What Monstrous Bloom?

The hives stood in neat rows, save for one. A gnarled, twisted thing it was, mottled and curiously textured. Every so often, a bulbous shape would wriggle out and lumber into the air, disappearing into the darkest parts of the forest.

Lorenzo pointed. “What about that one?”

“Keep away from that hive,” said Huber. “Those bees are wrong. They don’t gather from flowers and sunlight, but from rot and thorn and sorrow, and the honey they make is black as tar and reeks like a sewer.”

“Why do you keep them, then?”

Huber shrugged. “They love that stuff in Australia.”