The Secrets of the Pied Piper 1 Read online

  It was just too bad that his story was so unbelievable. What sort of person stalked another person’s children because of some old fairy tale? And who would possibly go through the effort of setting up an elaborate hoax like the rats in the walls? Who could do such a thing? It all sounded outlandish to Max, and while she was afraid of that shadowy man she’d seen, she had a hard time believing he was part of some conspiracy to steal her father’s work. More likely he was just some nutcase, wandering the town and scaring anyone and everyone who crossed his path.

  Her father needed sleep and a hot meal. If nothing else came of that awful day, at least he would be taking tomorrow off to stay at home with them. That might be exactly the rest Max’s father needed. But tonight, if he was in the rare mood to be honest with her, whether it was from exhaustion or something else, Max decided to take advantage of it. There was something she’d been wanting to ask him but hadn’t yet found the time or the courage to do it.

  “Dad? Why didn’t Mom come with us to Germany?”

  Her father paused before answering. “She had things she wanted to get done. We’ve been over this.”

  He was avoiding something, turning his attention suddenly to his shoes, his watch, not looking his daughter in the eye, but Max pressed him. “She’s always come with us before. All those trips, she never stayed behind. Not once.”

  Max’s father looked at her, and something behind his eyes melted. “You have to understand, Max, that sometimes adults need…space to figure things out. Your mom just needed her space, is all.”

  “Space from you or from us?”

  “From me,” said her father, and he gently put both hands on her shoulders. “You have to believe that, okay? This has nothing to do with how she feels about you and your brother. I’ve been very busy, maybe too busy, and she just thought that maybe the three of us alone together would do us all some good.”

  He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ve not done a very good job of it so far, have I?”

  Max’s father had always been lanky, with wiry arms that hung well past his shirt cuffs. But as she felt his bony fingers on her shoulders and stared into the deep hollow of his neck, she realized he’d gotten too skinny, almost gaunt, in the last few weeks. It was hard to see her father look so fragile, and it scared her more than rats or men in the shadows. “Dad?” pleaded Max. “Can we all just go home? All of us, please?”

  Her father looked at her, then back to the window. Would he peek one last time at the street, looking for the man who wasn’t there? Or would he answer his daughter this very important question, his daughter who hardly ever asked him for anything at all?

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll call the airline tomorrow,” he said at last. “Give me just a few days to tie things up here, but we’ll be back in New York by the end of the week.”

  He looked like he might hug her, like he wanted to, but Max’s father had never been good at expressions of affection. The most he managed that night was a pat on her shoulder, but it was something. “By the way,” he said. “I do like the new hair.”

  “I haven’t decided if I’m going to keep it.”

  “You know, your mom had a green stripe in her hair once, back before we were married.”

  Max looked at her father in disbelief. “Mom?”

  Her father nodded, smiling. “She refers to it as her punk phase, but it was really just the hair.”

  “Wow! And what phase were you going through? Were you some kind of hippie or something?”

  “No, I’m afraid I looked pretty much the same, just younger,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go upstairs and get some sleep? But do me a favor and don’t tell your brother. About your mom and me, I mean. I don’t want to worry Carter over something that’ll all work out in the end.”

  Max made her way back to bed, but she didn’t close her eyes until she’d heard her father’s footsteps crossing the hall and the sound of his own bedroom door closing. Even then, as she finally felt sleep creeping in on the edges of her consciousness, she fought it for a while longer.

  Alone, Max whispered something aloud. There were no stars to wish upon in that foreign room so far, far away from home, so she wished upon the dark instead. It was an awkward wish, all tangled up with worries about her parents’ marriage and her brother and how Max herself was getting older. Everything in her life felt twisted together and impossible to pull apart, like a knot of pink hair.

  Just make it all better, she wished. The dark, of course, didn’t answer back. But something heard.

  “Here’s where they came in,” said the ratcatcher. Patrick. Or maybe he’d said his name was Peter. Max couldn’t remember.

