The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

  “Na, na, I preey mucks saw dat coing,” mumbles the doctor. Now his eyes are water. His hand cradles what’s left of his jaw. “Annie, woo you … ?”

  Linus and Annie help him sit up. The dim light can’t hide his distorted face and the red and purple already starting to pool where the bone is broken. I can’t help but be a little impressed that he’s still conscious. Annie puts her hands to the doctor’s broken jaw and holds them there. A dim red glow peeks out from the cup of her hands. A couple of seconds later, the doctor stretches his mouth open and closed until he’s satisfied with the way he feels. Linus’s eyes are about as big as I’ve ever seen them.

  “You’re a healer?” asks Linus.

  “I am,” answers Annie.

  “I thought singing was your thing.”

  “I can have more things.” Annie whirls to me. “Raysh, what the—”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” I say calmly, more out of necessity. My head pounds more than ever.

  “Or him,” I add, pointing to my father.

  “They gave you a physical, did they?” asks the doctor. He straightens his short-cropped blond hair and adjusts his smock. He also rubs his hands over a long nose and small blue eyes as though he’s checking to make sure everything is still in its proper place.

  “They told you about your knee?” he asks.

  “You mean how it was never damaged?” I say finally. “Yeah, they told me that.”

  “If you’ll let me explain, son,” says my dad.

  “You just couldn’t let me live my own life,” I say.

  “In hindsight, I suppose it was not the right way to go about it.”

  “You think?! You’re as bad as the Synarch!”

  “We were desperate. We saw that we were losing you to the world, and we didn’t know how to stop it. So we tried to eliminate that option for you.”

  “Well, thank heaven for second opinions.” I lie back on the table and close my eyes. “Must have really ticked you off when I went to another doctor who cleared me without blinking. And now you’ve imprisoned me here, where I’m guessing there are no second opinions.”

  Doctor Lannigan, the family doctor who’s given me checkups since we moved to Allen and told me my knee would never be good enough to survive such a physical sport as The Escape—that doctor—checks the bandages and bruises and shines a light in my eyes.

  “Like your friend here, I’m also a healer,” he says in a jovial voice that makes me want to grab the sound out of the air and strangle him with it.

  “You can fix my ribs?” I ask. “Like she did with your busted jaw?”

  “With your blessing, almost immediately,” he says with a smile. “And anything else, really. Diseases cured, bad organs. If there is enough left of whatever it was meant to be, I can get you up and better than new.”

  “So even if my knee had been messed up, you could have healed it.”

  “Well, of course—”

  “Man, don’t talk to me.”

  “Horatio, there’s been an attempt on your life. Aren’t you even a little bit curious about that? The fact is, we saved you,” argues my father, trying to regain the moral high ground.

  “Did you? I’m more curious as to why I needed saving. Was that you, too?”

  “Maybe you should give him a minute,” says Annie. A few moments later, I hear footsteps trailing through the door, letting in that pine-scented air. I take a deep whiff before the door shuts. As the cool pine warms and fades, I smell something else, telling me I’m still not alone. Happy and familiar. I peek to see Annie still standing alongside the bed. I wait until I’m pretty sure she isn’t here to fight.

  “Can we go back to the part where you’re running your fingers through my hair, and we can forget about all that other, you know, stuff?”

  I’m surprised when she returns to my side, kneels, and strokes my hair. I want to be wary after all that’s happened. This is some sort of trick, or she’s going to ask me for something. But I choose to ignore the warnings.

  “Do you want me to fix your ribs?” she asks.

  I shake my head. I’m not angry at Annie. I’m ashamed. Whatever I think their motivations were, they still saved my life. Healing is not like throwing a ball or building a bridge or playing an instrument better than anyone else. Healing’s a miracle. And I can’t accept the miracle without accepting everything else. I’m just not ready to do that. Pain I know. I trust the pain. I deserve it.

  I force my mind to the evenings on her porch, where I’d lay my head in her lap and she’d do this, the fingers through my hair, as we listened to the sounds of the night, smell the flowers in her father’s garden that only bloomed in the moonlight, and talk about the future. With her, I never feared the future. Didn’t matter what the future was going to be as long as it was with her. When I thought the Escape was finished with me, I had hope in Annie. Now, it looks like the Escape is through with me again. And my mind fights between embracing the pain, which I trust, and Annie’s touch, which I crave. If only she would sing.

  I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but it’s daytime when I crack my eyes. The sunlight creeps through gaps in the door. Annie’s gone, as is everyone else. I find some clothes laid out for me, denim pants and a dark blue pullover with a broad white stripe through the middle, on a nearby chair and put them on. A fleece jacket and ankle-high boots tell me it’s cold outside. I’m nowhere near Revolution; that much I know.

