Then, late one night, there came a
rapping at the wall but Bernard, too wretched to move save when it
was absolutely necessary, dragged the covers over his head and and
refused to leave the bed. What could someone want at this hour?
Ordering a belt pouch was never an emergency. But the knocking was
repeated multiple times with great urgency and then then a voice
called out. The words were muffled by the wall but he caught his
name and the words “pipe organ.” Immediately, all weariness
vanished and he leaped from his bed, scrambling across the floor to
the wall tube, tripping over his own feet in his haste. The
messenger was from a small farming community someway outside the
bounds of Hamlin town, brother to the parish priest at the church
there. But this priest had come to Hamlin some years before to train
in the reading of the scripture in its original language, even
serving under one of the prominent church men of the town. Bernard
remembered him well for they had been wont to greet each other as he
passed in and out of the cathedral each week. And, thus, even in
this provincial village, they had heard the stories about the piper
and his exile from his vocation. But, because this village was
beyond the bounds of the city, the town council had no power there.
Bernard bit his lip, hardly daring to breathe, as he waited for the
miracle he dared not hope for but could not stop himself. “Come to
our church and you will be welcome to play our organ.” Bernard
slumped against the wall, almost swooning with rapture, hardly able
to stammer his thanks. He barely heard the rest of the message, that
the man worked as a carter, carrying trade goods between the town of
Hamlin and the country village where his brother was priest and,
since the quantity of exchange was now much less then in times
before, there would be space enough for Bernard to squeeze in amongst
them. The fact that the falling off of trade meant a financial hit
for him as well as his village and that, through this offer, both he
and his brother profited, remained unspoken, but Bernard cared not.
Regardless of how noble or self-interested the offer was, it was
nothing less than a dream come true for him.
Being well outside the city walls, the
village was a trek of several hours in each direction. He had to set
aside the entire day for travel for the few brief hours of practice
he was permitted and even so it would be well passed dark when he
made the journey back. The carter was waiting by the west gate so he
could climb aboard and sit perched among the bales and sacks on the
back of his rickety two-wheel as it swayed and bumped along the
country roads. It was far from comfortable and did not make the
journey any quicker. It did, however, allow him to conserve his
strength for when it truly mattered. It also guarded against
becoming lost on the way and, through strength in numbers, against
others, more sinister, possible hazards, such as robbers.
And here there shall remain a blank, an
emptiness, for there are no words to express the bliss of being able
once more stand free against the wind and sky, to smell and feel and
breath, to experience, once more the glory of soaring to the sky on
wings of holy fire, every fiber of body, heart, and soul striving
together. And, even if such words did exist, to attempt to call them
up, to describe a time long since faded into the haze of memory, a
blessed reprieve poisoned to a rotten lie, would be more pain than
mortal heart could stand.
In the falling dusk he staggered out
of the church, drunk on the sheer bliss and barely managed to
scramble up onto the back of the wagon, collapsing among a pile of
sack as his mind went hazy from weariness, the jolting of the cart
and the tuneless singing and occasional comments of the carter fading
until he heeded them no more than the rustle of leaves in the wind.
Every inch of his body ached and burned just like the first time all
those many years ago. He must have fallen asleep or at least sunk
into a very deep trance for he was suddenly started back to full
waking as the wagon sagged and swayed into a particularly large rut,
sending all its contents tumbling against one side. It was utterly
dark now. As he pulled himself groggily into a sitting position, he
saw they were in a fir wood which they had passed on the way down but
now, in the deep shadow, it looked very different. The jagged
spreading branches of the trees shut out any shreds of afterglow from
the setting sun that might still remain. The sound of the horse's
hooves and the cart's wheels against the ground were muffled by the
carpet of old dried pine needles and, behind them he could hear a
thin high sound made by the wind threading through the slender
branches and a creaking and scraping noise as those branches bent and
rubbed against each other. Then he heard a hollow wailing sound,
like wind blowing across an opening in a rock, but much more forceful
and deliberate. It climbed to a piercingly high note then sank back
through an eerie cascade of pitches as Bernard scrambled into a
sitting position and looked around frantically, steadying himself
against the rocking side of the cart, no easy task as the horse
stopped abruptly and then sidled to the right, as if it also found
the noise unsettling.
