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

abandoned by its custodian. The spinner knew that if she did not regain her post, then the stars in her care would fall. But she could not leave the reaper of clouds to die alone in the mountains.

“If you can’t reach the stars,” she said, “then the stars must come to you.”

And together they watched, as one by one, a thousand stars in that sector of sky began to wobble, then to fall.

“How beautiful,” said the reaper of clouds, and died, with a wistful smile on his face.

The spinner of stars bowed her head and wept. The heat of her falling tears melted what was left of her frozen heart. She lay beside the reaper, and, smiling a little, closed her eyes. And then she dissolved into fragments of ice that tumbled softly through the clouds, to land as rain on the earth below.

And in another World, a boy waiting for his night-time kiss looked up to the sky and said, “Look, Mother. It’s raining stars.”

97

T

HE

C

AT

W

HO

L

OOKED

O

UT TO

S

EA

There once was a cat who looked out to sea. Every day, in all weather, he would sit on a rock by the water’s edge and contemplate the ocean. He watched the waves unfurling onto the pebble beach; he felt the salt wind in his fur, and in silence, he observed the mystic movements of the tide.

By night he watched the progress of moonlight on the water and heard the songs of mermaids from his vantage point on the rock. In stormy weather the Cat admired the plumes of spray that clawed the air, and marvelled at the catspaws of wind upon the brindled water. And little by little, the Cat understood that the tides were his personal mystery, and subject to his pleasure.

When he lifted a paw, the sea rose. When he twitched his tail, the tide gracefully subsided. The sirens sang for him alone; and the fish that he glimpsed from his place on the rock were his alone, to rule and command. Every morning, he would walk along the pebble beach and inspect the offerings left for him by the receding water: driftwood; shells and seaweed; shining stones and fallen stars. The royal Cat was magnanimous, viewing the sea’s humble offerings with dignified approval.

The other cats all laughed at him, but the Cat who looked out to sea did not dignify their ribaldry with a response. He knew that a mere twitch of his whiskers could summon a storm that would sweep the land and consign those lesser cats to the deep. And so he endured them in silence, certain of his mastery.

One day, the Cat looked out to sea as a terrible storm prepared to break. The mackerel sky grew heavy and dark; the green waves rose like mountains. Rain lashed the pebble beach, and the monsters of the darkest Deeps rose out of the water, livid bellies to the sky.

The Cat who looked out to sea blamed himself. What thoughtless raising of the paw, or ill-considered swish of the tail had caused the ocean to rise in this way? He stood in silence on his rock, hardly daring to move, for fear of bringing disaster onto the world. And as he watched, the terrible storm gradually began to calm. The sea veered from rust-green to blue. The sun returned to its place in the sky.

The Cat was relieved beyond measure. “That was close,” he told himself. “My secret power and magnificence almost ended the world.”

And then he went back home to dream in his basket by a fire, while above, the Moon smiled down, unseen and unsuspecting.

98

D

EAD

M

AN

W

ALKING

As the Night Train fell like a shooting star towards the Labyrinth of Forgotten Things, the Lacewing King and the Harlequin were once more locked in battle. But this time, the King was fading. The bandage where his eyes had been was the brightest thing about him; and to the Watchman and the Clockwork Princess, he looked like a dead man walking.

“Fight it!” cried the Watchman. “Surely, you won’t let the monster win!”

The Lacewing King gave an absent smile. “I lost a long, long time ago.”

The Harlequin crowed with approval. “That’s right, Your Majesty,” it said. “Long ago, and far away. Long ago and far away, like in those lying stories.”

The Clockwork Princess, who rarely spoke, said, “Long. Ago. Far. Away.”

The King turned his head towards her. “You’re the clockwork woman,” he said. “I thought you were a dream I had.”

“Long ago,” said the Clockwork Princess, with a touch more insistence. “Long ago, and far away.”

The Harlequin crawk-ed. “There’s wisdom,” it said. “Wisdom, from a thing made up of cogs and wires and porcelain.” It pecked at another firefly. For a moment its beak was alight with green flame, and the Watchman saw its mandibles. The Harlequin’s Aspect might be that of a common bird, but inside, it was all monster—diminished, perhaps, by its fall through the Worlds, but nevertheless, still deadly.

Its dark eyes reflected the Clockwork Princess. “Do you think she loves you?” it said. “Is that the tale you tell yourself?”

“I know it,” said the Watchman.

“You foolish old man,” the Harlequin said. “When you go into the dark, do you think she’ll follow you? She has no soul. Death shuns her. And you have only years, old man. Her time will span the centuries.”

“I know that too,” said the Watchman. “But that won’t change my love. Or hers.”

“More stories!” mocked the Harlequin. “You Sightless Folk do love them so. But what power do they really have? Death is the only power here. Death holds all the cards in the game. Death wins every war, every day, steals every moment of happiness. Death’s kingdom is everywhere. What need does it have of stories?”

“Long ago and far away,” said the Lacewing King in a distant voice, “you were a fool for stories.”

“What?” said the Harlequin, surprised. Crowing, sure of its victory, it