Magic at Midnight

by Lyssa Chiavari

  About the Author

  Karissa Laurel lives in North Carolina with her son, her husband, the occasional in-law, and a very hairy husky named Bonnie. Her favorite things are dark chocolate, coffee, super heroes and Star Wars. She can also quote The Princess Bride verbatim. Karissa is the author of two novel series: The Norse Chronicles, an urban fantasy trilogy from Red Adept Publishing; and The Stormbourne Chronicles, a young adult fantasy series from Evolved Publishing.

  Books by Karissa Laurel:

  Heir of Thunder (The Stormbourne Chronicles, Book 1)

  Quest of Thunder (The Stormbourne Chronicles, Book 2)

  Crown of Thunder (The Stormbourne Chronicles, Book 3)

  Midnight Burning (The Norse Chronicles, Book 1)

  The Pitiless Prisoner of Hamelin

  a retelling of The Pied Piper

  ♛

  MARK C. KING

  i.

  The torchlight that flickered in from outside the cell door was aided only a little from a small barred window high on the wall, but it was enough. I could make out the dirt floor, littered with straw, the thick stone wall, and, most importantly, the man—the criminal—seated across from me. For his part, he looked rather calm, especially considering his crime and his likely future.

  I wished I could say that I was calm, but I was anything but. The initial excitement I had at receiving the assignment had vanished days ago, and rather quickly; and I was left with feelings ranging from general doubt to utter inadequacy mixed with not a small amount of fear. As a seventeen-year-old law clerk, it was almost unheard of for someone of my age and position to be asked to represent any criminal, much less someone with the notoriety of the man I was assigned to. News of his alleged crime had spread quickly throughout the country, although I didn’t hear of it until after I had accepted the assignment—not that it would have made much of a difference. When you are new to a firm, and trying to make an impression, you said yes to whatever they asked.

  Still, I must admit that when my uncle—the head of the firm—offered me the assignment, I felt conflicted. To be sent out to another city, to represent a criminal, sounded perfectly exciting. But I was afraid that this would be viewed by my peers as evidence of favored treatment. I had never noticed any special kindnesses from my uncle, not with regards to business, so the assignment seemed quite out of character. Begging his pardon, I made my concern known. He appreciated my caution, but assured me that he was doing me no favors with his offer. It didn’t take long before I realized that he was right. To stand next to the criminal, to represent him, with what he was accused of, was not something anyone would envy. It is, in fact, the reason it was handed to a lowly clerk: no one else would do it.

  Now, I was sitting in the dark cell with my assignment at arm’s length. I’m not sure I had ever felt so young or so unprepared in my life. After trying to recall the advice my uncle had given me, I started my interview with the prisoner. With a little waver in my voice, I asked, “What is your name?”

  “My name?” the criminal responded, some surprise in his voice. “That’s of no real importance, now is it? What do the people call me?”

  I was hesitant to reply with the nickname that had been widely spoken, but eventually answered, “They have taken to calling you the Pied Piper.”

  “Ha!” he said enthusiastically. “I imagine they call me much worse in private.”

  Did he actually find this amusing? “If what you’re accused of is true, can you blame them?”

  A thin smile crept over the man’s dirty face; not from happiness, but from some sort of sick amusement. “A little.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. After what he allegedly had done, I don’t know how he could blame anyone for any thought against him. Unless…

  I asked, “Are you saying that you are innocent?”

  Shaking his head, he answered, “No, not at all. In fact, I anticipate that the trial will be short, for I’m an unmitigated monster. Never has this filthy, dank cell held someone as guilty or remorseless as I. And I promise you this: There’ll be no begging for my life, nor any pleas for mercy. I don’t deserve them, and don’t want them. It’s time for my tale to end.”

  Those words surprised me even more than his previous ones, as they amounted to an admission of his crime. I’d never heard of a prisoner being so forthright—not with his own guilt. But now I was confused. “If you’re as guilty as you say, then why do you blame the people for the awful things they say about you?”

  He leaned forward a little and, with menace, said, “Because they’re implying that they are without guilt. They may call me whatever vile names they can conjure, but they cannot ignore that they had a wicked part to play. I’m guilty, but they’re not innocent.”

  I tilted my head in confusion at his response as he leaned back and smiled. What did he mean by ‘they’re not innocent’? Of course, that was why I was there—to find out the prisoner’s version of the account.

  In addition to his words, there were several other things about him that I hadn’t anticipated. Although he’d been in his cell for a little more than a week—his hair oily and unkempt, his thin beard unruly, and his skin bruised—the vivid colors of his tunic still showed signs of their original brightness. Yes, it was dirty, torn, and had what looked like blood stains, but the overall appearance was celebratory. The happy colors were as out of place, in that dark hole, as pearls on a pig.

  His attire, however, was not the most shocking thing that I found about the criminal. As I’d traveled to Hamelin to see him—a three day’s ride—I’d had plenty of time to consider the facts of the crime as they had been presented to me. I ultimately came to the assumption that this notorious prisoner that the people had taken to calling “the Pied Piper” was an absolute lunatic, a heartless monster. How could he not be in order to do what he’d done? But as I examined the man that sat across from me and listened as he answered my questions, he showed no overt signs of madness. If he was, in fact, a sane man, then his crime was hard to fathom.

