The Last Days of Kali Yuga

by Paul Haines

  ' ... no ... don't ... he comes ...' Pieter moaned.

  'Ssshhhh.' Frau Heschlinger dribbled water over his cracked lips. 'It's alright. Mutter is here.' But she knew it wasn't alright and when he fell into a restless slumber she would go upstairs and pray until sleep claimed her, too.

  Pieter's eyes flicked open, bulging and white in a face leeched of blood, the skin drawn taut over the skull. Dark hollows swallowed his cheeks. His arm shot from the bed, the skeletal hand clamping his mother's arm. The strength of the dying, she thought, before trying to banish such a thing from her mind. His fingers dug into her flesh, his veins a purple lacework tracing from wrist to elbow, through raw, seeping punctures that peppered the otherwise pale skin. The cartilage in Pieter's throat bobbed furiously as he tried to speak.

  ' ... biting me ... everywhere ...'

  'No, my love. You are safe.'

  His eyes turned sightlessly upon her, through her. They shone with the light the rabid dogs in the streets had had before the men put them down. Pieter grinned, the broken lips peeling back from the teeth, saliva thick and gummy in the cracks at the corner of his mouth. And he screamed:

  'Rats!'

  They fought the dogs and killed the cats

  The stench hit Günter first.

  The smell of hot, furry bodies; of ripening cheese; of festering shit and decay. The torchlight sputtered in the draft from the trapdoor above him. He descended further into the cellar, peering into the darkness, listening to the scurrying and squeaking around him.

  'Can you see them?' said Helmut, Hamlyn's master cheese-maker, from the safety of the shop above. His nine-year-old daughter, Anna, with a head of red curls clung to his leg, peering between her fingers.

  'Nein, but they are here. I can hear them.' Günter swept the torch before him, straining to see past the flames. Shadows scampered from the light. 'How many did you say there were? A dozen?'

  'No.' Helmut paused.

  Günter unclasped the traps from his belt. He had smeared them with a concoction of chocolate and poison. 'How many?'

  The scurrying had stopped. Tiny, shiny eyes reflected the torchlight in the cellar. Two, then four, and eight then twelve pairs of eyes.

  'I said dozens of rats. Not a dozen. Dozens,' Helmut called.

  Something scurried over Günter's boots. He looked down as the rat clawed its way up his legging, its whiskers pricking and eyes gleaming. He swung the steel trap down onto its body, hurling it into the darkness beyond.

  'The cheek of the thing,' Günter muttered. He'd been trapping rats too long to let the bravado of one unnerve him. He turned slowly, the torchlight reflecting from hundreds of eyes surrounding him. The air grew dank and heavy as the torchlight shrank with the weight of a legion of rodent bodies.

  Razor teeth sank into his wrist and Günter cried out more in surprise than pain as another rat clawed at his hair. The torch fell to the floor, the flames extinguished by the mass of bodies that swarmed over it. Günter stumbled back towards the light from the trapdoor, swinging the traps around him blindly. He felt it connecting with bodies, smashing them away. Jagged incisors gnawed and ripped at his arms and legs and face. He staggered up the steps into the shop, blood stinging his eyes.

  'Shut it! Shut it!' Günter screamed.

  Helmut slammed the trapdoor shut, his eyes wide and mouth open. Günter collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving, blood flowing from myriad cuts over his body. He sat there shaking as Helmut backed slowly away, his daughter wide-eyed behind him.

  Not a single rat, as if fearing the light, had come into the room with Günter.

  For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell

  The council sat in silence.

  The Mayor stared glumly at the liver-spotted folds of flesh his fingers made around the gold rings he wore. My, how the rings had grown tight over the years, he thought, trying futilely to think of something to say. The scurrying of clawed feet could be heard above them in the rafters of the town hall. Busy, hungry, tireless feet disrupting any train of thought he could compose. The townsfolk sat before him, waiting for an answer. A solution wasn't forthcoming.

  'We've lost our export stocks, you say? I knew we'd lose the cheese, I knew that at least. But they've split open the kegs of salted sprats?'

  The council nodded wearily.

  'This will be a lean year,' the Mayor said, and in protest, his mutinous paunch grumbled. 'The winter has already hit the lands hard and our coffers are on the edge of empty.'

