a small shrine, consisting of a candle (beeswax, of course), some
honeycomb, propolis, royal jelly, a few drops of his tincture, and flower petals, all laid out on a charter cloth he'd consecrated to the purpose.
Then he'd go into the death vision, acting as protector and friend during transition.

He'd keep the bees in a little casket of dark woven wood, until one day, years later, when bees were mysteriously dying in masses throughout this
and other lands, he'd bury them beneath a sacred tree. His link with them allowed for healing going both ways, for the bees that were dying, and
for the humans whose ignorance and greed were killing them.

In response to these priestly acts, the bees would teach him. They'd show him secrets, the ways of the UnderRealm, and the land of Faerie,
where the Flower Woman lived and welcomed him as friend.

But Hugh didn't know all this when he wrapped that little wild bee in a napkin and slipped it into his shirt pocket. His response was intuitive, the
result of long service to the Source. He simply knew what must be done.

He'd just flipped open his laptop again when a bright shadow fell across the table.

"Good Morning!"

It was the characteristic greeting, given at any time of day or night, of Melissa, proprietor of Magh Mel and Hugh's long-time friend.

"Afternoon!" he replied, glancing up as she slipped into the chair opposite.

"Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming . . . ," she grinned mischievously.

It was a game they played, testing each others knowledge of sacred lore and magical verse. Mel had specialised in Celtic myth and folklore at
university before switching to childhood education. She'd taught for a while, then given it up to open Magh Mel.

Hugh looked at her, and wondered at her timing. But Mel did things like that, sometimes with intent, more often with pure innocence. She'd tune
right into goings on in the spiritual lives of those around her.

He knew the poem: An Old Tale of Three, by Fiona Macleod.

"Not this time," he thought, and he recited the verse in full:

Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming
Far away in the underworld where true love shall not part!

Melissa laughed as she jumped up and headed back inside.

"Buzz me later!"

He smiled and drank his tea.