On the day the Lord Mayor officially increased the reward to twenty bags of, gold, a stranger arrived in Hythe Mellyn. Foreigners in outlandish garb being by now a common sight, this one caused no more than the raising of an eyebrow among the few who caught sight of him as he passed through the rat-infested streets toward the Chambers of the City Council in his gaily striped doublet, parti-coloured hose, and versicolour cloak, and his cap like a rainbow with three horns.
But as he entered into the stately oak-paneled halls of the Council Chambers and bowed before the Lord Mayor and councilors of Hythe Mellyn, his remarkable comeliness suddenly became apparent. Dark eyes, upswept at the outer corners, glittered beneath long lashes. Wavy hair rippled down his back; it was the colour of a blackbird’s plumage, with a gleam of chestnut. The clinging fabric of his doublet showed his person to be muscular and lithe, slight but well-proportioned. A faint smile played along his lips, revealing flawless white teeth. His raiment glowed like the Southern Lights—a phenomenon never witnessed in Avlantia but spoken of with awe by travellers who had journeyed to the low, freezing latitudes of the deep south. They said they had seen these lights spread across the skies in luminous mantles of living, shifting colour—fire red, dawn amber, daffodil yellow, leaf green, ocean blue, twilight indigo, and violet. Such was the appearance of the stranger’s exotic garb.
Stern-faced, the statesmen of Hythe Mellyn regarded him as he stood before them. Boldly he returned their gaze as if noting their blue eyes and noble features. The ice-white hair of the elders and the corn-yellow locks of the younger men fell across broad Talith shoulders richly cloaked in velvet.
‘I shall rid you of the plague, my lords,’ the entrancing stranger said cheerfully, ‘for the price of twenty-one bags of gold.’
Among themselves the Lord Mayor and the aldermen saw no reason why this ‘colourful fellow’, as they called him in murmured asides, should succeed where others had failed; and if by some miracle he did, why then they would be glad to shower him with twenty-one bags of gold, the freedom of the city, and more! Thus it was that they readily agreed to his price.
After he heard this, instead of departing to set up traps or wizardly devices, the handsome youth reached into his pocket, took out a set of pipes, and began to play a queer, wild tune. Immediately, the flesh of the listeners crepitated. Astonished and insulted by this odd behaviour, the councilors were about to order the sentries to cast out this offender when they were stayed by an even odder sight.
Down from the wall-hangings and across the floor of the Council Chambers came a thin, dark tide, its edges reaching out like crawling tentacles or threads, directed toward the Piper where he stood. Silently, as one organism, rats gathered at his feet. He turned and skipped away, still playing, and they followed him. In sudden fear, the sentries flung wide the brass-bound, oaken doors.
Outdoors and down the street danced the musician, trailed by his invidious entourage. Behind them, the officers of the Council burst out through the doorway. Their shouts and exclamations mingled with the eerie sound of the piping, which, it seemed, could be heard over the entire city. Above the city square, shutters banged open and faces peered out. Rats were gathering—thousands upon thousands of them. From every storehouse and granary, from every wainscot and pantry, attic, cellar, and gutter, from drain, cesspit, cistern, and crevice they came scurrying soundlessly, climbing on one another’s backs, crushing their fellows in their haste to join the living spate that grew and overflowed the streets in pursuit of the Piper down King’s Avenue, through the East Gate, and out of town.
Never before had such a bizarre and loathsome turmoil been seen in Hythe Mellyn. Frozen in wonder, the citizens stared. Children covered their ears against the shrill keening of the pipes. The tune seemed to remain loud and piercing in the heads of the people even as the Piper danced away down the winding road into the valley, across the bridge, and on toward the hills, for it seemed to tell of queer things waiting on the other side of the valley—the dank holds of Seaships filled with sacks of grain, and stinking scrapheaps, and walled darknesses filled with limitless living flesh to feed on. Yet the melody also described dangers that hunted swiftly from behind: steel-jawed engines, swift monsters with rending teeth and claws, and treacherous, irresistible sweetmeats that tasted delicious but burned caustic through the stomach and brought agonizing death. The rats hearkened and followed. The people hearkened, but did not understand.