  I open the door, and I immediately grab hold of the frame. Even if I weren’t in pain, I don’t think I could stand up straight. What else can you do when you find yourself in the midst of a vast forest, not standing on the ground but perched on a wood-planked platform connected to one of hundreds of colossal trees, watching the sun dance on the bushels of pine needles and bark? I’ve never seen anything like it. The platform seems to grow naturally out of the tree, the door carved directly into the trunk, a section of which has been hollowed out to make space for my recovery room. Roofs and intricate gables span out to cover the circular deck. The design of the railings and support structures surrounding it blends in with the dense forest. Several rooms just like this are carved out of many of the trees surrounding me, all of varying sizes, some with several windows of yellow glass, carved with symbols or abstract designs. Others are solid like mine with only an entryway visible. And between the rooms, wood-planked bridges and cables cross hundreds of feet of open air high above the ground.

  Kids dart across the bridges caring nothing for the height, some of them stopping to take a peek at me before bounding off on another of their treetop adventures. They strike me as happy. Really happy. Kids that age rarely have smiles on their faces in Allen. No one does, actually. Unless a game’s been won.

  “Horatio!” calls a little girl with dark brown ponytails bobbing behind her. My mouth reaches into a smile, and I bend down to gather my little sister, Lizzie, into my arms and pick her up. She wraps her arms around me and kisses my cheek.

  “I knew you were here. I knew it, but they wouldn’t let me see you. Do you like it, Horatio? It’s a tree house.”

  “It’s pretty amazing,” I say, telling her the truth.

  “They invited us to stay after you left to go to Revolution. Mom and Dad said you weren’t coming, but here you are!”

  “Here I am.” I look around while Lizzie tells me about every detail she’s learned since she got here. How there’s a big room where everyone eats together and another room with hammocks where Lizzie and Jane sleep with Mom and Dad. How the birds will eat right out of your hands if you sit still long enough. And the smell. She can’t stop talking about the smell.

  “It’s wonderful!” she shouts with glee beaming from her smile. “It smells like Christmas! Like really real Christmas. Like Granddad used to say!”

  I know who built this place. The s
ame designs sculpted into the ironwork—a pair of leaves or wings, I don’t know which—are carved into my parents’ headboard at home. The same candle lamps from over our kitchen table hang on the bridge supports. I peer down over the railing to see the faint ground covered in the morning mist. Beyond are peaks of snowcapped mountains that seem to stand as sentinels, protecting the peace of the woods. I have to admit, I love that it’s so high off the ground.

  Lizzie is called away by her new friends and promises me she’ll be back after playing. I lean against the railing and try to take in this new world.

  “Something else, isn’t it?” says Dad. His voice brings my anger back. I don’t even turn around. He’s the last person I want to talk to, even if the scene around me proves he’s a genius. It also reminds me of why I grew up without a father. On reflex, I bend my knee, the one that’s supposed to have been injured.

  “Look,” he says, keeping his distance. He’s a smart man. “You’re right to be angry. Taking away your choice, that’s what the bad guys do.”

  “I appreciate your coming for me, you know, to save my life,” I answer. I can feel my dad’s jaw drop open for a second.

  “You’re … you’re welcome, son.”

  “But I’m not staying,” I tell him. “I have to go back. There are people counting on me.”

  “Going back? What … you can’t … there are a lot of people counting on you here.”

  “A lot more in Allen than here. So just point me in the right direction, Dad, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Pardon me,” says Linus, clopping along one of the wood suspension bridges. “I’m afraid that would be a dangerous move.”

  I take it as a threat and step forward, ignoring my body’s pain.

  “Just come see for yourself,” he says with his hands up. “I think it will help you with your decision.”

  We cross the bridge and enter one of the larger tree rooms where my mom, the Walkers (including Annie), the doctor, and several other people I don’t know are standing around a massive monitor curving along the back wall. The news broadcast blares through unseen speakers.

  “—we are in pursuit of the terrorists who attacked the Citizens in the Tower last night,” says a familiar gruff voice that grates against the back of my neck.

  “Special Agent Farr.”

  “They’ve been reporting on it all night,” says my mother, checking my face over.

  “We are investigating several leads and expect to make a number of arrests before evening,” says Agent Farr over the video com. “We have evidence that suggests the attack came from a faction of lo-pry directed by League player Horatio Gaph, whom they took with them when they fled the scene in an unauthorized hovercraft.”

  The video cuts away from Agent Farr to a news studio where a trusted face fills the screen. Billy Jack.

  “Folks,” says Billy Jack, shaking his head in disbelief, “I’ve been following Gaph’s career for years now, and I am astonished at what I’m hearing.”

  This is more like it, I think. This is the Billy Jack I know. He’s going to set the record straight.

  “Astonished I didn’t see it coming.”

  What planet am I on?

  “Special Agent Farr, I can tell you that at every turn, Gaph was setting himself up as this great champion of the lo-pry. A savior to Allen and anyone else to whom he promised his allegiance, all for his own personal gain.”

  I cock my head to the right, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Billy Jack knows me almost as well as my parents do. He’s been nothing but supportive and fair. I can’t make sense of it.

  I see footage of the explosion coming from the stands near pillar eight and watch everyone on the field, including me, hurled back several yards from its force. A sleek charcoal hovercraft that measures at least twenty yards long and moves like a shark glimmers through the hole and hovers over me. A mechanical arm wraps itself around me and attempts to pull me inside. But someone has come out of nowhere and latched onto me. It’s Lara! Someone yanks her away and lets her fall to the ground. I disappear into the belly of the ship just before it jets away as quickly as it came. Lara was the only one who tried to help. They should have brought her along.

