Wild Magic (11 page)

What was he to do now? If he returned to Hamelin, the people would demand answers. They would seize hold of him, shake him, shout in his face, “Where's my boy? My beautiful boy? My daughter? My angel? My princess?”

What could he say? Nothing would make their pain go away. And did he want to go home without Marianna? She was the one who loved him, clothed him, and managed to feed him even when the larder looked empty. Most of all, she protected him. Who would stop Papa if she wasn't there?

Jakob's father wasn't a bad man; he knew that. It was the drink that had ruined him. When Jakob's mother was alive, he rarely drank—just a flagon or two on feast days. But now he went to the tavern most nights and some mornings, and when he was drunk, he was violent. He would lash out for no reason. Pick fights with strangers. Rage and bellow in the middle of the night, waking the neighbors. Sometimes Marianna had to drag him in off the street. Usually she got shouted at for her pains, but she didn't seem to care. “Rather me than you, little brother,” she would whisper as she slid back under the blankets.
Oh, Marianna!
thought Jakob.
How will
I survive without you?

It was starting to get dark. Jakob looked at the bleak, empty hillside and realized he was ravenously hungry. What could he do? Where could he go?

Home. He had to go home, whether he wanted to or not. What else could he do? He was nine years old with twisted legs and a bent back. No one would give him a job, and without a job he would starve.

With a sigh, he clambered to his feet and started the long trek home. But he was barely halfway there when he saw the people of Hamelin storming toward him. The crowd was jagged and angry, bristling with weapons. Pitchforks, spades, axes, scythes, hooks—the men had brought whatever they could find.

Clearly the Piper's magic had worn off. The people had been able to burst the bubbles and leave the town. Now they were hunting the Piper, fueled by hours of anger and frustration.

“LOOK! LOOK THERE! THERE'S ONE!”

The townsfolk broke into a run and soon the mob was upon him. Jakob was grabbed by a strong pair of hands and given a shaking.

“Where are they?”

It was the miller. A fine cloud of white flour rose from his apron as the shaking went on. “Where are they? What's the Piper done with them?”

Jakob stared at him, rabbit eyed, saying nothing.

“Are you deaf as well as lame?”

“
Oi!
” said a woman, digging the miller angrily in the shoulder. “There's no need for that. Can't you see the lad's scared?”

“Aye,” said the blacksmith, shoving the miller aside. “Let him be.”

The blacksmith was a great bear of a man who stood a full head and shoulders taller than anyone else. He put a comforting hand on Jakob's shoulder. “There's nothing to be scared of, lad,” he said. “You've done nothing wrong. We just want to know where the others are.”

Jakob wanted to help but he couldn't speak. So much had happened. He was tired and confused. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Where did they go? Jakob—where did they go?” A soft, kind voice. Jakob turned and saw one of his neighbors.

“Into the hill,” he said.

“All of them?”

“All of them. Except me.”

Jakob hung his head in shame. But no one noticed. The crowd had turned into a many-headed monster that wailed and moaned and screamed and roared.

“Can you show us where?” cried the miller, spinning Jakob round.

Jakob shrugged. “There's nothing to see. The door has disappeared.”

“Show us anyway,” said the blacksmith, and he picked Jakob up and swung him onto his shoulders.

And so Jakob returned to Hamelin Hill, riding on the giant's shoulders. And he couldn't help thinking,
On any other night, this would be incredible
. With his head high above the ground and his legs gripped in the blacksmith's huge hands, Jakob felt like a hero, leading his army into battle. He felt strong, proud, invincible. But he knew what lay ahead and it soured things for him, even though he wanted to enjoy the ride.

The townsfolk weren't going to find the door. At first, they would be shocked and confused. Then disappointed . . . despairing . . . and finally angry. Very, very angry. They would want to kill the Piper. And if the Piper couldn't be found, they would take their anger out on someone else.

Jakob knew exactly who that would be. Him.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Jakob was right. The people of Hamelin did take their anger out on him. But that came later. First they mobbed the mayor.

It was the miller who started it, but it was the blacksmith who smashed down the mayor's front door. Jakob, watching from the back of the crowd, was astounded. Usually the blacksmith was the calm voice of reason, but not today. He swung his mighty hammer and—
CRRP!
—the doorframe buckled under the blow. The lock shattered. The door swung open.

The crowd surged in. Furniture was looted. Food was taken. The mayor and his wife were dragged out of the house, sat upon two of their own chairs, lifted high into the air, and paraded up and down the street. They were pelted with vegetables, spat upon, and sworn at. They were soaked with slop water, thrown by the bucketful from windows above. Their chairs were thumped with sticks to terrify them further. And that wasn't the end of it.

“To the river!” shouted the miller, and the crowd roared its approval.

Off they went through the streets: a great, swaying mass of people. It was as if the Piper had come to town again.

But this time, there was no drowning. The mayor and his wife thought it was going to happen. The miller
wanted
it to happen. But the blacksmith finally started to see sense and calmed everyone down. And so the mayor and his wife were simply thrown out of town, with a couple of hastily packed bags hurled after them.