  I tried to brush aside those thoughts as they were not helping my confidence. I swallowed, with what little saliva I had, and continued, “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Yes. You’re here to represent me to those who will be responsible to judge my case. Though why they sent you, I can’t imagine. You’re just a boy.”

  I nodded, ignoring his comment about my age. I refused to let him know that I was just a clerk. “My name is Herr Steinhauser and I have traveled all the way from Hamburg.”

  The prisoner chuffed. “An absolute waste of your time, I’m afraid.”

  “Be that as it may, protocol is to be followed. Do you know why they sent me, a complete stranger, such a distance to Hamelin?”

  He shook his head indicating that he did not know—or did not care.

  Wanting to understand this criminal, I watched his face closely as I said my next words. “They sent me because no one here would represent you. Not a single person in the entire town, or towns hereabout, could stand the thought of being at your side. What do you think of that?”

  His grim smile returned and he simply said, “Good. I wouldn’t bear them anyway.”

  In the few minutes I had been with the prisoner, his distaste for the townsfolk had come across very clearly. Hate seasoned his voice and rage burned quietly behind his eyes. That, combined with what he was accused of doing, made him the most frightening person I had ever come across.

  Mustering what boldness I could—which was not much—I pressed on. “I have several questions that I must ask you. Will you answer them honestly?”

  “I will.”

  “Then let’s begin.”

  ii.

  “I would like you to tell me about the musical instrument, the pipe. Is it magic?”

  “Magic!” The prisoner laughed, throwing his head back in disbelief at my question.

  A bit offended by his response, I persisted. “Yes, is it magic? If the accounts I heard of it are true, then it’s
quite remarkable—beyond remarkable—wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Remarkable? Yes, I think that’s a fair statement. It certainly is unique, to my knowledge.” Then, shaking his head, he continued, “But come, Herr Steinhauser, magic? I thought the children around here were gone.”

  Implying that my question about magic was childish added to the insult, but his comment about the children being gone was as callous and remorseless a statement as I’d ever heard. “Well,” I responded coolly, “I didn’t believe in monsters until very recently.”

  He stared back at me, and I began to think that he might try to attack. His hands and feet were shackled—tightly, judging by the blood I could see on his wrists—but he could still jump at my person. I wondered how long it would take before the guard could open the heavy cell door and assist me.

  After a few tense seconds, the Piper let a hint of a smile tug at his lips while he leaned back. “The pipe is not magic. Just, as you said, remarkable.”

  I tried not to show the relief I felt at his answering the question without trying to harm me; it is unlikely that I succeeded. I continued, “Where did you get it?”

  “From my father, who got it from his father, and so forth for several generations.”

  “But where did it come from?”

  “My great-great-great grandfather, a craftsman of wood and lover of music, made it. Evidently, he made many musical instruments, but this one stood out.”

  It was hard to believe the stories I had heard about it, but every account was adamant about the pipe’s existence and what it could do. “Did he create it to…to do what it does?”

  A shake of his head. “No. He created it to play music. It was his son who discovered that it could do more, that it had an unintended, but special, ability.”

  I had to hear it plainly. “Could you describe this ability?”

  “It isn’t hard to understand. The pipe can attract animals. Play a simple tune and you’re able to draw all manner of creatures near to you.”

  It sounded like a fairy tale. “Any tune will attract any animal?”

  “No,” the prisoner explained, “not exactly. There’s a little skill needed, but not much. The higher-pitched songs attract the smaller animals, the deeper-pitched songs attract larger animals. My father, while learning to play it, once brought three bears near and barely escaped with his life. Over the generations, different tunes have been discovered that attract very specific creatures. However, the one most used is the one that attracts deer.”

  “For hunting?”

  A nod. “Correct. There’s never been a lack of food in my family since the discovery of what the pipe could do. It’s made us very self-sufficient.”

  His last statement reminded me of an aspect of the case I desired more details on. I said, “I want to ask you about that. You live in the forest, a healthy trek from the town. From the accounts I heard, you don’t visit often and were a stranger to most.”

  “Your question?”

  “Why so solitary?”

  After taking a moment to scratch his stubbled jaw on his shoulder, he answered, “The forest provides all that I need. I had no particular interest in anyone else’s affairs and preferred that the townsfolk felt the same about me. Things would have been different if I had continued in that way.”

  There was certainly some hidden meaning in his answer, but I wasn’t ready to try and unravel it just yet. Instead, I asked, “Did others know about the pipe’s ability?”

  “Yes. My family didn’t hide it, nor did they go out of their way to flaunt it. It was simply a tool that we used.”

  It was surprising how common he made that remarkable instrument seem. His explanation, however impossible as it was to believe, matched all the accounts I’d heard. The pipe is real, was the incredible conclusion that I had to come to. Unfortunately, that meant that the other aspects of the account were also likely true—as horrible as they were.

