Beneath their long white hoods, the monks wore fine-woven circles of wicker, with no hole larger than a pinprick.

“Why do you wear them?”

“So we are not stung. Will you not wear one?”

“I am not afraid of stingers.”

The monks obligingly took their guest to see where their honey was made. Inside the cavern, accessible only by bridge from the monastery, the monks again asked:

“Will you not wear a mask so you are not stung?”

And, again, their guest refused: “I am not afraid.”

Where there should have been darkness in he cavern, there was light. Thousands of incandescent beings flitted silently about, and their radiance was like no light human eyes had evolved to see.

Protected by their masks, whitch let in bare pinpricks, the monks were safe.

Their guest was stung.
