by Hilary McKay
Not at all! Hard work made our city. Hard work from all, even the young. The boys learned their fathers’ trades: up early in the morning, and steady at it until the candles burned out at night. The girls were little housewives as soon as they could walk. They swept and baked and made and mended, dried their herbs and pounded spices. They kept their hair hidden in snow-white caps, and in church they held their eyes modestly down.
Oh, they were good girls! Good girls and boys! I remember Sunday services! The boys in their best jackets. The glimpse of a girl’s curved cheek under a bonnet enough to keep you dreaming for a week!
Not like the young people of Hamelin that came afterward! Why, they could hardly be hauled inside a church. The boys whistling in the streets with their hands in their pockets. The girls! There were no more white caps hiding their hair! Curls and braids, ribbons too, if they could get them, scarlet and blue and gold. And the boys just as bad, with bright feathers in their hats.
I never wore a feather in my life, when I was a boy. Nor would they, if they had had my father. And after all, what harm is a feather? Or a ribbon? I expect my sister would have liked a ribbon. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I cannot guess; I hardly knew her. Boys and girls kept separate in those days.
There was no keeping separate for the next generation. No. They gathered round the steps of the fountain with apples from the market and rolls from the bakers, sausage from the butcher, cheese from the dairy. Dropping crumbs. A picnic in the market square. Never ever in my day.
It would be unkind at this time to say that the young people brought the rats to Hamelin, and I do not say it.
However, the rats came. Undoubtedly the river was the cause. Or the good harvest.
At first we only heard the creatures at night. A scratching under the floorboards and spoiled bread in the morning. Then we would catch glimpses by daylight, timid, racing along under the shadow of a wall.
Although already you could smell them.
When the warm weather of spring arrived, the numbers doubled, tripled, became ten times as many, almost overnight.
And the noise they made! Before, the night noises in the street had been the games of the young people. Now it was the squeals and scrabbles of rats. Huge rats. Fighting rats. Unafraid, daylight rats. Rats that leaped from cupboards and crawled over pillows and fought such battles in the house walls that you could see the plaster bulge. Rats among the rafters, and rats sliding from the drains. Fat rats crawling up from the graveyard in the morning. The whole city paying the price of those picnics around my grandfather’s fountain.
Although it may well have been the nearness of the river.
Or the harvest.
Of course.
In late spring then, in the worst of it, came the Piper.
The Pied Piper, the young people called him (they had names for everyone). Pied he was, however, many-colored, bright and dark. Cloak and jacket and breeches, all stripes and bands of red and white and blue and gold and green. High-stepping red leather boots, and a long shining pipe, a valuable thing. Silver overlaid with gold, I would say. I know about such matters.
The first I knew of the Piper arriving was his hammering at the door of the city hall.
“I heard you had a problem,” he said, the corners of his mouth curled up in a smile (as a rat ran over my feet). “Perhaps I can help you,” said he.
Bright blue eyes flashing sparks like sunlight on water. I didn’t take to him.
“A slight inconvenience,” I said. “The natural result of our closeness to the river . . .” (a rat fell out of my pocket) “. . . or perhaps the excellent harvest . . .” (three more tumbled squeaking down the steps) “. . . or possibly . . . ,” I added, frowning at two graceless young lads grinning across at me from the fountain steps, “. . . the careless behavior of the young. Whatever, the situation is completely under control.”
A rat, as large as a small dog, sat squarely down by my foot and began to comb its whiskers. When I pushed it away, it sank its long yellow teeth into the lacings of my boots and would not be shaken free.
“Completely under control,” repeated the Piper. (Did he wink at the boys? I think he did.) “Excellent! Then you have no need of a poor ratcatcher such as me.”
That was the first I knew of him being a ratcatcher, and he had already turned away.
“Stay! Wait!” I cried, as he went striding across the market square. “My good fellow! Stay!”
“Good fellow?” he asked, and nodded as if pleased.
“Should I, should the city, have need of a ratcatcher,” I panted (ignoring the smirks of those boys), “what would be . . . How much should we . . . What would you charge?”
“For how many rats?” he inquired, briskly.
“For all the rats in Hamelin,” I said (glaring across at the fountain steps, where quite a crowd had collected).
The Piper raised an eyebrow as he looked down at me (he was tall). “For all the rats in Hamelin,” he said. “Well. For every ten, a guilder!”
“What?” I cried. “Impossible!” For a guilder is a good sum of money in Hamelin. You might buy a large loaf of bread for a guilder, or a tankard of brown ale. “A guilder for each ten?” I said. “There must be a thousand rats in the city!”
“Ten thousand,” said the Piper.
“That would mean a thousand guilders!” I exclaimed, calculating rapidly. “My dear fellow, this city cannot afford a thousand guilders!”
“Then goodbye,” said the Piper cheerfully, “so long as this city can afford ten thousand rats!”
