Kids have no appreciation for history, but I knew that these walls were old and served a purpose and an incredible amount of energy and skill went into building them. Enduring well past anything else manmade, they were like the pyramids to me.
Not this time, but on a recent visit, I had the privilege of watching a crew building a wall mostly reusing an old, tumbled-down one, the senior man from South America. The delighted chatter when several stones were fit back together perfectly as they had a hundred or more years ago. That satisfying "granite kiss".
He could usually read someone at a few yards, especially in a quiet place when there was no one else around. He got nothing. Like she wasn’t there. Like the deep shade was another planet; he could see her, but that was it. His approach turned stealthy as if he was trying not to spook a wild animal, stopping and squatting down at a distance of respect.
Anna was staring at the broken stone wall, not moving, quiet as the rocks scattered around her. The sky was a still, hot blue. The air breathless, trees asleep. Deep in those trees, one cicada raised a racket, but no others joined in. Jack didn’t want to startle her and was about to speak when, without turning around, she said,
“Did you want something?”
He was the one who jumped. There was a small, leather box radio murmuring on the ground beside her, a bottle of wine heeled half over in the grass next to it.
“What are you listening to?”
“Mets game.” she sighed, “It’s almost over. Losers.”
“So, what are you doing?”
“Rebuilding this wall.” She still hadn’t turned to look at him.
“You need some help?”
“No. Thanks. I’m trying to put it back the way it was made. Like a puzzle. It takes time.”
Jack moved to get a better look.
She warned, “Don’t come any closer. Be very still. The bees are too interested in you. Hear them?”
Jack could hear something, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“There’s a nest in the wall about ten feet that way.” She nodded to the east. “And don’t turn around, he’s watching from the kitchen window.”
Jack froze. Felt himself flash hot. Angry.
“He’s like the bees. If you don’t provoke them, they’ll forget you’re around and ignore you. I do it all the time.”
Just loud enough for her to hear him, Jack said, “Are you in any kind of danger here?”
“Of course not.” She lied like she breathed.
He watched her move slowly and deliberately down the wall to where wax and honey oozed out of a joint between the stones. The strong sun filtered through the fidgeting leaves, lighting her and the wall with orbs of light that wandered in slow ovals like the light from the mirror balls in the discos.
Anna placed her hand on one of the smaller rocks and let it rest, marking time. The breeze sifted through the trees, then stilled. A minute. Two. Jack held his breath. She lifted the rock, a chunk of oozing honeycomb stuck to the grain of the granite. Bees wandered slowly over the rock, the prize, and her hand.
She broke the comb away and gently refitted the rock back into the wall. The bees had already forgotten the invasion except one which turned in tight circles on her hand. It stung her and she cursed softly, brushed it away, and put her thumb in her mouth.
Jack felt a pinpoint of fire on the back of his thumb and had trouble pulling his eyes away from her to see if he’d been stung too. There was nothing there. He brought his hand to his mouth and swore he tasted honey with a strange, salt-peppery tang under the sweetness.
She said, “You should go.” She never turned around.
He flexed the pain from his hand and got up from his crouch. “Only because you asked.”
excerpt from "Prophets Tango"
