The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

  I pick up a ring and toss it to Linus, who, after a moment of shock, doesn’t think twice about putting it on. The ring stretches along the back of his hand and fastens around his wrist. His initials appears as well, just as mine did. He spots the revealed writing on the paper and digs in.

  “Notes, diagrams, numbers, random notes surrounding a place, an object, or an event, all written in a gleaming dark purple ink. Some of the things I recognize, but others … I have no memory of. And here, at the base of each page, an odd line of writing using an alphabet I can’t read nor have even seen before, not even in the Chronicles,” he says, running his fingers along the swirling script. “But there’s no clear direction or location as to where to return the Soul. It’s a puzzle. A game.”

  I hand the other ring to Annie, and after a quick look passes it along to my dad.

  “I don’t see anything,” he says, shaking his head and then his finger. The ring didn’t expand as it had on Annie’s hand. He taps the ring, examines it, but finally gives up and passes it to my mother. Still nothing. She hands it back to Annie who, as soon as she slips it on, the ring reaches out and wraps around her wrist.

  “Just you, Linus and Annie?” asks my father. Linus’ glee is almost intolerable.

  “Hang on,” I say, trying to get back on track. “This Berebus Pock is the 131st Child? The one who was left behind? Wouldn’t that make him, I don’t know, a thousand years old?”

  “One of the gifts of the soul is extremely long life. Like your future vision or Annie’s healing,” explains my father. “It’s even possible that a few are immortal. Berebus Pock seems to be one of them. Son, you have to realize, there are few limitations as to what the Soul can do.”

  “Except prevent extinction,” I say, mostly because I’m still not ready to be on the same side as my father. “Valor said that the Children’s numbers are dangerously few, and that’s why you hide. How does a people with this kind of power end up fighting for survival?”

  “There was a time when the Children thought in much the same way,” explains my father. “Like you, our forefathers felt we should be a force for good in this world. They had grand ambitions—build this world, eliminate unjust circumstances, guide global leaders using wisdom and virtue, feed everyone—using the time with the Soul to create a utopian society. Be the world’s superheroes, so to speak. But then something happened. Over half of us were destroyed in a war that most of the world never knew occurred. A terrible war.”

  “When?”

  “1807,” answers Linus.

  “1807? Who had power to take out half of you in 1807?” My mom and dad hang their heads, and I see a solemnity in Annie’s eyes. I get it.

  “Your own people.”

  “A small rebel group of Children began in secret to plan the Earth’s complete overthrow,” says Linus, taking over for my father, “choosing to reject the promise to return the Soul to Mira. The elders discovered it. Sides were taken. Families divided. The Children, those who kept the promise of the Soul, won. But at a terrible cost.

  “Still, even after the bloodshed, some wanted to continue to serve this world. Even now, some Children believe that is our responsibility. They call themselves Angels. But most of us fear a repeat of the first war and find wisdom in the Restoration Edict to preserve the Children and the Soul. It is too easy to let praise and hero worship cloud one’s thinking.”

  Linus lets his words sink in.

  “Fewer are choosing to uphold the Children’s promise and protect the Soul, choosing this world over Mira,” adds my father. “So the Children hid away, hoping to eliminate the temptation and influence of the world.”

  “You mean eliminating the choice.”

  “We had no other choice, son,” says my father, showing his frustration. “After the War of 1807, the Children began to drift or chose to ignore the Hamelin records, finding themselves among the world and liking it. They married outside the population, choosing what they deemed freedom over birthright, diluting the power of the Soul. Every generation since has dramatically decreased the number of PureHearts.”

  “Why does that matter?” I ask, fighting off the urge to break something.

  “For the Soul to be restored,” continues Linus, “one hundred thirty PureHearts must return to the Looking Glass and offer up the Soul of their own free will, the same number of Children who accepted it. Any fewer and the Soul will remain incomplete. The Children of Hamelin teeter on that number now, with one hundred fifty-three known PureHearts. If another generation passes without the Soul reforming, all that has gone before will have failed.”

  “The life back in Revolution, Horatio, that life is over,” finishes my father. “It’s gone, and you will never get it back. You know you will never have the chance to explain yourself. The people who set you up in the arena? They’ll never let you close enough. I’m asking you, please, just consider this as an option to suicide.”

  “Guys,” calls Mr. Walker, Annie’s dad, from the doorway. “You have to—is that the Call?” he asks in a choked whisper, spotting the pipe.

  “It is,” answers Linus.

  “What is it, Dennis?” asks my father. Dennis Walker tears his gaze away from the mahogany box and pipe of old dark wood.

  “It’s Allen.”

  The buzz of overlapping voices flows from the hall’s doors as we enter. A couple dozen people cloud a woman’s voice that’s muffled at first but familiar. The onlookers notice us and make room until I get a look at the voice’s owner. I gawk at the site of the newcomer, her blond hair still apple-scented if tussled, her wire-rimmed glasses perfectly hanging on her thin nose.

  “Mrs. Sterling?”