Jakob was glad to see them go. He didn't approve of their rough treatment but, like everyone else, he blamed the mayor for losing the children. He missed Marianna and longed for her to return. He missed the others too, though he didn't have many friends among them.

The town was strange now. It was quiet and joyless. No one seemed to laugh anymore and no one ran in the streets. Usually there were children running everywhere: chasing balls, chasing one another, running errands, running away from trouble. But now the streets were full of orderly people, calmly going about their daily business, with no fun or mischief involved.

And there was Jakob, stumping up the street, reminding everyone of what they had lost. Heads turned, eyes narrowed, and tongues wagged wherever he went. At first, people muttered under their breath, but as time went by, they started to say things out loud so he could hear them. Cruel things that cut him to the bone. He knew they didn't mean to hurt him—they were hurting too—but it didn't make the comments easier to bear.

Jakob wanted to tell his father about his troubles, but he knew it would be a waste of time. He wouldn't show him any sympathy. His father—Simen Moller, a struggling shoemaker—should have been pleased to still have his son, but he wasn't. People had been saying things to him and he didn't like it. He felt they resented him. Envied him. Hated him even. Grief does strange things to people, he knew that. But hadn't he suffered too? Losing his wife to the fever?

Serena had been beautiful. Long, copper-colored hair cascading to her waist. Eyes that smiled whenever they saw him. A mouth like a plum, ripe with kisses.

She had been soft and gentle, kind and patient. They didn't have much money, but she never complained. If she couldn't fill their home with furniture, she said, she would fill it with love. And she did. There was always laughter and singing. And then, when the babies came, there were lullabies and stories at bedtime.

Moller would sit on the stairs while Serena settled the children. Her words would drift down to him, softer than snowflakes, but they carried such wisdom. Listening to them, he saw wonders—dragons and castles, forests and oceans—right there on the stairs in a tiny house on a back street in Hamelin.

But then the fever came to town. It stalked the streets. Prowled the alleys. Lingered in lanes. Trailed its hot fingers over innocent faces and stole the breath from anguished bodies. Whispered wetly into sleeping ears,
Come, my friend. Your time on earth is
ended
.

Serena was the first to go. She tried to fight the fever, but she was like an icicle facing the heat of summer. She died as she had lived. Quietly. Moller was consumed by grief. He saw no reason to get up in the morning, and would have lost his business if Marianna hadn't pleaded with him to carry on for all their sakes. He started to drink. Secretly at first: a bottle or two while Jakob and Marianna slept. But soon it was more and everyone suffered.

Night after night he went to the tavern. Left alone in the dark, Marianna would comfort Jakob with her mother's stories. When those were no longer enough, she invented her own. But soon—too soon—they would hear the stumble in the street and the fumble with the door latch. The stories would be over. Moller was home.

Marianna always told Jakob to stay under the blanket. She went downstairs and faced their father. Did what had to be done to get him to bed. But sometimes Moller would just stand there, staring at her, not saying a word. Marianna never knew why he did that—but Moller did. It was because Marianna looked so like her mother. And just by being there, she reminded him of what he had lost. At moments like that, Moller found it very hard to deal with his daughter. At moments like that, he simply wanted to die.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

Jakob sat in the dark, thinking about Marianna. How he missed her! She had been gone for more than three weeks and life was almost unbearable without her. He didn't have a home anymore; he lived in an unkempt house with a man who was as changeable as the weather. Moller could be dark and brooding, stormy or frosty. Sometimes he was calm and almost warm. But he was never, ever sunny.

Jakob never knew what would come in through the door.

CLLLKK.

The door latch had been lifted. Now the door was swinging open. Jakob stiffened. Papa was home much earlier than expected—and he was in the wildest mood Jakob had ever seen.

Moller had been in the tavern. The miller had picked an argument with him, saying he was a lout, an idler, a boneheaded loser. Moller had tried to punch him; two men had held him back. But when the miller started on the memory of Serena, no one could hold him. And now he was home. Bruised, bloodied, and lost in a whirlwind of despair.

Jakob was terrified. His father had never,
ever
hit him, even in his bleakest moments, but now . . . Jakob had never seen Moller so upset. Tonight anything was possible.

Jakob did the only thing he could think of. He scuttled to a corner and made himself small. Covered his head with his hands and hoped he wouldn't get a beating.

But Moller had no desire to hurt his son. Yes, he wanted to hit something, but he turned to the wall for that, not Jakob. He punched until his knuckles bled. Then he fell to the floor and started to cry: huge, desperate sobs that racked his whole body. Jakob was appalled.

All that night, Jakob stayed there in the corner, wondering what he could do to make things better. And finally, just as the first fingers of dawn were creeping through the shutters, he had a brilliant thought. He would find a way into Hamelin Hill. It made perfect sense. He would find Paradise and be healed. His father wouldn't have to put up with him anymore. The townsfolk wouldn't have to look at him. He would be with Marianna. Everyone would be happy.

Could he find a way in? Jakob had no idea, but he was determined to try. He would go there that very night.