A rat! A fat, black rat alive with leaping fleas, trailing its long tail through the butter and nibbling the cheese. First one, then two, then ten, then twenty: a plague of rats.
At the start only a handful of houses in Hamelin had a rat. Then all the houses in Hamelin had a hundred rats. And every day there were more. First a hundred and then a thousand, then ten thousand and then.... a million rats.
The people of Hamelin tried everything to be rid of the rats. They chased them with sticks, threw water over them by the bucket full, and baited traps with poisoned cheese. But for every ten rats they killed, there seemed to be twenty more. First the people drove the rats out of their houses. Then the rats drove the people out of their houses - and soon everyone was gathered in the town square, in front of the Mayor’s house.
"Get rid of the rats!" they shouted. "You’re the Mayor - get rid of the rats!"
The Mayor came out of his large house, shaking a big black rat off the hem of his robe. "What’s everybody doing here? Clear the square. Clear the square!"
"What are you doing about the rats?" they demanded.
"Um, well, er... I’m thinking about it," said the Mayor.
"It’s not good enough!" the people shouted. "Get rid of the rats, or we’ll get rid of you!"
Suddenly, a clear voice rang out above all the shouting. It silenced everyone, even the Mayor. "I will get rid of the rats."
The crowd parted. A stranger walked towards the Mayor - tall and thin and upright, dressed in strange colorful clothes. His jerkin was a vivid green, with studs and buckles and gold embroidery. His waistcoat was a rich, cherry red to match the long, trailing feather in his hatband. And his orange leggings were striped with emerald green. His eyes were a piercing animal yellow, and a long mustache hung from his top lip like two limp rats’ tails.
"You can get rid of the rats?" asked someone in the crowd.
"I can. They’ll leave if I tell them, and never come back."
"Well, do it, man! Do it!" urged the Mayor.
"I shall want paying," said the stranger from between his thin lips. "A shilling a rat."
The news swept through the crowd in whispers. "A shilling a rat! He wants a shilling a rat!"
"A shilling a head?? Screeched the Mayor. "Do you think we’re made of money? Do you know how many rats we have here in Hamelin?"
"I’ve made a rough count," said the stranger. "About a million."
"You must give us time to think about it." said the Mayor. "I shall go and consult the town council. It’s and awful lot of money."
"There are an awful lot of rats," said the stranger, and he almost smiled.
"The council will want to know who they are dealing with. What name shall I tell them?"
"People call me the Pied Piper," the stranger replied. "You have until sunset to decide. I’ll wait here until then." And he sat down on the edge of the fountain the square. Opening the leather bag, he took out a brass pipe. There he sat, cleaning the pipe with a piece of rag, as the midday sun passed overhead. The Mayor scurried over to the town hall, straightening his chain of office.
"There’s a man out there who says he can get rid of the rats. In fact he looks a bit like a rat himself. Funny eyes."
"What’s he charging?" the councilors asked. "Can we afford him?"
"He wants a shilling a head."
"A shilling a head! What a price! We’ll have to put up the rates and the people won’t like that. They may not like rats, but t hey hate parting with their money!"
"Who said anything about paying?" The Mayor grinned. "Why not agree to his price and let him get rid of the rats. When they are gone and he asks for his money, we can send him packing without a penny!"
"That’s the answer," cried the town clerk. "What a plan! No wonder you’re the mayor!"
The Pied Piper was still sitting on the fountain wall when the Mayor came out of the town hall. "Well? Have you made up your minds?"
"We have indeed, young man," said the Mayor. "We’ll gladly pay you a shilling a head if you get rid of all of them and they don’t come back again. You have our solemn word on it. When can you start?"
"I’ll do it tonight," said the Pied Piper. "Tell everybody to stay indoors."
The Mayor smiled generously, gathered up his robes and walked in a mayor-like way back to his house. His five children met him on the steps in tears: "The rats have eaten the dinner, Daddy, and bitten the baby. What are you doing about them?"
"There is nothing to worry about children," he said. "Tomorrow there won’t be a rat left in Hamelin and we’ll be able to sleep peacefully in our beds. It was the smartest thing this town ever did when it made me the Mayor!"
When the sun had gone down, and the people of Hamelin were at home in their rat-infested houses, a lonely figure appeared in the town square. The Pied Piper, his brass flute in his hand, stood looking at the moon.
He put the flute to his lips and began to play - a sad, haunting melody, a tune unknown to any of the citizens of Hamelin as they listened in their lighted windows. Such a lot of music from such a small pipe! It floated across the square and into every alley, it echoed in every doorway, it drifted over every rooftop. Nobody in Hamelin could escape hearing it. Nor could the rats.