  'What of the coffers? My husband Günter lays dying!' Frau Heuchert cried from the crowd.

  'And my son Pieter!' wailed Frau Heschlinger. 'The rats bear the plague! They've come to destroy this town!'

  Voices rose in cacophony and spat anger and fear at the Mayor and his council. The councillors responded, fingers pointing blame and accusation, an undercurrent of inevitable violence creeping into the room, marching step for step with the rise of hysteria. The Mayor sat there, willing his ermine-lined robe to swallow him in his old age, to take him elsewhere, to a Hamlyn of times past with pickle-tub boards and hoops of butter-casks, of cider-presses and the crisp smell of summers remembered.

  A rat rose on its haunches on the council table in front of him, snapping the Mayor out of his reverie. With long-dormant reflexes once schooled in war, he smashed the gavel down on its body. Blood splattered his robe.

  'Enough!' he roared.

  In the shocked silence that followed, a gentle tapping could be heard at the chamber door. Heads turned, as the great doors creaked slowly inwards, the wind sweeping into the hall, chilling its occupants. A tall, thin man stepped into the room clad in a pied cloak of ruby red and yellow sun. Light, loose hair hung down to his shoulders, his face smooth and tanned. He smiled and with it came the scent of spring in the warmth of a lover's embrace. He strode towards the council, his sharp blue eyes drinking in the faces and emotions of the gathered townsfolk. When he reached the council-table, he spoke with a voice rich in the timbre of orchestras, a texture of honey for the ear.

  'Please your honours.' His accent betrayed hints of the older Europe, where the gypsy still held sway. 'I believe I can help. But,' and he smiled again of gold, 'there is a price.'

  'Name it,' said the Mayor, with the voice of the town in his throat.

  'A thousand guilders if I can rid your town of rats.'

  With empty coffers and a gilded lie ...

  'Done.'

  ... the pact sealed.

  Into the street the piper stept

  Hamlyn waited in thrall.

  The stranger took free lodging in the inn, needing some little time to survey the town and its denizens before he could take action. The clouds lifted a little, allowing the sun to dribble through, and the stranger was seen strolling along the banks of the river Weser in the afternoons. Sometimes he could be seen talking to the children at the school yard, the squeals of laughter a boon to the heart as they played in the folds of his pied cloak, chasing after him as he led them through the barren trees in the parks. And though the Mayor and council and a number of eligible women offered, in different ways, companionship he politely refused them, spending the evenings supposedly alone. Rumours abounded he preferred only the company of children, their simplicity and honesty—their innocence—or so it was said.

  And all the while the town waited, the rats held their vigil.

  Frau Heschlinger thought her prayers had been answered. A day after the stranger's arrival, her son Pieter found the strength to sit and call his mother for nourishment. The colour has crept back into his cheeks and his eyes glowed with the beginnings of a new-found health. And though spring could not yet be found in the buds upon the trees and bushes, it could be found in her step.

  One morning she found Pieter's bed empty. At first she was overjoyed, thinking he was on the way to a full recovery. When she couldn't find him, worry gnawed at her like the rats on Helmut's cheese. Had Pieter wondered off in delirium? Perhaps even now he lay outside in the cold with the
little strength he had left whittling away. Frau Heschlinger ran from neighbour to neighbour calling for her son, though none claimed to have seen him. She ran faster, her voice rising in pitch and temper while dark birds careened above and the clouds roiled, their bellies pitching black and threatening to roar. The wind slid over the river, slipping behind her back to urge her forward. Dead leaves swept over her feet as the panic whispered louder and louder in her head. Her son, her darling, only, beloved son. Could rats now be swallowing his tender flesh as they had Günter's? And as quickly as the madness rose it vanished. There in the shade of a twisted elm near the verge of the forest sat the stranger wrapped in his cloak of ruby red and yellow sun. Surely he would know where Pieter was, she thought. He had befriended many of the children here in Hamlyn. Dear God, please let him know she prayed. The stranger's head turned towards her as she approached. His eyes blue and as sharp as pins, this time his face offered no smile just the stony countenance of one who has had his concentration interrupted.

