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

And there was something about him—perhaps a madness in the eyes—that spoke of other places; lost worlds; strange things glimpsed by moonlight. Strangest of all, the madman travelled with a swarm of golden bees, which clung to him like a mantle.

The nights were drawing in by then, and the ragged stranger was cold. The space between the Lion’s feet looked safe and inviting. And so the stranger and his bees curled up in the space underneath the bronze lion, and prepared to go to sleep.

At first, the Lion was displeased. But there must have been some power in the mysterious stranger, because the birds dared not approach him, not even as he was sleeping. And so, for the first time in many years, the Lion, too, slept in peace, with the man between his great bronze paws.

In the morning, the stranger made as if to move on. He picked up his blanket and bedroll and prepared to go on his way. But there was a restlessness in the bronze lion, as if he were struggling to speak.

The stranger looked up at the Lion. The Lion tried once more to speak. But only the tiniest sound emerged from between its open jaws.

The stranger reached up and put his hand gently on the Lion’s flank. His eyes met those of the Lion. And in his eyes the Lion saw both madness and understanding.

The Lion, with a tremendous effort, managed to summon a pitiful squeak, no louder than a bat’s cry. But the stranger had heard him. Slowly, he took off his mantle of bees and whispered a word in a foreign tongue. At once, the bees took flight and began to swarm around the Lion’s head. Softly, they settled onto him; covering his head and ears with a mane of gold and black. And then, one by one, they entered his mouth, and crawled into the tiny space at the back of the Lion’s throat, and from there, into his belly.

It was warm inside the Lion, and the bees buzzed happily. The stranger, who, for all his faults, never left a debt unpaid, listened, nodded, and then moved on. The Lion never saw him again. But when the birds returned to perch on the head of the Lion, and to mock him for having no voice, the Lion gave a low growl—

And from that day forth, the Lion was never tormented by birds again, as the bees in his belly swarmed and buzzed, and sometimes gave voice to the dull golden roar of approaching autumn.

68

T

HE

L

ACEWING

K

ING

B

ETWEEN THE

W

ORLDS

That was the first of many tales of the Lacewing King in World Beyond, carried by the island bees that had followed him into the honeycomb. What happened to the Harlequin was a tale they did not tell, but, released from his enemy’s grasp by the courage of the builder of boats and the unexpected arrival of the Night Train, the Lacewing King had evaded Death, and had slipped between the Worlds to find himself in another place.

This was a world of concrete, and trains, and cities of many people. It was a world in which magic had died and long since been forgotten; where bees were only insects, and where folk were blind to most things—at least, things of any importance.

Bloody from the Harlequin’s claws, the Lacewing King was thrown into this world; alone, but for the island bees; robbed of his mind and his memory. He had no knowledge of who he was, or how he had come to be there; except for a few dreamlike fragments, which gave him little comfort. Everything he cared for was lost; his world; his people; his sanity. He could not even remember his name—the true name that held the secret of his power and his identity. The wounds on his body healed quickly, but in spite of the scars on his back and arms, he forgot how he had been wounded. Instinct alone drove him now: and instinct it was that took him at last into a city of the Folk; a city of towers and sewers and spires, and beggars, and bishops, and bandits, and kings.

In this city, the Lacewing King seemed almost invisible. It was a skill that had served him before; now he rediscovered it. And thus he was content to be, living his life from day to day; eating what he could find among the leavings of the Folk; sleeping in alleys, on rooftops, in tunnels and under bridges. Sometimes the police moved him on. Sometimes he was beaten. Sometimes there were kind folk who gave him food and clothing. But he never spoke a word, or ever cried out, not even in dreams. He was among the Sightless Folk; and in silence, he endured.

One day, he saw a young girl passing the mouth of the alleyway in which he had spent the night. She was carrying a basket, and something about her suddenly reminded him of the Barefoot Princess—whose name he had forgotten, but whose face still sometimes appeared in dreams. There was something about this memory that filled his heart with sorrow, but try as he might, the Lacewing King could not remember what it was.

The girl looked into the alleyway, and as the King looked back out at her, he met her gaze for a moment, and knew that she had seen him. This was very unusual. Most of the Sightless Folk were as blind to the poor and the homeless as they were to the rare and magical. And yet this girl did not look away, but stepped into the alley instead, and looked closely at the Lacewing King.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she said.

The Lacewing King said nothing. His golden eyes shone in the darkness. His skin was powder-pale once more, and his hair was matted and long, but still, there was something in his face that spoke of distant places. Under the rags of the blanket