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

up. The woman was left alone. Her children sold the horses and gave her the money for her old age.

“It’s time to think of yourself,” they said.

But then they asked her to babysit for all her little grandchildren, so that she had no more time than she’d had before. But in her dreams, the old woman rode horses of every colour; with flowing manes and gleaming eyes and nostrils flaring in the wind.

Time passed. Her grandchildren grew up. She grew too frail to be useful.

People started to whisper that the old woman’s wits were wandering; that she had entered a second childhood. Her children and grandchildren moved away; lived their lives; hoped for their inheritance.

But the old woman had a secret. Every morning, she would walk up the hill to the wood-carver’s house and talk to him for an hour or more. Sometimes she gave him money.

She did this every day for so long that finally all her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren became suspicious. What was the wood-carver making for her? Why was she paying him so much of her life’s savings?

So they followed her to the wood-carver’s house, and found out the old woman’s secret. She had ordered the craftsman to make a magnificent rocking-horse. It was the king of rocking-horses: carved from a massive piece of oak; with eyes that flashed green fire and a mane like sea-foam. But neither they nor the wood-carver knew the person for whom she intended it.

Every child and grandchild and great-grandchild assumed that the horse was a gift for them. Every child believed himself to be the old woman’s favourite. Family members who had not paid her a visit in years now became regular callers. Children who had once complained about coming to see the old woman now came with gifts of flowers. They listened to her anecdotes. They sat on her knee and smiled at her. They brought her cakes and honey and bottles of elderflower wine, and wondered when she would tell them about the marvellous wooden horse.

The old woman received them all with a twinkle in her eye, but she never mentioned the rocking-horse.

Christmas approached. The old woman’s family eagerly awaited news of the gift. Surely now the old woman would reveal her long-kept secret?

Meanwhile, the wood-carver worked to complete his work in time for the celebrations. And at last, on Christmas Eve, it was done. The old woman went out in the snow to the wood-carver’s house, to make the final payment. She looked at the horse. It was perfect.

She stroked its mane with a trembling hand.

“To whom shall I deliver it?” asked the wood-carver at last.

“No one,” said the old woman, and smiled. “This rocking-horse belongs to me.”

And at that, she climbed up onto the horse’s back, held the reins in both hands, and began to ride. She rode so hard and so high that she rode right out of the wood-carver’s house and out into the snowy night, with the wind in her hair and the stars in her eyes.

Some people say they’ve seen her, galloping across the sky.

28

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The king of a certain country dwelt in a palace of marble and gold. He had servants to deal with his every need; master chefs to prepare his food; musicians to play and sing him to sleep. He had pages to entertain him; courtiers to keep him company; and dancing girls and French masseurs, along with an army of gardeners, all trained to cater to his tastes and to grow all his favourite flowers.

But the people of his country lived in the worst kind of misery: working for barely enough to feed themselves and their children. The people who were not able to work were even more wretched; forced to beg along the streets and under the bridges of the city. And when the King walked in his garden, he would hear the cries and complaints from outside, distracting him from his meditations.

And so the King sent his servants to clear the road outside the palace gardens; and for a while, he was at peace. But the beggars kept on coming back; poor people; orphan children; crippled folk and blind. They clung to the palace railings and stared in from between the bars. It made the servants uncomfortable, and neglectful of their duties. The head Chef, who was temperamental, was so upset by this that on one occasion, he actually wept, ruining a lemon soufflé and a delicate Hollandaise sauce.

This could not go on. The King ordered for a higher wall to be built around his palace, with more guards to remove the loiterers. But the cries of the people could still be heard; and the shadow of despair could still be seen in the faces of his servants.

The King did his best not to notice. He had the gardener plant even more flowers in his garden. He had his chefs prepare him ever more succulent dishes. He had his musicians play day and night, to drown out the pleas of the people: the old; the orphaned; the crippled; the blind. And yet he still heard them in his dreams, and was filled with misery.

“Was ever a man so tormented?” he cried, locking himself in his chamber. “Was ever a man made to suffer so, in all the history of suffering?”

The King grew pale, and refused to eat; exhausted, but unable to sleep. And still the despair of the people continued to torment him. Finally, he went to seek help from the Silken Folk, who lived in the wild woods outside his realm. Under the ground, in the darkness, he came face-to-face with the Lacewing King.

“How can I combat this tyranny?” he begged. “How can I escape these visions that so disturb my quietude?”

The Lacewing King, in his mantle of bees, and wearing his crown of centipedes, smiled at the unhappy King. Then he leant forward and whispered a few words into the