  'Excuse me, Herr,' Frau Herschlinger began. 'I ... I ... have ...'

  The folds of the stranger's cloak bulged and shifted. He tried to cover it with his arm. The cloak parted and Pieter's head emerged.

  'What is the matter? Pieter asked the stranger. 'Don't you ...'

  'Pieter!' Frau Heschlinger felt her heart rip. 'What are you doing?'

  And with her son's hateful stare, his face rippling in shame, she felt her soul then stripped of innocence. He leapt from the stranger, his shirt undone and tore into the woods. Upon the lips of the stranger a slight curl, a little smile for a little evil. Where was her God? The clouds whirled about her then, the streets a blur until she staggered outside the Mayor's house, the gold door-knocker firmly in hand, thumping hard against the cold wood.

  'What is it, woman?' Folds of wrinkled fat sprouting coarse, white hair hung from the Mayor's cheeks. His breath smelt of brandy. He pulled his ermine robe over his swollen gut. 'Why do you disturb me so?'

  'The stranger! He was with my son! A molester of children, dear God. I swear!'

  The Mayor's eyes widened. 'What? I don't believe this ...' His voice trailed off.

  'He is preying on our children!' She noticed he was looking over her shoulder. Perhaps he was too stunned from such a revelation, she thought. 'In the name of God, you have to do something!'

  He pushed her aside, stepping slowly into the street like a cripple healed and taking his first step. 'Here is your God at work, Frau Heschlinger. This is nothing short of a miracle. We are saved. The piper, look!'

  She followed the line of his outstretched arm, down to the high street leading towards the bridge over the river Weser. The stranger—a long, thin, ivory pipe to his lips and if a tune he played she could not hear it—marched through the town, the folds of his cloak dappling red and yellow. And flowing behind him a sea of rats, pouring from the sewers and gutters, tumbling from windows and houses, swarming, seething, squealing and shrieking.

  And the piper led them, each and every one, to their deaths in the waters of the Weser.

  And what's dead can't come to life, I think

  'Perhaps if you were to come after next year's harvest?' said the Mayor, examining the lining of his robe. The town hall was empty except for him, the councillors and the piper. 'I'm sure you understand. The winter has lasted long in Hamlyn. We simply cannot afford to pay you at this time. Come next year who knows? I'm sure we can at least provide you with, say, fifty guilders until then.'

  'We agreed upon a thousand guilders,' said the piper. His face showed less emotion than the dead.

  'Yes, we did.' The Mayor smirked. 'But we did not say when. Did we?'

  The council remained silent, as did the piper, standing impasse.

  'Fifty guilders, friend,' continued the Mayor. 'That is good trade for a gypsy in these parts.'

  The piper leant forward on the table, his knuckles white. The ivory pipe hanging from his neck by a red and yellow scarf swung towards the Mayor. Hundreds of tiny skulls were carved into its surface, their eye sockets and teeth a mottled, yellowed bone. The room grew cold. The blue of the piper's eyes stung the Mayor's attention.

  'I will not be cheated and I suspected as much. Perhaps we can come to some other arrangement.' The piper leaned even further forward, his mouth inches from the Mayor's ears. 'Give to me one of the children and you will never hear from me again. You and I, we share a common interest, do we not? No-one else needs to know.' He inclined his head minutely towards the council out of earshot.

  The Mayor laughed, though fear as cold as a sharp blade sliced through his gut. How could this man know his secret, his vile lust? The words of Frau Heschlinger resounded suddenly in his ears. Had she accused him as well as the piper? 'Get out of here, gypsy. You are not wanted here. For helping our village you are lucky to have your life. Consider yourself rewarded.'

  'You have till dawn,' spoke the piper standing straight and tall. 'One thousand guilders or one of your own. The choice is yours.' And strode from the hall.

  That night, four of the night guard entered the inn and murdered the piper, cleaning their blades on his cloak afterwards. They dragged his body through the cobbled streets after midnight and dumped it in the Weser.

  The following morning winter broke and birdsong rose with the spring dawn.

  Alas, alas for Hamelin!

