Lore - Lore 314: Hive Mind

Episode Date: September 7, 2026

Not all big stories are about equally large characters. In the world of folklore, sometimes even the littlest players have a massive stage to perform upon. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by GennaRose Nethercott, research by Cassandra de Alba, and music by Chad Lawson. ————————— BUY EXHUMED TODAY: aaronmahnke.com/exhumed ————————— Lore Resources:  Get Ad-Free Lore: lorepodcast.com/support Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  Official Lore Merchandise: lorepodcast.com/shop ————————— Sponsors: BetterHelp: Lore is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at BetterHelp.com/LORE, and get on your way to being your best self. Mint Mobile: For a limited time, wireless plans from Mint Mobile are $15 a month when you purchase a 3-month plan with UNLIMITED talk, text and data at MintMobile.com/lore. Squarespace: Head to Squarespace.com/lore to save 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain using the code LORE. SimpliSafe: Secure your home with 24/7 professional monitoring. Sign up today at SimpliSafe.com/Lore to get 60% off a new SimpliSafe system. ————————— To report a concern regarding a radio-style, non-Aaron ad in this episode, reach out to ads @ lorepodcast.com with the name of the company or organization so we can look into it. To advertise on this podcast please email: [e-mail]. Or go to: https://advertising.libsyn.com/lore ————————— ©2026 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

Walking around here in Massachusetts, it's hard not to think about the past. Everywhere you look, there are Puritan graveyards, old creaking churches, and crumbling stone walls built by long dead hands. History is both all around us, and something so impossibly distant, it can be hard to imagine the people who lived in those times were ever truly real. But then again, the past is relative. After all, the Massachusetts Bay Colony was founded less than 400 years ago. Compare that to the Coliseum or the Great Pyramids, and me and John Proctor are practically twins. And then there's folks like the San People of Southern Africa, one of the world's oldest continuous cultures still practicing traditions they started 44,000 years ago. And way back

then, even they found themselves thinking about what came before. You see, the San people have a myth that tells the story of how humans were first created. It starts with the insect mantis, a legendary figure in San mythology. Now, Mantis wanted to know the meaning of life, and he figured that he needed to do some traveling to find it. Unfortunately, at this time, the earth was still covered in water, and so he asked a winged insect to help carry him across the waves. The insect did, carrying Mantis for days. Eventually, it grew tired, though, and it dropped Mantis down onto a large white flower floating atop the water. And then, so exhausted from the journey, Mantis's generous friend died, but not before leaving Mantis with one final gift. It was the seed of humanity, which grew

into the very first human. And that insect, by the way, was a bee. And honestly, the son may have been on to something. You see, some scientists think our skill at collecting nutrient-dense honey may have given us an early evolutionary edge over other problems. primates, allowing our brains to get bigger. In other words, maybe humans do really have bees to thank for our existence. And perhaps that's why this tiny pollinator shows up in more than its fair share of folklore. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is lore. There are over 20,000 species of bee in the world, inhabiting every continent except Antarctica. They live in rainforests and arid deserts, verdant meadows, and snowy mountain ranges. And amazingly, these mountain bees

can fly up to 9,000 meters high. For reference, Mount Everest is only 8,848 meters tall. In other words, these things are absolutely everywhere, and so is their folklore. In ancient Egypt, it was said that Ra, the sun god and creator of the world wept, and when his tears hit the earth, they turned into the world's first bees. And thus, wax and honey also come from Ra's tears, ingredients the Egyptians used readily in food, medicine, and sacred ritual. Bees wax was even part of the mummification process, and jars of honey have been found in Pharaoh's tombs. Oh, and by the way, honey never spoils, and I mean never. So that ancient tomb honey, it's still edible, which, if you're like me, makes you curious about the oldest,

surviving honey in existence. Well, don't worry, I've got you. It was found in a tomb in the country of Georgia and it's 5,500 years old. On a scale of 1 to 10, how cursed do you think a person would be if they had just a teeny little taste? Asking for a friend, of course. Now, the ancient Greeks believe that if a bee landed on a baby's lips, that baby would grow up to be a great orator. British folklore claims that if a bee lands on you, money is coming your way. And according to the Celts, bees carried messages from the gods and the afterlife. In fact, seeing a bee right before someone died was a sign that their soul had officially left their body. And meanwhile, ancient Christians had a whole slew of bee lore of their own. You know how Christian monks were often

