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his thoughts for a few minutes, then he said, ‘We’ll put the hives here, in this place.’
    Together, Ahmad Hussein and Abbas walked back to the far side of the field where the horse and cart had been left, and the hives.
    *   *   *
    That day and the next and for weeks and months, Ahmad Hussein taught Abbas how to find the right places for the beehives. He taught Abbas slowly. All of Ahmad Hussein’s lessons were slow lessons. He taught Abbas to respect the bees. He said that the bees knew that they would be robbed of their honey, but they made it anyway. If a bee was a creature with a mean spirit, it would make no honey and starve itself to death to spite the beekeeper. Instead, the bee made enough honey for himself and his tribe and enough for Ahmad Hussein, too.
    In those weeks and months of slow teaching, Ahmad Hussein taught Abbas to respect the bees. The boxes of blue and white were the factories of the bees, Ahmad Hussein said. Inside the boxes, each bee did his work, according to a plan devised by God. He said God made his plan for the bees a very long time ago, when He first saw the need in the world for bees. Each bee had a brain. Into this brain God put the plan for making honey. The home of the bees at that time was not in white and blue boxes, but in hollow trees. To hold the honey, the bees made a khani zambure within the hollow trees. They made it from wax. Where the bees found the wax is a mystery. The khani zambure is made up of many small shelves, and on each shelf the honey is stored. It was the intention of the bees to eat the honey all through the year. But one morning many years ago, a man of great intelligence, a Hazara, discovered the factory of the bees in a hollow tree, and he tasted the honey. Because of his great intelligence, the first beekeeper of the world built hundreds of boxes of white and blue where the bees could live in greater comfort than in a hollow tree. And the bees made honey for him and for his family.
    Ahmad Hussein showed Abbas the khani zambure , the honeycombs, inside the boxes. They were like trays that could be lifted out. They dripped with the honey of the bees. But when the trays were taken from the boxes, the bees became angry, so it was necessary for Ahmad Hussein to wear a veil and gloves and to chase the bees from the boxes with a strange device that made smoke. Bees don’t like smoke. It gets in their eyes just as it gets in the eyes of people and they fly away for a time.
    The anger of the bees raised a question in Abbas’ mind: ‘But my grandfather saw that you had a gift for stealing honey. You didn’t make the bees angry.’
    ‘That was luck. Bees are always angry when we take their honey. But maybe it was a bit more than luck.’
    Something was troubling Abbas, as Ahmad Hussein could plainly see.
    ‘What is it?’ he said. He was very patient.
    At first, Abbas was reluctant to say more, but finally he spoke up. ‘Sir, are we not stealing the honey of the bees? Are we not stealing their food?’
    ‘Certainly we are stealing their food,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘It would be a lie to say we are not.’ Then he added, ‘I make the bees work for me. They are my slaves.’
    Ahmad Hussein looked at Abbas sideways with a smile. He knew that the boy would be shocked to hear him say that the bees were his slaves. In the past, many Hazaras had been made slaves by powerful people in Afghanistan.
    ‘And the sheep, too, are our slaves,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘And the goats. And the horse here that pulls our cart. But there is a difference, isn’t there, Abbas?’
    ‘Surely!’ said Abbas. Then he said, ‘Is there?’
    ‘When a man is a slave, his heart breaks,’ said Ahmad Hussein. ‘That is the difference. The bees are angry, but their hearts are not broken.’
    *   *   *
    The trays from the hives were taken to a wonderful machine that Ahmad Hussein carried with him on his cart. Abbas was fascinated by all machines. He saw science in their