As the last of the rodents, the maimed, lame, and slow, struggled to catch up with the horde, the Talith slowly emerged from their dwellings and followed, to see where they would go. Through the wrought-iron gates of the city went the people, until they assembled in a great concourse outside the high walls and looked out across Glisswater Vale, while the more venturesome youths gave chase.
The sun was setting in citrine splendor behind the city. Long light lay across the land, sparkling on the distant ribbon of the River Gliss where golden willows leaned. The thin trilling of the pipes interwove with their leaves and echoed down the valley. The black tide followed the road, with the Piper at its head, and more tributaries ran to join it from the valley farms, until at last it turned off toward Hob’s Hill.
The rats never returned.
Those brave youths who had continued the chase reported that a portal had yawned suddenly in the green flank of the hill. There the Piper had entered. The rats followed him faithfully, every one, and were swallowed up inside. Instantly, a pair of double Doors swung shut, meeting in the middle. The sound of the pipes ceased abruptly. The Doors appeared to be covered with the same green turf that grew all over the mound, and after they had closed there remained no crack or disturbance to show where any portals had existed. A chill, dark wind then blew across the land, and a solemn watchfulness closed in upon Hob’s Hill.
But Hythe Mellyn rejoiced. The spires and belfries gave voice with their great brass tongues. After throwing open every gate, door and fenestration, the people danced in the streets. Not a hale rat remained, only a few crushed and crippled ones, soon to be swept away. King Branwyddan, who had removed his court to his palace in Ysteris until such time as the pestilence would be contained, returned soon after. He commanded the refurbishing of the city, so that all should be cleansed and repaired. The Lord Mayor ordered that the coffers be opened and the city’s gold be used to buy in what was needed. Only the Piper’s promised payment was held in reserve, in expectation of his imminent return, and a hero’s welcome was prepared. So began a time of great industry in Hythe Mellyn, but in their happiness the workload seemed light to the populace, and in their business they did not stop to ask, or perhaps did not want to ask, where the Piper had gone and why he had not immediately returned for his reward.
A week slipped by, and another, and another. Still the Piper did not appear, but if he was mentioned at all, it was in whispers. He was no mortal creature, that was certain. Some thought him one of the Faêran; others said he was naught but an eldritch wight. There was talk of his being unseelie, malicious, and in league with the rats, for one of the councilors vowed he had spied a small black creature in the Piper’s pocket when he took out his instrument. Iron horseshoes were placed above every archway, and in the gardens the rowan-trees were hung with bells. But the Piper did not return and the people began to conjecture that he had been trapped under Hob’s Hill, or had perished, and that by a stroke of fortune they were rid of this creditor as well as the rats. Many congratulated themselves on their luck, but others shook their heads.
‘He will return,’ they said quietly among themselves. ‘Immortal beings do not forget, nor do they perish so easily. He will return for his payment.’
And they were right.
Seasons changed. Little by little, the gold set aside for the Piper was borrowed for other purposes. Hythe Mellyn returned to its former glory and the stranger who had saved it from the rat-plague was almost forgotten. If ever he was mentioned, it was now postulated that perhaps he had not drawn off the rats after all�
��every plague eventually comes to an end. Besides, there had not been so very many of the rodents. The baits and traps and cats had wiped most of them out before the ruffian ever showed his face. But a year to the day after he had first appeared, the ‘colourful fellow’ turned up.
Under the judicious rule of William the Wise, Third King-Emperor of the House of D’Armancourt, no war existed in Erith, and most walled cities did not bother to close their gates at all. During the rat-plague, Hythe Mellyn’s gates had been sealed at night in an effort to reduce the numbers of invading vermin. Now they stood open again by night and day. Well-equipped sentries, stationed at the entrances, possessed enough force to turn away the few undesirable outlanders who tried to come in.
They never saw the Piper enter.
