Sludge Bee

5:00pm, June, hot sun and dusty air. It’s quiet, but then it has been for years. Me and fifty other people stand on the platform waiting for no train to come. The mayor has ordered that we ‘uphold values of normality’ to pretend things are like they were. We do this every day, morning and evening. It’s not that we don’t work, we do. I am part of the crop research team. But we don’t leave town because it’s not safe. We might be able to give strawberries a go this summer.

My thoughts are interrupted by the bell ringing and the crowd begins to shift on my right. Five minutes go fast. I turn to face the exit, lean slightly back and enjoy the brief sensation of resistance from strange bodies that suspend me from falling. My ritual of floating lily is cut short when a discourteous whip of a shoulder against mine startles me. I catch sight of the back of a man wearing a baggy sludge brown suit and a bee yellow top hat. He is rushing. If I could yell after him.

My eyes lock onto him swerving and dodging. I could draft a civilian shot in my Little Black Book but it is too hot for that. I begin to apply weight to my legs that feel like ropes of ivy hanging from a window ledge. Under my right foot, the ground has a peculiar texture. The bastard dropped some cash. If only I could squeal in delight.

I lean to pick it up and proceed to act the accountant. He dropped twenty thousand dollars - not bad by any means, but twenty thousand in our inflamed economy is no lottery. In the old days, the equivalent would pay for a few fresh loaves from Sybil’s and a karaoke night. It’s a shame I’ll never get to enjoy either of these again. I shake my head and decide that I should find the sludge-bee man and return it to him, even if my shoulder still hurts. By now, everyone has left the platform except me and the gate patrol officer. I head over to them and get out my Little Black Book.

‘Do you know which direction the man with the yellow hat went in?’ I scrawl. The officer peers over and begins to write ‘Sorry’ on a flip notepad. I bow and leave the station. I have always admired the turquoise masks that employees of the mayor have the privilege of wearing. It matches so nicely with their navy suit and white shirt. If you’re going to have a mask that fuses with your face, then you want it to look good.

I return my focus to Sludge Bee. Leaving the station, the road immediately forks; left to the lake or right to town. I choose right and make my way up the windy street. About 60 yards ahead of me are the upholders of humanity making their faux-commute home. I pick up my pace to reach them. My best bet, I think.

On my way, I look over on my right to see a miniature courtyard. There are a couple of benches next to a water fountain drip that several elderly men have plugged into. They are playing some card game. Nearby there are some children gathered on the tarmac slabs. Among them, I notice a young girl in a sky-blue linen dress playing hopscotch. Her hair is thick, wavy and a deep-set auburn. She stops her activity and notices me as I do my best ostrich impression. I’m struck by the glacial quality of her eyes, a different shade of blue to her dress and a striking contrast against her fiery locks. I head over, panting heavily through my mask and with a drop of sweat dribbling down my forehead.

I stop awkwardly to scribble ’BROWN suit man YELLOW HAT’ and I flip the book around to show her. She pauses and walks over to a rucksack to retrieve a Little Black Book and pen. She returns and studiously writes ‘I haven’t seen anyone like that but I would have done because I’m good with colours’. I swallow her words and think. I decide to trust her and I make a u-turn for the lake.

It wouldn’t really be the end of the world if Sludge Bee wasn’t there. The end of the world has already happened. I retrace my steps back to the station and head off towards the lake. A short while in and the road regresses into a rugged turf. I walk past the drip plant where they concoct the nutritious sludge which we pay tens of thousands of dollars for, in order to survive. I roll my eyes.

The road bends a sharp left to reveal the natural reserve. The lake cannot be too far from here. We thought about utilising the area for crop experiments but the quality of earth is inconsistent. I walk through the man-made groves of adolescent quaking aspens that were planted some time ago to help clean the air. Things really are starting to improve. The rocky path crumbles into fine sand and a raised wooden platform constructed out of the ground begins. The quaking aspens are replaced by a thicket either side.

My stomach informs me I am wasting my time. An evening breeze licks the nape of my neck and my attention darts to an elderly lady lying on her back, obstructing the path ahead. I panic in fear of finding a corpse until her penny-sized head pokes up to look at me. Relieved I approach and the woman sits up. She has leathery, sun-hugged skin and looks to be in her seventies. That probably means her forties.

I pull out my notebook and show her the same message as the one I showed to the little girl. She stands up to focus and snatches the book for a close read. She lowers her hands, stumbles back and shakes her head. I take the book and nod. I make a careful pass around her delicate frame. What was I expecting?

A tap comes from behind on my good shoulder and I twist my neck to look back. Satisfied I am paying attention, the old lady’s sunset eyes narrow and she puts her hands together over her head to make a triangular shape. She then points with vivid animation in the direction I am headed. Confused and growing weary of the heat, I dismiss her show and continue on.

There’s hope and fear brewing. Did the old lady just tell me that I am getting closer to Sludge Bee? I become immediately self-conscious. I wonder whether I am walking into something premeditated. Doubt and curiosity spar and curiosity has the advantage: I keep moving forward. A row of river birches come into view. The lake is just beyond there.

The natural world crouches low and grovels, allowing the evening sky to dominate the view. My movements become rigid as I approach the frontier. I can feel my mask burn and I put it down to nerves. My eyes widen and I see Sludge Bee’s back. He is looking out onto the lake and standing on the muddy shore. His yellow hat is displaced as it bobs over the ripples of water.

I come out from behind one of the birches and head down a grassy slope to get to the muddy bank. I reach into my pocket ready to return the money. The pricking of the paper corners on my finger tip relaxes me. I sink deeper into the mud with each step towards him. I’m going for it.

With my whole arm shaking, I reach out slowly and land my palm on his right shoulder. At first he does not move, but in a moment he relaxes. He turns around to face me. Sludge Bee.

He reaches for his mask and to my astonishment he removes it. My legs turn to ivy again.

In that moment his whole face flourishes with a beauty I had forgotten. His brow ridge and jaw frame a chaotic canvas of shapes that seem to appear to move around at random, forming a variety of wondrous patterns. I find it difficult to see his face as one connected thing. I take my time piece-by-piece; studying the prominent and archaic nose; the vivacious fattiness of his cheeks. He is wholly human. Held captive by his mouth. The asymmetric lips. Thick and bloody crimson, they part to expose the teeth. Eyes of chestnut expertly balance a watery gloss as his whole face seems to move higher to make way for his smile. I begin to weep.

‘My darling’. His voice flushes through me, fatherly and final. An echo of safety from my own. Years without words and affection. I move into his embrace as he holds me by the lake.

I mend.