Sixty-Three

I was on the lake with the Siberian man in a boat, his oars made of two large bee wings. It was getting dark, the lake blended with the fog. There was a bee in the bottom of the boat, waiting.

Then she started to fly, and I was on her back. I became a bee, too. We were flying in the twilight. I could see tall grass and smell hay. A summer evening in the fields. Then it got dark.

And the Sun rose again. There was mist on top of the grass, the whole world was covered in violet-orange smoke. I started walking towards where the fog was the most dense.

Suddenly, I could feel that I entered something. The world was made of a subtle web, like a fabric, like the delicate veins of a leaf, like myriads of intricate, golden roots.

I could feel hands in my hair, making braids. Some of my hair was left free and some were woven into plaits… into a thousand golden bees.

Then my hair started to grow, longer and longer, becoming a part of the pulsating veins around us. We were floating. There was water below us, translucent, violet-blue. I could see right through to the stones in the bottom. As we kept on flying, the lake below got deeper and deeper. Suddenly, we stopped.

My legs started to grow until they reached the water and beyond. They transformed into roots and connected to the web around us. So did my arms. They grew into branches and kept on extending until I felt hands holding mine on each side. We were an alive, golden lace.

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