Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

pallid Termite Prince; clever and industrious. The second was the Cockroach Prince; warlike in his armour. Both were handsome; both were rich; both were young and ambitious. Both were desperate to have the girl—who was known as the Bookworm Princess—the first because she would make him a beautiful Queen when his father died; the second, because his rival wanted her. Both swore their devotion by special royal envoy, and sent deliveries of gifts—jewelry and silver and lace; scents and silks and chocolates.

But the Princess was blessed with more sense than most and was unimpressed by Princes. Princes, in her experience, were often selfish and arrogant, viewing girls as territories to be won, or trophies to be collected, rather than people with feelings and dreams. She sent the royal envoys away, declaring that she preferred her books, and would rather have actions than empty words.

The Princes sensed a challenge. They decided to prove their worth. The Cockroach Prince immediately declared war on a far-off land and sailed off in a fleet of ships, promising a victory that would prove to her his undying love. The Termite Prince called his stonemasons and commissioned a wonderful palace for her, with walls of pink marble and towers of glass, surrounded by gardens and orchards and lakes. Each Prince believed that his magnificent gesture would win the heart of the Bookworm Princess—and each kept his rival under close supervision via a secret network of spies, to make sure that neither was cheating.

The Bookworm Princess was disappointed. Since her sixteenth birthday there had been a long procession of suitors—barons and princes and warlords and kings; rich men and wise men and businessmen; astronomers and silk-merchants and slavers from the Outlands—all competing for her hand. Now she was twenty-four, and still no one had ever touched her heart.

And so she sat on a gatepost at the edge of her garden and read a book, as the Cockroach Prince directed ships to sail his armies to the battlefield and the Termite Prince directed his workmen to build the grandest palace ever built. Both were absorbed in their chosen task; neither noticed the Princess.

Then one day a young man came along. He wasn’t a prince, and he had no idea who the girl on the gatepost was. He only saw that her eyes were sad; and so he bent down and picked her a flower from the many that grew by the side of the road, and gave it to the Bookworm Princess, and said:

“What’s that you’re reading?”

The Bookworm Princess was very surprised. In all her years of talking with men, no one had ever asked her anything about herself. She said, “It’s a book of stories.”

“I make up stories,” said the young man.

The Bookworm Princess stared at him. “People really do that?” she said.

“Of course,” said the young man, and smiled. “Come with me and I’ll show you exactly how it’s done.”

So the Bookworm Princess jumped off the gate and followed him, right there, right then—without stopping to collect her belongings, or her pony, or her shoes, or her jewelry, or even to tell anyone that she was leaving.

As for the two Princes, the Cockroach Prince waged war for ten years and returned a famous General, missing an eye, but having wiped out the enemy and razed his cities to the ground; and the Termite Prince, having spent ten years overseeing the construction of his palace, was now a famous Architect, creator of the most exquisite piece of craftsmanship in Nine Worlds.

Both felt that their achievements deserved to win them the Bookworm Princess. But when they learnt that she had been gone ten years, while they built and fought and struggled, the two Princes were outraged.

“How dare she!” said the famous General.

“After all we’ve done for her!” wailed the famous Architect.

And so, because the General’s long campaign had left him virtually penniless, and the Architect’s quest for rare marble had brought his country to the brink of economic collapse, they decided to pool their resources and live together in the pink palace, abandoning the pursuit of love for more manly pleasures.

As for the Bookworm Princess, no one knows for sure where she went with her young man. Some say he was the Lacewing King, and that he took her away to his underground lair. Some say that she went off alone and had countless adventures. Some said she learnt to write stories herself, and told them to folk all over the Worlds. Some even said they’d read them.

17

T

HE

T

ROUBLESOME

P

IGLET

In a piggery not far away, there lived a troublesome piglet. The smallest of a litter of twelve, it was also the noisiest; always loudest at feeding-time; always complaining about something. Its mother was at wits’ end; for a squealing, discontented pig was most likely to end up on a roasting-dish, and as such, the mother sow was at pains to keep her young family as quiet as possible.

But the troublesome piglet didn’t care. “I will not be silenced,” it boasted to the other animals. “What this farm needs is a spokespig who isn’t afraid to speak its mind.”

Consequently, the troublesome piglet spoke its mind about everything. It was neither clever nor well-informed, but that didn’t stop it having (and voicing) shrill and angry opinions on every topic imaginable.

If a dog trotted past the sty, the piglet would say, “I hate dogs. They’re so woofy. Woof, woof, woof, that’s all they can say. That’s why they’re so stupid.”

The farm-dogs, who were both rather old and used to hearing nonsense, ignored the troublesome piglet, which made it all the more determined to attract their attention.

If a fox crossed the yard at night, the piglet would hurl invective. “Foxes!” it would say. “They’re such cowards. Always chasing hens and ducks. Why don’t they pick on someone their own size? Because they’re afraid, that’s why!”

The fox rarely deigned to comment, being largely preoccupied by the hunt, which didn’t stop the piglet from hurling