The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

  Finally, the three left standing that I can see back off. But they’re not looking at me. They’re looking behind me. And I realize that I’ve lost track of Annie and Linus. I whirl around, and four Nomads have them locked in their arms with blades and arrows at their throats. I flash forward looking for a way out, but there isn’t one, not if we’re going to stay together.

  A shorter Nomad starts shouting at me, pointing to the sword. I can’t understand him. But after enough shouting and pointing, I finally get that he wants me to sheathe the sword and put my hands behind my back, where they are immediately tied. None of this feels right. All three of us should be dead with anything that looks to be valuable gleaned while our bodies are left to feed the buzzards. Buzzards. That big blue buzzard could have told me about the intruders. Well, we stayed together. Hope it’s happy.

  We’re marched down the hill and across an open plain until I can see a large cart, at least as tall as me and wide enough to fit Tommy Briggs’ van. We’re pushed into the back and shouted at with something that resembles “shut up and keep still” before the cart’s back door slams us into darkness.

  “I hate this place,” I say to Annie, sitting down on the floor of the crate. Annie breaks out laughing uncontrollably, and now I’m laughing, the kind of hysterical laughter that pushes the tears you’ve held onto for far too long. Linus, unsurprisingly, doesn’t join in.

  “Linus, you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “No you’re not,” says Annie, pushing down the last of the laughter. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know what we’re doing here.”

  “Neither do any of us.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” says Linus, a little snider than I would like. “Nomads don’t take prisoners. Killing is part of survival out here. They do like they did back at the coast. I don’t know what we’re doing here.”

  “Linus, I’ve asked myself that about six times since I was dragged out of Revolution. We’re cats, each with nine lives.

  “I hope more than nine,” answers Annie.

  “It isn’t bounty,” says Linus. “Nomads don’t interact with the Synarch for any reason. They’re outlaws and traitors according to the government. They would never risk being seen, even for the insane price I’m certain they put on Horatio’s head.”

  I peer out a hole in the side of the cart to see the last of the beaten Nomads make their way back from the butte. They have our horses. Looks like most of them are behind us, but whether they’re walking or in another cart, I can’t tell. I’m starting to think they let me keep my sword simply to mock me. I can’t even budge the bonds on my wrists. Neither can Linus or Annie. For a people who don’t take prisoners, they have bondage down to an art.

  I don’t know much about Nomads. Except that they are made up of lo-pry who either failed their Trials or never took them because they would rather live like savages in the wilderness than entertain the Citizens or live in lo-pry neighborhoods the rest of their lives. It may be a dingy living out here and fierce, from what I’ve seen, but they do have a level of freedom—if not luxury—that I’ve never seen.

  The Nomads speak a different language from the rest of us, something called Jobba, but until several hours ago, I’d never heard a word of it. It sounds like a very fast, very blurred version of English.

  And I know Nomads don’t have friends. They live in tribes and trade only with other Nomad tribes, never with the lo-pry and certainly not with the Citizens. None of this is good news for us. We’ve traveled fast enough that I can’t make anything out in the bleary landscape, even as dawn approaches. Annie and Linus both are able to close their eyes and drift in and out of sleep. I keep running in my mind, hoping to see a chance to escape. But there’s nothing. All I can do is sit and wait.

  By the time the cart stops, sunlight pours through the small hole in the side wall. The jolt shakes Annie and Linus awake. Maybe we can make a break for it when the door opens. As soon as it does, all thoughts of escape disappear. At least twenty Nomads stand with weapons out, most of them bows and arrows pointing straight at us. I can’t help but feel a little flattered.

  I blink hard, trying to get a look at my surroundings, but the sun isn’t cooperating. Finally, I’m pushed into the shade of the cart where my eyes adjust enough to distinguish the yellow of the sun and the bursting yellows, reds, and oranges clinging to white tree trunks surrounding us. The sun is too high to be morning but not low enough to be going on to sunset. My guess is we traveled through the night and half of the next day. Time is getting short.

  They march us up into the nearby foothills using a trail that’s been overrun by wild grass and weeds, but there’s enough of the trail still visible that it’s clearly meant to be here. Or at least it was. Evergreens replace the brilliantly colored leaves, the higher we climb. We’re directed onto rocky terrain and climb up high enough to see the surrounding area. The granite rock and colorful trees are a stark difference from the red rock cliffs of the Nomad territory.

  Annie hikes close enough that her arm touches me, and immediately I breathe easier. Linus follows alone, if you can call twelve Nomads with arrows and clubs marching behind alone.

  I’ve heard about Synarch outposts along the borders of Nomad strongholds. I wonder if this is just remote enough that they’re willing to make the deal. After all, winter’s coming on. Maybe they’re willing to trade us for supplies.

  All my guessing stops when they lead us to the edge of a cavernous hole in the rock. It doesn’t fall straight down, but the decline is too steep to walk. Sliding would be our only option should we be forced into it, which looks likely. The Nomads cut the bonds on our wrists while the short one shouts and points down the hole. I flash forward one more time, rubbing my wrists, but see nothing but failure if I try to escape.

