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

morning glories. And the gardener tended them all year round and was proud of his handiwork. Little by little, people from the city began to notice the garden, and visit. They did so carefully at first, and always thanked the gardener. It soon became a fashionable place to come on Sunday afternoons; for elegant ladies to meet their friends; for children to play on the soft green lawns. Soon, it was busy every day, and the gardener was proud.

But as time passed, people forgot who had built the garden. Ladies in their summer frocks, carrying silken parasols, would look at the old man working there with haughty disapproval.

“Who is that old man?” they would whisper behind their embroidered fans.

“I suppose he is just the gardener,” their companions would reply.

Sometimes the old man heard their words, and he realized that the people believed that he and his work were theirs to command. It did not stop him working. The old man lived for his garden. But some of his pleasure had gone from the task, and this filled him with sorrow.

As time passed, the visitors grew more and more outspoken. “These rose bushes are in the wrong place,” said one elegant lady.

Another said, “And why is there not an arbour, that I may sit and rest, or an herb garden for my kitchen?”

“See to it, fellow,” they told the old man as he leaned on his spade one fine day, enjoying the morning sunlight. “And hurry! I’m sure your masters are not paying you to waste time.”

The old man realized that they thought he was a public employee, and he began to get angry.

“This is my garden!” he shouted. “You are all here because of me!” And the spoiled and elegant ladies shrank, and ran back to their husbands, telling them how the old man had frightened them.

The next day, the gardener was faced with a crowd of angry people, protesting against his behaviour.

“How dare you alarm these good people,” said the Mayor of the town. “You should be grateful for all this attention. What would you do if people stopped coming to walk in your garden?”

“I don’t know,” said the old man. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

And he built a high wall around the place; so high that no one could climb it, or look into the garden. And inside, there were hollyhocks; and peonies; and roses; and all the birds came there to sing—for walls meant nothing to them. And in summer, the garden was alive with honeybees and butterflies.

And in winter, the robins sang, and the berries of the holly bushes gleamed like droplets of blood on the snow. And the gardener whistled as he worked, and was never lonely. And outside, in the city, the people would stare at the high blank walls of the hidden garden and whisper in tones of envy:

“What a selfish, selfish man.”

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In a city of many people there lived a baker, whose bread and cakes were the finest in the land. Folk came from all quarters to buy, and the baker grew first proud, then conceited. While his underlings worked in the kitchens, he would stand behind the shiny front counter, watching the queues of people arrive, and his sense of self-importance grew and grew and grew.

One day he noticed a stranger standing under his awning. The man was dressed like a beggar, though the baker never saw him beg. He did not come into the shop, but stood under the awning instead, to smell the scent of baking that came from the open door. This angered the baker, who had always done what he could to discourage beggars and loiterers. There were spikes on the pavement to discourage the homeless from sleeping there. There were placards on the door warning beggars to stay away. But the stranger seemed not to notice these, and the baker grew increasingly annoyed.

Every day, the man would come to stand outside the baker’s shop, enjoying the delicious scents of baking bread and cakes and pies that drifted out into the street.

Finally, one foggy day, the baker came out to confront the stranger. “If you’re going to stand here, enjoying the scent of my baking,” he said, “then you’ll have to pay me.”

“You’d make a man pay for the scent of your bread?” said the man to the baker.

The baker replied, “Of course I would. My bread is the best in the city. Why would I allow beggars and thieves to benefit from my hard work? Now pay me my money, or begone.”

The stranger gave a little smile. His eyes were dark as comb honey, and his look was not that of a beggar. It made the arrogant baker feel a little uncomfortable, and he raised his voice a little and said:

“I told you, pay me or be off. Otherwise, I’ll call the police!”

For a moment the stranger did not move. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a coin in the palm of his hand. The baker did not recognize the currency, but he knew the gleam of gold well enough, and he understood that the stranger was not as poor as he appeared, and might even be someone of consequence. He saw his customers staring, and he began to stammer and fawn, but it was already too late. The man bent down and rang the coin lightly against the cobblestones.

“I might have made you rich,” he said. “But I see that you are a heartless man. Henceforth, everything you bake will taste of ash, go stale, be burnt, or be infested with weevils. But, I’ll pay you for the scent of your bread—with the sound of my money.”

And at that, the stranger picked up his coin and walked away into the fog, leaving the baker open-mouthed.

And all the customers followed him.

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