  “He wasted no time once he arrived in Revolution,” explains Farr, “raising himself again in the eyes of the lo-pry, even refusing to cut his hair, and mooning the Citizens, the very people who made his better life possible! He’s already attacked a Citizen since being here.”

  “Superstar striker for Revolution Bo Kotch,” adds Billy Jack.

  “Correct, Mr. Jack,” replies Agent Farr, who seems to be really enjoying his time on camera. “And I commit to all Citizens of New Victoria: Horatio Gaph and all who call him friend will be held accountable for their despicable and treasonous actions. I promise you that.”

  “Of course, they are conveniently ignoring the fact that your shield was wrecked and your entire team was lying down on you,” says Linus. “It’s a setup.”

  I glance at Linus and then back to the report.

  “Agent Farr, how dangerous is Horatio Gaph?”

  “Extremely dangerous. Horatio Gaph is a villain and must be eliminated.”

  “Thank you, Special Agent Farr, head of the lo-pry anti-insurgency squad. Folks,” says Billy Jack in his wrap-up voice, “the Synarch has declared that anyone caught supporting or sympathizing with any possible insurgency will be immediately convicted. As someone who has covered Horatio Gaph for eight years, I strongly advise you to let the authorities handle this one.”

  I never would have pegged Billy Jack as an opportunist.

  “We expected this,” says a dark figure stepping toward me and my family.

  “Horatio, this is Valor Perrywhite, the senior Elder of the Children,” explains Dad. Valor steps into the glowing light of the monitor, his dark eyes glued to the screen. His brown skin and broad build give him a competent air, but when I notice his hair cropped so close to his scalp that it cannot be pulled, I feel the ghosts of his hands gripping me under the arms, pulling me off the ground and into a transport.

  “You.”

  “We knew coming to get you was a risk, but it was a risk we had to take,” he says to me. “Horatio, your father told me about the Call. If it’s true and you have been called to restore the Soul, then we will do everything we can to help. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

  “Just one,” I say finally, staring at the man who wrenched me from my friends eight years ago. “What insane thought in that psycho mind of yours gives you the faintest hope that I would ever help you with anything?”

  7

  The Box in Brown Paper

  “THIS IS ABOUT AMES,” MY FATHER ANNOUNCES, ALMOST AS THOUGH IT WERE A PROFOUND DISCOVERY.

  “You can’t go back,” warns Valor Perrywhite as I turn my back and head for the door.

  “Doesn’t mean I have to stay here,” I warn back.

  “I cannot allow you to leave, Horatio Gaph,” booms Valor. “Not yet.” Suddenly, three men leap between me and the only way out.

  “What are you doing?” cries my mother. Valor barks out the order.

  “Detain him!”

  ROLLLEFT dodge projectile ROLLRIGHT dodge projectile.

  I drop to the floor and roll to my right. A large cluster of chopped wood that was sitting in the corner of the room rushes past.

  LEAPATRIGHTGUARD disable him. LEAPATLEFTGUARD miss LEAPATMIDDLEGUARD disable him

  I leap and tackle the right guard, and just as I pop back up, I feel a wicked, sharp jolt to the back of my neck that sucks whatever strength I’ve recovered right out of me. Fifteen seconds has its limits. I didn’t see it coming.

  They wrap a thick, rough cord around my hands and stand me up just as Valor invades my comfort zone.

  “You must
get your mind right, boy,” he says, his nose in my face. “The stakes in this game you have not yet begun to understand. Your intense, petty grudges, your willful ignorance, will forever prevent you from knowing your full potential.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Take him to the cages,” he orders. No one objects. I soon find myself sitting in a giant birdcage complete with a water tray, dangling from a thick tree branch. And honestly, I feel better in here than out there. I find great satisfaction in the fact that the one person who can see beyond the mask of these zealots is the one person who can supposedly bring them what they want.

  They let me sit in the cage for a night and a day, alone with my ever-multiplying thoughts that volley between the anger that once again I’m forced into their world and the pleasure of knowing I’m causing them grief. Every once in a while, I catch both kids and adults peeking from distant windows and corners, no doubt wanting a glimpse of the kid they’ve been told can save them, and wondering why I’ve been locked up. At least that’s what they think. Who knows what the Call really means? How did I get here? Who messed with my shield and got to my team? Did the Synarch really bring me to the League just to arrange my death in the game? That’s just stupid. The Citizens and the lo-pry were united in the idea to bring me into the League. What advantage would the Synarch have in killing me? Who has the most to gain by my death? But I didn’t die. I almost did.

  I’m snapped out of my thoughts when I realize I’m no longer alone. It’s Annie, standing on a bridge about ten yards away, her red hair dancing in the wind doused in the light of dancing torches in the early evening. Her fiery emerald eyes pierce me. But this time, her lips stay still.

  “Just tell me,” I say. “Tell me they didn’t set me up. They didn’t rig my shield and put me in danger so they could come and save me so I’d be, I don’t know, in their debt or something.”

  “They didn’t set you up.”