Breath (9781439132227) (18 page)

We sit down to a meal of smoked pork and kraut and plums and sloes and hazelnuts and walnuts. It takes a server on each side to carry the wood platforms that hold these treats. The beer flows. The bread is hot and wonderful. This is the first I've had of fresh grain this season. I gave the thickest slice to Ava and took a good crusty end piece, my favorite, for myself. Fresh grain smells like heaven should. If
Großmutter were alive, she'd have made me cakes from fresh grain for my birthday. On that morning she'd have sent me outdoors on some errand or other so that I wouldn't help in making my own cakes. She'd have wanted me to feel special.

I'm seated at a table in the market square with Father and my brothers and other farm families. We haven't talked about whether I can come back home with them after the feast, but the very fact that we're sitting together offers hope. And I'm sure they'll at least let me come back long enough to find Kuh.

Ava is on my lap, where it seems she's taken up permanent residence. The piper sits beside me. The mayor invited him to his own table, in the
Rathaus
. But the piper said he preferred to eat outdoors, as long as the weather wasn't too cold.

The piper's been as much glued to me as Ava has. After he climbed out of the river, he pulled me to my feet and dragged me and Ava with him to the inn. He had us stay there overnight in his very room. He wouldn't hear of anything else. And this noon, when we finally woke and ate bowls of stewed apples, he bought us clean clothes. He says the expense is nothing now that he's a rich man. He's thanked me a dozen times for telling the town council about him.

His happiness has infected me. When we go home, if Father lets me go back to the farm, I'll make cakes from fresh grain. And I'll send Ava outside on some errand so she doesn't help in making the cakes. And then Ava will feel special. And Großmutter's spirit will smile on us. I'm full of hope.

Unfortunates surround me. A woman kneels in the dirt vomiting. Another woman nurses a toddler whose right arm has fallen off. Her left arm is green black. A man crawls naked under the tables, rubbing himself against people's legs. So no one can forget all that the rats have done. But it's over. Those who can will heal. And no one else will get sick. There is true cause for celebration.

A maiden fills my mug with beer. I pass it to the piper.

He looks at me questioningly.

“I'm drinking cider,” I say.

He passes the mug on to Ludolf, on his other side. “Good idea. So will I.” He smiles and puts his mouth to my ear like Ava did in the river yesterday. For an instant I feel like I'm drowning again. “You're the healthy one,” he whispers, “such as you are. You and that little girl. I do whatever you do. No beer for you, no beer for me.”

His words chill me. I'm glad no one else has heard. Now I understand why he refused the mayor's invitation to sit at the table inside and why he insisted Ava and I stay with him last night. But even if something about us really did protect us from the rat disease, it wouldn't matter anymore. The rats are gone.

The piper straightens up. “Got to keep my head clear so I can count the money when they pay me,” he says loudly.

I remember our discussion of counting the first time we met. “I'll help you.”

“No one touches my money but me.” The piper looks up and down the table. “You farmers don't look too sick.”

“It hit us last,” I say. “The livestock were first.”

“The livestock before the people?” The piper looks surprised.

“The cows got sick in early summer. And the horses and sheep, too. But it wasn't till after harvest that the townsfolk got sick.”

“And the farmers?”

“We only got part of the illness,” says Ludolf.

I didn't even realize he was listening. His hair falls loose and clean; he's actually washed himself for this banquet. The rest of them are still filthy.

“What do you mean?” asks the piper.

“We don't go lame. Or not so fast, at least. And we don't get steadily worse. Instead we … I don't know … we sort of go crazy every night.” That haunted look I know so well creeps into Ludolf's eyes. “But during the day we're all right, except we don't have much appetite till night.”

“That's odd.” The piper looks around at the other tables. “Some people are much sicker than others.”

“The high and mighty and their servants,” says Ludolf. “For once God turned the tables.” He raises his mug. “Yesterday there was nothing to drink to. I went to bed dry, with wool in my ears, thanks to Salz.” He gives me a quick smile. “But now it's worth it to lift this mug.” He drinks long.