After a few moments of chaos, the
carter managed to get the beast back under control and send it
ambling in straight line, more or less, once again. Only then did he
glace back over his shoulder at Bernard. “Wolves,” he said,
blandly. “Nowhere near us. Probably some miles north. Nothing to
worry about, not at this time of year leastwise, when they have lots
to eat” He slapped the reins on the back of the horse which had
become distracted by some plants by the side of the path and they
started forward with a jolt and a creak. But Bernard noticed that
the carter did not resume his tuneless humming until the lights of
Hamlin appeared ahead of them.
From then on, every time the carter
came to town, Bernard took the journey with him, in pounding heat and
driving rain. It was not always regular, certainly not enough for
him to be able to repair his skills to the level they had been before
the plague began and the lack of progress made Bernard weep and rage.
After the first glorious day, reminded of how challenging playing
the organ really was and how far he still had to go, he began to
doubt himself, notice hundreds of tiny errors that made him second
guess himself, or even to make them because he was second guessing
himself. When he laid his fingers on the keys, it no longer felt
instantly right, as it had before times. He had to think out moves
that had long been second nature, pause and take stock of his breath,
his posture, his finger placement, and a thousand other things, to
say nothing of the fact that even when he could remember how to do
something correctly, he often lacked the strength or skill or, worst
of all, the raw confidence, to put that knowledge into practice. He
felt like a cripple trying to learn to walk again, overwhelmed by the
sheer height of the barrier he had to scale, not knowing if he would
ever be able to and denied the wherewithal to make his best effort.
At length, driven by desperation, he
made an appeal to the Chapter of the cathedral, beseeching upon holy
charity to find some way that he might resume his organ lessons. He
had taken the potion, would spend the entire time up on the high
balcony, away from others, and was willing to come in at a time when
there would be few people about. To his utter amazement, his plea
was granted. Of course the members of the Chapter could not be
bothered to speak to him directly but he was informed by the
sacristan when they came to request a new leather sheath for his
table knife that the Chapter had announced that, under certain
conditions, which happened to almost exactly match his
qualifications, some few individuals might be allowed in without the
paste and he thought Bernard would wish to know. Despite his joy,
Bernard bristled at the impersonalness of it. While the timing and
the content of the declaration left no doubt that it had been brought
about by his actions, he was never addressed directly in the
announcement or in the sending of the messenger. In all likelihood,
the proclamation applied to him and him alone. He had certainly
heard of no other citizens of Hamlin who had the same reaction to the
paste and, if they did exist, it seemed highly unlikely they would be
seeking private time at the cathedral under the same terms as
himself. Besides, if it were an official policy it should have been
public knowledge instead of being conveyed personally to him,
allowing them to avoid officially acknowledging his existence. The
Chapter were well known for being somewhat aloof and standing on
ceremony but, at least they were giving way on this vital issue,
regardless of how small their method of doing so made him feel.
But even setting aside his chilly
welcome, his joy was not unblemished. Although he was permitted to
enter the cathedral, the journey to and from was always harrowing.
Even though he tried his best to show courtesy and not come too close
to others on the street, the townspeople would give him evil stares
and would make wide detours around him, making no effort to be subtle
about it. Trying to explain, from a safe distance, that he was
protected internally by the elixir and that he only did this because
of his reaction to the paste was, at best, like beating one's fists
bloody against a wall. Sometimes, he heard a cry of “pale hands,”
or imagined he did, that term of contempt still leveled against those
who did not use the rat repellent regardless of why thy did so, or of
what other protective measures they did or did not take. And always,
he held himself ready, bracing against the danger of more physical
hostilities. It was doubtful that any would attack him with fists,
due to the risk of close contact, but he was always on guard against
hurled objects, cringing and ducking every time he heard a whistling
sound or saw a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. The
city watch, if he should encounter any, would be no help, he knew,
likely less than no help, as the odds were good they would sympathize
more with his tormentors. Worst of all was crossing the great square
before the cathedral. The market had been permitted to reopen,
though only half the stalls were allowed to be occupied, meaning they
were even more expensive and out of reach for those such as himself.
