I've kept bees all my life. The hives follow the flowers — peach bloom into the peach wood, locust bloom up the north slope. People call beekeeping bitter work; I don't agree. Bees are the most reasonable creatures alive: owe them nothing, and they won't sting; leave them honey enough, and they'll leave you your life.
When the plague came, plenty of people warned me: Miweng, the hills are haunted, stay out. I said nonsense — bees don't know yao, they know flowers. If the bees aren't afraid, what am I? Truth is, I'm afraid too. But this year is strange: the peach bloom is the wildest I've ever seen, and the nectar runs thick. Bees are sharper than people — they know which corners of the hills are still at peace. I set my hives where the bees point. Better than following the magistrate's notices.
Want honey? Come. One thing first: my honey is never cut with syrup. If it crystallizes, don't curse me — that's honest honey's temper.