#HistFicThursdays - Free Short Story - Of All the Pleasant Sights They See

☝ The story behind the Pied Piper 👆

I know I've shared my take on the traditional legend of the Pied Piper (above!) before, so here's a little story about the legacy of that legend. This is one of the early adventures of Frederik, a young pilgrim on his way to Rome, and all he encounters in the town of Hameln, some years after the legendary events...

Of All The Pleasant Sights They See
(first published in Hooded:Hidden)

February was a cold month. Not only cold, but dark too. But the further he travelled, the longer the days became. Back at home, this change was slower. Frederik had tried only to travel in daylight. At first, he had believed his destination could be reached in a handful of weeks. After all, Father Willehad received news within the month it had been written. But his letters were delivered by emissaries on horseback. On foot it took much longer.

Weeks had been an optimistic aim.

And then he had become lost. Frederik had arrived in The Empire close to Advent, making excellent progress. But he had become lost in the monstrous size of Hamburg and, entirely disorientated, had left by the western gate instead of the south. After this, he had reached Bremen only two days before Christmas, and had spent the feast within the city walls.

It had been there he heard the legend.

Two months following the Weser River, he finally reached the town. It would have been far easier to have taken a boat, but his journey was one of poverty. No money meant no transport. So he had hobbled along the pilgrimage route to Volkenroda. There were others on his road, most willing to talk. He was no threat to them, that much was clear. Just another person who shared their path.

Now, he smiled at the walls and gatehouse of Hameln. They were timeless, looking as though they had been there forever and would remain for evermore. There was a guard there, not enough to repel an attack, but thieves were rife in all Hanseatic towns. The wool trade had made many rich men and where there were rich men there were poor ones to relieve heavy purses.

“Boy!” snapped the guard. “What’s your business?”

“I’m on the pilgrim trail to Volkenroda.” Frederik reached to his waistline and presented a piece of paper to the guard. He didn’t know what it said. To him, letters and words were things to speak not read. He could not marry the lines on the paper to the sounds which left his mouth. But it had been given to him by Father Willehad, the same man who had suggested he undertake this pilgrimage. Not to Hameln, but this was the path he had been guided towards, be it by God or his own poor navigation.

The guard looked at the letter, never taking it from his outstretched hand.

“What’s that?”

“Proof,” he replied, confused by what the man thought it was.

“What’s your name?”

“Frederik.”

Now the man took and read the letter, smiling slightly at its contents and leaving Frederik wondering what was written there. Handing the paper back, the guard wafted his hand.

“On your way.”

Frederik thanked him, but the man was already talking to someone else.

He walked through the streets, admiring the enormous buildings similar to those he had seen in Bremen and Hamburg. Their wide fronts loomed over him and on two occasions he had found himself backing away as though he expected them to topple over. How did they make them stand so high?

Before long he arrived back at the river, walking past the docks. There were a thousand smells here, none appealing and all alien to him. Moving a little further, he stopped at a large board. It had a series of lines carved into it, and he wondered whether these were words. But they were all the same, over and over again. He stretched out his hand and ran a finger down the final groove. It was new, at least compared to some of the others which looked weathered and softened by time. It felt rough to his touch, and he pulled back, sucking a splinter from his finger.

“Give it here,” demanded a voice and, within seconds, a hand snatched his wrist. The newcomer, a man with a flat hat which spilt to the left, stared at Frederik’s cut finger and shook his head. “If you were more careful and minded your own business, you wouldn’t now be bleeding. What is your business?”

“I’m on my way to Volkenroda. The pilgrim trail leads through here.”

“You sound strange.”

Frederik swallowed as the man’s face hardened, his eyes burning while his lips disappeared within facial hair. Trying to squeeze his thin hand from the newcomer’s grasp, he winced at the tightening grip.

“I’m not a native Saxon,” Frederik heard himself squeak.

“Strangers aren’t welcome here. Certainly not those who seek to leave their mark here.” He let go of Frederik’s hand so he could gesture to the board. “Be careful, boy. There are many here who will not so readily release you as I have done. And stay away from Bungelosenstrasse. Frau von Reymbertink will not be able to withstand your appearance.”

