The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

  The Fall of Ames

  Rat Tales Told

  The Game and the Golden Glimmer

  Delivery

  Revolution

  Knights Field

  The Box in Brown Paper

  Wizards Among Us

  Garden Farewell

  The Castle and the Crown

  Nomad Territory

  Play the Pipe

  Granddad York

  Fallen

  Wizard King

  Mirastory

  The First Prince of Mira

  Magic Kingdom

  The Fifth Aire

  A QUICK NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Greetings Dear Reader,

  You are about to embark on a journey that took over a year and a half to write. 400+ pages of adventure, romance, magic and mystery. I know you have a billion entertainment choices and I want to thank you for choosing the Children of Hamelin, especially since its fairly new and I, as an author, am fairly unknown.

  I have done my best to produce a novel that is worth your time and money. After reading it, I invite you to leave a review and rating at the Children of Hamelin’s amazon page or at GoodReads.

  Many thanks in advance,

  Danny Lasko

  Author of The Children of Hamelin.

  1

  The Fall of Ames

  IT BEGINS AT THE SAME PLACE EVERY TIME.

  I’m sitting in a pile of dirt, happy to be outside in the summer heat, lining up rocks and twigs in formation on a miniature field, its boundaries carved into the hard earth. The eight players must be in the right spot when the whistle blows. The slick black rock in the middle of the pack? That’s me. I’m one of the eight.

  A curly-haired kid with a million freckles splattering his face kneels across from me, too focused on his own team of rocks to notice the drop of sweat dangling from his speckled nose. Another boy, no more than ten years old, with shaggy black hair and a button nose, saunters up the middle of the cracked and weed-ridden street where I live, his hands mischievously behind his back. His oversized denim overalls zip-zop along the rough blacktop, threshing the hems into white strands of ragged cotton. He isn’t worried about cars. This neighborhood hasn’t seen one in decades. He smiles. I’m happy to see him.

  He watches me, listens to my strategy for the Texas Storm, my favorite team ever, to defeat the Sioux City Serpents in The Escape. I point to each rock and twig and clearly explain how my team will light the pillars and capture the trove, and as a prize, we get seeds for fruits. And some vegetables, but mostly fruit. My curly-haired opponent kicks at the field, scattering the teams of rocks, knowing he has no chance of defeating me. I love The Escape, New Victoria’s national pastime. Can’t wait until I’m old enough to play it for real.

  The black-haired boy tells us he has something to show us, but we have to get out of sight. And when there’s something secret to share, there’s only one place to go.

  The three of us scurry through the neighborhood of tumbledown homes and ramshackle sheds and into a field of wild plants that tug at us with every step as if they want to know what we’re up to and maybe join in. But we’re too fast for them. I reach our secret place first—I’ve always been faster—a burned-out old freight car that once rode the rail lines before the iron tracks twisted and tore. I scan the field to make sure no one’s followed us, then boost the other boys into the car.

  We slide into our usual corner, the furthest from the door. The black-haired boy’s excitement is so high that I have to shake his shoulders to get the news out of him.

  “Don’t ask me where I got it,” he says before opening his cupped hands. I see the flash of red and green before my brain makes sense of what it is. Finally it catches up, and my mouth blurts it to the world.

  “A strawberry?!”

  The black-haired boy slaps the palm of his hand across my mouth and leaves it there until he’s sure I’ve learned my lesson.

  We can’t stop giggling. We study it carefully, amazed at the way it looks, the way the green leaves feel against our dusty skin. We even count the seeds on the outside, all one hundred ninety-one of them. This is a real treasure. We know that he must have stolen it from someone really important. Or maybe from the training kitchens at Ames Academy. Wherever he got it, we don’t know anyone who has ever even seen a real strawberry, let alone taste one. My face goes serious. He was going to let us taste it, right?

  “You’re my best friends,” says the black-haired boy. “If I get to taste it, you get to taste it.”

  He holds out the strawberry by its rough green stem right in front of me.

  “You first, Horatio,” he says, smiling. I don’t hesitate. I carefully press my fingers around the plump red body of the berry, spinning it around so its narrow nose points toward me. It’s beautiful. I let my fingers caress its bumpy skin, rolling over the yellow seeds peeking out from the surface. Finally, I touch the tip of my tongue to the tip of the treat and am surprised at the lack of taste. A hint of bitterness is all. I look to the black-haired boy, but he isn’t sure what to do with it, either.

  I gently sink my teeth into its red flesh, being careful that only a third of it falls into my mouth. My eyes grow wide as the juices mingle with my taste buds and the cool flesh of the fruit mashes amidst my molars and tongue. The boys watch me, licking their lips and giggling with giddy anticipation. I refuse to swallow, wishing to hold on to this, this flavor of happiness, knowing I will probably never get another chance to taste it.

  But the sweet mash in my mouth somehow melts away until I’m forced to gulp down the remaining liquid and pulp. I sit with my eyes closed, still unwilling to let go of the moment.

