The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

  “Mr. Gallows,” calls Ms. Weiss as I gently raise her up off the ground. “Mr. Gallows, I’d like you to meet Horatio Gaph, my new striker,” she says, continuing the introductions as if nothing odd had happened at all. Mr. Gallows nods and attempts to return to his drink, but Ms. Weiss isn’t finished with him.

  “Mr. Gallows, isn’t it wonderful that we have such a fine young man who’s willing to risk his own life for that of the great collection of Citizens we have here tonight?”

  Mr. Gallows furrows his brow, apparently puzzled by Ms. Weiss’s praise for me. Yeah, I’m in the League now, but I will always be a lo-pry. And you don’t often see public praise from a Citizen for one of us.

  “Oh, yes … yes, of course,” he says, going along with Ms. Weiss. “Well done, Gaph. A great show of patriotism, that.”

  I glance back to Special Agent Farr and find him stopped in the middle of his tracks. His eyes burn red as he slides his cuffs back to their pouch on his belt and melts in with the rest of the crowd.

  “Who was that, Ms. Weiss?”

  “Hmmmm?” she says, as if she could hardly bother. “Mr. Gallows? Oh. He is the Chief Commissioner of law enforcement for all of New Victoria. And he just called you a patriot.”

  I nod and add a smile, which Ms. Weiss tries to ignore. But I see the smile returned, even if it’s only from the corner of her eye. She knew what she was doing.

  Almost immediately, Ms. Allison Weiss stumbles and winces. A gash of red, ripped flesh just above her left elbow is the reason why.

  Calls for the house doctor get an immediate response, and before I know it, the doctor rubs a small tool emitting a light blue glow at the point of contact against the cut. Only moments later, nothing more than a faded scar has taken the gruesome wound’s place.

  “As I’ve said,” my new boss says, noticing my concern, “you can’t help but help.”

  Ms. Weiss is swallowed up by a host of hubris, her fellow Citizens clamoring to praise their own bravery. I turn around to see the strawberries scattered over the table and ground, almost mocking me. Already, stewards in white server’s coats are collecting them in trash receptacles. I think about asking them to bring more or even put them back, but I imagine that would play right into their expectations of a lo-pry. They couldn’t guess the real reason even if they cared. Instead, I scan for Lara, whose cross-room nod and attempted smile tells me she’s alright, if shaken. The rest of the party goes on as if nothing had happened at all. Except for Mr. Boxrud, who tips his glass to me, adding a smile. I can’t immediately tell if it means he’s impressed or validated. Either way, Boxrud is nothing like the others.

  Not ten minutes later, Ms. Weiss stops the frivolity and introduces me formally to the crowd as the new starting striker for the Knights of Revolution. The prestigious gathering raises a glass to the new striker and welcomes me into the League with the presentation of my helmet. It’s silver with a dark blue visor, sculpted with inspiration from the armor worn by medieval knights. A number nine glistens in deep blue on the back. The evening has been tinged with a sour taste in my mouth, but this almost makes up for it. Ms. Weiss must have sensed it.

  “No, it’s beyond what I could have hoped for,” I answer when she quizzes me.

  “Then why the slight drop in temperament?”

  “Well, it’s the strawberries,” I say. “I really wanted to try them.” She laughs and turns herself away to what I am sure are more pressing matters than a lo-pry’s wishes for strawberries.

  It’s the dark side of the Citizen class, the side I knew was there but never wanted to believe. If I ever did see it, I planned to avoid it. Even those who pass their Trials and live much better lives are still buffered from the chosen minority, who are chosen only because of who they knew when the power changed. Entirely subjective, though money and influence helped, as it always does. They’re happy to watch us in the right venues, but familiar? Never. At least they keep their distance. Unequal but separate, we say. That’s the good news.

  But tonight proves that my granddad, the old folks who lived to see the Unification and remember what life was before it, they’re right. Court jesters, I hear my granddad say. The best we’re allowed to do.

  “It won’t always be like this,” says Lara in the car on the way home.

  “What won’t be?”

  “Mingling with the Citizens. It will be required two or three times a year. Four if you win the Elixir Cup.”

  “What’s really been said, Lara? About me coming up like I did?”

  “Most press and Revolution Citizens are excited about it. They see your talent, want to own it. Others have...concerns with a Citizen being replaced, especially for the price they paid for you. Then others criticized Kotch, saying this is why the Citizens shouldn’t play the game.”

  “Because if it’s never proven that a lo-pry is better than a Citizen at anything, then they can keep claiming it.”

  “You will never hear that out loud, but yes. Can I ask you something?” asks Lara.

  “What?”

  “How did you ever think to call out his mother’s name?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Angela Kotch, Angie, Bo Kotch’s mother’s name. She was a vocal lo-pry advocate for years and real thorn to Kotch’s image. How did you know?”

  “Desperation, I guess.” I shake my head. The real answer is that I don’t know. I have a talent, I could tell her. Most of the time, I have to think of the option to see the consequence. But sometimes, like when I saw what would happen if I shouted Angie, sometimes it just comes to me. But she wouldn’t understand. No one here would understand.