In the city’s heart, the doors of the Council Chambers also stood open, although sentries were always posted for ceremony’s sake. These yeomen jumped and thrust forward their pikes as a shadow crossed the steps, but already the Piper walked within the solemn halls, past the statue of King Branwyddan on its pedestal, to stand before the assembled aldermen. In his gorgeous raiment he appeared like a ray of light piercing a stained-glass window. Amid the throes of their discussion, the councilors paused. Heads were raised. Surrounded by the echoing silence of the high-ceilinged hall, the stranger did not bow. He tilted his head cockily. That same faint smile tweaked the corners of his mouth.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I am come to claim my payment. Thrice seven bags of gold.’
His words fell into a hollow space of incredulity and were bounced back from the walls and columns.
A mutter of indignation rippled across the chamber. The Lord Mayor rose from his seat.
‘Piper, you are come late.’
‘Late or early, I am come,’ was the blithe reply.
The Lord Mayor cleared his throat awkwardly.
‘But at the time of our bargain, our coffers were full. Now they are depleted, due to the refurbishment of the city. We can ill afford to make such a large payment.’
The Piper offered no response.
‘For playing a tune,’ continued the Lord Mayor, ‘a skilled musician should expect no more than a penny or two. However, we are grateful and not ungenerous, and shall give you a bag of gold. This should be more than enough to keep a thrifty fellow like you in comfort to the end of his days.’
‘City of Hythe Mellyn,’ came the cool reply, ‘you must abide by your promise.’
Mutters of outrage and anger rose from the assembly. The Lord Mayor called for silence. Trouble creased his brow.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said to his colleagues, ‘the Piper speaks truth—a bargain was made.’
‘Offer half,’ someone shouted, and argument broke out on all sides. Never in the city’s history had the orderly proceedings of the council degenerated into such chaos. Ill feeling toward the jaunty fellow ran strangely high. For the Talith were a wise and just people, but perhaps over time, in the comfort of their prosperity, they had become somewhat arrogant, and their wisdom had become clouded by their love of their city. And perhaps there was some alien quality about the beauty of the Piper that, in some, provoked unreasonable fear and hatred.
Said the Piper, ‘I do not haggle.’
The Secretary sprang to his feet. ‘Then,’ he shouted, his face congested with rage, ‘you are heartless and no true man. You shall receive nought.’
A storm of approval greeted his words, against which the Lord Mayor remained silent. The Piper smiled, turned swiftly around, and was gone out through the doors. The aldermen heard a burst of clear laughter fading as he passed quickly through the precincts, and they were seized by an unexplained terror.
‘We have done amiss,’ cried the Lord Mayor in much alarm. ‘Send the sheriffs and constables after him. That creature plots some dangerous mischief and must be caught.’
Hardly had the messengers sped forth than an uncanny sound was heard throughout Hythe Mellyn.
The Piper was playing a different air.
This time, it promised honey-cakes and ponies, swings and sandcastles, hoops and whistles, rainbows, puppies, and Summer picnics—all lying ahead, on the other side of the valley. No man or woman hearkened to it but they wept, for they were taken as in a nostalgic dream back to the lost days of childhood. No child heard it but they must cease what they had been doing and go in quest of these enchanting delights. Thus, as the Piper danced through the streets, he gathered behind him another entourage. Among the bright-eyed, rose-cheeked faces, not one was above the age of sixteen years. From the houses of merchants and lords, aldermen and tradesmen, they came by the scores and by the hundreds—the sun-haired children of the city, the older ones leading the younger by the hand or carrying the babes. The small tots toddled as fast as they could, but the Piper went slowly. For him there was no need for haste, because all the grown-up citizens stood rooted to the spot. Weeping, they stretched out their arms and called the names of their children, who heeded them not. The children had ears only for the Piper’s tune, eager eyes only for some distant place. Their little feet moved as if independent of their owners’ control.