beekeepers? Well, it turns out there's a theological reason for that. You see, up until the 17th century, they was believed that bees didn't lay eggs or give birth, but reproduced spontaneously. How exactly? Well, folks were to do that. had different theories about that. Some thought that they simply collected their offspring from the flowers that they visited, which is a rather adorable idea, I think. Less cute, though, is this method recommended by one French author who advised beekeepers in want of more bees to slaughter an ox and leave its corpse in a locked room for 45 days, after which there would, and I quote, proceed from it an infinity of bees. Anyway, point being, folks thought that bees didn't reproduce

sexually, and because of this, Christians naturally associated bees with the Virgin Mary and Immaculate Conception, which is why so many monks took up beekeeping. Not only did the honey and wax provide the monks with an income, but it served as a spiritual metaphor as well. Among English and Irish Christians specifically, it was widely said that bees buzzed loudly outside the manger in celebration of Christ's birth, and that on midnight every Christmas, bees could be heard humming hymns. In other cultures, though, Bees are associated less with religion, and more with romance. In Hindu mythology, for example, the god of love, Kamadeva, carries a bow made of sugar cane that is strung with bees.

Just like Cupid, he uses it to shoot arrows that stir passion in whoever they hit. Suspect that your lover is cheating? Well, according to an old central European tradition, simply take a walk with them past a beehive. And if they're unfaithful, the bees will rush out and sting them. And on a sweeter note, literally, Zoroastrian wedding traditions include the couple eating honey to symbolize a sweet life together. And then, of course, there's the notion of the honeymoon. Now, you may have heard popular origin stories for that term before.

Something about ancient pagans, perhaps Vikings, giving newlyweds a month's worth, a.k.a. a moon's worth of honey wine to encourage them to, you know, get to know each other better. Thus the term honeymoon, right? But forget all of that, because despite being repeated in tons of books on marriage and bees alike, it's just not true. In reality, the first known use of the term honeymoon dates from 1546, and it has nothing to do with aphrodisiacs. No, it refers to the idea that, just like the moon, the sweetness of early marriage,

will inevitably wane. The priest had his suspicions, but now he was certain. His wife was having an affair with a younger man, and so he developed a plan for revenge. First, the priest sculpted beeswax into the shape of a crocodile. Then he crept down to the lake where his wife's lover was bathing and dropped the wax figure into the water.

And as soon as he did, the wax crocodile came to life. It seized the poor young man by its jaws, dragging him to the bottom of the lake and to his doom. This story comes to us from an ancient Egyptian text called the Westcar Papyrus and was said to take place in the Old Kingdom's fourth dynasty, more than 4,000 years ago. And as fanciful as it is, this kind of tale is not uncommon, because wax and the bees who make that wax are some of the most common features in spellcasting and witch lore.

In fact, the idea that witches and bees are in cahoots was a common feature in English witch trials. Beginning in the 1300s and continuing for several centuries after, Inquisitors in European witch trials sometimes blamed bees when accused witches refused to confess under torture. You see, according to the demonology of that time, a witch who swallowed a queen bee would be impervious to pain for several days after. And so when witch hunters found their prisoners unwilling to be broken by torture, they assumed the witch must have swallowed a bee. But bees weren't just painkillers. Sometimes they were witches-familiors. Take the case of Susanna Smith of Suffolk, England, tried for witchcraft in 1645. At her trial, she confessed that she spent

time with an evil spirit in the form of a black bee. And in another case from Nova Scotia, a fellow named Old Daddy Redcap had a reputation as a wizard. Apparently he wanted to buy a neighbor's cow, but much to Daddy Redcaps' frustration, the neighbor wouldn't sell. Shortly after, what do you know, but a pure white bee landed on the cow, and that cow never gave milk again. Then there's the story of John Stewart, who went on trial for sorcery in 1510. Stewart, by the way, lived in the same time period and place, the village of Nersboro, England, as the soothsayer Mother Shipton,