  “What’s it like?” asks the black-haired boy. I can’t answer right away. He could have had the entire strawberry for himself, three bites of exhilaration. Instead, he wanted to share. With me. I wish there was something I could do in return for my best friend.

  “Nothing like it,” I tell him. “Your turn.”

  The black-haired boy reaches out for the fruit, but my arm is yanked away before I can give it to him. The two boys gawk at the intruder lugging me out of the freight car, a man with fine yellow hair and a goatee to match, his large hand wrapped around my forearm.

  “Dad!”

  “We have to go, Horatio. Do not fight me.”

  “But, Dad, I have to—”

  “We are leaving. Now.”

  I disappear from our no longer secret place, the strawberry still a prisoner in my grip. My friends poke their heads out of the door, watching my humiliating exit.

  “Where are we going?” I yell.

  “Away.”

  “What?”

  “The Synarch has found us.”

  I feel my breathing stop. My friends gawk at each other and then at me, their bulging eyes confirming what I thought I heard. Both of them leap out of the freight car and follow us. I don’t know why The Synarch would be looking for us. But I do know what happens to people they find. I can feel the panic bubble up from my chest, choking my breath. Tears start to well up in my eyes. I don’t want to die.

  We dart through the dusty neighborhood, back to my house, my friends following us all the way. I count each step to distract myself from the coming terror. Three hundred thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, until we reach the usually unused driveway of our house. But today it’s overflowing. Men and women, strangers to me, are waiting for us, loading my pregnant mother and my granddad into a fancy-looking transport that floats about a foot and a half off the ground. I’m not the
only one surprised. Several of the neighbors have stepped out of their homes to see what’s going on.

  My dad tries to load me in with my mom and granddad.

  “Wait! My friends!”

  “They can’t come.”

  “But there’s lots of room!” I cry, looking at the transport that is bigger than the burnt-out freight car.

  “They can’t come where we’re going. Now sit down and strap yourself in.”

  “But the strawberry!”

  “Horatio!” screams my father. “Do as I say!”

  I kick him in the knee before I leap out of the transport and run back to my friends.

  “What’s going on?” asks the black-haired boy.

  “The Synarch is coming. You have to come with us—”

  I feel myself lifted off the ground by a large man with dark brown skin. I try to wrestle my body away from him, pulling at his hair, but it’s shaven too close to his head.

  “Jump in!” I scream to my friends. “Jump in! They’re coming!”

  The boys take a few steps forward, then look back. I know what they’re looking for. Something they won’t leave behind: their families. They hop in place, trying to find a solution. The choice is made for them by angry faces from the strange men and women with my father.

  It takes three of them, but the men finally get me strapped into the transport, which begins its liftoff before the door closes. It gives me a perfect view of the massive war machines hovering above the Marston Water Tower on the campus of Ames Academy, a landmark my granddad says has stood forever. I’m not the only one who notices the blocky, rust-colored Synarch cruisers that would crush the entire neighborhood if they landed on us. Our entire neighborhood transforms into a pack of desperate refugees, all two hundred forty-three of them, lunging for the only escape they can see, our transport. I know because we’re counted every month. They’ve heard of random cullings, but here? The transport is only a few feet off the ground when I reach out to my friends climbing toward me, waiting for their outstretched fingers to touch mine. Instead, my arms are knocked back into the transport by something jutting up from below. Rock and dirt magically shoot from the ground into a barrier twice as tall as the tallest screaming father, preventing anyone from reaching safety.

  “No!”

  I whirl around for an explanation, but all I see is exactly twenty-three passenger seats, silent and empty. Room for more if we packed them in.

  The transport rises high enough for me to see the mob, hysterical with panic, pushing against the barrier, the black-haired boy in the middle of them.

  I search frantically for something to do and find the strawberry still perfectly intact in my hand, only the fresh bite marring it. I lock on to my best friend, focus, and throw the strawberry just before the door is sealed shut. Through the broad-side window, I watch the strawberry float through the air and land in the middle of the black-haired boy’s cupped hands. I lean over, wanting to see him take that bite, wanting him to taste what I had tasted. I bawl through the glass, slamming my fist against it, pleading with him to taste it. But the rushing crowd swallows them up. I’ve lost them.

  In one last frenzied hope, I look to my father, searching for any compassion or heroism, something in his eyes that tells me there’s a justifiable reason for this or that my friends will be okay. But he’s not looking at me. He’s not looking at the helpless horde of his former neighbors. He’s looking at a digital screen, pushing buttons.

  “Activating 535. We’re safe,” he says with audacious relief. I feel the sharp stone of shame burn and sink in my chest, confused and angry. I didn’t know my father very well before today. I wish it would have stayed that way. I peer through the bay window hoping to see a miracle. Instead, I see the opposite.

  Suddenly, a stream of blazing yellow discs plows through the district of Ames, Iowa, igniting a raging tidal wave of fire that engulfs the entire town in a matter of seconds. My eyes are glued to my friends below, their families, my neighbors, the people I grew up with, the people who knew me, watched over me, running hopelessly in slow motion until the wave of fire washes over them.

