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

There was a park with a rosewater lake, and alleys of sherbet fountains. There were orchards of blossom, and lollipop trees, and herds of pastel-pink ponies. And there were many, many toys: for Death is a cold and lonely place, and the girl was afraid of being alone.

There were dollies, and pandas, and rabbits, and cats; and soldiers with tiny pink rifles that fired flower petals and stars. There were princesses in flouncy skirts, and teddy bears, and happy clowns. There were china dolls with cupcakes for heads, and talking pandas with lollipop paws, and dragons that breathed candyfloss clouds, and cats that grinned like monkeys.

And the girl, who was the Queen of them all, looked at what she had built, and smiled, and knew that she had conquered Death. The sun always shone on her kingdom, although sometimes there were clouds that rained showers of petal-pink popcorn. Nothing ever died there, because nothing had ever quite been alive; and the cold sound of the wind outside was drowned in laughter and music.

Every day was a birthday, filled with cakes and candles. Every day was a holiday. A hundred thousand days went by; and yet the girl did not grow old, or sick, or sad, or lonely. Every day, she would choose a new dress from one of her many changing-rooms, and dance and sing to adoring crowds of children, toys, and animals. She would sing songs about candies and kites, marshmallows, cupcakes, and rainbows. Sometimes she would accompany herself on one of her ice-cream coloured guitars. And every day, surveying her realm, the girl in the candy-pink castle would congratulate herself on having conquered Death.

And then, one day, there arrived in her castle a little girl just like herself. She was almost as pretty, and very nearly as beautifully dressed, and her hair was the palest pistachio-green, held back with a pair of plastic barrettes shaped like tiny coffins. Her gloves and matching platform shoes were painted with little black roses, and she carried a silken parasol, printed with pastel candy skulls.

The girl in the candy-pink castle came to greet the dainty newcomer. “Who are you? Where did you come from?” she said.

“You’ve made quite an impression,” said the newcomer to the girl. “My own little Kingdom almost pales in comparison with yours.”

The girl in the candy-pink castle frowned for the first time in many years. For the first time in years, she seemed to feel a mysterious chill, as if a cold wind had somehow found its way through the rosy, raspberry walls. And there was a sound, too; a sound like that of an oncoming train, approaching through the gardens of lollipop-trees and candy-canes.

She looked again at the newcomer. “Who are you?” she repeated.

The newcomer took off one of her gloves. Beneath it, her hand was skeletal.

“I’m just a little girl, like you. Like you, I have many outfits. Like you, I love to play little games. Like you, I enjoy being surrounded by toys, and pets, and playmates.”

The girl in the candy-pink castle paled. “How did you get in here?” she said.

The little girl, who was Death, gave a smile. “You silly,” she said, and took her hand. “I’ve been in here all the time.”

71

T

HE

V

ERY

P

OPULAR

P

IGLET

In a farmyard we know well, a certain Piglet had achieved an astonishing popularity. Part of this was to do with the Piglet’s charming manner; its winsome little face; its sleek silvery side-whiskers; its wealth of knowledge on all aspects of piglet diet and grooming. The other piglets adored it; but geese and hens and pullets and ducks also found it inexplicably fascinating. As far as they were concerned, the popular piglet could do no wrong, and they admired it even to the extent of grooming their feathers and polishing their beaks and claws in the styles that the piglet had made fashionable.

One day, the popular Piglet announced to the farmyard that it had laid an egg. “I’ve always wanted to lay one,” it said, beaming at the animals. “And now, my lifelong dream has come true!”

The other piglets were filled with ecstatic admiration. The Piglet’s popularity grew to a hitherto unprecedented level. Even the sheep and the cattle, who until then had had little to do with the Piglet, were filled with condescension.

“What a marvellous achievement,” they said, sagely chewing the cud. “Especially for a piglet, who, let’s face it, does not represent a group primarily known for laying eggs.”

But in the henhouse, the subject was hotly debated. Some of the younger pullets really believed that the popular Piglet had laid an egg. But the older, wiser hens maintained that the egg must have been laid by someone else, and delivered to the Piglet under a veil of secrecy.

Finally, the oldest hen asked the question directly: “Did you really lay that egg?” she said to the popular Piglet.

The Piglet looked furtive for a time, and then admitted that, although the laying of the egg had been mostly its own idea, it had had a certain amount of help from a speckled Hen, who had done the actual laying.

The other piglets were outraged. “We have been grossly deceived!” they exclaimed.

The speckled Hen was quite surprised. “But—didn’t anyone wonder,” she said, “how a piglet could lay an egg?”

But the piglets were too indignant to listen. “We have lost all confidence,” they said. “Henceforth, how can we ever be sure where any of our eggs are coming from?”

The elderly Hen tried to explain that most eggs came from a bird of some species or another. But the piglets refused to listen. The popular Piglet retired to a private stall of its own, where its remaining admirers continued to visit, and it continued to dispense its peculiar kind of wisdom. The egg hatched, and the resulting chick, assuming from the moment of hatching that the Piglet was its mother, grew up in blissful ignorance of the fact that it was actually a chicken—at least until