  “They didn’t even say thank you,” I say, thinking back to the night’s excitement.

  “Who didn’t?”

  “No one. But I guess I should expect that.”

  A moment later, I feel Lara take my hand in hers. The warmth of her touch spreads like water from my fingertips to my shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, a sound that travels around my neck and down my chest.

  I don’t pull my hand away until the driver pulls up to a stop. When I get out of the car, I can’t speak. I can hardly breathe. I look up, trying to find the top of the one-hundred-eighty-story tower in front of me.

  “We’re,” I say finally, “at the stadium?”

  “Things work a little different in Revolution,” says Lara. Instead of sending the players to live in the city’s suburbs, Ms. Weiss insists that her team members live in the middle of everything.

  “The Tower.”

  “All twenty-five players reside on the middle floors.”

  “Where am I?”

  “The one-hundred-fifty-third floor.”

  “Wow, on the one-hundred-fifty-third floor?”

  “No, Horatio, the one-hundred-fifty-third floor—all of it.”

  It’s a swift ride for the elevator to rush Lara and me to my new home. It may be in a tower, but just stepping inside the doorway, I see that it could easily engulf three of my parents’ homes side by side. Open spaces, a loft above, three bedrooms, and a great room that ends in wall-to-wall drapes that I’m hoping open to a spectacular view.

  “Your family will be moved into a home in Liberty, a suburb about forty minutes north of here. Wonderful accommodations. I picked them out myself.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be needing them,” I mumble.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing,” I say louder. “Thanks, Lara.” I turn back to find her standing near the doorway, the light behind her illuminating her silhouette, confirming what I believed from the beginning. Only dancers have bodies like this. It’s not just her figure. It’s the way she holds it, like a bird, every step barely touching the ground. Absolute control. Every move towards me is a dance, and I’m ensorcelled.r />
  “Tonight did not go as expected for you, Horatio,” she says at exactly the right time, “but then I think you are more than what anyone expected. You saved the life of Ms. Weiss and probably many other very important people, but tonight, right now, all I care about is that you saved mine.”

  She’s close to me now. A few inches of irritating air separate me and her. The light relents, and I see her face, filled with honest adoration, gratitude, and desire. Either this is for real or she is the greatest performer I’ve ever seen.

  Her hand reaches into the opening of my coat. Her fingers trace the cut of my abdomen and up to my chest, where she rests her entire hand, pulsing with my quickened heartbeat. My own hands cup around her wonderfully firm waist.

  “It can get lonely in the city, especially after spending an evening with them.” Her full, glassy lips brush against my chin as she raises her head. “I don’t think that’s a fitting reward for a hero.”

  I allow myself to enjoy just another moment of this.

  “Lara,” I say. She closes her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t.” I feel her body freeze in place, eyes still closed.

  “I can’t,” I repeat. She opens her eyes, and I take a step back, away from her titillating touch.

  “You’re not my reward.”

  She stands there, just stands there for at least a minute but feels like more. I should’ve used my vision. Should have seen the possibilities of how to handle this. What if I’m wrong? What if this was the start of a relationship that could have granted me everything I wanted? But I’m not wrong. It’s not everything I wanted. There’s no music.

  “Who are you?” she asks, collecting herself.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, who are you?” she asks again, slowly, the words punching out of her mouth. “I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m me. I don’t understand.”

  “No, Horatio, look, I have spent months studying you, preparing to be your liaison to the League and Synarch. I know you completely. At least I thought I did. This isn’t about love or adoration for you, is it? This is about who you left behind. But you haven’t left her behind. You haven’t come to replace her with the adulation of hundreds of thousands of screaming fans. They couldn’t begin to. Coming here without her was the hardest thing you’ve ever done. And I want to think that’s really saying something.”

  Her deep gaze seems to pierce through my eyes and down into my chest, as though trying to hook some dark fear or secret that even I ignore. And all at once, she smiles. A kind smile, warm. If the serene look on her face doesn’t convince me she has learned who I am, then her words do.

  “You’re doing a good thing here, Horatio,” she says finally. “You have helped so many who will never forget your name. You have raised up the entire district of Allen. You have helped them. You have protected them. Whatever you gave up to be here—and I believe it was a significant sacrifice—you made a good choice.”

  The words are good, and for a moment they satisfy me until I see a flicker of doubt in Lara’s eyes. A quick, fleeting flicker that was never meant to be seen, but enough that I wonder who she is trying to convince, me or her.

  “Lara—”

  She pulls me back into her body, lifting her lips to my ear.

  “You have enemies,” she whispers.

  “What?”

  “Please be careful, Horatio. I will watch and warn you when I can, but you pose a great threat to a great power. You are not who they said you were,” she says, squeezing me closer, trying to prevent any of her words from escaping my ear. “I’m afraid...”

  “Afraid? Lara, afraid of what?”

  “I hope everything is to your liking, Horatio,” she says as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. “If you require nothing else, I shall leave you to get settled.”

