Thread by @Joannechocolat

Sunday lunchtime; cup of tea. You know what that means, Twitter. #Storytime.

New followers, to explain; #storytime. In which I write a story from scratch, live and unprepared, on Twitter. And it always starts like this: "There is a story the bees used to tell, which makes it hard to disbelieve..."

An opera singer of great renown fell sick and died at the height of her fame. #Storytime

Her many admirers all grieved for her loss; there was mourning all over the kingdom. Even the King wore black for a week in grief for the death of his favourite. #Storytime

The nation wept for her beauty, her youth, her voice as sweet as honeycomb. #Storytime

And all the people wondered at the richness of the funeral; the coffin, chased in red gold, drawn by six black horses; the monument, tall as a steeple, in marble of the palest rose. #Storytime

Lilies, her favourite flower, were piled along the route of her cortège, and a cohort of her most devoted followers remained by her grave, where stood a statue of the woman herself, so cunningly-crafted from rose-coloured stone that she almost seemed to draw breath. #Storytime

For a time, it seemed that the whole country mourned. #Storytime

Of course, this was not entirely true: not everyone loved opera, or admired the dead woman’s life. #Storytime

Not everyone admired the influence the opera singer had held over the King, or the way in which her admirers had entered every institution in the land. #Storytime

Not everyone believed that she deserved the great wealth she had amassed. Some spoke of her pride and her vanity. Some spoke of her cruelty to those that she considered beneath her. #Storytime

Some even dared to whisper that it had been years since anyone had heard her sing. #Storytime

But they only spoke in whispers, for her friends were powerful, and her influence - even in death - was great. #Storytime

Even so, the whispers grew, and as time passed, and the wreaths of lilies faded and were cleared away, the world attempted to move on from the death of the nation’s darling. #Storytime

But some of her followers had not moved on. A group of them had remained by her tomb, weeping and rending their clothing. #Storytime

These people left their homes, abandoned their families, gave up their lives and their joys and their jobs, all to guard their darling. #Storytime

They stayed there throughout the spring of her death, throughout the summer that followed, and when autumn came, and the mellow light failed, and the leaves fell over the cemetery, they remained to keep watch by her graveside. #Storytime

But they did more than simply grieve. Whenever anyone came to lay flowers in the graveyard, they demanded their heroine's share. If anyone wept by another's grave, they challenged them, and demanded to know why they would not weep for the great loss they had suffered. #Storytime

“How dare you disrespect her!” they would cry to the folk in their grief. “She gave her life for you! Her art! She was greater than anyone who ever lived!” #Storytime

And if anyone dared answer back, or mention the fact that others had died, the mourners would hurl abuse at them, and tear the flowers from their hands. #Storytime

And so, the folk who came to weep and lay their flowers on other graves always stopped at the singer’s grave first, for fear of retribution, and remembered to bring lilies for her; and so her grave was always thick with flowers and candles and offerings. #Storytime

One night, in the heart of October, a man came to the cemetery. #Storytime

His travelling-coat was pale with dust, and under the wide-brimmed hat, his face was strange and half in shadow. #Storytime

Entering by the cemetery gates, he made his way to a small and humble headstone, hidden under the trees, and drew from his pocket a flower. #Storytime

“Wait!” cried the mourners by the side of the opera-singer’s grave. “Where are the gifts for our lady? Where are the lilies for her tomb? Where are your tears for her passing?” #Storytime

The man half-turned towards them. “I have no lilies,” he said. “And I have no tears for any woman but one. Here she lies, under this tree, and this flower, my gift to her, grows only on the shore of Dream, and its blooms are for her, and no-one else.” #Storytime

And he knelt beside the small, humble grave, which bore no name, just a runemark, and laid the flower by the stone, and the mourners saw the fleeting shine of a tear under the wide-brimmed hat. #Storytime

“How dare you!” they cried. “How dare you come here to this place and disrespect our lady! How dare you bring flowers for some other woman! How dare you weep for someone else!” #Storytime

And they crowded around the stranger – who, they now saw, was very tall – and pulled at the tails of his travelling-coat like spoilt children demanding sweetmeats. #Storytime

The man stood up and looked at them from under the brim of his travelling hat. “You ask how I dare?” he told them. #Storytime

And he took off his hat, and in the light of the October moon, they saw the Hallowe’en King himself, resplendent in his moth's-wing cloak and his crown of dead man’s ivory. #Storytime

“I am Death,” said the Hallowe’en King. “And everything comes to me in the end; Kings and Queens, and commoners, and opera-singers, and mourners too. All will have their flowers, their tears. All will come to dust in the end.” #Storytime

And the mourners understood that the dust that clung to the folds of his travelling-coat was the dust of the Land of the Dead, that blows forever, a million deep, across the plains of Netherworld. #Storytime

“But every year, in October,” said the Hallowe’en King with a ghastly smile,” “I am empowered to give back one life. Just one life, among all those I have taken. Say the word, and I will give back the life of your opera singer." #Storytime

"All you have to do is ask – and take my hand," said the Hallowe'en King. And he held out a hand that was nothing more than sinew and bone under the many silver rings and gems that adorned it. #Storytime

The opera-singer’s followers watched him, wide eyes widening. #Storytime

“What, will no-one accept my gift?” said the Hallowe’en King. #Storytime

There was silence. Slowly, the mourners began to move away into the shadows. #Storytime

The Hallowe’en King gave his ghastly smile. “Well, maybe next time,” he said, and kneeling once more to touch the worn headstone, marked with a single rune, he whispered something to the wind – a word, or maybe even a name. #Storytime

And then he stood up, and put on his hat, and drew his travelling-cloak around his shoulders, and left the silent cemetery. #Storytime

And behind him, at the opera-singer’s grave, the mourners quietly gathered their things and went back to their families, and double-bolted all their doors... #Storytime

...while outside, in the darkness, the October ghosts still whispered and walked, and sometimes, in the chimney’s throat, sang, in a voice like honeycomb. #Storytime
the end

Thank you, everyone, for your applause for my little #Storytime. And to those who unfollowed me, goodbye - and what exactly did you expect to get from a storyteller?

But for those who liked it, a reminder that you can find 100 more of these little stories, largely written in the same way, in my book, HONEYCOMB, illustrated by Charles Vess...