But, even so, the place was crowded enough, that it was not always
possible for him to maintain his distance as he would have wished and
thus the hostility, real and perceived, intensified. Only by keeping
his eyes firmly fixed on the cathedral, on the great rose window and
the prize waiting beneath it, could he find the courage to keep
going.
To further compound matters, there
were always at least a few rats trailing along behind him. The
beasts had always followed after people on occasion, knowing that
humans were likely to drop food or, at least, lead them to a place
where food was kept. However, in sick irony, this behavior had
increased significantly since the start of the plague, or so he had
heard from customers through his now grudgingly used wall tube. With
fewer people about, less food and waste casually consumed, dropped,
and discarded in public places over the course of the day, the rats
had become more dependent on sticking close to the people they could
see, until the near universal use of the rat repellent put a stop to
that. So, now, they eagerly followed after the one person they could
find who did not pose this difficulty. Of course, having rats about
him only reinforced in people's minds the fact that he was dangerous
and unclean. When he went into the cathedral, they would sometimes
hang about on the steps or along the base of the walls. People saw
and sneered. “The rats are always eager to go to the church when
the piper plays,” they would say. Then some would shiver and make
the gesture against evil. “It is his music that calls them,” they
whispered, “his accursed music. His playing has some dark magic
that calls the foul beasts to him.” And so a new chapter was added
to the legend of the pied piper and now no one thought it was
charming, a form of local color. His obsession with the organ was no
longer the harmless folly of a lonely, somewhat cracked man, wanting
desperately to feel more significant than he really was. It was a
public hazard that put the innocent at risk and was almost certainly
demonic to boot. And though he remained sorely afraid, he would not
allow fear to keep him back now that the way, at last, was open.
But despite his new freedom, he
continued to travel to the rural church whenever the carter came to
town. Between the two, and the time he still spent on the accursed
harpsichord, he almost, almost, might have enough time to practice
that he could start to recover the skills he had lost. He saw tiny
stirrings of this when he tried some of the more challenging tunes
and noted some small increases in coordination between his right
hand, his left hand, and his feet, but it was still slow, painfully
slow. He tried not notice the changes in the air, the, faint at
first, shifts in the appearance of the beasts and foliage, tried not
to ask himself the question, what would it be like when the seasons
changed, the biting cold, the long hours of darkness, beginning
almost before he had even arrived in the village, the driving
flurries and building drifts of snow, slowing their journey and
concealing their way? With the harvest over, would the carter even
have a reason to make the trip? Although the other had said nothing
of the kind, it lurked as a constant fear in the back of Bernard's
mind and, with the waining of the year, the trip itself became more
hazardous. Great storms blew up sometimes and he invested in a
length of oiled cloth to keep from being wet to the skin for hours
should this happen for he could not risk illness rendering him too
weak to make the trip. But this could do little against the the
increasing length of the trip or the danger of losing the way or of
the cart becoming trapped or overturned in a rut as the roads melted
into mud. Nor could it avail to keep out the seeping cold as the
changing year made the rain ever more chilled, replaced by sleet on
an ever more frequent basis. And, as the carter had warned, with the
darkness and the scarcity, the wolves came closer. Their presence
was so frequent now that, in some ways, he almost became used to
them. No longer did he clutch the wooden side of the cart with white
knuckles as the shadow of the fir wood loomed up ahead of them. The
howls still chilled his blood, the shapes in the dark, but, by now,
it was more of a vague dread than heart-stopping terror. Sometimes
he would start when one came particularly close but would be drifting
off again moments later.
