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

unmoved by their ridicule. He knew he was different from the rest: he knew he had a destiny. And so, one day, he decided to leave his home and set off for great adventures.

“His father was happy to see him go; but his mother wept bitterly.

“ ‘Before you leave,’ she told him, ‘there is something I must tell you. It is the story of how we came to adopt you.’ ”

At this point, the Barefoot Princess glanced into the eye of the Hallowe’en King, still lying on the table. Through the gleaming lens, she saw the Driver of the Night Train looking into his hour-glass. The phosphorescent sand was now more than three-quarters gone.

“May I remind His Majesty,” she said to the Hallowe’en King, “that he promised to return me to the Night Train within the hour?”

Thoughtfully, the Hallowe’en King poured wine into his goblet. “A story takes its time,” he said. “But I will keep my promise.” He took a mouthful of the wine, smiled, and went on with his tale.

“ ‘It was a cold, midwinter’s night,’ said the mother, remembering. ‘Your father and I were by the fire, when there came a knock at the door. Opening the door, I saw a child—a boy, no more than three years old—standing outside in the snow. That boy was you,’ he told her son, ‘and I loved you straightaway.’

“Continuing her tale, she described the boy she had brought in from the snow. He was beautiful, she said; dressed in rich, unfamiliar clothes. One of his eyes was butterfly-blue; the other as dark as honeycomb. And around his neck, on a golden chain, there was a golden pendant, on which there was an inscription so small that even if she had known how to read, she could not have fathomed it. But the strangest thing about him was that there was not a single footprint in the snow behind him, or any sign to indicate how he had come to be at her door.

“She wrapped the boy in a sheepskin cloak and gave him tea from a china cup. He smiled at her, but when she asked him where he had come from, and who he was, all he would do was sing this song:

“ ‘Long ago, and far away,

Long ago and far away.

The world was honeycomb, they say;

The world was honeycomb.’

“And for a long, long time, those words were all the boy seemed able to say. But as the weeks and months went by, he began to talk at last, although he never explained how he had come to be where he was. Nor did he seem to remember anything about his previous life, except that little fragment of rhyme, and the knowledge that he was born to be King.

“Now the mother reached into her pocket and brought out a golden pendant, inscribed in tiny, delicate script. ‘Your father sold the chain,’ she said. ‘But I kept the pendant. It’s yours.’

“The son, who had listened with interest to his mother’s story, took the pendant and, narrowing his eyes, read the words. He had no idea of what it was, or memory or who he had been, but he must have known, even then, that it held the key to his memories. The inscription read:

“Dream is a river that runs through Nine Worlds, and Death is only one of them.

“The young man pondered the words for a while, but they brought back no memories. Nevertheless, he kept the pendant and wore it around his neck, hoping that one day, he would meet someone who could explain the inscription to him.

“For three years the young man travelled the Worlds. He made his fortune playing cards, and lost it again at chequers. He crossed over nine oceans. But though he saw many marvellous things, he was still unsatisfied. He knew that he was born to be King, and until his ambition had been achieved, his quest could never be at an end.

“One day, the young man found himself at the edge of a forest. It was a green and magical place, and the young man was drawn to its beauty. He followed a path into the woods until he came to a clearing. There, he sat with his back to a tree, and went to sleep in the sunshine. When we awoke, he found himself looking up at a woman of marvellous beauty. It was the Honeycomb Queen, of course: and the forest was her domain. The young man was astonished. He felt as if he had been blind all his life, and that she had restored his sight.

“And with his sight, came a memory of a time when he had lived somewhere else, in a place not unlike this one. He remembered a forest of silver trees, with a canopy of rich green leaves. And in the canopy, butterflies; and under the canopy, moths of all kinds, brushing the air with their feathery wings.

“The Honeycomb Queen looked down at him. She had been watching him for some time. Even without the pendant that was hanging around his neck, she knew him for one of the Silken Folk, and longed to know more about him.

“ ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Where are you from?’

“But the young man could only tell her the story his mother had told him; of how she had found him in the snow, and of his continuing certainty that he was destined to be King.”

At this point, the Barefoot Princess, still listening attentively, stole another glance into the all-seeing eye of the Hallowe’en King. Through it, she saw the Driver of the Night Train with his hour-glass. Only a trickle of sand remained, shining pale in the darkness.

“Your Majesty, the Night Train,” she said.

The Hallowe’en King looked at her keenly from his living eye. “My story is not yet finished,” he said. “And as you know, these things take time.”

By now, the Princess was beginning to think that the story would never be finished. Like the World Serpent, tail in its mouth, the Hallowe’en