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

The people of the golden bucket blamed those of the silver bucket. “What have you done to the water?” they cried.

The people of the silver bucket indignantly denied this. “Obviously, the people of the wooden bucket have maliciously tainted the water,” they said.

The folk of the wooden bucket were angry at these accusations. “We were the first at the well,” they said. “What right have these others to accuse us?”

Tensions rose. The three families became more hostile than ever. The folk of the golden bucket said, “Why do we tolerate these people, living so close to our boundaries? Why do we share our precious well with those who taint our water?”

The summer grew hot. The water ran dry. Only mud was left in the well, and the families had to send people out to the river for water. The river was far beyond the borders of the village, through a forest of bandits and wild wolves and bears. There were several casualties. The three rival factions at once assumed that one of the others had murdered their folk, and the tensions between them mounted still more. Between the drought, the bandits, the wolves, and the tensions within the village, they found it increasingly hard to survive.

Then a stranger came to the village, from a long, long way away. A warrior, on a mechanical horse, and carrying a crossbow. A clockwork tiger followed her, watching them from golden eyes.

The elders of the village explained their predicament to her. Each one, of course, blamed the others for the state of the well, and explained about the three buckets. Each one begged the stranger to help, and to rid them of their enemies.

“We were the first. You should support us,” said the one with the wooden bucket.

“But we are clearly superior,” said the one with the silver bucket.

“Silver is nothing, compared with gold,” said the one with the golden bucket.

The woman, who had travelled far, and had seen many strange things, was puzzled. “You’ve been enemies all this time for the sake of three buckets?” she said.

The elders nodded.

The stranger laughed. “I can help you,” she said. “Give me the buckets of silver and gold, and I will give you my expertise.”

The elders looked in wonder at the stranger’s marvellous mechanical horse, her crossbow and her tiger. Surely, with her help, each one thought, they could be free of their enemies. And so the warring elders gave up their gold and silver vessels, and the stranger put them into her pack, which was already stuffed with treasure. Then, from out of her pack, she brought out three large and irregular parcels.

Handing one each to the elders, she said, “Open these when I am gone. Take care to use them as befits your status.”

The elders did as she had commanded. Each one was sure that his gift would be something that would reflect his superiority over the rest. But on opening the packages, all three elders found themselves holding a simple wooden spade.

The third package came with a note inside. The elders crowded to read it.

“But what does it mean?” they said. “Is it in code? Surely, this arcane motto must contain some secret wisdom?”

For hours, they pondered the message. It was only nine words long. They looked at each other wordlessly. Then, they looked back at the wooden spades in their old and wizened hands. Then, they read the message again. Nine words, and yet it seemed to them to contain all the secrets of the Worlds. Then they looked back at each other, as slowly, they started to understand. The message said:

DIG A NEW WELL.

YOU CAN KEEP THE BUCKET.

84

T

HE

L

ABYRINTH OF

F

ORGOTTEN

T

HINGS

Memory, or so say the bees, is one of the tributaries of Dream. Its waters are almost as magical—as magical, and as dangerous. In Memory, Death has no foothold; and even Dream is a distant haze, like smoke upon the water. The Lacewing King had lived between the Worlds of Dream and Insanity ever since the Harlequin had looked into his eyes; but now, blind, his memory returned, and with it, his sense of purpose.

There is a story among the Folk about a labyrinth of lost things. Far under the ground it lay, buried beneath the many layers of an ancient city. Many centuries had passed since that city’s founding. Many times had it been rebuilt, and as many times, lain in ruins. Now, as the city soared above, all glass and stone and concrete, the city beneath stretched in darkness, ten times vaster and more powerful than any city of the Folk or stronghold in the Nine Worlds.

Here it was that the lost things, the forgotten things, the broken things, all found their way to where they belonged. Toys that children had put aside; love letters from folk long dead; unfinished novels; unwanted pets; wedding bouquets under glass; old sepia photographs; pieces of bad taxidermy; terrible family recipes. Then there were the people: soldiers from forgotten wars; sellers of dubious magic; purveyors of antiquated cures; priests of long-dead religions. Here were submerged cathedrals, and fallen stars, and vanquished kings, and all the lost and forgotten things that can lead a man to Damnation.

Here, too, were the passions of childhood; the rocket-shaped beds and the wooden swords, and the jewel-cases filled with glass, in which tiny plastic ballerinas danced to a tinkling melody. Here were presents still in their packaging, and streets of houses lost in fog, and bright ideas that never bore fruit, and promises made to be broken. All hidden away in this cavernous space, lit by stray phosphorescence, with the ghosts of long-ago campfires illuminating the towering walls, and the discarded folk around them, warming their hands, and drinking beer, and searching through the Forgotten things, and playing Dead Man’s Poker.

But The Labyrinth of Forgotten Things was not a place of sadness. For some, it