  Whatever his name, he was a ratcatcher, or pest control professional, as he’d corrected Carter when Max’s brother had answered the front door shouting, “Dad! The ratcatcher’s here!”

  The ratcatcher introduced himself in nearly perfect English, and with a smile on his face, like he was in on the joke of how ridiculous his job title really was, so that was a point in his favor. Still, Max didn’t care for him. Maybe it was the way he instantly dismissed the number of rats they’d claimed to have seen. He’d nodded as they described the swarm of rodents pouring out of the vent, but they might as well have been telling him about a beanstalk growing up to the sky. Or maybe Max didn’t like him because she’d dreamed all night about rats and pipers and missing children, and maybe he was just unlucky enough to be a part of all that in her head.

  Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was a feeling in her gut.

  Regardless, the ratcatcher was now shining his flashlight into a hole half the size of Carter in the cellar wall. Beyond was darkness and an odd, sweet-smelling breeze. The edges of the hole looked chewed on.

  “They’re taking the insulation,” he said, pointing to the cottony yellow stuff lying in clumps near the hole. “They love this stuff. Makes for cozy nests.”

  “How did no one notice something like that?” asked their father. The night’s sleep had helped, and the bags under his eyes looked a little less like bruises. “And where’s that breeze coming from?”

  “I’m sure there’s another hole at the other end of this one that leads outside. Here. Take a listen.”

  Very faintly, Max could hear music drifting up through the hole. She looked over at Carter. “Weird,” he whispered.

  “Someone’s got their stereo up too loud,” said the ratcatcher, laughing. “This tunnel probably goes under the house next door. Just a few of them can chew through plaster, even metal wire, in no time. Wouldn’t take them long to do this.”

  “A few?” said Max. “There were hundreds!”

  The ratcatcher smiled at her. “I’m sure it seemed that way at the time.”

  “No, she’s right,” said Carter. “Thousands even.”

  “I’ve been doing this job for many years, and I can tell you I’ve never seen a home infestation that big. Train tunnels and sewers, maybe, but not homes.”

  “They didn’t imagine it,” said their father. “You saw the tracks in the kitchen.”

  “I’m not saying there weren’t a lot of them,” said the ratcatcher, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “And to be honest, it doesn’t matter. The course of treatment will be the same whether it’s one rat or a hundred.”

  “And just what is the treatment?” asked their father. “I’m not sure we should stay here tonight if you’re using rat poisons. All those chemicals.”

  The ratcatcher scratched his chin. The man was totally nondescript, with the kind of face you couldn’t pick out of a crowd if you tried. And he was awfully clean-cut for someone who spent his days crawling around people’s basements.

  “Well, there are options,” he said. “Why don’t we go upstairs and look over the paperwork. Your landlord will be paying, of course, but since you’re the tenant, I’ll still need your signature.”

  When they got to the kitchen, their father put on a pot of coffee as the ratcatcher sat
down at the table. The music was louder up here, coming in through the open kitchen window.

  “At least it’s classical,” the ratcatcher said. “Can’t stand pop songs today.” He was rummaging through his shoulder bag.

  “So, where’s your mother?” he asked Max as she sat down opposite him.

  “She’s back in the States,” Max said, not that it was any of the man’s business.

  “It’s a shame about them.”

  Max looked at him. Had she just heard him right?

  “What did you just say?”

  “Hmm? Me? Nothing.”

  At that moment, Max’s father reappeared with the coffee. “Milk or sugar?”

  “Black’s fine for me,” the ratcatcher said.

  “I’m sorry,” said their father. “But could you tell me your name again? I’m bad with names.”

  “Oh, please don’t apologize,” he said, blowing on his coffee.

  Then he told them his name again, and this time Max repeated it to herself so she wouldn’t forget. It was Harold. Or Hans. Maybe it was something longer? Why couldn’t she remember? She couldn’t have slept that well if she was this tired. If she forgot the name of someone literally seconds after hearing it, she really was brain-dead.