As much as he could, he pushed his
fears about the failing year to the back of his mind, though, in
truth, there was not much else to occupy it, for the plague continued
to stretch on and on. In a way, it was easy to forget the changing
seasons much of the time for one day remained much like another.
Unless he was traveling to the cathedral or making his pilgrimage to
the farming village, he did not set foot outside and remained in
ignorance of the wind and weather. All he ever did was complete
craft orders, if he had them, and eat when he became hungry.
Supplies came in, orders were delivered, and completed orders picked
up, but other than this, nothing happened to break the monotonous
sameness. Then things did change and it was decidedly for the worse.
The plague rose again setting in motion a ripple of effects that
left him with dire foreboding for the future.
First, he received a message from the
cathedral, indirectly as always, about how the special visitors who
could not wear the rat repellent, probably just himself, would now be
confined to a significantly more narrow window of hours during which
they would be allowed in, punctuated, as was to be expected, by that
hateful phrase, “regardless of whether they have drunk the
protective elixir or no.” From a practical standpoint, this
mattered little to Bernard. His life revolved around the organ, as
it always had, and to accommodate the new hours he merely had to
shuffle around a few unimportant things, like eating and the time
spent working on his craft. But he had become adept at rearranging
these as needed around shifting access to the organ long years before
the plague had come. However, on a larger level, the declaration
filled him with fear for it meant the Chapter was not afraid to
change, and at least partially rescind, the agreement it had made.
This time, it had cost him nothing but, in the future... For the
first time, he saw clearly how fragile was the ground on which he
stood. No longer could he be swept away by the unmitigated joy of
being able to play the pipe organ for he knew now that there was a
risk it could be snatched away from him again and that fear haunted
him always in some deep well of his soul, even when he was not fully
aware of it with his waking mind.
It was around this time as well, that
the apothecary who had created the potion began suggesting that
perhaps it was not as proof against the infection as he had initially
thought. Perhaps, the effects wained with time and it would be
prudent for those who had swallowed his concoction in the past to
come back and bolster their protection with another dose. People
were skeptical at first, inclined to believe that this was, at least,
partially, a ploy for him to obtain more money. Since the pool of
those willing to take brew at all had long since dried up, the only
way he could continue to profit was to induce those same willing
individuals to take it a second time. But, as the number of plague
victims continued to climb, people became more and more inclined to
believe him, or at least be unwilling to take the risk that he was
right and so, at least briefly, there was again a crowd gathered
around his shop, though never so large as in those first heady months
when it had seemed that suffering was soon to be ended for good.
Bernard was not among them. Why
sicken himself again to no purpose? For he knew well now that
however much potion he might drink, howsoever many times he might
suffer its ill effects, it would never grant him more freedom or
change the way people felt towards him. Proclamations everywhere,
including the most recent one from the cathedral stated in no
uncertain terms that the potion did not matter, was not to be taken
into consideration under any circumstances, that it was worthless and
a waste of time. If it would have purchased him greater liberty or
greater understanding, he would have raced to the shop as fast as his
legs could carry him and gushed his gratitude over and over the whole
time he lay convulsed in pain. Sourly, he reflected that he would
probably end up taking another does eventually, just so he could
maintain the moral high ground of claiming he was doing everything in
his power to avoid spreading the plague to emphasize the unfairness
of his treatment, even though he knew it would have absolutely no
effect on anything.
And then, it happen at last, as
perhaps he had always known inevitably it would, on the journey back
from the village one night when the first snow was falling. The
attack, when it came was so sudden that there was no chance to
prepare even in the mind. Certainly, they had heard some howls here
and there but he thought nothing of it for there was never a night
they did not. Bernard had been drinking weak beer from a flask to
help settle him from the exertion, spiritual as well as physical, of
playing the organ, when the horse stopped so abruptly that the drink
flew up into his face and sloshed all down the front of his shirt,
rising up on its hind legs and giving a shrill scream. Then the wolf
was in the bed of the cart with him, it's jaws around his hand.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2026
