Are you cozy, my little dreamer? Good. Because last night we left the whole town of Hamelin holding its breath — while a tall, thin stranger in a rainbow-patched coat stood at the door of the Town Hall, holding a softly glowing pipe, and saying those five little words:
"I hear… you have rats."
The Mayor nearly fell off his golden chair. "Who — who are you?"
The stranger bowed low, and his coat rippled like a rainbow caught in the wind. "They call me the Pied Piper. I am a catcher of a different kind. No traps. No nets. No cages. Only music." He turned the glowing pipe slowly in his long fingers. "My songs can call anything that walks, crawls, swims, or flies. I have piped away the moles of Marley Hill. I have piped away the biting flies of the Southern Swamps. And I can pipe every last rat out of Hamelin before the moon sets tomorrow."
The whole council leaned forward. The Mayor's eyes went narrow and greedy. "And… your price?"
"One thousand gold coins."
"ONE THOUSAND?!" The Mayor clutched his golden chain like it might run away too.
But the townspeople at the windows shouted, "PAY HIM! PAY HIM! Our children are hungry! PAY HIM!"
So the Mayor puffed up his chest, smiled his biggest, oiliest smile, and boomed, "One thousand gold coins, friend Piper — why, we shall gladly pay you fifty thousand if you succeed! You have my word — and the word of a Mayor is solid gold!"
(Remember those words, little one. Tuck them under your pillow. We shall need them tomorrow night.)
The Piper's twinkly eyes rested on the Mayor for a long, quiet moment — as if those eyes could see all the way inside him, right down to where his promises were kept. Then he nodded once. "At sunrise," he said, "keep the children indoors, and open every door and drain and window. Hamelin will hear a song it has never heard before."
And oh, my darling, at sunrise — it did.
The Piper stepped alone into the empty market square. Mist curled around his boots. He closed his eyes. He lifted the glowing pipe to his lips.
And he began to play.
The first three notes were so sweet and so strange that every person in Hamelin stopped — mid-yawn, mid-button, mid-porridge-stir — and stood perfectly still, just listening. It was a curling, whirling, twirling tune. It sounded like secrets. It sounded like sugar. It sounded — if you were a rat — like the most wonderful invitation in the whole wide world.
Come out, come out, the song seemed to sing. Follow me. The best is yet to come!
And then came the rumble.
From every wall and cellar and drainpipe in Hamelin came a scrabbling, scrambling, pattering sound — louder and louder, like rain falling upwards. And then — WHOOSH — out they poured!
Rats from the bakery, dusted white with flour! Rats from the cheese shop, still holding crumbs! Rats from the church bells, the boot cupboards, the mayor's second-best hat! Big rats, small rats, thin rats, round rats — brown and black and grey — and last of all, marching grandly like he was leading a parade, the enormous white one the children called The General.
They flooded into the square like a furry grey river, and they gathered around the Piper's boots, sitting up on their little back legs, noses twitching, eyes shining, completely and utterly charmed.
The Piper opened one twinkly eye. He smiled around his pipe.
And then he began to walk.
Down the cobbled lane he went, playing all the while — and the river of rats flowed after him! Out of the alleys, down the steps, around the fountain — pitter-patter-pitter-patter — ten thousand tiny feet dancing behind one tall rainbow man.
The people of Hamelin pressed their faces to their windows and stared. Children peeked between shutters and giggled. "Look at them go! Look at The General! He's skipping!"
The Piper walked, playing, playing, all the way through the town gates and down the grassy bank to the wide, deep river Weser. And there, at the water's edge, he stood upon a great flat stone, and his song changed — just slightly. It grew softer. Dreamier. Like a lullaby.
You're sleepy, sang the pipe. You're so warm and full and sleepy. Wouldn't you love a nice long swim to Rat Paradise, where the cheese-moons rise over jam-lakes and no one ever shouts or throws a rolling pin?
And the rats — every last one — plunged joyfully into the river and swam away downstream, squeaking happily, off to look for Rat Paradise. The river carried them far, far away from Hamelin, around the bend, past the mill, and out of our story. (Did they find Rat Paradise? You know — I like to think they did. Somewhere with very big cheeses and no traps at all.)
The Piper lowered his pipe.
Silence.
Beautiful, wonderful, impossible silence.
No scritch. No scratch. No squeak-squeak-squeak.
For one whole heartbeat, all Hamelin held its breath… and then the town went WILD. Bells rang! Hats flew in the air! Strangers hugged strangers! The baker gave away free honey cakes and cried into his apron! The cats came home, looking slightly embarrassed! The teacher finally climbed down off her desk!
"THE RATS ARE GONE!" everyone sang. "THE RATS ARE GONE! THE PIPER HAS SAVED US!"
And through the cheering crowd walked the tall, thin Piper, quiet and smiling, back up the hill toward the Town Hall — to collect his thousand gold coins.
The Mayor watched him come. And the Mayor's smile, my little one, curdled slowly on his round face like old milk.
Because now the rats were gone… and he did not want to pay.
Sweet dreams, little dreamer. Tomorrow night, we find out what happens when a promise is broken — and why, in all the world, you must never, ever break your word to a piper.