  SLIDEDOWNTHEHOLE cry.

  I can’t make sense of it, and for a second I actually question whether I’m losing my mind. But I have no other choice.

  “OK, Sooth,” says Annie, attempting to control her trembling. “I’m up for a plan here.”

  “We live, but it might hurt,” I say. “Follow me down.” I glance over to Linus to see if he’s going to follow. His grimace doesn’t tell me anything. I drop down, sliding on my feet along the surprisingly smooth granite rock until I tumble onto a flat area. I can’t get my bearings before both Annie and Linus crash into me.

  “Thanks for the soft landing.”

  “Soft?” I ask.

  “Horatio!” I whip my head around to see my mother running toward me down a long rocky corridor. Before I can even register what’s going on, she’s helped both Annie and Linus up and strangled them with one of her fantastic embraces. Then she snatches me up from the ground and gives me the same treatment.

  “You’re alive,” I whisper, holding her tighter, finally getting what’s happening. “You’re alive!” I don’t try to stop the tears. So the adage is true. Thinking you’ve lost someone does wonders for the relationship.

  “And so are you,” she whispers back. I see Annie over my mom’s shoulder. She’s covering her mouth, her eyes are wet.

  “The girls?”

  “They’re here. And your dad.”

  “Annie!”

  “Linus!”

  The Walkers and Sobs rush from the corridors and swallow their kids in their arms, smothering them in relief and adoration, which, by the looks of it, is most welcome. But I choke on it. My stomach cringes with a sick feeling that almost pushes me to panic. How could I have allowed them to leave their parents? Put them at risk? Even after I knew about the wizards. Stupid. This is why I move only fifteen seconds at a time. Anything else is too risky. Anything else can hurt too many other people. At least when you’re me.

  I squeeze my mom tighter, using her to apologize to the world, whether or not it’s watching. I�
��m seventeen. I haven’t lived. I know nothing but how to throw a star down a field. Someone else needs to do this. Or at least I have to do this alone. I can’t be responsible for the lives of others. I’ve already tried that and failed spectacularly.

  It gets worse. I’m told that seventeen people died at the Garden, most of them covering the evacuation. The rest made it here to the Cellar, they call it, the place they go during serious storms of unrest. They dug it out of the Black Hills in what is now the Big Sky State. I also learn that the Synarch’s triumph wasn’t nearly as one-sided as the broadcast made it sound. Out of the ten Synarch cruisers, only two survived and only because they retreated.

  “Your defense gave us the time we needed to regroup from the surprise attack,” says Valor after clapping me on the shoulder. “We covered your escape as long as we could before we had to turn to our own retreat. It would never have been safe for us to stay now that the Synarch knows where to find us.”

  “We should have stayed and let them come.” The long, dark-haired Talia of the Angels appears from the growing crowd. “We could have fought from a position of strength at the Garden. Instead, we burn it to the ground.”

  “You did that?” asks Linus before realizing the answer. “Ah, leaving no trail, no secrets, nothing they could use to their advantage.”

  “Lost my entire workshop, too.” I whirl around to find my dad limping up to the group, his right hand clutching a curved, wooden cane. Something about his left foot. At first, it doesn’t make sense. Doctor Lannigan or one of the other healers should be able to fix it. But I learn that their healing power is limited.

  “No matter how hard he tried, limbs just don’t grow back.” My father lifts up his leg and rests a heel and half of his foot on a nearby stool. The rest of the pad and his toes have been replaced by a solid piece of silver metal. It’s smooth and looks more like clay in its density. He wiggles it without touching it.

  “He died trying,” my dad adds. “The doctor wouldn’t leave me. And he was killed trying to hoist me to safety.”

  One day, I’ll reconcile my resentment and gratitude toward Doctor Lannigan.

  “I’ve almost figured out how to connect it to the nervous system,” he says, stroking the silver metal along its inner side. “That’s about as much as I can do. Really, I just hope to walk on it again without the cane. Then it’s on to the hand.” He holds up his left hand. Or at least the stump of his left arm where his hand should be.

  This is too much. I don’t want to talk about what more was lost because I was stupid.

  “The Nomads, how did they—”

  “We’ve had an alliance of necessity with them for years,” explains my dad. “We provide them with equipment, tools, sometimes food and clothing, and they keep us informed about places we can’t be.”

  My heart sinks as I watch him waving around his left stump, but his smile and eyes seem to be under the impression that life could not be better. I don’t have it in me to tell him that my insides are collapsing under guilt-ridden screams. He must sense it because he lays his good hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “It’s alright, son,” he says. “You’re back now. You’re home.”

  It’s an odd sensation, one I’m not really sure how to deal with. I think it’s the first time in my life I can remember my father being happy to see me.

  Being seventeen is tough by itself. Being seventeen and having the weight of two worlds on your shoulders is impossible. I teeter between insisting that someone else run with the baton for a while and severing my ties with everyone I love just so I don’t have to see them suffer while I do this. To see them suffer if I fail. I need someone to be saved. Now.

  “What about Allen?” I ask. “What’s the status?”