  Soon, however, her father and ratcatcher what’s-his-name were busy going over a checklist of remedies for their pest problem. Traps first, the ratcatcher recommended, and if that didn’t work, he’d find them where they lived. Not that it was the Weber family’s problem anymore. In a few days they would be on a plane back home. Her father had promised.

  Carter was hanging back, kind of watching it all with a look of concentration on his face. He was probably somewhere in his own head, daydreaming, as usual.

  Max walked over to him and mock-punched him in the arm.

  “You hit like a girl,” he said.

  “So what do you think of all this?”

  “Seems to know what he’s doing,” said Carter. Then he whispered, “I wonder how someone becomes a ratcatch—um, I mean, pest control professional, anyway. When do you decide to do that?”

  Max leaned up against the wall next to her brother. “I don’t think it’s popular on career day at school.”

  Carter smiled. “No way.”

  “Hey, what did he say his name was?” asked Max. “I keep forgetting.”

  “Oh, it’s…it’s…” Carter scrunched up his nose like he was smelling something rotten. “I can’t remember. That’s weird.”

  Max got that feeling again, the one she’d gotten yesterday when she’d lost track of Carter after the play, the feeling she’d had when she’d seen the man standing in the shadows. It was a prickle at the base of her neck, a queasiness in her stomach that told her something was not right. Why couldn’t Carter remember the ratcatcher’s name, either?

  “What’s up?” asked Carter. “You don’t look good.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Max. “Go wait upstairs.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just do it!” she snapped.

  Their father finished signing the ratcatcher’s contract. The two were shaking hands as Max approached.

  “Here’s your copy, in English,” the ratcatcher was saying. “And, like I said, don’t worry about the fine print. Formalities.”

  “I understand,” said Max’s father. “So, when can you start?”

  “Let me run out to my van to get something.” He smiled at them. “Don’t anyone go away!”

  Her father gave a polite chuckle, and Max just watched as the ratcatcher left through the front door.

  “Odd fellow,” said her father, letting out a long sigh. “But I think we’ll all sleep better tonight once this is taken care of. Though I haven’t ruled out going to a hotel.”

  Through the front door window, Max could see the ratcatcher opening the door to his van. It was a plain white vehicle. No company name or logo.

  “Dad,” Max asked. “Did you catch his name?”

  “Hmm? Oh, it’s…Darn it, he told me twice….It’s on the tip of my tongue!”

  That sealed it. Three of them and not one could remember his name. And there was the unmarked van. No logo. The music grew louder. It no longer sounded far off; it was right here with her. The room felt like it was tipping beneath her feet.

  Max snatched the contract from the table. It was mostly legalese, but she couldn’t find a name anywhere. She flipped the page over. On the back was a single sentence, but unlike the typed front page, this was handwritten in a cursive, flowing font:

  In signing I hereby offer as tender my children, blood of my blood, the last of their line, in payment to the Piper, and the deal is done.

  The fine print. Max’s breath caught in her throat. A scream that wouldn’t come out. She turned to see the ratcatcher bounding up the front steps to the porch, two at a time.

  “Dad!” she screamed. “Lock the door! Don’t let him back in!”

  But it was too late. The door flew open, and…

  The music soared. Her father was saying something, calling worriedly to Max, but it sounded as if he were talking under water. Max was dreaming, and nothing could hurt you in a dream. She could feel Carter’s hand tugging on her sleeve, and she felt a slight twinge of annoyance that her brother was still in the dream with her; why hadn’t he gone upstairs like she’d told him to? But that didn’t really matter. None of it mattered anymore. All she could care about was the song, the longing and sadness in the music that made her heart want to burst.

  Then Max was looking at herself in a tall mirror. It was an old thing, with gilded edges that had tarnished over time. A hairline crack split down the center of the looking glass and it distorted her reflection so that she looked like two halves of a person stuck awkwardly together. A girl and a young woman, yet neither one looked right on her own. Max didn’t know how to stitch them into one, but if she followed the dream music, she wouldn’t have to.

