The Pied Piper of Hamlin

In the small town of Hamlin lived many people whose lives were plagued by those of rats. For many decades they attempted to rid themselves of the horrendous and miniscule beasts, but to no avail. Each and every citizen was beset by the teeth and claws and whiskers of the rodents; their finest clothes were made holey and tattered by the mouths and feet of the unwelcome animals. Dinners and luncheons and breakfast alike were ruined by the bellies of the furry fiends, as were parties and tea meetings; the conversations of the rats far outweighed those of the people whose houses they were invading.

“Mayor,” cried the citizens, “please rescue us from this curse! Show your strength and rid us of these pests!”

“Do you think I am not visited by these unduly aggravating vermin?” The mayor replied. “Can you not see my ruined clothes? My finest tablecloths have been turned to rags, rich coats into servants’ aprons, great rugs to doormats!”

“Find a brave soul to kill these beasts, a magician, doctor, anyone, who can exonerate us of this horror!” his people retorted.

“I will search,” sighed the mayor, “for a knight to bestow peace to these lands once more.”

Years had passed, but the Mayor had not fulfilled his people’s wishes, even though his own house was beleaguered but the same calamity. Sickness invaded people’s homes, food was scarce, and death was common. Then the mayor’s home was taken to illness. He then died, leaving a new leader to restore happiness to the careworn town of Hamlin.

“What can we do, sir, but hope and pray that they will leave us?” cried the sheriff over the echoing screeches of the rats.

“Find a man to take them away!” the new mayor pounded his fist on the aged and tatty table. It creaked at the pressure applied to the thinly gnawed legs.

“Think you not we have tried this very same approach?” shouted another. “Who can destroy a population of rats as large as our own?”

“Hamlin will not fall to tiny beasts such as these!” the mayor cried, kicking one the aforementioned ‘beasts’ into the rat-infested walls.

“Sir,” a tender voice sounded from the doorway.

“What now?” the mayor spun around to see a scrawny man dressed in gypsy cloth, a tiny pack upon his back. The man’s pale skin harmonized his flaxen curls and his faintly gold-and-cerulean eyes. In his hand he nimbly tapped a flute, crafted elegantly out of yew and birch.

“I believe,” spoke the young man in his soft voice, “I can save your township from this affliction you speak so eloquently of.”

“Can you?” asked the mayor, flabbergasted that a solution so miraculously stepped through their door.

“Yes,” the man nodded, “But I must be paid one thousand silver pieces upon completion of this task. You must understand I cannot exterminate countless pests for nothing.”

“Certainly!” cried the mayor and his council. “Anything for the hero of Hamlin!”

So the man took his tabor to his lips in the streets of Hamlin. A jagged tune wrung its way through the roads, and before long, thousands of rats were gathered at the feet of the pied piper. He then turned west, towards the setting sun, and marched to the banks of the Weser River. Upon reaching the rushing waters, his song switched keys, and every rat leapt into the swirling tides. All but one rat perished in the waters, which swam across the Weser. Upon reaching the opposite bank, it ran into the tall grasses, never to be seen again.

The piper then returned to Hamlin, intent on receiving his thousand silver pieces.

“One thousand silver pieces?” bellowed the mayor. “Surely you recognized our jesting?”

“I fear not for myself in this faulty bargaining,” sighed the musician in the silence of the town, “But only for your unfortunate citizens, who must suffer because of your insolence.”

The piper then took his flute to his mouth again, and a soft, cheerily dangerous song swam down the avenues and boulevards. Tiny footsteps echoed down the alleys and sidewalks, but they were not the petite toes of rats or mice or any other vermin, but instead the pitter-patter of Hamlin’s children rushing to the penetrating harmony. The piper then took off towards the river once again, the children dancing behind him.

The town watched, motionless, as the procession advanced on the river. The piper stopped on the banks, and his music paused. He turned about, facing the townspeople.

“Know the punishment of greed and impertinence,” said the piper, barely raising his voice, as the silence was absolute, “for now you shall lose more than silver or gold. Look to the man that has lost your youngest generation, and know you shall never set eyes upon them again.”

He turned to the left, towards the mountains, and resumed his music, the children prancing after him. The semi-silence in the town was then broken; fathers turned on the mayor, and mothers screamed and picked up the hems of their dresses and rushed after their children. At the edge of the town, where mothers raced to their young ones, thorns and brambles sprung from the grass and dirt beneath the feet of the elder people. Edges of already shabby dresses were snagged and torn as women chased the parade of the piper. The few that pushed through were discarded as they tried to take their children’s hands; the children yanked their hands from the grasp of their mothers, continuing after the piper towards the hills. The women then fell to their knees as brambles overtook their thin ankles, sobbing and weeping for their babies and toddlers and adolescents.

Upon reaching the solid mountain, the piper changed keys and the wall opened wide, leaving a doorway into the hillside. All but one vanished into the stone—a young boy of ten, whose leg was left lame after an infected rat bite overtook it. He tumbled to his knees, dropping his crutches, fists pounding the rock plate. His mother than ran to him, falling next to him. She cried, but in horror of the piper, and joy that her boy was left. Her arms held him tightly, and his tears joined hers.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, “Momma’s here, baby.”

“I want to walk, Momma,” he bawled, “I want to go with him. I want to go. He promised I could walk, Momma, he promised.”

“What are you talking about, darling?”

“The man,” he sniffed, “He promised I could walk if I went with him. He promised, Momma. He promised a perfect place for all of us. With fun, and candy, and desserts, and, oh, Momma, he promised!” The boy then buried his face into his mother’s chest, sobbing just as she was.

The mayor, in an attempt to escape, tried running while mother’s chased their children, but he was overtaken by the fathers.

“I’ll send out search parties,” squealed the mayor, “They’ll search the entire mountain…A-all the mountains! And the hills, the hills!”

And the mayor did send out search parties, and they did search all the mountains and the hills, but the promising now ex-mayor was with them. The town of Hamlin was devastated for years to come—the rats were gone, but a greater price was paid then that the piper wished for.

And once a year, the river rushed louder, and the wind whistled though the trees and windows and brambles at the edge of town with an eerie tune. On that day, not a single person left their house, or spoke. The only other sound was the weeping of mothers in remembrance of their lost children.

And that is the story of the Piper of Hamlin—a story of greed and insolence, unneeded sacrifice and loss.