The Children of Hamelin

by Danny Lasko

“Okay,” I interrupt. Lara’s forehead is burning. “I’m going to put you back in the stream.”

  “A fortress … ” she whispers, fading.

  “Fortress?”

  “Kingdom!” she gasps. “Magic Kingdom!” Her arms flail, trying to grab the air right in front of her and stuff it into her lungs.

  “No, Lara, no. Don’t … you have to hang on. … I have to save you. I’m going … ” The breathless panic of loss and failure clogs my throat, preventing any more useless promises from coughing out of my mouth. I feel the heaving sobs ready to break through. I’m losing it. But then, for one last moment, one last mercy, Lara finds me, reaches for me, pulling me out of my despair.

  “Save me,” she whispers, lifting her tired arm to caress my cheek. “Already saved me. You are … everything … they expect you to … be … ”

  The air hisses from her lungs, her blue eyes go still and empty. I close them, cradling her head in the crook of my arm. What they must have done to her … the wizards—dogs—barked and bit at the girl until they tore her apart. Not for the simple reason that she existed but for the simple reason that I did.

  17

  The First Prince of Mira

  KEEP RUNNING. KEEP MOVING.

  Those are the only four words I have energy for as I dart through the thick tropical forest of the island. It helps me to say them out loud, to fight the physical pain of the poisonous wolves and the emotional guilt of leaving Lara hidden in the cave.

  Keep running. Keep moving.

  I’m choking on my own blood and lack of saliva. The wolf wounds sting like hornets from hell, and I have no idea how to escape from an island. Swim? Which direction? Besides, that was one of the first things my vision did tell me. I wouldn’t fifteen seconds.

  It’s late. The sun went down a few hours ago and there’s no moon tonight, making it slow going. I keep thinking I hear someone or more somethings behind me, but so far, it’s all in my head. I haven’t slept for thirty hours. Haven’t eaten for more than that. The book’s getting heavy on my back. And in two days, Allen and everyone I knew will be gone.

  I don’t see the bulging tree root in front of me. I don’t even try to stop myself, letting gravity and the island have their way with me, tossing me down into a small ravine. It’s quite liberating, in a twisted way, having no say in what direction you’ll go. No need to choose, just going with whatever push or pull pummels you. I finally come to a dizzying rest against a large volcanic rock, hitting it with maybe the one square inch on my body not in pain.

  A lot of pain, I think. That’s what this search for Berebus Pock has come to. Falling eight hundred feet, nearly drowned by the sea itself, getting my ankles broken and stabbed by my own grandfather, knocked around by giant explosions, burned and shocked and beaten by wizards, falling again, and attacked by poisonous wolves. Without Annie, a simple fall down a stupid ravine is what does me in.

  Annie. Now in the hands of Boxrud. All my fault. If I never would have left...but I was told to leave. Was Annie supposed to be...?

  I’m so tired. I can feel myself losing it, drifting in and out of consciousness. Of all the hardships and challenges I thought I’d face in my life, I never thought I’d die alone. Never even occurred to me. No one to say goodbye to, no one to tell the truths I learned from the book strapped to my back. No one to tell that this world is more than just a place we come to die.

  “People often mistake adversity as a sign of the end of things rather than the moment a new future begins.”

  From its first syllable, I know whose voice it is.

  “Do not join them in their folly, Horatio Gaph.”

  The Grey.

  I inch my head up off the ground and blink until my eyes focus on a golden glimmer flashing from his smile.

  He’s just as short and stubby as I remember, with a pointy nose and ears too big for his head. His wispy white hair streams over his skull; a strand of it covers his left eye, which twinkles with a mixture of kindness and mischief, as if he knows the hidden joke in all of this.

  The stubby little man dangles something long, gold, and glistening from his fingers. Three somethings in fact, of different lengths.

  The Gray’s eyes wander along the ground until they find a thin fallen branch, and he licks it—a lot—until the wood is thoroughly wet. He bends the stick and ties the golden strings to each end, the shortest on the inside, then the middle, then the longest, turning the strings and branch into a harp. At least that’s my guess.