The piper shakes his head. “Very odd. And what about the children?” He points to a group of small ones I recognize.

“They're farmers' children. The infants are sick. And the older children,” I say. “But the ones who've been weaned but have not yet reached the age of reason, they seem fine.”

“And the town children?”

“They're sick, just like the town adults.”

The piper drinks his cider. “I've heard a lot about
rat disease, but no other town has a story like yours. Rat disease hits everyone hard—livestock and people, rich and poor, townsfolk and farmers—and it hits them at the same time.”

His words make me anxious. I don't want Bertram to overhear and start thinking again about the fact that the rat disease has passed me by.

And something else bothers me a lot. I can't quite get hold of it. But it presses behind my eyes. I've felt like this before. When?

“Strange,” says the piper, “very, very strange.”

“So Hamelns rats were special.” Ludolf raises his mug again. “Another reason to drink. To our strange and special rats,” he says loudly. “May they all roast in hell.”

Everyone around us raises their mug and drinks.

I feel like I'm in hell with the rats. I'm hotter every minute. But this isn't my usual sickness. Something else is wrong with me. Something new.

Father raises his mug. “To our special rat killer.”

Everyone drinks again.

I'm sweating now. I remember standing naked before the crowd in the municipal courtroom. I remember Pater Frederick making me turn in a circle so everyone could inspect me. Rat disease makes people's necks and armpits swell. That's what
Pater Frederick said. It causes red spots on the skin that turn black. That's what he said. It brings fever. Then people cough and cough. Then they die.

That's not what's been happening in Hameln town. Not at all. That's what bothers me. That's what's strange—seeing the truth. Oh, good Lord in heaven.

“In other towns does the rat disease make hands and feet go numb?” I ask.

“I've never heard of that.”

And Höxter has rats too. As many as Hameln had. And of the same variety, I'm sure. But no one in Höxter is sick.

It isn't the rats.

Something else makes Hameln sick. I'm sure of it. This celebration is all wrong.

But that can't be. Someone else would have realized it by now. The mayor or the judge or Pater Michael. Someone. Why hasn't anyone else realized it? We can't all be fools. My head hurts. Things spin before my eyes.

The mayor comes out of the
Rathaus
and climbs onto the platform in the center of the market square. He motions the piper to come over to him. A servant lights the candles.

Some of the people get up and crowd around the
platform. But others stay at the tables, and I can see their faces changing, I can hear their voices changing. They're growing a little crazy, like Father and my brothers are doing right now.

I take Ava by the hand and we go to join the crowd at the platform, but I have trouble walking straight. And Ava teeters. This isn't normal.

I go leaden: This time we haven't escaped the sickness. I can feel it. It's not as bad as what my brothers have. It's almost nothing in comparison to them. But it's starting. And it'll get worse.

What's different? What did we do? What did Ava and I do that we didn't do before?

The mayor's laughing at nothing and way too raucously. “Payment for a job well done,” he screeches, and hands the piper a cloth pouch.

Everyone cheers.

The piper kneels and dumps the contents on the floor. He counts as he puts the coins back in the pouch. I count with him in my head. At least my brain works well enough for that. The piper and I gape together at the mayor's duplicity. “There are fifty guilders here,” says the piper. “You promised one thousand.”

The crowd laughs. They think he's joking. Only the town council and Ava and I know one thousand
was the sum agreed upon, no matter how incredible.

“Fifty guilders is a fine price for a day's work,” says the mayor. “You'll never be paid that much again, I wager, even if you become emperor.”

“You promised one thousand.”

But no one's listening. The illness that seizes my family at night has seized the entire crowd. Some are dancing, hands on hips, dancing and falling and bashing into one another. Some are crying. Some are shouting. They're taking off their clothes. Men and women twist together on the ground. Even the peasant and farmers' children take part—everyone. I feel stranger every minute. Feverish. And my skin prickles. I have the sensation of ants nipping me on my back and belly and everywhere.