  Then Max was dancing toward a far-off place, a land of summer and trees and flowers so bright it was like staring into the sun, and she didn’t care if she ever, ever came home again.

  Lukas was dreaming of the man and the woman again. The woman held him, and in her arms Lukas was smaller and still soft with milk fat. He couldn’t see her face this time. In some dreams she had a face, but it often changed, and Lukas never knew which one was true. The man was talking to him, lecturing him about not shirking his duties at the gate wall. Lukas didn’t want to hear it, so he snuggled closer to the woman, burying his head in her chest, where he felt safe. Comforted.

  When the dream was interrupted by the ringing of a tower bell, Lukas awoke in a panic. The gate! Had he forgotten the gate wall, overslept his shift? But bright yellow daylight was streaming in through the shutters of his small room. He’d already done his shift, a full watch last evening. Across from Lukas, Finn’s bed was empty, which meant that the other boy was already at the gate. That meant it was the day watch.

  Then why was the tower bell ringing?

  Alarm settled to annoyance as Lukas counted the rings of the bell. Three, then a pause, and three again. Scouts were returning with something that needed his attention, but it wasn’t a village-wide alarm. They weren’t under attack.

  Still, he was being summoned and there would be no going back to bed. As Lukas stood up, he nearly doubled over from the crick in his neck. He really needed to restuff his mattress, but there was precious little furry moss available in the village these days. Finn had sent out a foraging party, but furry moss wouldn’t be high on their list of priorities. Maybe he’d see if the girls had any to spare—Emilie owed him one favor, at least.

  He’d been so exhausted when he’d come off his watch that he’d collapsed onto the bed without taking off his clothes, so he needn’t bother dressing. He slipped on his hard leather shoes and wrapped the pigskin leggings up tight. It was a routine he’d gotten used to, and he only paused before belting on the sword. It still didn’t feel right wearing that thing on his hip. The Sword of
the Eldest Boy was solid black iron, warped and dented in places, but it was a far superior weapon than any other in the village. No studded club for him, or spear. The sword was the weapon of the Captain of the Watch, and it had belonged to Leon, and to Marc before him. They’d each been Eldest Boy, before they were lost. All they’d left behind was the sword, and regardless of how it felt, or how little he wanted it, the sword belonged to Lukas. He was Eldest Boy, now.

  Lukas stepped out of the west barracks and squinted up at the sky. It was still early morning, and he’d only been asleep for a few hours, yet the village of New Hamelin was already well into its daily business. He could smell bread baking, and he watched as a pair of middle boys argued over who had spilled their buckets of river water. Lukas shook his head. It didn’t matter who spilled them. There were too many things to do. There were always things to do.

  He took a slight detour on his way to the gate and crossed the village square. There was a strong summer breeze this morning, but while it might come as a relief to the children working in the gardens, any unusually cool breeze was reason for concern when you were Captain of the Watch. The Summer Tree stood tall and proud in the middle of the square, and little ones played beneath its sheltering boughs. Lukas paused just long enough to examine the tree’s leaves. Most were still a lush green, but he spotted yellow in among them, turning fast before his eyes. Wind ruffled the branches. No breeze anymore, this was a strong gust now, and other children were noticing the sudden drop in temperature. They turned to Lukas with anxious looks.

  Is this an autumn wind? their worried faces asked. Is winter coming tonight? Is darkness coming tonight?

  Lukas stepped up his pace as he made for the main gate. Here on the Summer Isle, warmth and sunlight reigned. The nights rarely grew dark, as twilight lasted from dusk until dawn. But every now and then a chill wind would start to blow and bring with it a sudden change. The temperatures would plummet, and that night a full moon would rise—a Winter’s Moon—and chase away the warmth. True night would descend, a dark winter that lasted one night only. But one night was enough, because things crept out of the dark on nights like that, things that shunned the light. Dangerous things.