  “You must ready yourself.”

  I can’t answer, partly because I don’t know what he’s talking about and partly because I’m dying. Finally, the creature notices. I watch him scrounge around the ground until he comes up with a small pink bulb in his hand. And through a haze of pain and tears, I think I see the Grey whisper something, then kiss the bulb, which immediately turns to a gleaming white glob. He lies flat in front of me so that our eyes are level.

  “I understand you have had a rather difficult time of it,” he says firmly. “But now is not the time to give in. Ready yourself.”

  The Grey stuffs the glob into my mouth. At first I resist, but as soon as the sweet juices fall on my tongue and seep into the dry corners of my mouth, I embrace it. I wolf down the mess, almost gagging on it. The fogginess from the poison and exhaustion fade away, and I realize the night is not as dark as I thought. I’m in a forest of knotty, twisted trees. Trees I’ve never seen before. Trees that have no business being on a tropical island. The ground is covered in dark green leaves, broad and lying low to the earth. Bulbs of green, yellow, pink, and red peek out from under them.

  I pull myself up, and immediately the panic sets in.

  “Annie!” I yell. “You have to save Annie!”

  “That is not my work,” says the Grey.

  “Make it your work!” I cry, stepping forward. But the Grey holds out his hand, and an unseen force pushes me back.

  “I am here to tutor the First Prince of Mira in the playing of Aires. And we are wasting time.”

  “Prince.” The force from inside me strikes again, the words from the Mirastory, from Peter Dawes, ringing clear and true in my chest.

  “Yes, teach me.”

  “You must ready yourself.”

  “I’m ready! Look, I have the Mirastory! I know who I am. I’m ready!”

  “One thing you yet lack, Horatio Gaph.”

  “What? What do I lack?”

  “Let go.”

  “Let go of what?!” I shout.

  “You already know.”

  My mind swirls back through to the moment of my pain. Past Lara dying in my arms. Past the wolves and the meeting with the wizards. Past Boxrud’s threats to kill Annie and destroy the Auravel. And back to the deck of a flying pirate ship, London burning below. My father’s shouts echo in my ears. His blind anger oblivious to my growing abilities and faith, raging in front of my eyes. And his great fear, swallowing what little courage he has left, keeping his hope and his sanity from breaking.

  “It’s okay to let go.”

  I have blamed my father for everything. Blamed him for the fall of Ames. For a mother who never showed me affection. For my injuries and setbacks. For Allen’s fate. For London’s. I have used that blame as fuel for everything. And it has served me well. How do I let go of the thing that keeps me going?

  “Holding onto hate does not make one powerful, Horatio Gaph,” says the Grey, reading my mind. “It destroys one’s power.” The Grey pulls a giant red bulb from the ground and holds it in front of me by its green stem, its yellow seeds covering its skin.

  “A strawberry.”

  “What’s it taste like, Horatio?”

  “How … how do you know?”

  “You cannot comprehend all that has occurred to bring you now to this momen
t,” answers the Grey. “You are not alone, Horatio Gaph. You have never been alone. What’s it taste like?”

  My mind swirls again, past London and into the captain’s cabin. My father, gently cleaning the mud from my legs and dressing me in new clothes, his despair in seeing my pain. My mind swirls again until it locks on him leaping off the ship, trying to cut the ship free, sacrificing himself. I think of his adopted hook and his bravery at the Garden, which he directed and built with his own hands. And I watch as he dances among the trees with my mother, whose smile beams through the lamp light. I’ve never seen her as happy.

  “Love,” I answer. It’s why Peter Dawes gave me the first bite. It’s why Annie stayed with me, even though she knew I was wrong. It’s why my father hid his family in Allen, why he dedicated his life to the Children.

  “Then it is a beginning,” he says, satisfied. “Horatio Gaph, you are one of the eight.”