“I don’t know Frau von Reymbertink,” Frederik replied, scrubbing his bleeding hand down his coat.

“That doesn’t matter. She will believe she knows you.”

Frederick was not sure what was meant by this but the man walked away, leaving him to stare at the board.

“It’s a tally,” laughed a voice behind him. “Can’t you count?”

“Yes,” Frederik muttered, turning towards the voice. Several dockworkers moved in the distance, carrying crates, loading carts, exchanging money and papers with one another. Not one of them noticed him.

“Then, how many are there?” the voice giggled, behind him again. Something about the thin, reedy voice sang of fewer years even than his own age. It was naivety.

He turned back to the board and looked at all the marks. There were so many of them. Too many for him to count. But his attention was not only on the board, but the boy who peered around it. He was laughing again, laughing at Frederik. He had a round face and rosy cheeks which cushioned his clear, bright eyes. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, but was already almost as tall as Frederick.

“You can’t count, can you?” he teased, stepping clear of the board. “It’s 207.”

“You didn’t count them,” Frederik replied, feeling his cheeks burning. “You never even looked at it.”

“I don’t need to. I’ve watched them being carved. Some of them at least.” He folded his arms across his chest. “My name is Hans.”

“What do they mean? Why 207?”

“Years. We don’t measure time from Christ in Hameln, but from our loss.”

“The magician?” Frederik whispered, looking over his shoulder as though he expected someone to descend upon him at the sound of this word. Father Willehad would certainly have berated him for talking about magic.

“You’re not really going to Volkenroda, are you, Frederik?”

Frederik stared at the boy. “How do you know my name? How do you know my path?”

“Because I’ve been following you since you arrived.”

For the first time since this meeting, Frederik felt scared. It may have seemed ridiculous for an older person to be afraid of a child, but Frederik felt vulnerable as Hans gave a sharp smile. He couldn’t outrun him, both ignorant of the town’s geography and physically unable.

“Come on,” Hans laughed. “Follow me and I’ll show you where you’ll find a bed for the night.”

“I was going-”

“You’ll be safe, I swear.”

There was no end to Hans’ laughter, and he continued to giggle as he walked through the crowd. Unsure about his new young companion, Frederik followed as best he could, but his steps were erratic as he stumbled onward. On three occasions he lost his guide completely and only found his path as he heard Hans’ laughter.

The night was closing in by the time Hans tapped Frederik’s arm.

“Here, pilgrim.”

“What is this place?” There was something in Hans’ expression which set Frederik’s teeth on edge, and they chattered involuntarily.

“Bungelosenstrasse,” Hans replied. “This is where Frau von Reymbertink lives.”

Frederik frowned, refusing to follow the boy. “That man told me not to come here. If you’d followed me, you must have known that.”

“He told you that because he doesn’t want to unsettle her. But she’ll give you a bed for the night, and food, and drink, and a warm blanket to cover you. She’ll be glad you’re here.”

Frederik shook his head and began limping towards the heart of the town once more.

“No one else will give you a place to stay,” Hans called after him. “When you change your mind, you’ll find her in the very last house. She’s waiting there. Waiting at the window.”

Refusing to even turn around, Frederik stubbornly continued. Hans made no attempt to follow him but the boy had been sneaky enough to follow Frederick on his arrival in the town, there was a chance Frederik just couldn’t see him now. As gaps in houses shutters began to light up and the sky silently shed large flakes of snow, he looked at the church across the square. Father Willehad’s letter would be enough to ensure him a place there to sleep. Reaching down to his waist, his perished hand trembled as he realised the letter was no longer there.

He breathed warm air onto his hands, relieved by the tingling sensation this offered. But the rest of his body was succumbing to numbness, caused by the falling snow as it settled on his shoulders and covered his feet. Hans’ words continued to play through his head. A bed; food; drink; blanket… Frederik gave a strangled sob at the promise of all four things. Despite having been warned away from Bungelosenstrasse and Frau von Reymbertink, he began retracing his steps. If he returned to his senses long enough to question his actions, he found the four words, bed; food; drink; blanket, were enough to smother commonsense with the same numbness his body felt.

