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

luxurious his exile might have been in the islands of the archipelago, the King had only one wish, which was to find the Barefoot Princess again, and to return to his people.

At every island at which they had stopped to seek fresh water and pick up supplies, the Lacewing King had asked the bees to give him news of his grandchild. But the bees of the archipelago knew only the islands. They had never crossed the Sea or seen that other world from which the Spider Queen had banished him. And yet, the island bees understood that he was their King in exile, and swarmed about him wherever he went, and told him all the stories they knew. But none of them were stories of the Barefoot Princess, or the Spider Queen, or the clockwork woman and her young man; and the Lacewing King had begun to believe that they were lost forever.

And so he and the builder of boats set off across the uncharted sea. The red-sailed boat had weathered storms; braved the Edge of the Worlds; and faced the terrible wrath of the Moon Queen. Now, laden with supplies, it sailed into the gold of the morning sun. Bleached and dried by the salt and the sky, the boat was almost as light as air, skating over the water like a crane fly on a gilded lake, and the builder of boats sang a happy song as she steered it into the sunrise:

“Up above and down below,

Down below and up above,

The world’s a honeycomb, my love,

The world’s a honeycomb.”

It was not quite the same song the bees used to sing in the world of the Lacewing King; and yet it was not quite different. It made him homesick, but it was also strangely comforting, as if the space between the Worlds were nothing more than the breadth of a dream away. And so he sailed, while the island bees followed in the wake of the boat, and the woman who had rescued him sang as they left the islands behind.

Days passed; then weeks. The Lacewing King’s pale, northern skin veered from moon-white to honey-brown. The builder of boats sometimes caught fish, but even so, as the weeks went by, their food and water supplies grew low. They endured both storms and weather so calm that the red-sailed boat, feather-light as it was, could barely be seen to be moving. They saw great whales, and giant sea-turtles, and heard the songs of dolphins. They watched the moon change from a shred of rind to a perfect silver apple. And still, there was no sign of land as they sailed into the sunrise.

One day, the travellers came across a great flock of birds, circling low over the sea. Approaching, they saw, from the bow of the ship, what looked at first to be dolphins. But as they came closer, the builder of boats stood up and gave a joyful cry.

“Not dolphins,” she said. “Mermaids. Legend says they were women once, who fled to escape the tyranny of men.”

The Lacewing King looked into the sea; and sure enough, here were the mermaids, swimming alongside the ship; sometimes diving beneath the hull or leaping ahead in the sunlight. Unlike the mermaids of his own world, which had been pale and silvery, these were brown-skinned, like the islanders, with long black hair and powerful tails of every colour: yellow, red, or striped with black like angel fish; or dappled brown like manta rays, or iridescent butterfly-blue. Sometimes they surfaced, calling out to the travellers:

“Come play with us, come play,” they sang.

“Come play with us under the Sea.”

The Lacewing King knew that mermaids were seldom to be trusted. Their games were not the games of the Folk, and they were often treacherous. And yet, there was such joy in them; such fierce beauty in their eyes and in their rainbow colours, that many men had succumbed to their call, and leapt in pursuit of them to their deaths. But he knew that while they despised men, they often took in women and girls. Could they have seen the Barefoot Princess? Could they even have helped her?

But when he asked them if they’d seen a girl with hair and skin like his own, travelling with a swarm of bees, they only laughed and sang at him:

“Buzz, buzz, little bee, in your nest of honeycomb.

Buzz, buzz, little bee; on the sea, and far from home.”

The Lacewing King was curious. Their song suggested they had heard of him; knew him, perhaps from stories. But cajole and plead as he might, they would not give him any news of the Barefoot Princess.

“Buzz, buzz, little bee,” they sang from under the water.

“Buzz buzz, little bee, fleeing from the Spider.

Spider’s web has many strands in my lady’s garden,

But for those who love the land, there will be no pardon.”

Meanwhile, the builder of boats was scanning the horizon. Mermaids seldom inhabit the Deeps, preferring the reefs and coral caves, and she hoped at least for an island nearby, where she and her companion could find fresh food and water.

“Is there land nearby?” she said.

“Ocean,” sang the mermaids. “Ocean without ending.”

But the builder of boats looked up at the flock of seagulls circling over her head and knew that the mermaids were lying. There must be land somewhere nearby; something large enough to sustain a colony of sea-birds. That meant food and water, too; maybe even people.

“This way, this way, this way,” sang the mermaids, holding out their strong brown arms and pointing to the western sky. Once more, the builder of boats looked up, then set sail towards the East, the Lacewing King sitting in the bows, a mantle of bees on his shoulders. The mermaids followed till nightfall, following in the wake of the ship; sometimes leaping across the bows; sending out great plumes of phosphorescence in their wake. Sometimes they called out and sang:

“Buzz, buzz, little bee, far from home and sailing.

Buzz, buzz, little bee, sailing on the endless