The tune, dangerous and irresistible, now told also of nightmares and loss, sickness and pain following hard behind, so that the children lagging at the tail end of the crowd wailed and hurried forward. The Piper danced down the valley road, through orchards bubbling with blushing fruit and fields lush with corn. Slowly the city was emptied of its youth. Along the rutted road between the hawthorn hedges they went, across the ivied stone bridge to the other side of the river where hazel bushes burgeoned and blackbirds sang; and on past the turnip-fields and the cow-meadows.
Unable to move, the parents could only shake their fists and scream and call down every curse on the Piper and beg help from the Faêran, or fate, or any source. For half the day the procession crossed Glisswater Vale, swelled by the children from the farms. The farmers could only reach out their empty hands and watch through brimming eyes. They could not see what happened when the children reached Hob’s Hill, but they guessed. The great black Doors gaped, this time to admit the cherished flowering of the Talith. Then they snapped shut, as before, leaving no trace save the footprints of the little ones—a trail that ended halfway up the hillside.
With the closing of the Doors in the hill, the citizens found themselves released. They ran, the third living tide to surge down the valley road and across the bridge. They beat on the hillside. They brought shovels and excavated. They dug with their hands and scratched with their fingernails. Night drew in, and they worked on and on until the sun rose, all the while calling and crying until they were hoarse, but nought did they find save cold stones and soil, roots and worms.
In the weeks and months that followed, they brought every piece of gold and every treasure of Hythe Mellyn and laid it before Hob’s Hill, until what was piled there was worth many times twenty-one bags of gold. Still the digging continued, deep into the hill’s bowels, but no pick broke through to any secret hole or cavern. Many of the people lay down before the hill among the gold and refused to eat or drink, calling out that they themselves must be taken in exchange for their children. The Secretary of the Council was discovered to have hanged himself from his rafters. King Branwyddan of Avlantia came, bringing chests of treasure as an offering. His own sons had been too old to be taken, yet sorely he grieved for his people.
But no royal gold and no wizard’s gramarye or wisdom, and no sacrifice of life or labor could open the Doors of Hob’s Hill or even reveal the thinnest hairline crack of an outline.
Hythe Mellyn and all of Avlantia fell into despair.
In later days, travellers who arrived at the gates of Hythe Mellyn found the city deserted, and went away again. Several explanations were offered. It was reported that a pestilence had arisen and wiped out the population. Some folk said that the children never returned, and the townspeople in their grief hanged themselves on the red trees in the forest, or else travelled to the coast and cast the
mselves into the sea. Yet others said that the citizens had gone looking for their kin and become trapped under the mountains, and there they wandered still, lost in some strange country. The great Leaving of Hythe Mellyn was a fact, although the manner of the Leaving and the reason behind it were hidden from the knowledge of all, save for a select few.
But the truth of it was this:
When the last child had passed in under Hob’s Hill, the Piper, who had stood playing his tune by the Doors as his followers entered, looked back along the road. Far away, just outside the city gates, a small shape crawled in the dust. He played more loudly and the shape moved a little more swiftly, but the sun was setting by this time. The wind bore a faint cry of ineffable sadness and longing over the treetops of the valley. The Piper looked to the sky and laughed, slipping inside the Doors just as they closed.
When the Lord Mayor ran out of the gates he found his little daughter lying in the dust of the road. Gathering her in his arms he brought her home.
Leodogran na Pendran, Lord Mayor of Hythe Mellyn, had given his daughter a pony on her tenth birthday.
‘Now, do not let him loose,’ he had admonished tenderly, ‘as you did with the songbird.’
‘Father, he is beautiful!’ the child had cried, thanking him with kisses. ‘And I shall not set him free, for he cannot fly, and might be eaten by wicked wights. But I shall love him and care for him as best I can.’
‘And ride him, for he is already broken to the saddle.’
‘Oh no. I shall not ride him unless he wishes it.’ She stroked the pony’s snowy neck. ‘I do not wish to burden him and make him sad, for he has done no harm. But if he comes to love me as I already love him, then one day he will tell me he enjoys my company. And then, since I cannot run as fast as he, he may let me ride.’
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 89