With breath steaming before him, he finally found Bungelosenstrasse. It was becoming more difficult to move through the snow, partly because it was settling in strange drifts as the wind whipped around in tiny tornadoes, partly because he could no longer feel his feet, nor anything below his knees. Hans had said it was the house at the end. Through the circling snow, Frederik could make out the gateway. He was nearly there.

He turned at a frantic scratching, and the legend flooded into his head. Rats. Rats were everywhere. He looked down at his feet, expecting to see the vermin on the road with him. In panic, he turned as the scratching sound gave way to a voice.

“Boy!” it struggled to call.

Frederik looked to where the sound had come from but, in the swirling flurries of snow, it was almost impossible to see. His eyes played tricks on him and he thought the shadows began to take shape. Shadows of rats, of dancing children, of the piper himself beckoning with his elbow towards the gate while his hand fluttered over the flute to ensnare both youth and vermin forward.

“Boy!” There was desperation in that voice now.

Frederick turned a full circle and gave a relieved sigh as his eyes settled on a person in a thin window. Against the light inside the room, she was only a silhouette reaching forward. This must be Frau von Reymbertink.

“Don’t follow them, boy! Not yet!”

Every word was a battle for her, and she coughed against the cold. Overcome by compassion, Frederik moved closer.

“Frau von Reymbertink?” he asked softly, standing beside the window and wincing as the woman set her hands on his face. Now he was standing before her, he could see her features for the first time. She was old. Her hair was thin and wispy, and her eyes were hooded beneath wrinkles of age. Her cheeks were sunken and yet jowls of skin hung down from her jawline. In all, she was a frightening spectacle, but Frederik had never judged people on their appearance. Too many people had judged him in such a way. And her hands, though gnarled with bent fingers, were full of affection and care.

“I cannot get to the door, boy,” she said eagerly, trying to keep her mouth closed against the bitter wind. “But it’s not locked. Come inside.”

Every ounce of sense told him not to accept her offer, but he found himself nodding. Most people he had met on his journey had been kind. Those who weren’t had only been indifferent. No one had been cruel. But he had never sought accommodation from anyone but churches or pilgrim houses. Still, he moved over to the door, pushing it open.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside beyond the promised bed, food, drink and blanket, but he felt his jaw drop in surprise as he stepped into a lavishly decorated room. It’s true it was small, but every item of ornate furniture was stacked high with silverware. Seven candles burned in an iron candelabra, reflected over the glistening surfaces, drawing him towards their lustre, the warmth of the flames, the beauty of it all.

“Boy!” croaked the old woman’s voice from the room beyond.

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, Frederik closed the door and moved over to the only other door in the room. He twisted the iron ring and pushed it ajar, poking his head through. This room was far more like he had expected to find. It was humble, though still filled with light, and the only decorations were a flute, a drum, and a lyre. These hung from the wall like trophies, but each was twisted and shattered, the lyre’s strings severed, the drum’s skin slashed.

“Hans told me to find you,” he muttered , smiling at the fire. “But the man beside the board-”

“Dear little Hans,” she sighed, interrupting him. “He and his father still help me. Others believe they protect me.”

“Protect you from what?” Frederik whispered, trying to take a step back but colliding with the wall.

“Paradise.” Tears formed in her eyes as she spoke this single word and the hand she held out to him trembled. “Through a strange form of duty they learn not to help me. But you will help me, won’t you?”

“If I can,” came the reply, seeped in compassion. “Though I don’t understand what I can do.”

“More than you know, boy. But what’s your name? I cannot call my saviour ‘boy’.”

Frederik had already begun answering her question but choked at the words which followed it.

“Frederik?” She smiled. “Of course it would be. That was the name of my grandfather’s father, too. Only he and his cousin were left. And Blind Gretel, but she still walks the river, trying to find her way out.”

“What are you talking about?” All the hope he had felt was fading amid her mad ramblings. What price would he be expected to pay in return for the shelter he had come in search of? And, for the first time he wondered whether the man had told him to stay away from her for his own sake rather than the old woman’s. But he could not turn away from her tears.

