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

“You say you have money set aside?” she said, when the last cake was finished.

“Yes, a little—” said the chef.

“Then would you consider,” the Treasurer said, “offering His Majesty a loan?” She finished the dregs of the jasmine tea and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “After all he has done for you, I think it only fair that you should show him a little gratitude.”

The chef was unable to reply. Put this way, it seemed to him that he would indeed be ungrateful if he refused to pay the King. And so he handed his savings to the Royal Treasurer, who thanked him with becoming grace, and praised his generosity.

“I’m sure His Majesty will find a way to show his gratitude.”

“Do know when he might—” said the chef.

“But of course, generosity is its own reward,” went on the Treasurer, and swept away in a cloud of perfume, leaving the chef still glowing with pride and satisfaction. But lying on his mattress that night, watching the kitchen fire and eating the crumbs from the petits fours that the Treasurer had left on her plate, he could not help but think that somehow, the meeting could have gone better.

89

F

LIGHT OF THE

B

AREFOOT

P

RINCESS

Meanwhile, on a platform in Hel, the Engine Driver and the Barefoot Princess were standing before the deserted train. No sign of its passengers remained, except perhaps for a shimmer of dust that troubled the air around them. The dead were close; they were everywhere; a million deep in the shifting sands. All around her, the bees, who had followed her during her flight from the Hallowe’en King, buzzed an urgent warning. And from the desert, she could hear the sound of something that shook the ground. It was the voice of the Hallowe’en King, raised in dreadful laughter.

For a moment, the Barefoot Princess looked at the Engine Driver. They did not need the amber eye to know the King was on his way. There was only one chance of escape. The Night Train stood, black and enormous, by the side of the platform, its armour-plated flank as cold as that of some monster of the Deeps, its single headlight dark as Death. If they could only drive the Train as far as the boundaries of Hel…

“Why not? It’s only a train,” said the Engine Driver with a smile.

The Barefoot Princess looked at her. “Then let’s try,” she told her. “Quick, before he finds us!”

And so they boarded the Night Train and ran towards the engine room. Vacated by its occupant, the place looked more like an animal’s lair than the home of an engineer. The Engine Driver took the controls, which looked both primitive and forbidding. But, it was only a train, after all; and as she took her seat and placed her hands on the dashboard and levers, the Engine Driver seemed to feel a strange and vital connection.

“I can make it work,” she said. “But the engine needs fuel.”

“Fuel?” said the Barefoot Princess. She looked around the engine-room. She had a vague memory of the coals the Night Train burnt; coals that were made from the compressed lives of those who had died unsatisfied; the stories of those who had died unfulfilled. But there was no fuel there; not a single shining coal. The Hallowe’en King had kept his word: every soul aboard the Train had been released into Hel’s domain.

“There must be something,” said the Princess. Around her, the bees buzzed more urgently. The Hallowe’en King was coming. She looked around wildly, and saw, outside in the passageway, the snack trolley from which the boy from the Night Train had offered them refreshments. A compartment in the side was stuffed with pieces of paper.

“It isn’t much,” said the Barefoot Princess. “But maybe if we burnt these in the engine’s furnace—?”

The Engine Driver shook her head. “A handful of paper isn’t enough—” she began, and then she stopped. For every scrap of paper was filled with tiny, painstaking writing. They were the stories written by the boy from the Night Train, stories that he would scatter as they passed through the Worlds of the living.

“Stories,” said the Engine Driver. “You said the train ran on stories.”

“Yes, but—” said the Barefoot Princess.

“So maybe we don’t need the souls of the dead. Maybe their stories would be enough.”

The Princess’s eyes widened. “Perhaps. After all, stories brought us here. Why couldn’t stories take us home?”

And so she began to read aloud from the papers in her hand: “There is a story the bees used to tell…” and slowly, very slowly, the Night Train’s engines began to hum and cycle once more into life.

90

T

HE

M

AN

W

HO

H

AD

E

VERYTHING BUT

T

IME

In another land, far away, there lived a man who had everything. He had a great, palatial home; a large and beautiful garden; a lovely wife who adored him; and a couple of lively children. He had a wardrobe full of fine clothes, and many pairs of expensive shoes. He had a stable of horses and a hangar filled with sports cars. He had servants; he had wealth. In fact, the man had everything—everything but one thing. Time.

Some rich men are lazy and soft. But this man was industrious. He owned a great many factories, and ran a great many businesses, and every day, he worked to build up his ever-increasing fortune. But he never seemed to have the time to enjoy his money. Even counting it was a chore, and so he employed an accountant to count out the coins in his treasury, and because he was a cautious man, two guards to watch the accountant, in case the man was tempted to steal. But still, he found he had no time. His business took up everything.

“Time is money,” he told himself. “How hard can it be to purchase more?”

And so he employed more servants, to do