  Frau Heschlinger woke from a nightmare where Pieter hovered outside her bedroom window, his face pale in the moonlight, his eyes haunted and longing for love—her love. Her curtains had blown open during the night and a cool breeze entered the room, chilling the sweat on her skin from the dream.

  She decided to go downstairs to check on him. He'd been withdrawn and sullen since the day in the park and they had hardly spoken since. His silence now hurt her even more than the hatred she'd seen in his eyes that day. She'd tried to tell him it wasn't his fault, that the piper was an evil man who lured children with false promises and seduced them with lies, but Pieter would hear nothing of it, staying in his room for days.

  She opened his bedroom door and slipped into his room, hoping to catch at least some peace on his frail, sleeping face.

  But his bed was cold and empty.

  Frau Heschlinger would never see her son again, though night after night she would hear him tapping at the door or the window crying to be let in. When she woke, she knew it was simply her loss manifesting itself. Soon she would lose herself and embrace her son in the only way she could—in her dreams.

  And while Frau Heschlinger descended into the madness of grief, one by one the children of Hamlyn began to disappear. From beds and cradles; from the arms of loving parents as they slept trying to keep them safe; from windowless rooms with only the crack under a locked door to provide air; slowly and surely by summer's retreat the children vanished. Parents swore on God's name they'd seen their missing children in the streets after dark or hovering at the forest's edge in the late afternoon or playing by the river in the early morn, but call and search as they might, their sons and daughters could not be found. Though the seasons changed from green to gold, it remained forever winter, frozen in the hearts of Hamlyn.

  They found the Mayor dead soon after. He had slit his wrists and bathed his last in a bath of blood with a cask of the finest claret to help ease the pain.

  And Günter, once-strong Günter, with puckered flesh from the rat bites that had almost claimed his life last winter, prayed for strength through the nights in the church alcove he had taken for residence. When he could pray no longer, Günter would ascend to the bell tower to watch over Hamlyn and wait for the dawn. Though his body had now healed, his mind lay scarred and devoid of the reward of sleep. And with what he saw each night —a flickering cape of blood red and yellow moon; of pale skin and long teeth—the horrors crept in to haunt his soul. So Günter prayed.

  And prayed.

  Out of some subterraneous prison

  Autumn lay in its death throes.

  Günter slipped the rabbit
into his sack, cleaned and reset the trap. Up here in the hills above the forest, the air was clean and cool. The first chill of winter could be felt in the air. He would lose the sun soon, so he decided to set back towards Hamlyn, unwilling to spend any portion of the night outside the confines of the church.

  The sound of rocks slipping and tumbling off to his left. Too big to be a rabbit, he thought. He traced the rocks' fall upwards over the surface of slope until he came to a small mound thirty feet up on the hill. A head ducked down behind it. Günter crouched, nervous, and waited. The head poked up, saw him, then ducked again. A second later a boy darted away, pulling a girl with a mass of red curls by the hand after him.

  'Pieter!' shouted Günter. 'My God, Pieter!' And the girl—surely that was Anna, Helmut's daughter. He dropped his sacks of rabbits and traps and raced up the hill after them. They moved fast, much faster than he gave them credit for, and Günter couldn't make any ground on them. Impossible, he thought, but the backward glances of the boy confirmed that it was indeed Pieter. They were alive! The children were alive and living up here in the hills! Günter stretched his muscles, the thin air burning in his lungs. God give me strength, he prayed, and as if he had been heard, he felt the power flow through his legs, his stride lengthening and pace quickening. He began to close on the children.

  Pieter veered suddenly around a massive boulder sunken into the side of the earth, dragging Anna with him. She glanced back, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Günter tried to slow down as he made the corner but he was running too fast and slipped, tumbling down into a grass-shrouded tunnel leading into the hill. He sprawled headfirst into a large cavern. The stench hit him first. The smell of hot, furry bodies; human sweat and the stale scent of sex. A rat scurried in front of his face, stopping briefly, its snout twitching, fur bristling. Günter rose to his knees, a feeling of dread eating its way into his bones. Torches lined the walls of the cave and rats scurried along ledges high up towards the ceiling. Children stood, sat and sprawled around the floor staring at him. Günter recognised them all. Anna stepped forward and kissed him with an open mouth as she helped him to stand. Günter shuddered.