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

But the sailors ignored them, and finally, during the night, the mermaid shoal moved on at last and left them to their journey, the King more melancholy than ever, the builder of boats filled with new hope. And, in spite of their taunting, the mermaids must have brought them luck, because, the next morning, for the first time in months, the builder of boats sighted land.

57

R

ETURN OF THE

H

ARLEQUIN

The Lacewing King and the builder of boats had reached land in the evening. It was a rocky, featureless coast, lined by a narrow stretch of beach. The builder of boats moored her craft in a sheltered inlet, and together, she and the Lacewing King set off to explore the land.

There was little to explore. Beyond the tiny strip of beach were cliffs of rust-red sandstone. After that, the desert; a desert that seemed to reach as far as the ocean from which they had come. There were no trees, no bushes; only a sprawl of blue thistles at the top of the sandstone cliffs, and the occasional small shrub, leaves burnt grey by the hot sun; roots sunk deep into the sand.

There were shellfish on the rocks. The hungry travellers ate their fill. But with so few supplies left aboard the red-sailed boat, they needed to find water, or die. The Lacewing King went one way down the seemingly endless strip of beach; the builder of boats took the other path. The bees, which had followed the Lacewing King all the way from the islands, now flew inland into the dunes, to see how far the desert lay. All three parties agreed that they would meet again in the morning.

The Lacewing King walked down the beach. The night was cool, the stars were bright, and it was the first time in months that he had been completely alone. It was pleasant, and for a time, he considered keeping on walking, leaving the builder of boats to face whatever awaited her. But he still owed her a debt, sworn on his true name to repay, and so, when the night began to turn, he set off back the way he had come, and was back at the boat by sunrise.

But although the bees had already returned, bearing news of a city some three days’ march into the sands, there was no sign of the builder of boats. The sun rose, and then grew hot; but still there was no sign of her, and the Lacewing King began to believe that something had befallen her. And so, with the swarm of bees following him along the beach, he followed her footsteps in the sand. He took what was left of their water; he fed on urchins by the shore. When the sun grew unbearable, the island bees flew over his head in a cloud that sheltered him from the glare. Once or twice he thought he saw mermaids in the distance, and heard their distant, mocking song; but there was no sign of the builder of boats.

Instead, he came across pair after pair of abandoned shoes on the shoreline; some already bleached white by the sun; some richly jewelled; some plain. All left in a neat row, side-by-side at the top of the beach; a row that went on for miles and miles. And as he walked, the Lacewing King once more heard the distant sound of song and laughter from the sea, and began to understand what this was; a place where women came to cast off their unhappy lives on land, to be reborn into the sea, to follow the call of the mermaids.

The King began to wonder if the builder of boats had followed it too. But her footprints on the sand told a different story. Finally, as the sun began to set on the beach behind him, he saw a figure by the shore. It was the builder of boats at last, sitting immobile on the beach; wide, unblinking eyes now fixed upon the fiery sunset. Around her, fashioned from the sand, was a garden of dusky roses; blooming petal and flower and bud; coils of briar and sharp thorns and drifts of shining, lion-toothed leaves, all of them spun entirely from sand and gleaming in the rosy light.

The Lacewing King understood at once that there were powerful glamours here. His instincts told him to flee the place, but the builder of boats would not move from her spot or answer him when he spoke to her. Looking into her sun-filled eyes, he realized that she had lost her mind—and then he heard a voice at his back that he recognized only too well.

“Welcome to my garden,” said the voice of the Harlequin.

The King turned slowly to face his foe. It had changed Aspect since their last meeting, and stood before him as one of the Folk; naked but for its long hair, its warning colours of red and black painted onto its body. Its skin was brown, like that of the islanders, and its savage claws were unsheathed; but its eyes were still those of the Harlequin, dark and ancient and filled with hate.

“I knew we’d meet again someday,” said the Harlequin, smiling. “I knew you’d cross my path again if I waited long enough. And here you are, my enemy, the son of the man who cheated me of my kingdom and my crown; who sent me into this desert world; now alone and helpless.”

“Not so helpless,” said the King, and took the form of a cloud of bees, which swarmed among the island bees that still hung in the air like smoke. The Harlequin hissed with rage but was unable to focus its gaze, trying in vain to isolate the parts of her enemy’s Aspect.

But although this was his chance to flee, the Lacewing King knew he had to remain. He still owed the builder of boats a debt, and could not leave