It's hard to hold on to Ava because she's swinging from the end of my arm. Her eyes glitter. She laughs up at me.

The rats are gone. The piper did his job. But nothing's been solved. And I'm the only one who realizes that yet. Whatever rots Hameln is still here.

The mayor sits on the platform, tugging at his shirt, trying to pull it off.

“I came to a sick town,” says the piper, “a town everyone is afraid of. I risked my life to help you.”

“And you've been paid for it,” says the mayor. His
shirt is off and now he's working on his trousers.

“A man doesn't risk his life for fifty guilders,” says the piper. “For one thousand guilders, yes—for fifty, no.”

“Don't try to fool me. A man like you will never see fifty guilders together at one time again.”

“I risked my life,” says the piper.

“And you didn't lose it,” says the mayor.

“But I could still get sick. I even feel a little dizzy now—oh my God, that's the truth. My hands tingle. How do I know you haven't infected me?”

“No one knows,” says the mayor. He is now stark naked.

“Then, be reasonable,” says the piper. “Almost every adult in this town is sick. You promised me one thousand guilders, and I take a terrible risk just to be talking to you.”

“Then, stop talking. Get out of here, you annoying man.”

But the piper is right. He has to be paid. He kept his part of the bargain. Too many wrong things happen. Too much corruption. That's why our town is ill. It has to be. If the mayor breaks his promise, we'll deserve more illness. “Pay him,” I say. “Pay the piper. Keep your promise.”

“And you,” says the mayor, pointing at me, “we
haven't finished with you yet. You have much to answer for. Why aren't you sick?”

“Plenty of children aren't sick,” says the piper, failing to mention that they're all younger than me. “Don't try to change the subject by bullying this boy. If you don't keep your promise and pay me, I'll find a way to make you regret it.”

“Get out of here,” shouts the mayor. “Leave this town before I have you whipped.” He stamps his feet. But his feet are swollen, and he falls off the platform on his face.

The whole town is mad by now. Laughter has turned to cackles. Children scream in fear and confusion. A table crashes over. Benches are broken. Mugs and bowls fly through the air.

The piper stands on the platform and looks across the pandemonium, judging the situation. Then he takes out his pipe and plays.

In an instant everyone goes silent. It's as though we've heard the loudest thunderclap and seen the entire heavens fill with lightning. We are enchanted.

And we're moving. The music draws us all. We can't stop ourselves.

It's people music this time. Like he said that day in the woods—no one can resist his people music.

The piper walks down the main road toward the east town gate.

Our feet sting with each step, but we follow. Our bodies keep moving.

He walks quickly.

We do our best to keep up, no matter how much it hurts, but the lame are already left behind in the dirt, crawling after us. Those with earlier stages of swelling limp badly. The farmers tremble.

The piper goes out the east gate and down the road. He walks and walks and walks. His music never stops.

Now only the healthy children and I can keep up.

And oh, Lord, we can see what this piper is doing. We know the unspeakable and it brings instant sobriety. Parents call to their beloved children piteously. They shout. They cry. They curse.

The piper heads for the hills.

I'm sweating and coughing. Never before in my whole life have I walked this far without resting. I'm so tired. I dont want to keep going, I don't want to be part of the piper's vicious vengeance, but I have to follow that music.

I long for Ava to climb my chest and whisper in my ear.
Shhhh
. She saved us last time.
Shhhh
. But she won't do that this time, for the people music
lures her as strongly as it lures the rest of us. She strains ahead, impatient at my slow pace.

I can't feel my feet anymore. But I feel my gut. It knots. Oh, no. Please, body, not now.

The piper doesn't stop.

I fall to the ground, coughing, clutching my belly.

Ava lets go of my hand. Ava.

No. My body cannot betray me like this. Not now, oh, God in heaven, not now. I have to stay with Ava.

The piper doesn't stop.