Waldemar and the Bee Post and the Letter Without Words

More about Waldemar and the Bee Post and the Letter Without Words

The morning began with a humming that didn't come from the trees. Waldemar stood in front of his small hut at the edge of the forest, his boots still unlaced, when a golden-black swarm approached in orderly circles. In their midst, the bees carried something that looked like a folded flower petal, but when they placed it in his hands, he immediately sensed: It was a letter. No paper, no ink—just a fine, vibrant scent. Warm, with a hint of resin and something that smelled of rain. Waldemar closed his eyes and let the smell sink in. Images formed before his mind's eye: a quiet square between tall, sunlit grasses, an arch made of willow branches, a bowl of water that wasn't a mirror, but a gate. He knew where it was. The bees buzzed softly, waiting. Waldemar strapped the large brown backpack over his shoulders, adjusted his red hat, and tightened the leather straps. "Well," he murmured, "let's see what kind of conversation this turns into when no one opens their mouth." The bees flew ahead. Their swarm formed a slender column that sparkled in the sunlight. Waldemar followed the path that wound between ferns and rosehip hedges. Soon it led him into a part of the forest he rarely entered—where the sounds became muffled, as if a blanket of moss lay over the entire world. He soon noticed that the scent in his hand was changing. It remained the same, yet it added nuances: a hint of warm milk, a touch of mint. With each step, the notes blended into a language he didn't understand—and yet comprehended. After an hour, the forest opened up into a meadow. In the center stood the willow arch from his inner image. Figures crouched beneath it. None spoke, none made any sign. But Waldemar sensed they were talking—in the scent that filled the air. He detected floral notes, an earthy heaviness, the smell of freshly cut wood. Each one was like a sentence that needed no syllables. A small creature with a wreath of clover on its head approached him. The scent of honey and summer dust rose from its clothing. Waldemar smelled back—not intentionally, but because he still carried traces of resin, forest soil, and bread in his backpack from his morning walk. The creature smiled as if he had said "hello." The bees that had brought him settled on the willow arch and buzzed a soft pattern. Immediately, the scents around him fell silent. All eyes turned to Waldemar. The clover creature took the fragrant letter from his hand, held it up, and the scent spread like a wave. There was urgency in it now—the warmth was still there, but beneath it, a hint of cold stone. Waldemar understood: Something was in danger, not far from here. He nodded, and without a word, a small group broke away from the circle. They smelled of determination—of dry bark, flint, and the wind before a thunderstorm. They led him through a narrow hollow until they came to a clearing. There stood an old beehive, overgrown, the wood gray and brittle.