who we've covered before on this show. Stewart was a 48-year-old former schoolteacher, but he was also known as a magic practitioner, and he and some of his friends were caught in the midst of a rather suspicious mission. They were treasure hunting, you see. Apparently they had heard tell of a mysterious chest in the bottom of a hole guarded by none other than the devil himself. And so John Stewart figured that he would use a little devilry of his own

to best old scratch and get the goods. At least that's what the court accused him of when he and the other men were dragged into trial. According to a witness who testified in court, Stewart had been seen consorting with, and I quote, three humble bees, commonly understood to be demons, which he kept, and I quote, under a stone in the earth, and called them out one by one, and gave each one of them a drop of blood of his finger. So, yeah, not a great look for Mr. Stewart. On the stand, he unsurprisingly denied the accusation that he kept three blood-fed bees at his beck and call, but it was no use. He and his compatriots were found guilty.

and excommunicated, although that was reversed after they performed public penance. Now, having a bee as a familiar might be one thing, but what about witches who turn into bees? Well, in 1654, one York woman named Elizabeth Roberts was accused of doing just that. A man named John Greencliffe had claimed Elizabeth was tormenting him with her magic. Specifically, he accused her of appearing in the form of a bee, buzzing around him in a way that freaked him out. so much so that it took five or six people to hold down his flailing. Elizabeth, of course, denied it all. It's a dangerous world out there, stinging bees, cursed wax,

and the constant threat that some guy might come along and accuse you of colluding with Satan in some form of extracurricular beekeeping. But as for beekeepers themselves, as we're about to learn, they just might be the most superstitious of all. A cloaked figure moves through the darkness. Draped head to toe in pale linen, he blends in with the shadows of the orchard, navigating by moonlight. He turns, and for a moment your heart stops because the figure doesn't have a face.

But no, his face is just shielded by a large wicker disc. And that's when you realize it's an old beekeeper's uniform. Although painted in shadows, it looks more like the costume of some strange nocturnal spirit. Finally, the figure arrives at its destination, a cluster of sleeping hives. He pulls a black cloth from his pockets, which he drapes over the nearest one. He then produces another cloth and another, until all the hives in the apiary have been covered in silken morning wear, and at last the human figure leans in, takes a breath, and whispers directly into the mouth of the hive. Bees, bees awake. Your master is dead.

Welcome to the age-old tradition known as Telling the Bees. Remember how I told you earlier that the Celts believe bees were messengers between worlds? Well, many think that's where Telling the Bees got its start, although no one's sure exactly when. The first written reference to the practice shows up in 1621, but it's probably a whole lot older. And it didn't stop with the Celts. Telling the Bees was popular in France, the United States,

and especially the United Kingdom. peaking in the 1800s. So, what is telling the bees exactly? Well, basically, kept bees are supposed to be fully informed about important news in a beekeeper's family. And I mean verbally.

That's right. For centuries, beekeepers have been delivering all the hottest gossip directly to the hive. Talk about taking honey with your tea. Did your family welcome a new baby? Well, you better go tell the bees ASAP, or even better take the infant

out to show them. Want to get married, not without introducing your partner to the bees first. And then, when the wedding does come around, they better be told about that too and brought a slice of the wedding cake for good measure. Vacations and visitors, and yes, even particularly juicy gossip, all of it was to be shared with the bees. But the most important info that a beekeeper must never, ever forget to tell the bees, that would be a death. And like all bad news, there's a right way and a wrong way to deliver it. While every family had their own customs, it was common, as we saw earlier,

to drape the hives in black fabric after someone died, or tie a piece of black crape to a nearby stick, often precisely at midnight. The bees should also be invited to the funeral, and if they can't attend, make sure that you bring them a bit of each food served at the funeral feast. And while it's usually the beekeeper who does the telling, what happens when the beekeeper is the one,