  “Horatio,” she sighs, smiling. “I’m very glad to see you here.”

  I look around. I half expect Coach Mane to pop out of the woodwork. A very big piece of me wants to believe Tommy Briggs will climb out from the crowd, slap me on my shoulder, and make fun of my first game in The League. But he doesn’t.

  “What news, Tarra?” asks Valor.

  “They’ve barricaded the district,” she says, reporting to Valor. “All promises from Horatio’s League agreement have been revoked. No one is getting in or out. The Synarch’s National Guard oversees the academy. They’ve declared twenty days.”

  “Twenty days until what?” I ask, hoping I don’t know the answer.

  “You surrender to the Synarch in twenty days, or they send the population to the Rim and burn the district of Allen and everyone who resists to the ground.”

  I think about my knees. My whole life, no matter how hard I’ve been hit in a game, even after my “injury,” I’ve never worried about them. They’ve never failed me. In the past twelve hours, they’ve given out three times, including right now. I have to get them examined. Maybe Annie can do something about them.

  “I have to go. … I have … to turn myself in. I can’t let them … ” I say, trying to suck the air back into my lungs and find my footing on the suddenly wobbly floor. I swing myself toward the door, not really sure where I’m going, but that’s not the point. The point is, an entire district, the same district I’m supposed to save, is about to die or worse because of me, because of something I didn’t choose. A few of those who did in fact have something to do with it grab my arms and waist and sit me down in a chair, where I wait until the room stops spinning.

  “Giving yourself up will not save Allen,” warns Valor. “It is beyond your reach now.”

  “But not yours,” I say, seeing the opening. “You can save Allen. The Children can save Allen.”

  “It is not our purpose.”

  “Not your purpose? The Soul was created for no other reason than to help others who cannot help themselves. Check your books! This is exactly your purpose.”

  “Mirans, Horatio, not this land.”

  “Twe
nty days from now, Allen will be razed to the ground. On that day, before the burning begins, you and every last Child of Hamelin will rise up to defend it. As soon as I know that Allen is safe, I’ll find Pock and return the Pipe.”

  “Impossible. There is too much at risk. We must preserve ourselves.”

  “It’s the only way.” I watch their faces. Annie and her parents, Linus, Mrs. Sterling, and a handful of others, probably Angels, show me they like the proposal. My parents, the Sobs, and the rest of the group turn toward Valor, who clearly fumes at me. He doesn’t like that I’m calling the shots.

  “You have no place to barter,” he declares. “Refuse the Call, and someone else will receive it.”

  “Time’s running short. Are you really willing to risk passing on this? On me?”

  “I will not let you dilute the sanctity of the Children’s mission with your own petty desires.”

  “Your fairy-tale world is that much more important than this one, Valor?” I ask. “You will really let hundreds of thousands of people die, not a consequence of their choice, but of yours?”

  “After you find Pock.” It took me a minute to realize my mother had stepped out of the crowd. She’s not one to offer much to a conversation.

  “What was that?” asks Valor.

  “We will defend Allen after you return the Soul.”

  “But without the Soul, we will have no power. Ordinary,” says Valor.

  “What does it matter?” she asks. “When the Soul has been returned and we have fulfilled our purpose, our end is our own to choose.”

  Everyone in the room is silent. Not the embarrassed kind of silent but the respectful awe-inspired silence. I have no idea who my mother is.

  “It will be lambs to the slaughter.”

  “What, your weapons, your shark ships are all powered by the Soul?” I ask, backing her up.

  “No.”

  “Then as soon as the Soul is returned, we will fight for this world,” concludes my brave and bold new mother. She turns to me. “Which means you have twenty days to find Berebus Pock. I suggest you be on your way soon.”

  “I have your word,” I say, taking Valor’s hand.

  “Yes, Horatio,” Valor says finally, staring at my mother, half with reverence, half with anger. “You have the promise of the Chief Elder of the Children of Hamelin.”

  8

  Wizards Among Us

  “MRS. STERLING,” I CALL AFTER THE GROUP TURNS THEIR ATTENTION TO OTHER THINGS. If any of them knew what I was planning, they’d lock me up.

  “Tarra, Horatio,” says Mrs. Sterling. “I think it’s appropriate you call me by my first name, Tarra, now that we really know each other.”

  “You were in Allen because of me,” I say.

  “And your family.”

  “You, the Sobs, the doctor—you came when my family moved there. So we wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Children of Hamelin are never alone. It’s how we’ve survived.”

  “How did you get out of Allen?” I ask.

  “Sorry?”

  “If Allen was barricaded, how did you get out? It has something to do with the Soul, yes?”

  “Yes,” she says finally. “I am a jumper.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I can jump from place to place in an instant, as long as I’ve been there before or can see it.”

  “What about taking others with you?”

  “Why?” she asks. “What are you thinking?”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I will.”

  “Tarra, if I’m going to succeed, I need to know my opponent.”

