Telling the Bees – Chapter 17
Collateral Damage
It would be quick. Would it also be horribly painful? She had no idea.
She regarded the eastern brown. Such a pretty snake: slender, lustrous brown above, fawn below. Its delicate head made mousey little movements: tiny darts to left and to right, tasting the air, as it crossed a single pace in front of her.
It would save a lot of bother. She could sit down by the trail, in the midst of this glorious forest, perform some gentle yoga exercises and coax the venom from her lymphatic system into her bloodstream, thence to stop her heart.
But then, wouldn’t it be a shame? To scare this innocent animal into an unnecessary attack?
Almost too late. The whiplike tail was sliding away into the leaf litter.
It was gone. Too late now.
If she had been there one pace, one heartbeat earlier, would their destinies have entwined? It would have been so easy, had she been taken unawares, not given the opportunity to dither.
Tom would have been distraught, of course. But then, Tom was going to be distraught sooner rather than later anyway. Did it matter when, exactly?
Ah, but then les Seigneurs de la Chasse, the Lords of the Hunt, they would win.
She had one goal in life now. To find out precisely what was going on, on the other side of that brutal fence, and put a stop to it.
Somehow.
Lottie waved a greeting from the polytunnel as Amélie made her slow, careful way down the Hill.
It was unlike this shy girl to take the initiative in any social interaction, but she was growing bolder by the day. Good.
In this instance, it seemed that something had upset her. She was pointing at the sky to the west, above the Wood.
‘Been there all afternoon. Hanging around. Comes closer, hovers. Goes away. Comes back. Can they do that? Should be against the law.’
Amélie sighted along her young employee’s outstretched arm, made out a small, dark object that at first she took for a hovering bird. Then the constant, high-pitched whine reached her ears.
‘A drone?’
‘That’s right. Perving on me. Trying to freak me out.’
Amélie felt a pressure behind her eyes, in her sinuses, as if her head was about to explode. She was suddenly so angry, she really thought she might go off pop.
Was it possible to die of a surfeit of rage? Probably, in her condition, it was.
Her voice, when she found it, was icy.
‘Well, my dear, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Just go about your work as normal, please.’
Tom wasn’t home, she knew. He had left after lunch with the borrowed horse box, transporting the goats to their new home. Her darling goats.
Just as well, because he would have tried to stop her.
Men.
It seemed much smaller, on the ground. A black plastic toy. Its camera eye stared up at her. One of the four tiny rotors was still trying to turn, its blades now shattered stumps.
Like an ugly, broken insect.
Was it still recording? Beaming sounds and images back to its master at the Homestead?
She contemplated smashing it with the butt of her shotgun. Pounding it into the dust.
But that was no way to treat an antique Purdey.
She motioned for Lottie to stand back, took another cartridge from her pocket, loaded, closed and cocked the gun.
Looking down at the camera looking up at her, she said crisply: ‘T’es foutu donc, mec.’1
Took aim.
Squeezed the trigger.
Next week in Telling the Bees:
Chapter 18: Consequences
Amélie and Tom get an official visit.
Acknowledgement of Country: The Woiwurrung people of the Kulin alliance are the Traditional Owners of the land on which this story is set. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.
Disclaimer: The people and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people and events. The locations are based on real places.
T’es foutu donc, mec. – So you’re fucked, pal.
"So you're screwed, man." :-)