who dies. Well, that requires a whole protocol of its own to be performed by the new beekeeper with a very specific script, mind you. In Nottinghamshire, they say, the master's dead, but don't you go, your mistress will be a good mistress to you. In Cornwall, it was, Brownie, Brownie, your master is dead. While in Germany, the new keeper would announce, Little B, our Lord is dead, leave me not in my distress. And to bring it closer to home, New Hampshire beekeepers have traditionally said, Bees, bees awake, your master is dead, and another

you must take. Beyond the announcement, though, there were specific tasks that had to be done. A new beekeeper might knock three times on the hive with the key of the house, or bury a piece of the keeper's clothing nearby, or shake some adjacent trees. And it was usually a

good idea to do what was called a ricking or a heaving up, which meant to lift and turn the hives to face a different direction, a signal to the bees that their universe had shifted ever so slightly. It may seem like a lot of effort, but in the beekeeper's eyes, ignoring protocol would be far, far worse. Fail to tell the bees about a birth, and the infant might not live.

Forget to invite them to help celebrate a wedding. Your bees might be so insulted, they'll up and leave. And worst of all, forget to tell them that the Reaper came calling, and they might stop producing honey or fly away to a new hive, or make a new hive. or maybe, if the legends are true, every last one of the bees themselves will die. Our modern world today is much less agriculturally focused than it was, say, a couple centuries ago. Today, telling the bees is no longer the widespread custom that it once was, but it still has its loyal adherence.

One of them is actually the British royal beekeeper, who in 2022 stepped out on a cool September day, approach the hives and told roughly one million bees about the death of their queen. That is, the passing, of Queen Elizabeth II. One of the most magical traits of being human is our ability to collaborate with non-humans. We find companionship and pest control in cats, friendship among the herding, tracking, and medical assistance in dogs. Some hunters team up with falcons while pigeons carried messages.

And then, of course, there's our relationship to bees. Humans have been collecting honey from wild bees since the Paleolithic era. And the practice of keeping bees, well, that dates back to at least 2,600 BCE in Egypt, although it's probably much older. And its popularity makes sense. For a long time, honey was our only natural sweetener, and wax was essential for candle making. So, given the demand, beekeeping was a pretty dependable line of work. At least it was if your bees cooperated.

And the threat that they might not? Well, for a beekeeping family that relied on a healthy harvest of honey to survive, sick or angry bees could be the difference between life and death, which, influenced by weather, pollen, droughts, and countless other factors, was largely outside the human's control. But you know what they could control? Telling the bees. And as we all know, people would rather believe in something fantastical than feel powerless.

But of course, that's a skeptics interpretation. Others would argue that people tell the bees because they actually listen. In 1961, a beekeeper named Sam Rogers died in the small English parish of Middle. And as you'd expect, Rogers' children did what any good beekeeping family would do. They told Rogers' bees, all 14 hives of them, that their keeper had passed. Not long after, the day of Rogers' memorial service arrived, and as mourners filtered into the church, they noticed a strange dark cloud moving across the sky. Not a cloud, though, a swarm of bees flying from the direction of Rogers' house a mile and a half away. Eventually they grew closer,

and to everyone's amazement, the bees all landed on the flowers surrounding their keepers freshly dug grave. And by nightfall, they took to the air again, returning home to their hives in Rogers' garden. Oh, and by the way, this funeral, it took place in February. A time of year when bees rarely leave the hive. I hope you enjoyed our closer look at this tiny member of the animal kingdom. We see bees all the time, but rarely stop to think about what sort of folklore might follow them around. Hopefully today filled in some of those blanks. But the infestation isn't over just yet,

because bees are not the only insects that humans have put to work or created folklore about. In fact, I have one more story to weave for you today that dives deep into the world. one of the most mysterious of the lot. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. A mother's beloved only child had passed away. Or so begins this folktale from Romania. Not ready to say goodbye just yet, though, she put her son's coffin in the attic. She visited him day after day, until eventually worms began to emerge from his moldering body. Rather than disturbed the mother, though, she was actually delighted to see life born from her child. She understood the worms for what they were, a gift from God sent to keep her company in her grief. And this, it is said, is how the world's first silkworms