  I found that my next words were reluctant to come out. His reactions had confused me and I could only fear how he might respond to my next line of query. Still, without any real choice, I had to proceed. Swallowing once more, I managed to finally say, “You have mentioned your family quite a lot. My next few questions are about them, particularly your wife and daughter. Are you all right to continue?”

  The look on the Piper’s face when I mentioned his wife and daughter became dark and troubled. Any smile, grim or otherwise, disappeared and his eyes dropped to the dirt floor between us. I knew that these wouldn’t be easy questions for him, which made them very hard for me, but I felt were critical in understanding the crime.

  After a few seconds, he answered me in a raspy voice: “Proceed.”

  iii.

  “I understand that you are a widower.”

  His eyes did not leave the ground and he simply nodded.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. What was your wife like?”

  Without adjusting his gaze, he answered, “Perfection.”

  “Perfection? How so?”

  He raised his eyes to mine and I saw a softness in them that I wouldn’t have imagined possible in the criminal before me. With obvious emotion, he went on to describe her. “Everything she did made life wonderful. She worked with me; she laughed with me; I would play music and she would sing. No two people have ever been happier. I loved her truly and somehow she loved me just as much. Have you ever known happiness like that, Herr Steinhauser?”

  I was not expecting the question, but knew that what he was describing was nothing I’d experienced. Even with my hopeful thoughts of Katharina, the beautiful young woman I hoped to court back home, I had nothing I could truly compare. Shaking my head, I muttered, “I have not married yet.”

  “I fear,” the Piper commented, “that your visit is even more of a waste of time than I had originally thought. With your young age and with what you just admitted, you can’t possibly understand me or my actions. How can you represent what you don’t know?”

  I knew that love motivated people to do amazing—or horrible—things and that was certainly what he was alluding to. But, I reminded myself, no amount of love could possibly justify his actions. I pushed his comments aside and continued my questioning. “How long were you married?”

  “Not nearly long enough. Seven years. A mere glimpse of a lifetime.”

  “And you had a child during that time?”

  A nod. “Yes. She gave me a daughter which made my blissful life even more wonderful. Every day was the epitome of contentment.”

  “How”—it was hard to form the words—“How did your wife die?”

  I wasn’t sure he was going to answer the question. His gaze fell back to the floor and he continued staring blankly for several seconds. Just as I was considering repeating the question, he raised his eyes. Very quietly, to the point I had to lean forward to hear him, he said, “She became sick. She was taken with fever and coughing. She stopped eating. I tried everything I could think of but nothing helped.”

  The pain in in his face was clear. I may have thought him to be a callous monster, but he was not completely without feeling.

  “For several days she only got worse,” he continued. “And then…and then she passed.” Tears were now in his eyes, cutting veins in his dirty face, and his voice was breaking. “I watched her get sicker and sicker and nothing that I could do helped. At that point in my life, it was, by far, the worst pain I’d ever been in.”

  Without thinking, I asked, “Has there been worse?” but realized the answer before I even finished asking my question.

  His eyes became hard as he glared at me. “Yes.”

  iv.

  After a deep breath—the heavy air of the cell was not very refreshing—I started my next difficult line of inquiry. “Tell me about your daughter. How old was she when your wife died?”

  “She was four.”

  “And you took care of her on your own?”

  A nod. “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t that hard, tak
ing care of a young child, alone, deep in the woods?”

  “No,” he grunted at me, seemingly insulted.

  Trying to explain myself, I said, “I only ask since raising a child without your spouse seems like a difficult chore.”

  He looked at me with a pitying smile and commented, “As I said, you’ll not understand me. I loved Abigail. It is not a chore to take care of someone you love.”

  This was not going well. I tried to change tacks. “That was your daughter’s name, Abigail?”

  “Yes. As fitting a name as there ever could be.”

  “Fitting? Why? Because it’s biblical?”

  “Fitting,” he answered, “because the meaning of the name Abigail is ‘her father’s joy’. My precious girl was my sole source of happiness, my one and only joy, after my wife’s passing.”

  “So, the two of you got along well?”

  The Piper gave a small smile at my question. The warmth of it was unexpected in such a place as his cell. “Abigail was my joyous shadow.”

  The clear affection, the pure love, in his words continued to surprise me—as well as the poetic phrases he used. “How so?” I asked, truly interested in how such a bond could be had.

  “Whatever I did, she did. When I hunted, she’d track along with me. When I gathered wood, she’d carry sticks and twigs. As I tended the garden, she’d pull weeds. Cooking, cleaning, everything, she was there to assist.”

  “So she was useful.”

  The prisoner shook his head and laughed at my statement. “Useful? Your adjectives are quite poor, Herr Steinhauser. Yes, she was useful, but she was so much more. Abigail…inspired happiness.”

  Again! Such amazingly warm phrases that he used when speaking of his family. It was difficult to reconcile the man presented before me with the crime he had admitted to committing. “‘Inspired happiness.’ That’s a charming expression. How did your daughter accomplish such a lofty feat?”