Shamus the Beekeeper - Part 1

I have decided to post serials of my short stories, starting with Shamus the Beekeeper. It is a horror story for Halloween (I like to write creepy stories and scifi stories). I will post a part over the next few days.

Jeffrey

Shamus the beekeeper:

Old man Shamus was famous throughout the county for his tasty seagrape honey. Although it unusual, his honey had a slight reddish glow more akin to orange blossom honey than to the normal golden sheen that one expects from seagrape honey. They said color was from special techniques Shamus would perform on the seagrape flowers, though no one could really tell you just what those techniques were. Now, ole Shamus had learned his trade from the last of Sanibel’s Cuban immigrants, who in turned learned it from the Calusa Indians. The Calusa had made the triangle of islands Sanibel, Captiva and Pine Island their home thousands of years prior and the inlets and water ways still had their spirits about them. That being said, I set out with my best friend of the time, Randy Jones. Now, Randy Jones was not a really likeable fellow, but living on Sanibel Island in the 1930’s, there was a lack young men of 16 years, so we were friends more of necessity than of commonality. Randy was already tall for his age and filled out, more of a man than I appeared. I was short and still had some of that baby fat that aunts like to pinch on your cheek when they come for a visit.

That evening, Randy had come over, and as was his custom stayed until supper time. My mother and father being of Christian persuasion, invited him to stay and sup with us, as probably was Randy’s plan. After dinner, mother informed me that I was head to old Man Shamus’s shack on the north end of the island near Captiva and get two jars of his seagrape honey. We were heading into Christmas in two weeks and she wanted to make some honey filled hard candy for upcoming holidays. Knowing that I would not be home before dark and not looking forward to being alone, I asked Randy if he would care to walk with me. Randy not liking to do anything that did not bring him some type of windfall was reluctant, but conceded when I said I would give him some of my share of the honey candies. About an hour before dusk, Randy and I set out for the north end of the island.

The walk to Shamus’ shack was not a difficult one, but it was long. We lived mid-island near Wulfert, the family raising grapefruit, water melon, and vegetables. We took a hard hit in the hurricanes of 1921 and five years later in 1926. Captiva Island used to be on the whole, a key lime plantation, but those storms have made it harder and harder to make a living farming. More and more Yankees were invading our island for the warm weather and beaches. The few old timers didn’t like it all that much, but the younger folk didn’t seem to mind. We were getting less and less money from the farm, and I even considered going to the Kinzie brothers’ docks for a job ferrying tourist to and fro from Fort Myers and Punta Rassa. Randy and I made our way down the old path, being that the road was not yet extended that far into the island. The sun was just setting down when we reached Shamus’ shack. He was resting all quiet on a stool sitting on the wooden stoop of the shack when we came walking up.

Shamus eyed me up and down and asked, “Your momma send you for some honey?” To which I replied, “Yessir, I need these 2 quart jars filled and have the money like you ask for”, holding out the jars and the coins momma had given me. Not even looking he snatched both as quick as the fabled skunk ape, the whole time watching Randy with a dubious look in his eyes. He then asked, “You’re Jones’s boy, aren’t ya?” Randy, not really caring for Shamus’ stare replied, “my pappy told me about you Mr. Shamus. Says you ain’t natural. You do things to the seagrapes that ain’t Godly to get the bees to produce that favorable honey.” To that Shamus pulls back his head and lets out a roar of a laugh. “So your pappy says, huh? Well, your pappy might be wiser than a young sass like you might know.” Then Shamus chuckles, and looks at both of us. “I don’t do nothing unnatural to the flowers. The bees and I have a special arrangement that makes the best honey in the county.” “Come on, but don’t get to close or you’ll get stung. I can’t have all my bees killed on the likes of you two.” Then Shamus starts to walk around the back of shack to the rows of painted white box beehives he has behind it.

Each hive is about four foot high and about two foot wide and deep with drawer looking compartments. Shamus does not even pull out the smoker, nor dons any screening clothing. He simply walks up to a hive, and pulls out the third drawer like compartment. There is a flurry of honey bees, pissed off about being disturbed that fly out. Randy and I run back to side of the shack and peer around the corner. Shamus just laughs, as he takes the drawer, and shaves off a top layer of wax with a large knife hot from the day’s sun. Then he tilts it to one corner as the honey comes flowing out into the first jar. Quickly it is filled, and Shamus replaces it with the second jar, which is filled just as quick. Shamus replaces the compartment, and closes the lids of the jars. Strange enough, none of the bees stung him as he disturbed their home and stole their food source. They just slowly returned to the hive entrance as if nothing had happened. Shamus comes walking toward us, but before he does, he opens up the bee hive closest to the shack. Unlike the others, it has a door that runs the length of the hive. It is empty of bees, honey, and combs, but has a large earthen pot in it. Shamus drops the 2 coins in it; they clank with the sounds of other coins. Lots of other coins. Shamus sees the two of us looking at him, puts his hand into the pot and pulls out a fist full of coins and bills. He smiles and says “yeah, the honey business has been good, especially when you have the best in the county”. He laughs and drops the money back into the jar and shuts the door, locking its latch with a small pad lock, and puts the key in his pocket. He then comes over to us, and hands me the two quart jars. “Nice doing business with you, if you ever need any more honey, you come back and see Shamus, hear? Now get away from my hives and my shack” Then he takes his perch on the old stool, like some obscene carrion bird waiting for one of us to die. I was little more than scared by the old man, and started to walk quickly back down the path. I had to pull Randy with me, because he was staring at the hive with the money in it, and old Shamus was staring at him with a slight malicious grin on his face. Finally Randy started down the path after my tugging woke him up from his staring spell.

About a half mile down the path, Randy asks me, “Did you see all the money in that jar? That old man doesn’t use it. Hell, he only goes into Wulfert but once a year to get some nails, maybe some planks and other dry goods.” I knew what Randy is thinking, and as I said, he is not a real likeable fellow. In fact, I would bet Randy is not all that honest. I say to him, “Leave it alone Randy. Shamus ain’t a person to fool with. He had his eye on you while you were staring at his money pot.” “What do you know; you are scared of your own shadow. I bet he wouldn’t notice a little bit missing here and there” But he did not say anything else about it as we walked back to my house. Once there, Randy said he better get home, and left. I went to bed that night thinking about Randy staring at that bee hive and how Shamus kept looking at him with the grin on his face.