Something moved in the darkness. It was a fat, black rat sitting back on its haunches, its head to one side, listening. The shadows seethed with rats. The Pied Piper played on and on. He barely seemed to draw breath. Then he waded through the sea of rats, and the waves of fur parted on each side of him. He walked in the direction of the city gates. And the rats trailed behind, drawn more strongly by the music than by a smell of food.
The city of Hamelin stands near the Weser River. When the Pied Piper came to its banks, he stopped playing and stood still. The rats stood still too, and a million faces watched him.
"Jump!" shouted the Piper. And the rats at his feet threw themselves into the river. Not one refused. Not one hesitated at the brink. Row upon row, they flung themselves headlong into the icy river and disappeared. Last in line came the largest rat of all - the millionth rat. Fat with stolen cheese, it was slow-moving and slow to arrive at the river bank. The Pied Piper speeded it on its way with a kick to its black rump, and hurtled into the river and sank like a stone.
It was the deepest, darkest hour of the night when the Pied Piper arrived back in Hamelin, at the Mayor’s front door. But he knocked loudly and somewhere a dog barked. Few people stirred. For the first night in months they were sleeping in their beds. The Pied Piper knocked again... and a long last the Mayor appeared in his night clothes.
"The rats have gone," said the Piper. "You owe me one million shillings."
"Gone? One million of them? Well, where’s your proof? Where are they?"
"You wanted them gone from Hamelin. The rats are all drowned in the river and I claim my shilling a rat.""
"Nonsense. I’m not going to pay for rats in a river! A shilling a head, we agreed - and you haven’t brought me a single head! Now be off with you!" He tried to slam the door: the pied Piper’s angry yellow eyes frightened him. "Take your foot out of the door and I’ll give you a hundred shillings, just so that we part friends. All right?"
"You can keep your hundred shillings," said the piper, baring his sharp, pointed little teeth. I’ll find some other way for you and your town to pay for my services," and he turned and strode off.
When he had gone, the Mayor breathed a sigh of relief and then he dragged his oldest son out of bed. "Run round to the town clerk’s house and tell him to organize a party at the town hall for midday. Wine and food for everyone in Hamelin."
"Can the children come too, Daddy?"
"Certainly not. Do you think the town is made of money? The children will have to stay at home and behave themselves. Now hurry."
What a party it was! They drank toast after toast to the Mayor. After looking round to see that the tall, sinister stranger had not come, he climbed on to a table and gave a speech.
"Finally and in conclusion," he said. "I sent the foreigner away with not so much a s a brass penny. In short, I saved you from the rats free of charge!"
Outside in the town square the only grown-up in Hamelin not to be invited to the party sat by the fountain. The Pied Piper was polishing his flute again.
Soon he put his pipe to his lips and began to play. It was not the sad, haunting tune of the night before, but cheerful, dancing music. Such a lot of music from such a small pipe! It floated across the square and into every alley, it echoed in every doorway, it drifted over every rooftop. They did not hear it at the town hall, of course, the music at the party was so loud that it drowned the Piper’s tune. But the children heard it.
First one child ran into the square and stood staring at the Piper. Then another flashed past, turning somersaults. Then another and another. Some danced, some skipped, some leap-frogged, some hopscotched across the paving stones. Soon every child in Hamelin was playing in the square. The Pied Piper got to his feet and walked through the city gates. And a sea of children followed after him. Some ran home and fetched their baby sisters and brothers to carry in the parade. They sang as they walked out of Hamelin towards the river. No-one got tired as they crossed the river by the bridge and climbed the slopes of the violet mountain.
That afternoon the grown-ups returned home from their celebration.
Slowly, one by one, the parents realized that their children were missing. "The Mayor has five children. He must know where they’ve gone."
"That’s it! Ask the Mayor! The Mayor has the answer to everything!"
They found the Mayor sitting on the steps of his house, weeping for the loss of his five children. "If only I had kept my promise!" he was saying over and over again. "If only I had kept my word!" Clutched in his hand was the note he had found pinned to his door. It read: ‘For the removal of one million rats: 253 children of Hamelin. Payment received.’ It was signed, "The Pied Piper."
As the Mayor handed over his chain of office to the unhappy townspeople, the notes of a pipe could just be heard from the slopes of the violet mountain beyond the river. But the children of Hamelin were never seen again.
Story Time � 1984-1989 by Rubicon Press CC