I fell in love with his music. I didn't care if it was for the rats.
I'd always loved to dance, and he played the finest flute our little town had ever heard. We'd folk songs mostly, and old Jim Parsons' playing the whistle at the dances we'd held in my father's barn. But nothing like the Piper's flute. But I am getting ahead of myself. That's not where the story starts.
It truly began the day the boat came ashore near Adder's Field. The river runs right by there, and though it isn't on any trade route, and has no fancy dock, a boat landed there just the same. It was large enough to need a crew of at least five, but it came in with only one man aboard, and that man was dead as they come. Teddy Glipsby, sixteen same as me but much more trouble, was first aboard. He found the body. The way he told it, the man was chewed to the bone. Nothing but a lump of guts. And when he said it in front of his ma, she slapped him upside the head. Not very respectful to call a man a lump of guts.
I didn't see it. A few of the village boys did. Called over by Teddy's wailing. That was before my father told them to burn the ship and everything aboard; from the dead man to the barrels of oats, so spoilt and littered with rat droppings you could hardly see it for what it was. I was with my tutor, who is too severe to like, learning math when I could have been out enjoying the fire. But that is my lot in life as the mayor's only son.
Everyone had hoped that burning it put an end to the bad luck the old boat brought to Thistleweed, but barely four weeks passed before people started to notice the rats. Black haired and ugly things, they were. Our town has no shortage of stray cats and dogs, so we didn't fret too much over it. "Nature has a way of taking care of these things," said my father to some folk who'd come by about the beasts. Only nature never got the message.
Nearly eight weeks went by before my father acknowledged Thistleweed had a problem. And by that time, it was too late to stop the first wave of young rats from taking over the granary. And the storehouse. And the bakery. Cats started disappearing off the cobblestones. Some said they left town, fearing the rats who were just as big as them. Others said they'd been eaten. I believed it when one evening I was walking home from the lake and found a dog picked clean.
My father told Teddy Glipsby and his brothers, Seth and Jacob, that he'd pay them a sixth a coin for every rat they killed. That was fine, and worked out well for everyone until Teddy caught a fever. "He's worked himself into such a state," said his mother. "There must be something you can do."
But the mayor, my father, had no solution.
One day just past sundown, when the streets weren't safe, and most everyone was in their homes but those who braved the rats for a drink of beer, a music came down upon the valley like fog among the tombstones. I was sitting at my writing desk when I heard it. It was so sweet it made me think of my ma, and how before she died she used to put honey on my biscuits every Sunday. I opened my window, and listened for a long time. It seemed the whole world held its breath while I waited. I felt like every living creature in the whole village waited too.
My father's man answered the door when He knocked, and I soon heard pleasant talk coming from the parlor. Being that my father's business is often my business, I pushed the door open, and went in. What I saw filled me with a fear like I had never known. Sitting on the coach was a man with a skull upon his shoulders. It grinned at me, dead eyed in the poor lamp light. I felt myself turn to stone.
"What's the matter with you, boy?" said my father.
And then the shadows in the room settled into place and I realized it was not a skeleton there, but a man. A man so beautiful I couldn't for a second guess how I had mistaken him for something so horrible. His fine golden hair was braided back and his features were almost feminine. Noble to be sure. He was dressed like a gentleman, and at his side was a leather pouch as long as my arm.
