The fire pops and crackles in the hearth as the old woman approaches, stooping to warm her gnarled fingers in the warmth of the flames. She eases her aching bones into the chair on which no one else dares to sit, looking for the world as though she’s sat there forever. A shawl covers her head and shoulders, as fine and delicate as cobwebs.

 

Folk gather around, leaving the refuge of the bar, laying down their fiddles and pipes, their pints of stout, stopping their conversations mid-sentence. A hush descends. She begins her tale, her voice as smooth and sweet as honey.

 

‘A young maid lived in a village a long way from this place. A girl as lovely as the day is long, with hair the colour of autumn. But this girl was mute; she had no voice with which to ask, to tell, to explain. As she grew to womanhood the other villagers began to fear her, despite her loveliness. They tried to make her speak, first by cajoling, then by thrashing. But her voice would not come.

 

‘The girl became ashamed of her difference, and left the village that she called home. She took with her naught but her shawl and her courage.

 

‘By and by, as the world fell to darkness, she came to a farmhouse, and, by using simple gestures, begged for permission to stay the night in the barn. The farmer, a lonely soul, was taken with her beauty, and thought perhaps to entice her to his warm bed. But first, to appease her, he agreed that she could indeed sleep with his cattle.

 

‘She found comfort in the smell of the straw, the warmth of the cows’ breath, the soft noises they made as they lay down to rest. A commotion in the rafters kept her from sleep: a bundle of bees, buzzing, inquisitive, curious about their new bed-mate. They darted here and there, testing her kindness. Finally alighting on her shoulders, they quivered with joy. She was so delighted with her new friends that a small sigh escaped her throat; the first sound she had ever made.

 

‘The girl knew she was no longer safe, but was sad to leave the little creatures that had saved her, and were even then swarmed upon her shoulders. She fixed her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and the bees hopped into the coppery coils, nestling against the warmth of her skin.

 

‘And so she travelled, from hamlet to farmstead to town, shunned by some, reviled by others. The girl with bees in her hair was searching for a place to call home; that was the sum of her desire.

 

‘By and by, footsore and weary, she arrived in a village. The first person she met was a tall man of middling years, with a beard long and full; nestled into this beard was a dormouse, sound asleep. She exchanged smiles with the man, and a small sound escaped her throat.

 

‘She was fierce hungry, drawn to the smell of baking bread. The baker’s door stood open and she paused at the threshold, breathing in the delicious aroma. The baker, a woman as wide as her smile, drew the girl into the shop and thrust a warm loaf into her hands. The girl smiled her thanks, and then saw, tucked into the woman’s ample bosom, a tiny kitten, and beneath her skirts the mother cat, licking its paws in a languorous manner. She was so entranced she uttered another sound, but this sound shaped itself into words: thank you.

 

‘Taking great bites from the loaf, she walked further into the village. The people she passed all acknowledged her; some smiled, others greeted her as though she were family. And in those folks’ hair, in their beards and their bosoms, were curled small creatures. She knew she’d found her home.

 

‘At the inn, she had no need to ask for a bed; the innkeeper, a kindly gentleman with long elaborate moustaches in which perched a hummingbird, led her up the stairs and into a comfortable room. “You can pay me when you’ve found work, my dear.”

​

‘She sat upon her new bed and looked around. The bees hummed and buzzed, exploring their new home, making her laugh. She was surprised and enchanted by the tinkling sound that came from her throat.

 

‘By and by, the girl found work as a seamstress. She remembered the skills her downtrodden mother had taught her, and began to stitch shawls as fine and delicate as cobwebs. The rich paid her well, the poor exchanged food and friendship.

 

‘As she settled into her new life, she slowly found her words. The villagers were delighted; she was not so different from them. They taught her what they knew, and she, in turn, taught them. With her voice, newly born of grace and humanity, she sang sweet songs and told wistful tales.

 

‘The girl with bees in her hair had found more than just her home; she’d found happiness. She’d found acceptance.’

​

The old woman finishes her tale. Silence hangs heavy in the air. She unwinds the cobweb shawl from her head, shaking out the hair that falls below her shoulders, threads of iron-grey tangled with silver and burnished copper. The silence is broken by a plaintive buzzing, and then she is gone. The chair is empty, looking for the world as though no one has ever sat there.

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