The Bees

Gramps' cottage perched on the edge of rolling hills, creaking as if it'd been holding in a complaint for decades. Inside, the kitchen had that cosy, faintly questionable smell of wood shavings and forgotten biscuits. Gramps—an old woodcarver whose wrinkles looked suspiciously like tree rings—brushed sawdust from his palms, grumbling something incoherent about splinters and "newfangled nonsense."

From beneath the sink came a sudden racket, sounding like an irritated possum trying to fix plumbing with a tiny hammer.

"Oh, not again," Gramps groaned. "Can't an old man finish one carving without some blasted crisis?"

He shuffled toward the porcelain sink, twisted the squeaky taps, and watched the basin fill. The water bubbled, fizzed dramatically, and settled into a "sink call," Zealandia's magical answer to FaceTime but infinitely more likely to flood your kitchen.

A fuzzy, worried face appeared on the water's surface. Elter, a small bear-like creature from beyond the Southern Alps, blinked nervously through damp fur.

"Gramps! You're home!"

Gramps leaned forward, squinting suspiciously. "Elter, we've been over this. Call during tea-time emergencies only."

"But it is an emergency! Sort of." Elter adjusted the satchel across his chest, looking even more anxious than usual, if that was possible. "There's this hive near my favourite creek. Clever bees—they trade."

Gramps stared blankly. "I'm sorry, did you say bees? Trading bees?"

Elter nodded eagerly. "Very shrewd negotiators. Terrifying, really."

"How," Gramps asked, sighing deeply, "did you find yourself negotiating with bees, Elter?"

Elter hesitated, glancing away sheepishly. "Well, they have this amazing honey. The good stuff, Gramps! The kind that warms your bones all winter. But now they've grown picky. They demand handcrafted goods in exchange."

Gramps rubbed his temples. "Of course they do. Because money's no good."

"Exactly!" Elter exclaimed, missing the sarcasm entirely. "And since you're the best woodcarver around—"

"I'm the only woodcarver you know," Gramps interjected.

"Precisely! You're perfect! Buttons, trinkets, maybe a tiny carved hive… anything they'd consider fancy enough."

"Fancy bees," Gramps muttered darkly. "What's next? Poetry slams for Kia? Knitting circles for Pukeko?"

Elter ignored him, leaning forward earnestly. "You'll help, right? I'll never survive winter without their honey. Literally—I'll wither, I'll shrivel up. Think of my coat!"

Gramps looked him over, unimpressed. "I doubt you'll shrivel much, Elter. You've got enough honey reserves stored up for several winters."

"It's insulation!" Elter insisted defensively, patting his round belly. "Pure survival strategy."

Gramps sighed, surrendering to inevitability. "Fine. I'll make your bees their fancy little hive. But tell them I want a jar for myself. Call it commission."

Elter grinned so widely, he nearly fell into his own sink. "Already promised! You're a hero, Gramps. A champion among carvers!"

"More like a sucker among seniors," Gramps murmured. "Now go bother your bees and leave an old man in peace."

The sink shimmered, Elter vanished, and the water returned to normal, leaving Gramps alone in his kitchen.

"Trading bees," he grumbled again, pulling on his coat and heading for the tool shed.