For Their Own Good | A Short Story

  For Their Own Good

Evangelyn Hill

         The road to Hamelin stretches out in an endless gray line, dusty and blinding under the ruthless sun.

         A young man stands there, feet planted and sharp chin lifted. His blue eyes glitter faintly as he considers what lies at the end of the path. 

         There, my destiny waits. My father will be avenged. The throne will be restored.

         He gives the hem of his red and yellow tunic a tug and marches down the road. His boots send up miniature explosions of grit like the feet of an army. At the end of the road, in the tiny village that sits there, he knows he’ll find what he needs at last. At long, long last. 

 .   .   .

          It is almost dusk by the time he arrives, aching feet dragging in the dust. He brushes himself off as well as he can, wincing at the powdery smudges of grime that dull his tunic’s bright colors. 

         The traveler gathers many odd looks as he walks along the twisting road between the cracked wattle-and-daub walls of the houses. Chickens cluck reproachfully at him, scuttling out of his way and regarding him with beady eyes from the twilight shadows. Burly farmers, just as dirty as he is after a day in the fields, gaze after him with open curiosity.

        He reaches the center of Hamelin and glances around. The last rays of sunlight strike the raggedly patched roofs of the houses, gilding them with a fiery glow. 

       Narrowing his eyes, he wonders once again why he picked this dirty farming town. The houses wind around shadows and piles of garbage. Several rats scuttle in the darkness. The air is thick with the stench of animals and manure. A sigh escapes him. 

       Because it was closest, he reminds himself. I can pick up more men in a larger city later. But I have to start somewhere.

        Children are beginning to peer out doorways at him, clutching the skirts of their mothers. The gloaming shadows smooth their harshly chiseled faces. Clearing his throat, the young man tunes his voice to the rich, kingly tone that took him so long to master. He shoves away the thought drumming in his mind:  My father always spoke like this. So strong, so confident, so powerful… I will avenge him, I swear.

        “Good people of Hamelin, I wish to converse with you!”

        No one moves.

        “I have a spectacular offer, one that would release the tyranny of the king over you!”

        The women begin to pay attention, but still their faces are stony, wary. Several children begin to squirm from boredom. 

        “Do you not wish for a better life?” He spreads his arms and turns, indicating everything around him. “Do you not wish for finer clothes? A dowry for your daughter? A new plow?”

        Now several of the farmers have appeared at their doorways as well. They lean against the door frames, trying to appear nonchalant. Perfect. I have the whole town in the palm of my hand. A tiny, twisting smile begins to form at the corner of his mouth.

        “Your hard toil -- slaving every day in the fields, breaking your back to feed your families -- is caused by the king who rules over you. He takes your money in taxes! He takes your boys in wars! But I aim to end that all.” The young man’s face is set, and the way his eyebrows hunch over his ice-blue eyes tells everyone that he is serious.

        Now he plants his feet, chin raised, facing the largest clump of houses. His hands brush off his clothing once more. “See these colors on my tunic? They are the colors of the flag that once flew over our land. My father was once king. Yes, I am the true heir to the throne!” 

        He pulls out a slender silvery instrument – a flute with an unmistakable blue sheen running along its length. It is ice cold in his fingers, and he holds it like it’s worth more than anything else in the world. 

        “This is the symbol of our monarchy. The monarchy that should rule now – not the cruel tyrant on the throne today.”

        He pauses, letting the people edge forward, wiping dirty hands on equally dirty clothing and frowning as they begin to understand what he said.

         “I should be on the throne today. I should rule. And yet I am here.” He spreads his arms in a deliberate, confident gesture that contradicts the helplessness of his words. “I need your assistance.”

        Several of the farmers huff and turn away into the dark interiors of their houses. One calls over his shoulder, “Help? We’ve got enough work as it is!”

        “Wait!” the young man calls, watching as his audience drains away. His slender, long-fingered hands flutter nervously at his side. “Helping me will help you! You will have less work. You will have more money. Don’t you want that?”

        The remaining villagers say nothing, but neither do they leave.

        “All I need is your assistance in forming an army to fight the king.” He swallows, knowing the crowd won’t like what he has to say. “I need you to be soldiers.”

         The rest of the townspeople spin and stalk away into the shadows of the houses, shaking their heads. A single little boy is left, sucking his thumb and staring with huge brown eyes at the young man in the bright tunic. Then the boy’s mother grabs his arm and yanks him inside like a disappearing magic trick.       

        “Idiotic farmers… don’t know what’s good for them.” A scowl crosses the man’s face, then flickers swiftly away. 

Time for plan B.

.   .   .

        After a sleepless night spent wandering the village, he can almost feel the bags under his eyes. Shaking himself awake, he runs his fingers through his straw-colored hair and brushes his tunic off for what feels like the hundredth time.

        He squares his shoulders, hands on hips, surveying the houses. The largest house in Hamelin seems the best place to start -- if he can get the most important townspeople to listen to him, then everyone else will, too.

        A thousand butterflies churn in his gut as he walks up to the doorway. I have waited years. How can it be so hard to wait for a few moments? His rehearsed speech runs through his mind. Good day to you, ma’am. Could I come in and speak with you for a moment?

        Good day to you, ma’am. Could I…

        The door opens.

        “Good day to you, ma’am,” he begins, then looks up into the face of a red-cheeked, scowling farmer.

        “Oh.” He swallows. “G… good day to you, sir. I was wondering if…”

        “No.” 

         The door slams in his face.

        “That went well,” he mutters, placing his hands on his hips.

