Wall of Wasps

The wall of wasps stretched as high as the sky, and as far as the ends of the earth.  It was a buzzing, humming, moving world of wasps, a writhing surface of wasps, their black and yellow bodies dancing their strange insect dances, their stingers alive to the possibility of human intrusion.

Taryn hid in a huge old oak tree and watched the wall from a safe distance away.  Even from here, he could hear their buzzing.  It was a distant, humming song that rose and fell with the wind.

He leaned his back against the trunk of the tree and let his legs dangle on either side.  Papa would give him a good whipping when he found out Taryn had run off again, and he would beat him even harder when he found out Taryn had been to the wall.  He needed to savor these moments of freedom; tomorrow he would likely be too sore to climb trees.

Taryn heard the clop-clop of hooves, and he tensed.  Was Papa coming to find him already?  But no—that wasn’t Papa’s horse.  Big Grey was fat and slow, and this horse sounded brisk and lively.  This was a stranger.

Taryn moved farther out on his branch and peered through the leaves.  The wall of wasps hummed louder now; did they sense the approach of fresh meat?  Taryn shuddered.  He hoped the stranger knew not to get too close.

He saw the horse now, a slender, high-necked creature painted black and white.  Its rider was a burly young man with a sword on his back.  Taryn shook his head.  An adventurer, one who had heard the tales and had come to be tested.

Taryn knew the legends; everyone in Longwall had heard them.  The wall of wasps was a test put there by the gods.  One pure of heart and strong of sword could pass the wall safely, and beyond it lay a golden city of wonders and magic.  Taryn’s Papa had scoffed when Taryn’s sister Mija had last brought it up.

“Every country in the Many Kingdoms has a fairy tale like that one,” he said.  “Sometimes it’s a wicked forest, or a sword buried in a stone, or a witch’s castle.  All you have to be is pure of heart, and the world will be yours.  Just tales meant to comfort and encourage the poor souls who don’t know how to better their lot.  Put it out of your mind, poppet.”

“Then why are the wasps there?” Mija had asked.  She was only eight and didn’t like to hear tiresome truths.

“Why do insects do anything,” Papa said.  “I might care if they were a useful sort, like bees.  But if you can’t put this foolishness out of your head, at least save it for the dolls.  And stay away from that wall no matter how pure of heart you think you are.”

But here was a man who had not put it out of his head either, Taryn thought.  He was a muscular sort, probably a farm hand or smith’s apprentice.  He dismounted the painted horse with ease and left it loose to graze near Taryn’s tree.  Taryn liked him for that.  He might throw his life away on a dream, but he would not risk a fine horse.

The man approached the wall.  It writhed like a twister-cloud as the man drew closer, and Taryn’s heart galloped with fear.  There were so many wasps, so many of them, and they could all sting over and over again.  The stranger probably thought he could retreat again if the wall did not open.  Taryn knew that the wasps would not allow it.

He took a step closer, paused, then took another.  The wasps buzzed furiously, some of them leaving the mass to circle the stranger’s head.  That, Taryn knew, was all the warning he was going to get.

Taryn lay on his stomach along the length of the tree branch.  All his attention was on the strange man who was taking his last brave steps toward the wall of wasps.  Taryn studied the man’s brown shirt and breeches, absorbing every detail.  Someone back in Longwall might be looking for him.

The man was a solid silhouette against the writhing, buzzing backdrop of wasps.  He took one final step and stopped.  He turned his head to the side, and Taryn saw his profile—heavy black mustache, beaklike nose.  Was he trying to turn back?  Taryn would never know.

The wasps’ buzzing got louder and higher until it resembled a scream.  Then the wall moved, and a stinging, furious brown cloud swept over the man and engulfed him.  The man’s scream joined that of the wasps in an unholy chorus.

His scream became a choking cry, and Taryn cried out himself in horror.  All too well he could imagine the wasps swarming over the man’s body, covering his eyes and face and filling his mouth with stinging death.

Taryn scrambled out of the tree and dropped to the ground.  The shock of impact drove up through his feet and rattled his knees, but Taryn barely felt it.  He took off running for home, convinced that the wasps were coming for him, that they had tasted human flesh and wanted more.  The wall of wasps was moving.

Taryn flew over the ground, barely feeling the effort of his full-out, panicky run.  He would go to Papa and beg for the beating, beg to feel the switch against his flesh, and he would thank the gods for every stripe.  Anything to drive that stinging, horrible sight out of his mind.  The horse lifted its head as Taryn ran past, then returned to its grazing.  There was plenty to eat here, and the horse was in no hurry to move.

Behind him, the swarm of wasps subsided.  The wall smoothed out and returned to its previous mild, gentle buzz.  There was no sign of the stranger.