  I follow the bridge back to the small room, holding the pipe, the peppermint box, the borrowed ring, and the pieces of plain brown paper in my hands. I find Linus and Annie discussing the pipe when I enter the room, exactly where I asked them to be.

  “So what’s the plan, hero?” asks Annie, smiling.

  “Linus,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, when you told me not to play, you were being literal, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You weren’t telling me to change my game plan to try and throw Trinity off balance, right?”

  “No, I meant don’t play the Synarch’s game.”

  “I’m not playing it now. How well do you think it’s going?”

  Linus breathes out a smile and nods his head.

  “Things are moving pretty fast,” I say, “and I’m kind of making this up as I go along. There’s a lot of emotion involved for obvious reasons, but here we are.”

  Annie and Linus look at each other and back at me. Neither of them have any idea what I’m talking about.

  “It’s clear that Berebus Pock doesn’t expect me to go on this search alone, considering he gave me three rings, which seem to be made for three specific people. You two need to come with me.”

  “Us?” asks Annie.

  “I’m in,” says Linus.

  “Well, hang on,” I say, a little annoyed. “You need to understand what the game is.”

  “Fine, yes,” says Linus. “Go ahead.”

  “The Synarch will be hunting us, and the fact that we’re all teenagers who have never been beyond the guard of the lo-pry neighborhoods will be working against us, not to mention that we don’t exactly know where we’re going, how to get there, or even what we’re going to need to win. A lot of cold nights, as my granddad used to say. This is your decision. But know that you two are my first choice.”

  Linus and Annie stand there, eyes fixed on me for a moment longer than is comfortable.

  “Oh,” says Linus finally, “are you finished?”

  “No. And Linus, this is for you. My intention is to prevent Allen from burning. You understand?”

  “But you’ll keep your promise to the Children.”

  “As long as they keep theirs to Allen.”

  “I’m in.”

  “Good.” I knew asking Linus to come would be smart and easy. He knows more about the Children of Hamelin than I know about anything, including The Escape. And he’s not going for me, that’s for certain. He wants to be a part of this so his name and adventures can make their way into the Chronicles of Hamelin he’s memorized. I’ve played with guys with the same attitude. Hotshots who love to make the big play in big games. They can be valuable, sometimes dangerous. Most of them aren’t team players. I’m counting on Linus to be smart enough to know his role.

  “Wait,” says Annie, “Why us?”

  “Why not us?” asks Linus.

  “Seriously, why the two of us? I’m sixteen. Linus is seventeen. There are some exceptionally powerful people lingering in these trees. People who can move things with their minds, talk to trees and animals, breathe underwater, run faster than most vehicles can go. You need to think about this more, Raysh.”

  “Valor insists on a ten-person escort, and maybe one of them will breathe underwater, but frankly, I don’t trust any of his people not to run the first time they disagree with what we’re doing,” I say. “And besides, you’ll be seventeen in, what a week?”

  “Raysh—”

  “I choose Linus because he’s an expert on this stuff and is our best chance of figuring out the notes on Pock’s papers. He has spent his life learning music, even though it isn’t his real gift, because, I’m guessing, the Piper played an instrument. Right, Linus? Your real gift is mechanical intuition, isn’t it? You immediately know how stuff works.”

  “How did you—”

  “And you’re a healer, Annie. Not just bones and muscle I’m talking about, not to me.” I see her cheeks turn red before she can bow her head to hide them.

  “But mostly, you two are comin
g with me because Berebus Pock wants you to.” I toss them both the extra rings, and when they’re settled on their fingers, I point to the lower left corner of a piece of brown paper where, surrounded by other notes and figures that make no sense to me, two drawings of the rings encompass one name each: Annie and Linus.

  “There’s no way it’s a coincidence that both of you were there when the Grey found me. The rings only work for us. And so here we are, and there you are.” I point again to the notes.

  “So you trust him,” says Annie, “Berebus Pock.”

  “I don’t know yet,” I say. “But if I follow his map and we fail, then he’s got only himself to blame.” I smile after a minute to let them know I’m sort of kidding.

  “Knowledge and passion. Health and heart. Strength and vision,” I say, nodding to each of us in turn. “There isn’t much more I can think of that we need to win. Are we together?”

  “All the way,” says Linus.

  “No matter what,” says Annie.

  Walking through the treetops of the Garden is an extraordinary thing. The crisp air combines with the scent of pine needles and wood-burning fires, and tonight, the Children have set up round paper lanterns hanging from tree branches. They’re celebrating the arrival of the Call. Tonight, I’ll be presented to the entire group, present the Pipe, and commit to the mission officially. I’ve been ranting for the past ten minutes to Annie about all the fanfare. She’s chosen laughter as the appropriate response.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just can’t buy it coming from a guy who relished being cheered by two hundred thousand screaming fans. You have to think of it the same way you thought of Allen. To you, you are their great hope. And that is something to cheer for.”

  “I can’t just turn off my memories and a lifelong disdain for what they did—or didn’t do. I’m sorry, but forgiveness just isn’t in the cards.”