The Magician's Vow: A Retelling of The Pied Piper of Hamelin

Part I - Chapter III: Purposes & Payments

This Ambrose, as he is called, has the recipe that I need. Or at least he did whenever the journal entry’s writer had been alive. But who is to say that the author knew for certain, or that he had his information correct? 

It has been so many years; Ambrose himself might have passed on already. Perhaps, even if he is still living, Ambrose has given the recipe away, destroyed it, or sold it long ago. Such a precious and unique potion recipe is valuable indeed. Many others must have been after it for some time. Ambrose might have even been killed and the recipe stolen. 

It is times like these, with my head so full with questions and worries that I must bar my mind from any thoughts and my heart from any emotions. The best I must do is simply go to Loch-Eyerin, see if the recipe is there and act accordingly. If I let myself hope or despair, it will only make things worse. 

But after so many failures, it is difficult not to let myself not expect good news at the end of this journey. Why would I have been led so far, traveled over so many obstacles, simply to meet another dead end? It can’t be so. Something has to come from this journey. I cannot believe that it has all been for naught. 

------------------------

As a phantom horse, Eugene’s mount did not tire, nor give any signs of fatigue, even after galloping for two straight hours. It’s neck was dry, his breath was soft, and it’s legs ran with the same strength as it had at the very beginning. 

The sun was barely beginning to rise. It’s face was still hiding, but it’s rays were commencing it’s announcement to the world. The wind, as if desperate to hold on to the quiet night, had doubled its efforts and now blew strongly, sharp like knives against the skin. 

The trees on either side of Eugene and his horse creaked and groaned under the weight of the furious wind. Their branches leaned over the small pathway and looked to be swallowing all travelers. But, racing as fast as they could, Eugene and his mount seemed to stay only lengths in front of the forest’s cavernous mouth. 

The forest quickly ended and only fields of green now lay before them, slowly turning into valley. Even with the impending descent, Eugene kept the pace up and they bolted across the sea of tall grass. Slowly, a small thatched roof arose from the grass, and then another. Soon, a village could be seen only a couple minutes ride away. 

It was small, almost the size of a farm’s central hub. Only one dirt road, with half a dozen buildings lining either side. The houses and shops looked tired. Their roofs slumped down and their walls almost quivered under the weight. Crooked fences encased yards and gates lazily swung on their creaky hinges.

Eugene slowed his mount down to a walk as he entered the small village. It was eerily quiet. The atmosphere was one that would be found in a graveyard: drafty and heavy.

A old, thin horse was tied to a fence. He looked healthy enough and his coat had a healthy shine. Flowers grew on a patch of dirt beneath a broken window, carefully laid out and surrounded with fresh soil. A chair stood rigidly at the corner of a house.

Eugene looked around at the buildings, searching for any signs of life. But nothing stirred. Not even a cat crossed the dirt road or a bird flew overhead.

The sun had crossed the horizon. Most people were already awake at this time. The inhabitants must have locked themselves away once they had seen him approaching in the distance. 

Eugene picked out the nearest house. It was cleaner than the rest. The thatched roof wasn’t as weighed down with dirt as much as the others and the door looked fairly strong and sturdy. 

He swung over the side of his unsaddled horse and patted the stallion’s neck gently. The horse laid his head on Eugene’s shoulder and nuzzled his neck. Eugene held out his hand in front of him.