  Suddenly and without my prompt, I flash. I see me standing, holding an Auravel, not Pock’s, a new one, made of a deep red wood, slightly longer than Pock’s and tapered from the mouthpiece to its end where it slightly flares, nine holes punched along the top, the whole of it slightly curved. I watch myself put it to my lips and play while behind me, mountains are raised and the sun rises.

  The flash ends. I leap to my feet and snap a long, curved branch from a nearby fallen tree. I search my pockets and pull out the shard of the shattered sword I kept. I begin to carve the dark red wood, shaping it, hollowing it out, following the images still fresh in my mind. I don’t know how to carve wood. But I never doubt what I’m doing. I am amazed at how smooth and workable the wood is under its rough bark. I don’t know how long it takes me, but soon the very pipe I saw in my vision rests in my hands. I turn to the Grey, who has simply sat and watched while I worked.

  “I am ready,” I say, holding out what I know now is the Auravel of the First Prince of Mira. My Auravel.

  The Grey takes the Auravel and whispers something above the holes. Out of his mouth, wisps of white meander their way around the Auravel and into each of the nine finger holes. The pipe glows for a moment as though in a hot fire and spits the white wisp from its mouth. Each strand wraps around me, finding its way into my own mouth before disappearing. My muscles tighten, my mind clears, and I feel an internal strength I’ve never felt before. The Grey offers the Auravel back. It feels smooth, strong. Powerful.

  He raises the harp in his hands and plucks the shortest of the three cords, which responds by playing a familiar song. It’s the Aire taken from the crown at the shore, the one that raised the Jolly Roger from its grave. He points to the face of a large boulder nearby and waves his finger at it as if he’s directing music. But that’s not what he’s doing. He’s writing. The Grey magically carves the same swirled script from Pock’s notes onto the rock face.

  They’re music notes, I think to myself. Not letters.

  “Play,” says the Grey when the song finishes.

  I close my eyes, bring the new Auravel to my lips, and let my fingers find the notes. I sound the first three before I miss one.

  “Again,” orders the Grey. He strokes the golden string on his harp for me once more, the same eight notes I heard in the castle on the coast and sort of played at the mouth of Big River. I picture Annie moving my fingers amidst the noise of the oncoming Synarch, telling me how to coax the notes from the instrument. This time, I watch as wisps of light spill from the Auravel and ignite the notes on the rock into a glow of fiery white as I play them correctly. On the third attempt, I get each of them to glow in order.

  “Consider the fallen tree,” says the Grey.

  I think about the tree and play again. The trunk and its remaining branches rise in the air and float.

  “Good. The next one you have already learned. Play it.”

  I play it without a mistake, recalling perfectly my previous experience with Annie in the captain’s cabin. But I’m surprised that the tree doesn’t respond.

  “Know that how you play the notes is as important as what notes you play.”

  “But I played it just like that and brought the Jolly Roger back to life.”

  “Yes, and had a beaten-down ship heard it, it too would have risen from the dead. Consider the fallen tree.”

  The Grey takes me through Hook’s Aire, slowly swinging the notes back and forth. I follow and watch the fallen tree stir. It tips itself upright, and its torn roots reach out from the ground like hungry snakes and latch onto the trunk, pulling the tree back down into the ground. Its branches burst into bright bloom, reborn and alive.

  “Consider the broken blade.”

  The shard of the sword gleams amongst the leaves and twigs on the ground by my feet. I play Hook’s Aire again, this time faster, and watch the broken blade flash, calling the pieces back to it. Each piece flies in from what must be the base of the cliff where the sword shattered and seals itself with the others. Finally, the blue hilt hums through the air and latches on to the reformed blade. The engraved Latin letters wink back at me with a bluish glimmer.

  “Next,” says the Grey.

  The third Aire, the longest of the three, takes some time, having only heard it once before with my head buried in self-pity at the Pan statue. But eventually I get it, though it doesn’t seem to affect the tree.

  “Excellent,” says the Grey after the last note fades. “Extraordinary, under the circumstances.”

  “What does it do?”