And he stepped away in his long red boots as merrily as if he were going off to a wedding, while I, tripping and stumbling, pushed through the crowd at the fountain (if I had sons and daughters, which I am quite resigned to say I do not, I hope they would not laugh out loud at the sight of a gentleman, an elderly gentleman, hurrying to do his best for the city). And with that blasted creature from the city hall steps still clinging to my boot, I ran after him, and I caught him up at last . . . and when I had got my breath, I panted, “I agree!”
“To what do you agree?” asked the Piper. “A guilder for every ten rats dead?”
“A guilder for every ten dead rats,” I said, and held out my hand.
“And for ten thousand rats?” asked the Piper.
“A thousand guilders,” I replied.
Then the Piper shook my hand.
The work of the Piper that day was a wonder to see. He ordered the streets cleared, and all the people behind doors, though we might watch from the windows, he said. And then he stood by the fountain in the market square, where I believe all the trouble had started, and he raised his pipe and played.
I do not care for music. I never did. But that is one tune that I would listen to again.
Clear and sweet, like a blackbird’s song. Lilting, like a dance. Merry, then wistful, then merry again.
And the rats!
I had guessed a thousand. The Piper said ten. I think there were more. There were rats beyond counting. They poured from doorways, rose from drains, leaped from windows, and they raced and pushed after the Piper, like puppies greeting a friend. He needed his high-stepping boots: at times he was knee-deep. He walked past the church, and they fell onto his shoulders from the steeple. They fought and struggled to greet him. They became not one rat, and then another, but a crawling, heaving single mass. If the Piper had fallen, I believe he would have been engulfed, but he did not. Slowly, slowly, always piping, he led them through the city streets. They rustled and scrabbled after him, and with them, like a cloud, went the musty, sickly, throat-catching stench of rat.
I never want to smell such a smell again, so thick in the air that you could taste it.
For hours the Piper piped. It was nearly sundown before he reached the river gate. He passed through, and led the rats down to the crossing place, down to the ford, and that was their fate and the end of them.
The river was running fast that day, and every rat that had tormented this city
was swept away. Swept away and drowned.
Every one.
Gone.
A thousand guilders is a great deal of money. True, there were tens of thousands in the city’s treasure house, but to spend so much on one day’s work?
A thousand guilders of the city’s hard-earned wealth for the work of one man, on one day?
A guilder for every ten dead rats, and we had shaken hands.
At nightfall the Piper came back to the city hall. He looked a different man. He looked aged. He looked ill.
Staggering.
White-faced, exhausted. Soaked from the river and filthy.
There were no blue sparks left in his eyes, and though his hand still held his pipe, it trembled.
“You had a hard day’s work,” I said kindly to him.
“I had,” said he. “The hardest I ever had, but the job’s done.”
“Done and well done,” I agreed. “Excellent!”
“A thousand guilders,” said he.
“Indeed, indeed.” I smiled. (I was the smiler this time, not he. And I had been thinking.) “I remember the bargain. We shook hands, my friend. A guilder for every ten dead rats!”
He nodded.
“So where are the dead rats, then, my man?”
“Eh?” he asked, shaking his head.
“I see no rats,” I explained. “No dead rats.”
He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes as if to clear his vision, and he looked dumbly at me.
“I have to think of the city,” I explained, gently, as if to a child. “A thousand guilders of the city’s money, and no proof that the job is done. No dead rats. No proof.”
“No proof?” he said slowly.
“And so no reason,” I continued briskly, “to spend such a sum as a thousand guilders on one day’s work. But in thanks for your help . . .”
“Help,” he said. (He kept repeating my words. But then, he was tired. Bone weary, I could see that. So I held my patience.)
“. . . in thanks for your great help, a purse is ready. Fifty guilders!”
And I held it out. Fifty bright guilders in a fine leather bag.
“An excellent day’s pay!” I said, speaking heartily to cheer him. “Not another fellow in Hamelin earns so much in a day! And there is a free night’s lodging waiting at the inn for you, with a good supper too. The best room. I arranged it myself.”
“You are cheating me?” he asked.
“My dear . . . ,” I began.
“After such a day! After such a deed! Fifty guilders!”
“Take it or leave it,” I said. (I was annoyed, I admit. I had filled the purse. I had arranged the inn. I had thanked him heartily. I had explained.)
“Take it or leave it!” he exploded. “After such a day, you owe me a thousand guilders! I’ll either take what you can spare, or I’ll take what you cannot spare! What’s it to be?”
“Take the purse!” I ordered. But he turned his back and walked away through the city streets, and I never saw him again.
Well. Of course I was worried. “I’ll take what you can spare, or I’ll take what you cannot spare!” I remembered those words. I made sure to lock up my silver plates that night, and my gold chain and the emerald ring I had from my grandfather. I locked and double-locked the chests, and then I went out into the city streets.
The streets were clear of rats, free of rats. The city was released.
The next day we all rejoiced! The men stopped up ratholes. The women scrubbed and swept. And everywhere I went I was thanked and praised and clapped on the back, and applauded for a hero. The streets seemed to glow with color that day, and the sky was very blue, and the wind blew clean from the hills. “Oh!” I heard a young lad exclaim to a girl. (He was sweeping, all right, I admit, he was helping with the work.) “Oh Rosa, we shall have our picnics again!”
