Secret of the Bees by Linda Somiari-Stewart

She was not born with a crown. No. She was made. Like river songs passed from mother to daughter, she was shaped by rhythm, nourishment, and care. Her name receded into ancient memories, but the bees remembered. They always remembered.

The golden hive thrived under her. Each bee knew its place—nurses, guards, fighters, foragers, builders—all buzzing in harmony, like a drumline only the forest could hear. And the Queen, oh, the Queen! She did not shout. She did not bark orders. She pulsed. She breathed life into the hive like the tide fills the creeks—gentle, steady, sacred.

But even tides retreat.

After so many seasons, the Queen grew tired. Her scent, the invisible thread that held her subjects together, began to fade. The hive sensed it first—the silence between songs, the weight hanging heavy in the air. Then came a certain day... the queen did not rise.

The Queen was gone.

Grief fell like rain. The builders stopped building. The nurses, once humming lullabies to newborns, sat still. Even the guards dropped their stingers. Without the Queen, the hive had no center. No rhythm. The hive faced an uncertain future.

But bees must be bees. Bees do not beg the wind. Bees do not sit idly waiting for fate.

In the oldest corner of the hive, where wax meets root and time sleeps, the senior Bees gathered. They chanted an ancient song—one not sung in many generations—the Song of Remaking, the Song of Renaissance.

They went to the nursery and chose a few larvae—soft, squirming things, no different from any others. Among them was one named Numa. It was small, quiet, and often overlooked.

The nurses fed these chosen ones not the usual pollen and nectar but something sacred—royal jelly. This rare, glowing substance is made from the hearts of flowers and the breath of the moon. It is thick with mystery and sweet with power.

The others consumed greedily. Nume hesitated. “Why me?” she whispered. “I am nothing special.”

But the nurses only smiled and fed her again.

Days passed. The chosen larvae spun their cocoons, emerging gradually into who they were being rimed to be. The hive held its breath.

The first to emerge was Sangata—a fierce one, wings sharp as blades. She rose tall, radiant, and declared herself Queen. The hive watched, unsure, but desperate. Better a leader than none at all.

But Numa remained asleep.

Then, nature played a trick in helping with the task of choosing. There came the trial.

A great hornet swarm, drawn by the hive’s weakness, attacked with fury. Sangata screamed commands, but her bees scattered. She caved. She flew upward, far from danger, leaving the young and the weak behind.

That was when Nume awoke. She cracked her cocoon, slower than the others, but steady. Her wings unfurled—not wide, not bright—but strong. She did not shout. She listened. Then she moved.

Numa flew low, circling round the hive, gathering the smallest bees. She saw the old tunnels beneath the hive, dug by bees long gone. She led the young ones through them, away from the chaos. She circled back again and again, saving those left behind. Her flight was not grand. It was true.

When the hornets were gone, the hive lay broken but not empty. Nume brought back the young and the weak bees she had spirited to safety. The bees buzzed weakly, trembling. They were weak, hungry, and afraid.

Then they looked up. Numa stood in the center, her body glowing now, not from power, but from purpose. Her scent filled the hive—not commanding, but comforting. The bees moved toward her, slowly at first, then all at once. Even Sangata, with her torn wings and angry pride, bowed her head.

A new Queen was born. But not from bloodline.Not from beauty.From choice. From care. From courage.

And so the hive healed. It rebuilt. It hummed again.

To this day, the bees whisper her name in the pollen. Nume— song of the bees, the Queen made, not born.

And if you listen, truly listen, on certain nights when the wind is still and the moon is full, you may hear the hum of her hive.

A rhythm. A lesson.

That even the weakest among us, when nurtured with love and trusted in the storm, can rise to the pinnacle .