came to be. Now, if we want to be technical about it, silkworms are the larvae of the silk moth, so they're not actually worms at all. And they're native to China, despite what the Romanian story would have us believe. They eat mulberry leaves and spin silk to make cocoons. And not unlike our cultivation of bees for honey, humans have been using silkworms for their silk for over 4,000 years. In fact, there's a legend about that, too. It's said that in 2640 BCE, a Chinese empress named Xiling Shu

was drinking tea in the royal gardens when a white cocoon fell from the mulberry tree above her head right into her cup of tea. Instead of being super grossed out about it, though, the empress was curious. Stirring the tea with her finger, she noticed that the cocoon was slowly unwinding into a single strand of thread.

And this empress, well, it turns out that she was well known for her incredible weaving skills, skills that she immediately put to use with this newfound fiber, which, it said, was how the silk industry began. And it really was an industry, too. Over time, the Chinese empire grew incredibly wealthy due to its monopoly on the silk trade, used in luxury garments all across Europe and Asia. And let me tell you, China guarded that monopoly fiercely.

Heck, it was centuries before the rest of the world even found out what silk was made of. People thought that it came from plants, and Chinese silkmakers, eager to guard their secret, just let everyone keep on believing that. Alas, all secrets slip out eventually, and at some point some of the insects were smuggled out of China, allowing other countries to start producing silk of their own. But it wasn't just the silkworms themselves that were crossing borders. Stories about the creatures began to inch their way around the world. Take, for example, one wild ride of a folktale from the early 4th century,

which, although originally Chinese, also spread to Japan and Korea. Through a rather unfortunate series of events we won't get into right now, a girl accidentally ended up betrothed to a manipulative white horse. She told her dad about this little problem, and her father knew exactly what to do. That is, he shot the horse in the head, skinned it, and hung its hide in the yard to dry. Which, sure, I guess, is one way to solve the problem. One day not long after, though, his daughter was walking in the yard with a friend when they approached the skin.

What an unreasonable animal you were wanting to marry a human being? What happened to you served you right? Which might have been a mistake, because the first you were. that's when the horsehide began to move. The two girls screamed in horror as the skin flew at the girl and wrapped around her. The friend ran for help, but it was too late. The girl and the skin had disappeared. Some months later, that same friend found a silkworm cocoon the size of a person hanging

from a nearby mulberry tree. When she opened it up, she found one hell of a surprise inside, the missing girl, who had somehow been transformed into a silkworm. Now, if you're answered to the question, Would you still love me if I was a worm? Is yes, as long as I can sell your silk at great profits, then you might have something in common with this friend. Knowing a get-rich-quick scheme when she saw one,

she sold her worm friend's silk for a ton of money, which, to her credit, she gave to the girl's grieving father. He was now very rich, but still heartbroken over the loss of his daughter. One day he was walking through a meadow and thinking about, her when he looked up at the sky and saw her riding the white horse among the clouds. Do not weep for me, father, she called down to him. I have been assigned a task in heaven. I watch over the silkworms. It is a deeply odd and slightly horrifying little tale. But at least it's not as bad as that one about the mother keeping her kid's body in the attic

until the corpse rots. Although speaking of that one, that particular Romanian legend is cited as the reason why the room where silkworms are grown smells like a dead person. And in some ways, that's actually true. Silkworm rooms can't smell like dead bodies, but not human ones. No, the smell comes from the silkworms themselves, because you see, an essential part of the silk-making process

involves boiling the silkworms, alive. This episode of lore was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Jenner-Rose Nethercott, research by Cassandra de Alba and music by Chad Lawson. My brand new history book, Exhumed, is finally here in hardcover e-book and an audiobook version narrated by me. Exhumed explores the strange and twisted roots of the New England vampire panic and its star player, Mercy Brown. Grab your copy today over at Aaron Mankey.com slash Exhumed. Don't like hearing ads on lore? Well, there's a paid version available on Apple Podcasts and

Patreon that is 100% ad-free. there also get weekly mini bonus episodes called Lorbites and Patreon members specifically get discounts on lore merch and access to my inbox. Learn more over at lorepodcast.com slash support. And you can follow the show on various social media

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