Great heavens, the foolishness of the young! I turned to speak my mind, but he had dropped his brush and scampered away.
By Sunday the city was clean, and we went to church to give thanks.
For we were truly thankful.
Every pew was filled that morning, and every aisle packed, and no room for the youngsters, even if they had wanted. But as I have said before, the young people of Hamelin preferred the streets as a rule. I doubt many of them were sorry they could not get into church that day.
Not then.
Not at the time.
Well, I sat there in church and I counted my blessings. The rats gone. The money saved. My silver plates and gold chain and emerald ring all safely locked away. The praise I had had for my cleverness, and the thanks of the people of the city. I tried not to think of the silly young sweeping lad, or the girl, Rosa (whoever she was). But I could not help thinking of the Piper, dead weary at the end of the day. I wished he had taken the fifty guilders and rested the night at the inn.
Well, he was a fool to refuse! Him and his pipe! Nothing but a ratcatcher; what more did he expect? People expect too much these days! Look at the youngsters! Listen to the youngsters!
My seat was by the entrance, and it being such a hot day, and the church so full, the door had been left a little way open. I could hear the youngsters on the street, chattering like birds.
I never knew such a long service. There were readings and prayers and a sermon that seemed endless.
Perhaps I dozed.
Perhaps I dozed, and it was only in a dream that I heard the Piper again.
I heard sweet, calling notes, dropped one by one, like silver guilders, and then a lilting melody.
I know my eyes were closed. I kept them closed. No one else seemed to hear.
As the music came closer, the bird chatter grew brighter, then ceased, and then began again.
All the time the melody, and all the time the Piper passing, and the chatter fading, fading with the patter, patter of footsteps.
The rustle of girls’ skirts, and the clatter of the wooden clogs that the poorest boys used to wear.
That was all.
And what if I’d done things differently?
What if I’d opened my eyes?
What if I’d raced to the door and flung it open and cried out, “Stop! Come back!”
What if I’d rushed into the street and seized the Piper, torn his pipe from his lips?
What if I’d pleaded, “Forgive me! Friend, forgive me!” Hurried him to the city treasure house! Dragged out the chests! Heaped gold and silver at his feet!
What if I’d begged, on my knees?
What then?
Would that have been right?
Would that have been responsible?
Would that have been dignified?
No.
So there I sat, and the service ended, and the church emptied, and still I sat.
Thinking.
I thought two things:
1. There were no witnesses to what was said between myself and the Piper, when he refused so unreasonably to take his fee.
2. Is it so wrong that a tired man should close his eyes in church?
There were three left behind. A sick boy who lay in bed with fever and knew nothing of the matter. The little deaf girl from the candlemaker’s house. She understood too late that her fellows were leaving the city. No matter, she is a good quiet girl.
The last was a lame boy, and it was he who told the story, blubbering with tears at the end of the day. This is what he told:
He had spotted the Piper from afar, his bright colors in the market square. He had seen him glance round at the young people gathered there, nod, and lift his pipe. He had heard those first sweet, calling notes, and at once begun to hurry, and he caught up with the crowd as the melody began.
It was like a dance, he said, that started slow and grew quicker and quicker. Through the city and out into the countryside, and all the time, faster and faster, the Piper played, with his crowd hurrying after him, running to keep up, and although the lame boy begged them, “Wait!” they did not seem to hear.
He was left f
ar behind, but still he heard the music, floating backward on the wind, and still he followed.
“Until it was too late,” he said, sniffing and dripping and wiping his nose on his sleeve, “and they were gone.”
“Where? Gone where?” demanded the desperate fathers and mothers of Hamelin, and he told them, “Into the great hill. I saw them go into the great hill. A doorway opened and closed for them, and I was left outside.”
Now that is nonsense! A doorway in a hillside! But the boy was never bright. His brains were as slow as his legs. He was no help to the searchers that went out that night, and for many days and nights. And for weeks, and months. Until the cold weather closed down on the land, and they lost hope.
One hundred and thirty young people.
I never lost hope. I trust they are well. I am sure they are. Why would they not be?
And grief passes.
Much good has come of the visit from the Piper.
The streets of our lovely city are clean and ordered. The nights are quiet again. No more noisy gatherings at the fountain, for instance!
Bringing rats. (Although it may have been the river, or the harvest.)
And babies are born.
And years pass, and we have a new generation of children.
How I like these new children! How I admire them! They are quiet and sober. The boys keep close to their fathers, learning to work. The girls stay safely indoors with their mothers. In the streets they are modest and timid. The boys do not whistle. Boys and girls both come to church without question.
In the market square the water of the fountain falls, and some say it weeps for the lost children.
Not me.
There is no need to think of weeping, not for me. Everything that I have done, or left undone, was for the sake of the city alone. Hamelin, my little city, with its church bells and red roofs and white walls, in the garland of green hills.
Patter, patter, patter
Silver rain