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

Before long, the Hen who had actually seen the Peacock had quite forgotten what it had really been like, and the rumours spread further and further still, becoming increasingly menacing. Every day, more facts emerged about the mythical Peacock.

“The Peacock can change its appearance,” said the Donkey with authority, “taking on the aspect of all manner of baneful creatures, including foxes, rats, and even wolves.”

“Wolves!” echoed the Sheep in terror.

The Donkey looked mysterious. “Who knows whether, even now, the Peacock is among us?”

This caused the Sheep to bleat very piteously. After that, whenever a Sheep seemed to behave unusually, or show any kind of initiative, the others would whisper and say to themselves, “Maybe it’s the Peacock, spying on us in secret!” This led to a great deal of unrest in the Sheep community.

Then, one day, a Gosling heard the Farmer talking to his wife through the bathroom window. “There’s a leak in the cistern,” he said. “We’ll have to fit a stop-cock.”

The Gosling, who was very young, misheard, and assumed that the Farmer was bringing a Peacock into the farm. He told the other Geese, who told the Hens, the Ducks, the Pigs, and the Rooster.

Immediate pandemonium ensued. The Hens drew up a petition, demanding that the Peacock not be allowed to stay. The Rooster, rather grandly, announced that he would never mate with a Peacock, however hard it begged him. And the Geese began a protest chant, calling:

“What do we want? Peacocks out! When do we want it? Now!”

The following day, the Plumber arrived to deal with the leaky cistern. The Plumber’s car was rather grand, with big, bright headlights and an engine that roared.

“It’s the Peacock!” squawked the hens, running madly round the yard.

The rest of the animals followed suit. Cows stampeded; dogs barked; even the old Horse in the barn kicked over his bucket and feeding trough.

“I wonder what’s got into the animals today?” said the plumber, fixing the stop-cock above the leaky cistern. Then he drove away in his car, as the animals howled in triumph at having sent off the Peacock.

Some time after the fuss had died down, a fine Peacock arrived at the farm. He was a plump and handsome bird, and the animals looked at him curiously. “What kind of bird are you?” they said.

Now the Peacock had heard from a passing Vole about the recent events at the farm. He pecked at some corn and thought to himself. Then he spread his beautiful tail.

“Just call me Dave,” he told them.

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There once was a girl who was beautiful from the very day she was born. She was a very beautiful child; but by the time she reached young womanhood, she was turning heads everywhere she went. Her skin was cream and honey; her hair was gold and fallow silk; and she walked with the grace of a shadow. And yet, she never smiled. Not once; nor ever laughed at anything.

Her sister, who was plain, once asked, “Why do you never smile?”

The beautiful sister looked at her with pity and disdain, saying, “I decided long ago to never compromise my beauty. Smiling causes wrinkles and lines. By never smiling or laughing as you do, I shall always be flawless.”

And she was right; as they both grew older, the plain sister, who was merry and smiled often, grew to look older than her age. The beautiful sister, however, did not; and people marvelled at the fact that they were even related. As middle age approached, the plain sister grew dumpy from a lifetime of enjoying biscuits and cakes, and from the children she had brought into the world, who made her smile and laugh all the more.

The beautiful sister, however, had wisely restricted her diet to green leaves and yoghurt, and still had the figure of a girl. Of course, she had never had a child, and therefore had avoided stretch marks and laughter lines and all the signs of ageing that were now so apparent in her poor sister.

The pair grew old—well, the plain sister did. At seventy, she had become a winter apple, all wrinkled and brown, while her beautiful sister looked forty still; with never a line on her flawless face. And still the plain sister refused to see how old and ugly she had become, and went on laughing and eating cakes, heedless of the consequences.

The beautiful sister felt quite revolted by this, and by her sister’s family and friends, who seemed not to be repelled at all. In fact, the plain sister (who had now become positively ugly), seemed only to be loved by all, and spent her days in laughter.

In time, both sisters died. The plain sister was put in the ground in a closed coffin, and everyone grieved. The beautiful sister, who, in old age still made a handsome corpse, had ordered a glass-fronted coffin. The whole of the village came to her house to pay their last respects. One by one, they looked through the glass, marvelling at the flawless skin that had never known a smile; whispering at the slender bones that had never once succumbed to any kind of pleasure, and wondering at the terrible sight of a face and a body that had never once been loved or used, and never would be.

Then they went home, and hugged their children, and laughed, and smiled, and drank wine, and ate cake, and promised themselves to take what they had, and to treasure it for as long as they could; for Life is short, and Death is long, and Love lasts longer than Beauty.

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Meanwhile, far away, the Lacewing King had joined the crew of a sailing-ship, heading West, bound for the islands of spices and silk. In disguise, he worked below decks among the beetles and cockroaches. In the heavy darkness it was like being home