  That is where it ends. Every time.

  I bolt up from the sopping pillow in the usual cold sweat, screaming at the worn ceiling of my bedroom. I’m not nine, and I’m not in Ames. And, at least within these walls, nothing is on fire.

  I catch my breath and pull back my tears while I wonder if anyone else’s memories double as their nightmares.

  2

  Rat Tales Told

  THE SUN HASN’T QUITE RISEN, BUT IT’S LIGHT ENOUGH TO SEE THE FIRST OF THE RANCH HANDS BOARDING THE BLUE LINE JUST OUTSIDE MY HOUSE. I bury my fingers in my dark brown hair pulling it out of my face and rest my head in my hands to gather myself. It isn’t working. I fall to the floor and do a dozen or so push-ups to release the last of the shakes from the dream. Dream, memory. It happened, what, eight years ago. And yet I’m reliving it in my sleep like it was yesterday. Why did it have to happen today of all days?

  Push-ups aren’t going to cut it. I need a run. I grab a blue Allen Academy sweatshirt and feel the soft cotton rub against my skin, warming it.

  I slide through the hallway and into the narrow kitchen just in time to watch my mother try to pick out the kernels of water wheat that must have spilled between the uneven wood slats of the table. The two older sisters, Lizzie and Jane watch closely, their hands cupped around the cracked ceramic white bowls, still empty, waiting for their food. Even the baby, Lily, in her high chair seems only mildly hopeful. Spills are the worst thing that can happen in Allen, Texas, our home for the last eight years. Food rations are iffy at best. You never know how much or little one will receive every month. That’s why we call it water wheat. It’s usually thinned out to the point where it barely tastes like something other than water.

  The girls spot me first. It is the best and worst part of my day.

  “Horatio!”

  They race over in their thinned nightgowns and wrap their arms around my neck. I pick them both up off the ground and squeeze.

  “We heard you yell,” says Jane, pushing the unwieldy dark curls out of her face. I glance at my mother, whose attention stays with the spread wheat.

  “Were there spiders in your bed?” Jane asks.

  “Spiders? Why, are there spiders in your bed?” I ask back.

  “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  “Bad dreams, huh?” says Lizzie, nodding her head slowly as if she has some inside information. I make an attempt at straightening her short blond hair, kiss the top of her head, and smile.

  “Nothing you need to worry about. Go eat.” I steal another glance at my mother and while all the kernels of wheat that can be gathered are safely back in a tin cup, her eyes stay focused on everything but me. Even when she talks.

  “Would you like breakfast?” she asks, wiping off a spoon she plans on using with Lily.

  I shake my head. Unfortunately, this is usual, too. Maybe I’m making it too hard. But I’ve tried to bring up the nightmare before. Dozens of times. I just get the same response: “I think that’s something best discussed with your father.” But she knows as well as I that will never happen.

  “Mix it in with theirs,” I answer, nodding to my share of the water wheat. “I’ll eat at school.”

  My father isn’t around. That, too, is normal. I suppose he’s still part of this family, but that definition keeps getting broader and broader. His work takes him out of town pretty frequently, which, honestly, works out great for me. Not so much for the rest of my family.

  “And I got these.” I pull out a full brown paper bag and set it on the table. Lizzie and Jane both grab at the bag immediately. Their mouths and eyes grow wide as they draw out a couple of day-old rolls I “borrowed” from the school’s lunch line. There are serious rules a
bout stealing from the academy, especially food, but it’d be more harmful than good at this point if they suspended me.

  “What do you tell your brother, girls?” asks Mom.

  “I love you, Horatio,” says Lizzie, grinning from both ears.

  “I wuv oo, ‘Ratio,” repeats Jane with a mouthful of bread.

  “There’s one for you, too,” I tell my mom. She nods and smiles.

  “Thank you.”

  I nod back and hesitate for a second, watching my mother return to her wheat minding. Then I wait another second before heading out. You’d think I’d have learned after seventeen years.

  I walk off the gurgling disappointment and slide through the front door. Immediately I feel lighter, bouncing in my academy-issued cross-trainers. The weight of the nightmare and the strain of my family almost disappear. I inhale the rusty air of Allen, Texas as soon as the coolness of the fall morning hits me in the face. Even if they say the air singes your lungs every time you breathe it, I don’t care. This is the best time of year. Especially this year. It’s the time of hope. And I’m about to meet the main reason for mine.

  She’s stretching on the curb, pulling her leg back behind her, almost touching the tip of her long ponytail of such deep crimson, in the right light it looks like a whip of embers. She’s wearing shorts—a gift, really, to the world around her. The unblemished, creamy white skin fits perfectly over the long, toned legs of my girlfriend of the last two years, Annie Walker.

  I’m more than fifty yards away when she spots me, her smile gleaming. The kind of smile that tells me I’m doing something right. That for this moment, life is okay. It’s the reason I usually don’t notice the dearth of civility surrounding me. Oh, I know it’s there. But Annie’s smile helps me see what life could be instead of the slum it is.