  I nod in understanding and turn away, looking for something to say, and I find it on a glass table just beyond us—a tray holding a mound of fresh, chocolate-covered strawberries.

  “You?” I ask.

  “You don’t need them,” Lara whispers again. “They will turn you into something you were never born to be.”

  “What am I supposed to be?” I whisper back humbly, desperate to know the answer. She moves close again and returns her hand to my heart.

  “This will tell you.”

  She smiles, mouths the word, “soon,” and fades through the door of my home, the one-hundred-fifty-third floor of the Tower.

  After giving myself a tour of its luxurious open spaces and plush carpet that insists I take my shoes off to really appreciate it, I repeat Lara’s words. This is where I belong. I helped a lot of people by working through the system. It may not be perfect, but it’s better. A lot better. Even if there is no real escape. I miss her, miss Annie. I’ve always dreamed that she’d be here with me at this very moment, the moment that is now less satisfying. Less, final.

  Come on, Gaph. Remember what’s important here. Remember Allen’s success. Remember Ames. Remember the black-haired boy that shared his treasure with you.

  I sit at the table, staring at the red, plump fruit, and heave a heavy sigh, letting the weight I’ve carried for so long finally tumble off my back.

  “I’ve done it, Peter.”

  I pick up a plump strawberry off the top of the pile while swallowing the extra saliva swishing over my tongue. I open my mouth, fully anticipating the sweet crush of chocolate and tart fruit, but I hesitate. No, I stop. Something Lara said annoys my thoughts and prevents me from enjoying my victory.

  They will turn you into something you were never born to be.

  I try again, but I cannot bring myself to eat.

  “Ah!” I grunt and shove the berry back with the others. I pace the floor, trying to wear down the whatever inside me attempting to make me feel guilty over my success.

  “I earned this! I deserve this! Allen deserves this!” I say out loud, hoping it helps.

  This has nothing to do with the match. You can’t listen to them.

  My father’s words echo in my ears. The image of the box wrapped in brown paper flashes in my mind, and immediately I try to shake it out. It sat on the table in my parents’ front room for three days, totally ignored. I wasn’t going to let the fairy tale ruin the right thing to do. Besides, they now have the box. They’ll have opened it. And someone else will accept the Call. That isn’t my fight.

  I hop up and shove the curtains to each side, seeing what I had hoped. It’s a glass wall, from ceiling to floor, overlooking the magnificent sight that is the playing field for the Knights of Revolution.

  “I’ve won my fight.”

  6

  Knights Field

  I ADMIT THAT AFTER A FULL WEEK ON THIS FIELD, WITH THESE PLAYERS, I AM LOVING THIS GAME. I can’t get enough of it. Guess Granddad was right. In fact, I’d rather play for free than be a paid jester to the Citizens. Still, the saving grace is that Citizens rarely converse with the players. I haven’t seen or had to talk to a Citizen since the theater, and that makes me happy. I lose myself, my thoughts in learning the game at this level. It helps me focus and forget. Knights Field is unique in that it has kept with the traditional look that all four teams began the league with—but only this one remains. A flat terrain, covered in lush green grass, with six medieval broad swords stretching thirty feet in the sky at the same positions as every other field. There’s an elegance and fairness to it I admire. No tricks. No hiding places. Even ground.

  “We’ll see how well your aim is when the very dogs of hell are breathing down your neck with jaws as sharp as fire blades and breath that makes you puke just by standing near it!” shouts Coach Simmons after I go ten for ten, lighting up the farthest pillars. “This ain’t grade school no more, boy!”

 
I don’t know if he likes me or not. All I know is I’m all he’s got.

  During practice, I run drills and get a feel for my teammates, all of which are elite. It feels as if I’m playing with seven Tommy Briggses instead of one. Tommy’ll fit right into this game.

  I also learn that Kotch’s appearance at the reception has leaked. Or at least my part in it. The first day, I tried to set the record straight, but it did no good. By the last practice of the week, I’ve not only disarmed Kotch and his army of three dozen strong, but I threw him through the ceiling of the theater when he tried to kill Ms. Weiss. But it has helped me gain a quick trust with these guys. That and Coach made me knock an egg off a cone at a hundred yards thirteen times in a row.

  “Take a knee,” calls Coach Simmons at the end of practice. I don’t know why, but the players kneel in a circle around Coach, something I haven’t seen them do. Could be a pregame ritual.

  “Tomorrow, the Colorado Wind will come in here and try to take our house! Will they take our house?!”

  “We will protect this house!” the players bellow in unison.

  “We have a new striker. He’s only had a week of practice. He’s worked his butt off. But is he ready? Is he ready to protect this house?!”

  “Gaph!” the players cry.

  “Is he ready to protect this house?!”

  “Gaph!”

  He looks past me to the other players, to the starting enforcers, the men whose job it is to protect me. One of them, Dexter Worsack, holds a long, slender box of white polished metal and hands it to Coach. The other players push me up off my knee. I quickly find myself in the middle of the circle with the enforcers flanking Coach Simmons on either side.