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

“That hen was going to peck me!” she said, fluffing her red feathers. “I could see it in her eyes!”

An elderly Minorca hen, who had witnessed the whole thing, said, “Really, I don’t think so. But perhaps you shouldn’t have said what you did.”

The petulant Pullet screeched again. “That Minorca threatened me! The Houdan sent her after us! Did you hear how she tried to silence me?”

A Norfolk Grey pullet, known for her excitable temperament, distinctly recalled having once heard the Minorca say something very nasty indeed, though she could not recall the details. Another pullet, a Scots Dumpie, remembered that a friend of hers had once been attacked by a Minorca hen and viciously pecked in the eye. A third pullet remembered seeing two hens—who looked suspiciously like the Houdan and the Minorca—talking to a visiting fox.

The petulant Pullet’s screeching grew increasingly pitiful. “I thought she was going to kill me!” she cried. “Or send her friend the fox after me! I’ve never been so afraid in my life!”

The other pullets clustered round, protesting their loyalty and love. The petulant Pullet, still shaken, bravely squared up to the Houdan hen, squawking, from behind a line of angry, protective pullets:

“You don’t frighten me, Houdan hen! You can’t stop my voice from being heard!”

The Houdan hen, who had a kind heart and who didn’t want to frighten anyone, took herself to the far side of the yard. The pullets cheered and cackled.

“That’s right!” said the petulant Pullet. “We’ll teach those uppity hens that this farmyard belongs to us! Let them stay on their side of the yard. This space is pullet space!”

After that, the pullets set up a squawk every time any other bird tried to come into “pullet space.” When the hens and roosters protested that the farmyard belonged to everyone; or that “pullet space” was the sunniest spot and the closest to the grain-bins, the pullets screeched and protested. And so, for the sake of a quiet barnyard, the hens and bantams kept away from the place where the petulant Pullet held court.

But this made the petulant Pullet worse. Emboldened by her success, she began to discuss all the other birds with her friends, very loudly, and in the most unflattering terms. Predictably, the Houdan and the Minorca hen were often the butt of their comments.

“Look at that Minorca,” would say the petulant Pullet in a voice that was clearly audible right across the fields to the piggeries. “I hear she’s been at her tricks again, frightening innocent pullets and threatening them with the fox.”

“I heard she sometimes wears a fox skin,” said the Norfolk Grey.

“Well I heard from a pullet who actually witnessed it,” said the Scots Dumpie, not to be outdone, “that she and the Houdan hen are both really foxes, dressed in feathers, only pretending to be hens.”

“That’s ridiculous, and you know it,” said the Minorca, pecking the ground.

The petulant Pullet flapped her wings. “I can’t believe she’s still doing it now. Attacking us in our space. Why doesn’t she stay in her own space? This space is for pullets only!”

“Hens out! Pullets in! Hens out! Pullets in!” chorused the other pullets.

The Minorca hen tried to protest but could not be heard because of the noise.

And so, once more, the other hens tried to keep clear of pullet space. Time passed; soon the henhouse also had a “pullet zone,” in which the petulant Pullet and her ever-increasing group held forth in comfort, showering vitriol and abuse on any bird that questioned them, and pecking at those who came too close.

Finally, the other hens simply went to roost elsewhere, leaving the henhouse empty—except for the petulant Pullet, of course, and her gang of hangers-on.

Then one night, an old fox got into the henhouse. He squeezed in through a crack in the door, moving as softly as oiled smoke. He moved along the rows of sleeping pullets and ran his long tongue over his teeth.

The petulant Pullet awoke and found herself gazing into a pair of green eyes.

She started to screech, “Pullet spa—”

And then the fox bit off her head.

As it vanished down his throat, the petulant Pullet’s erstwhile friends exchanged nervous glances. “Er… welcome to pullet space, Mr. Fox,” quavered the Scots Dumpie. “We’re tremendous fans of yours—”

The fox grinned redly and opened his jaws. “Likewise, dear lady, I’m sure,” he said.

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The Hallowe’en King’s favourite game was played with a pack of fifty-two cards. These were like everyday playing-cards, except that every card was black. Every Jack and King and Queen; every heart; every diamond was as black as the Ace of Spades. The suits—all four of which were black—were spades, skulls, gravestones, and blackhearts. But the rules were simple enough, and the Barefoot Princess and the Engine Driver were very soon ready to start the game.

“But what are the stakes?” said the Princess. “I don’t have any money.”

The Hallowe’en King turned his living profile toward her and smiled. “Why would you need money here? I’ll wager ten years of your life against whatever you choose to ask of me.”

The Barefoot Princess and the Engine Driver looked at one another. “All I want is the Lacewing King,” she said. “What else would I ask for?”

The Hallowe’en King shrugged. “My dear, it isn’t my place to suggest. But if I were you, I would make it worthwhile.”

The Princess thought for a moment. This was a test, of course; and she knew that if she failed it, she was lost. But what did the Lord of Death possess, that might be worth ten years of her life? Wealth? Power? Knowledge?

Around her, the honeybees started to hum, urgently and persistently. The Princess waved them away. “Not now. I’m trying to think.”

But the bees only buzzed more persistently, and finally, she realized that they were singing their old, old song:

“Long ago, and far away,

Far away and long ago—”

The Barefoot