Darius Bell and the Crystal Bees by Odo Hirsch

event to be noted. Darius caught the Deavers’ eye and smiled at them.
    A man on the platform was speaking. He stopped for a moment. ‘You there at the back,’ he said, ‘are you in the right place?’
    â€˜Is this the meeting of the Society of Apiarists?’ asked Darius.
    â€˜It is. I’m Mr Heberden, president of the Society.’
    â€˜Then we’re in the right place.’ Darius sat on one of the benches. Paul and Oliver sat beside him.
    â€˜You’re not members, I believe.’
    Darius shook his head.
    â€˜This is a meeting for members only, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜We’re considering becoming members,’ said Darius.
    â€˜That’s not the same as being a member, is it?’
    â€˜Oh, for goodness sake, Heberden!’ called out one of the apiarists, a tall man with silver hair and a long, straight nose. ‘When was the last time we had a new member? Not to mention three! Let them sit in if they want to!’
    â€˜Cuthbert’s right!’ called out another apiarist. ‘Don’t be such a queen bee, Heberden.’
    There were murmurs of agreement from the benches.
    â€˜All right,’ said Mr Heberden, ‘but this is irregular. Very irregular.’ He glanced at another man on the platform who was sitting at a small desk taking notes. ‘Make a note, Mr Rose. Three non-members . . .’ he paused, as if to emphasise the fact, ‘admitted to the meeting by popular acclaim.’
    Mr Rose nodded solemnly and made his note.
    â€˜Now,’ said Mr Heberden, ‘as I was saying before I was interrupted . . .’
    He proceeded to give a description of what had happened to his hives, which he kept, apparently, in the back yard of his house. He only had two, and a week previously he had found both of them empty but for a few dying bees crawling at the bottom. Over the next half hour, others at the meeting gave similar descriptions, all of which Mr Rose solemnly noted down. Darius, Paul and Oliver listened. From time to time the apiarists on the benches glanced around as if to reassure themselves that the children really existed.
    It was all getting quite boring. Darius didn’t see what was the point of hearing the same story over and over again – hives found to be virtually empty, with at most a few dying bees at the bottom. Besides, everyone seemed to have only one or two hives. The Deavers probably had as many hives as the rest of the apiarists put together.
    At last Mr Deaver spoke. Everyone listened intently, hoping that the experience of the Bell beekeepers with their huge number of hives might shed further light on what had happened.
    â€˜So they’re all dead,’ said the silver-haired apiarist with the long nose, ‘regardless of the type of flower they feed from?’
    â€˜That’s right, Mr Cuthbert,’ said Mr Deaver. ‘It seems to make no difference.’
    â€˜Nor whether the box is in the sun or the shade?’
    â€˜No, Mr Cuthbert.’
    â€˜Nor whether or not it’s been moved recently?’
    â€˜There’s nothing, Mr Cuthbert. Nothing we can pinpoint as a cause.’
    Mr Cuthbert nodded thoughtfully. Mr Deaver had nothing more to say. A few more apiarists told their stories. The tone of the meeting got more and more gloomy. Someone called Mrs Hoddle put up her hand and mentioned a bee blight that had happened in another part of the country almost half a century earlier and had gone on for six years. But that had been due to a certain kind of weevil that infested the hives, said someone else, and there was no sign of that in their hives. Mrs Hoddle shrugged darkly. ‘Doesn’t mean that might not happen here as well.’
    â€˜I think we’ve got quite enough happening, Mrs Hoddle, without conjuring up new disasters,’ said Mr Heberden. ‘Now, is there anything else anyone would like to tell us?’ Mr Heberden paused and