        At the next house a plump woman opens the door and lets him in, one hand resting protectively on the head of a little boy. Several other children peep out from behind her skirts.

        Inside, the house is dingier than he had expected. The table is crooked on its spindly legs. A pile of unwashed laundry lurks in the corner, barely visible in the dim light from the doorway. As he steps into the building, a rat whisks out of sight. Grubby children watch him with gleaming eyes. Another butterfly or two join the crowd in his stomach.

        He gives his best attempt at a gallant bow. “Madam, I have come to tell you about my plan: a plan that will give you and your family a better life than the one you have now. You will live in comfort, with meat on the table every day…” He lunges into his practiced talk, holding the family spellbound with promises of luxury and wealth. But when he reaches the pith of his speech…

        “All this will happen, ma’am, if I can just get an army to defeat the king.” I’m close; I can feel it -- so, so close… “All I need, ma’am, are people to be in this army.”

        The atmosphere suddenly begins to grow cold.

        “I cannot take away your men, of course, for then, who would farm? So children are what I need. I will train them until they are old enough to fight, then use them to defeat the cruel tyrant who calls himself king.” The young man lifts his chin, twisting his face into a proud, determined gaze.

        The woman stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. “You want… our children?”

        He forges an innocent, reassuring smile. “Yes, ma’am. They’ll be well treated, and…”

        “Out!” she screeches, snatching up a wooden rolling pin. “Out, out, out!”

         His feet move without him thinking about it, darting for the door.

        The woman doesn’t stop chasing him when he’s out of her house. She hounds him past other houses, into the city’s center. Their feet thunder against the dirt like dull war drums. His heart thuds against his chest like a tiny animal caught in a trap, but his mind sprints on at an even more reckless pace.

         This is bad. Really bad. The noise will bring the whole town on top of me. How can I use this? Come on, brain, give me ideas!

        “He wants to steal our children!” the woman screeches, bringing more women and children to the center of the town, many with garden dirt clinging to their clothing.

        He dodges a swipe from the rolling pin, letting his mind race on. Come on, come on, think of something…

        The cold metal of the flute pokes through a hole in his threadbare tunic, and immediately he knows what to do.

        He sprints to the center of the town common, lifting the flute to his mouth. From the fields, farmers are charging toward Hamelin, but to him their voices are faint and faraway. All that matters is the icy aura of the flute, so close to his lips. His eyes float up toward the clouds choking the robin’s-egg sky. My father would be horrified that I’m doing this. Then the note fills the air and all other thoughts are gone.

        Everyone freezes in their tracks. The flute’s sound goes on and on and on, growing until it fills the space between the houses like water fills a jug. It fills his soul, too. Power. There is no room for anything else; every shiver of nervousness is gone. The only thing that matters is the rich, floating tone of the flute.

        He closes his eyes, reveling in the might of the single sound. It intensifies even though his lips have left the instrument. 

        I could level mountains with this. I can topple kingdoms. 

         This is what power sounds like.

         Taking a deep breath, he blows again, this time a single note higher.

         The previous note is lingering in the air, and the two blend into a dissonant, bone-jarring mesh of sound and power. He can feel the magic tingling through his very body, and the magic knows what it’s supposed to do.

         From every corner and every house come the rats. Hundreds and hundreds, then thousands, of the sleek gray creatures, filling the common. They come slowly, steadily, and the scuffling of their paws in the dirt creates a rhythm to the eerie, droning song of the whistle.

         Intuitively, he takes a step backward. The rats follow. He turns and starts to walk away. The note wraps around him like a scarf, and the rats follow it in a rippling cloud of movement.       

        He doesn’t look back, but he knows the people are standing there, silently watching. He doesn’t speak, but merely walks – the flute’s song is somehow too much for words. The rats follow in a procession to the Weser River. The townsfolk of Hamelin watch from the safety of the village.

        He whistles another note, and the rats begin to plop into the river. As the note begins to die away, they disappear under the innocent ripples of the river.

        The Piper takes a deep breath and turns, feeling the magic wear off and brushing away a tinge of annoyance that the strength couldn’t last forever. Soon, though, it will. Soon. He faces the town from the hill where the Weser River flows. The folk of Hamelin need no explanation. They know what he can do, what he will do to them if they resist.

   Slowly, he crests the hill. The note has faded enough that it feels right to speak, so he turns once more to face Hamelin. His tunic glows bloodred in the light of the fading sun, and his face is bathed in crimson. At his side, his hands knot into fists, every trace of agitation gone.

        “I will return tomorrow. Have the children ready for me.”

        Spinning on his heel, he stalks away. The faint remnants of the flute’s song are quickly drowned out by the gentle bubbling of the river.

.   .   .

        The next day he is back. The little town looks just as he left it: dusty, unassuming, unconcerned with realms and kings. The beginnings of my army will be there, waiting for me. He straightens an inch, as if the crown has already been placed on his head. A haughty glint flickers to life in his gaze.

        The Piper strides down the road, flute swinging casually from his fingers. The memory of its pure, unadulterated power makes his hands twitch, longing to play the flute again. Quelling the urge, he continues on to Hamelin.

         He can feel the eyes on him as he steps into the cool shadow of the first house. A row of men are lined up with pitchforks and shovels in their hands. They don’t speak, and they don’t move. Their faces are set, like carvings chiseled into stone with rough strokes. The town of Hamelin is silent, and anger simmers beneath the surface.

        A condescending smile tugs the corners of his mouth upward. You have to admire them -- they’re tough. Their children will make a good fighting force. The king doesn’t stand a chance against me.

        Don’t they know it’s for their own good?

        He raises the flute to his lips and blows.