  “Completely cut off from the outside,” says Talia. “Tanks at every point of entry, thousands of soldiers in and out of the district. Food, water, and energy rations that wouldn’t satisfy a house cat. Curfews, cruisers hovering above, constant interrogations.”

  “It is meant for you,” adds Valor. “Intimidate you into turning yourself in.”

  “You know that they changed the ultimatum to ten days from twenty, right? You heard that?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “There isn’t enough time,” I say, already knowing Valor won’t budge. “Seven days left. It took me three just to find the first of I don’t know how many of Pock’s clues.”

  “Four,” says Linus.

  “I can’t do it before Allen is destroyed. You need to save them now.”

  “Allen is lost.”

  “Look, I’m asking you—”

  “We cannot attack. Any of us. The promise from the Angels was both unauthorized and ill-advised.”

  My eyes go wide as Talia stares back at me without even a hint of regret or apology.

  “Talia—”

  “As of this moment, one hundred and seventy-nine PureHearts still breathe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nearly a tenth of our population was lost during the battle at the Garden. If we attempt to face them with fewer of us and more of them, how long do you think we would last before our people numbered fewer than one hundred thirty? They could be charging on us as we speak. Until you deliver the pipe to Berebus Pock, restore the Soul, or find hundreds of new PureHearts, our priority must be to keep the Soul and the Children of Hamelin safe.”

  “Why, Valor? Why? Why do you keep yourself so distant from the only world you know?”

  “Because of the—”

  “—Restoration Edict,” I say with him but louder. “This is because of you!” I scream, grabbing Valor by his lapels. “You put them in this position!” I catch the temper rising in my chest. He knows it, too. Two burly Children pull my arms off him and back me away. Talia’s stoic frame offers no support. They all believe the Soul is the priority. Why would they think otherwise? They’ve never known the world around them. Easier that way. Easier to survive, easier to let go. Easier to ignore.

  The resident rooms in the Cellar are nearly as nice as the ones in the trees, but instead of wood, they’re carved out of solid rock. The most striking feature is a tall, cylindrical chimney and a large fireplace at the base. I’m entranced by the dancing fire already burning when I enter. So welcoming and generous. Not a judgment or plea sputtering from its flames. Not asking a single thing of me but to relax and accept its comfort.

  But I’m not in need of comfort. I pull the eight pieces of plain brown paper scribbled upon with a dark purple ink that started this whole mess. They’re folded in a haphazard pile in my hand. I take one last look at them, the various sketches and scribbles, diagrams, and numbers that are supposed to mean something, supposed to save someone. Even a lot of someones. What kind of a person, creature, or monster expects me to help strangers at the sacrifice of loved ones? Valor doesn’t get to decide who lives and dies.

  I take out the pipe of old dark wood and, together with the paper, toss them among the burning logs and leave without looking back. If Valor is so sure someone else will be called if I fail or refuse, then I will force him to let me go.

  I make a wrong turn somewhere among the underground tunnels, and instead of finding my way out of this maze, I open a pair of steel doors to a common area populated by at least a hundred and fifty people, some reading digital slates, others playing games or talking with one another. Color and creed are as diverse as the population of the Earth itself. Must be every last PureHeart on the planet. Just before I can sneak back out, someone recognizes me. Three someones.

  “Horatio!” cries my sister Lizzie. She’s carrying the youngest, Lily, while Jane trails behind her, holding Lizzie’s shirttail with one hand and the thumb of her other popped in her mouth, her short curls bouncing as she tries to keep up.

  I kneel down and scoop all of them up, hugging them tigh
t and burying my head in the middle of them. I feel the quaking of my legs and shortness of my breath. I shake it off, setting them down in front of me.

  “We live in a cave!” cries Jane, her thick curls bouncing with every word.

  “I know, Jane.”

  “’Cause the trees all burned down.”

  “I know that, too, Jane,” I tell her, a bit softer.

  “You’re here now for good, right?” asks Lizzie, hitching Lily up her hip.

  “Not yet,” I say, taking Lily from her and placing her on my knee. “But soon. Hopefully.”

  “Well, I’ll keep watching you.”

  “Okay. Wait. What do you mean, you’ll keep watching me?”

  She bows her head and swings from side to side.

  “Lizzie, you’re not in trouble. What do you mean you’ll watch me?”

  “I can see you when you’re not here.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t see you. I just see what you see,” she smiles. “All I have to do is think about you, and I know exactly where you are. I saw you in the castle in the water.”

  “You did?”

  “And the old man who hurt his neck.”

  “The old man.”

  “I woke up when you almost drowned in the caves and I screamed, but then the horses saved you! Oh, Horatio, can I ride the horses?” She runs around and hops on my back. “Please?” she begs. “Please?”

  “I’ll show you horses!” I snatch up curly-haired Jane in my free arm, and with Lizzie hooked on my back, I start to gallop around, neighing all the way. The girls are hysterical with glee, all but Lily, who looks more confused about all this than anything else. My eye suddenly catches the stares of the onlookers. All one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes track my every move, some with great smiles, others with tears streaming down their cheeks. I slow myself until I’m finally stopped and crouching again.

  “Next time, the real horses,” says Lizzie.