  “The Aire is called ‘Borrowed Light’ and works only with those who carry the Soul. From those who are willing and to those in need, the song will lend your piece of the living light of Mira to them or theirs to you.”

  “I can give someone my Soul?”

  “For a time. But be mindful—only one steward for every piece of the Soul. Should he or she give it to you, you become that steward, and he or she is without their power.”

  “What about the last Aire? The one we didn’t get.”

  “It is waiting for you with your friends and gives you the power to create that which isn’t there. The other is yet to be sung.”

  “The other?” I ask. “There’s a fifth Aire?”

  “Aye. A new Aire, which will be sung on the seventeenth anniversary of the SongKeeper’s birth, halfway between dawn and dusk.”

  “Annie.”

  “She must live to sing, Horatio,” says the Grey, backing into the trees. “Without the Aire she alone can sing, the Soul can never be restored.”

  He whispers something into the giant strawberry and kisses it just as before, which causes the fruit to glow white. He tosses it to me as his frame blends with the dark of the shadows. “You are not alone, Horatio. You will never be alone. You are loved. It is now yours to give. You are one of the eight.”

  I look down at the strawberry.

  A high-pitched scream fills the sky. I scan above the trees to find the blue eagle soaring, heading north.

  . . . they will always have an Ally, who will guide them when they do not know the way.

  I look back for the Grey, but he’s long gone. Instead, I hear the sound of thundering feet. Another scream from above. I sheathe my sword and follow the blue eagle away from the approaching horde.

  He leads me to a dead-end ledge with sheer, sleek cliffs and a deep chasm blocking me in, So deep that darkness hides the bottom. The first fires of the mob torches seal the path behind me. The cliff walls that box me in are so smooth I don’t think I could climb them, even at full strength. I’m trapped and begin to doubt my decision to follow the bird. Was it even my bird? I flash forward, hoping to find a new way out. But the only thing I see that doesn’t end in death is—

  STANDSTILL get crushed by rockslide you live.

  It doesn’t make sense. Then I remember. I have a sword.

  USESWORD you die.
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br />   At the same time the mob of wizards show themselves, a rumbling from above shakes the narrow ledge I stand on. The wizards back off onto more stable ground but still in view of me. I have never doubted my vision before. I’m not about to now.

  The first giant boulders crack off the wall and push me off the ledge and into the open air.

  Odd, though. I don’t feel pain as I’m hit. And I feel more as if I’m floating rather than falling. Somewhere along the floating fall, I’m not falling anymore. I’m lying on the air. No, not the air. Slowly, rough floorboards fade under me. The scent of charred wood and a mumbling of words leak into my mind. Is that my dad?

  I pop up as best I can to see my father kneeling in front of me, his good hand resting on my shoulder.

  “I thought … I lost you, boy.” He wraps his arms around me, tight enough to make it tough to breathe. And I decide to let him.

  The Jolly Roger is in much worse shape than I remember it but still sailing, Jayce up near her bow, sweating, concentrating. Looking to the wheel, I see Linus doing everything he can to avoid eye contact with me.

  “Let’s go!” shouts Linus. He navigates the ship out of sight of the island and the confused mob still searching among the rocks and debris for my body.

  “Good,” my father says, breaking the hug, attempting to regain composure. “Very good.” He pats me on my shoulder and starts looking after a loose line dangling from the main mast.

  “Your eagle led us here,” says Dad, explaining the rescue. “Linus recognized it from the Garden. Do you know this island is not recorded on any map? Jayce provided the earthquake illusion, and hopefully the wizards now think you’re dead—”

  “Annie,” I interrupt. My dad opens his mouth but bows his head when words fail to fall.

  “It’s my fault,” chokes Linus from the quarterdeck. I climb the steps and cross to the wheel. I can see his body tense up, prepared for pain. But he continues with his confession. “I’m the reason she’s gone. I lost Pock’s music pipe, too. The wizards have them both. I thought I knew what I was doing. I told her to sing and stop them. She tried, but—”