“He tried to follow the piper,” she sobbed. “But, like you and now I, could not walk well. But he glimpsed paradise within that land, and he told them of it when he returned.”

Frederik moved over and took her outstretched hand. “That was more than two hundred years ago.”

“He was only five, his cousin only four. And now I have lived almost one hundred summers waiting to find it.”

“The way to that land?”

“The way, indeed,” she replied. “For my grandfather’s father said he would never be at peace until one of his family had found that paradise. But none of my brothers or sisters or cousins survived. But you will help me find the children, won’t you?”

“I?” Frederik gasped. “I don’t know where they are. And that was more than two hundred years ago. They won’t be there now. And if they were, how could I find them?”

“Because that doorway will remember the one who could not pass, and it will open for someone so like him. It must. After 207 years, God must take pity on us.”

“I believe God takes pity on all who seek it of Him.”

Frau von Reymbertink did not cease her weeping and Frederik remained with her as much through sympathy and compassion as his desire for warmth. He had even forgotten the promise of food, but when she mentioned supper his stomach growled.

That night, he lay on a soft bed for the first time in years. But he couldn’t sleep. He lay awake wondering over the force which had turned his steps towards Hameln. Could he really help Frau von Reymbertink find the hidden land? Surely, after almost a century, she would have found it herself if it were there to be found.

Eventually, however, the warm blanket and the support of the mattress encased him in slumber so deep, he did not dream. The next thing he knew was that a thin hand rested on his shoulder, shaking him awake.

“Wake up!”

There was no mistaking the amusement in that voice. Frederik rubbed his eyes and yawned into the back of his hand. Propping himself up on the bed, he opened his tired eyes and offered a look of confusion to the boy who stood beside him.

“Hans?”

“Quickly,” he laughed, pulling Frederik’s wrist. “There’ll be trouble if the mayor finds out.”

Frederik wanted to question Hans on this, but alongside the laughter there was a sense of haste. Instead, he readied himself to follow the younger boy into the room where he had found Frau von Reymbertink last night. She was there again today, leaning on the arm of a round-faced man who Frederik correctly assumed was Hans’ father. He never spoke to Frederik, but Hans introduced him before adding,

“The sledge is outside. We must go now.”

Swept along with the urgency which preoccupied the others, Frederik pulled on the ragged remains of his coat and followed them from the house. As Hans had said, a sledge with a single stocky pony to pull it waited on the snowy surface of Bungelosenstrasse. Frederik, Hans and Frau von Reymbertink all sat on the sledge, while Hans’ father led the pony. Frederik had never been on such a vehicle. The only time he had been on a cart had been harvest, in the golden light of his home far to the north. Now, as he watched the wide tracks of the sledge stretching behind him, he clung to that memory of the late summer sun, willing himself to warmth. He was surprised by how effective this was, even when he donated his coat to Frau von Reymbertink.

She was frozen. The old woman clutched her shawl to her face as they continued out of the gate and up the hill, which Hans called Calvary. But her eyes sparkled like ice crystals. Unable to understand the excitement in her expression, Frederik contented himself that she was happy.

They stopped just out of sight of the town and Frederik looked around, trying to understand why they were here. It didn’t look any different to the other side of the hill. It was no longer snowing, but the brown clouds suggested more was on the way.

“Why have we stopped?”

“This is where my grandfather’s father last saw them,” Frau von Reymbertink whispered into the shawl. “Can you see it, Frederik?”

Frederik shook his head, unsure what he was meant to find. Three pairs of eyes studied him, each person silently scrutinising his face for any glimmer of hope for their quest. He wished desperately he could give them fulfilment of this promise, but there was nothing.

After several minutes, Frau von Reymbertink’s shoulders curled forward and began shaking as she wept. Hans glowered at Fredrick as he awkwardly rose to his feet.

“There’s more snow coming,” Frederik muttered. The sky was growing darker, the wind whipping the fallen snow into new drifts.

“Good,” Hans’ father announced. “It will cover our tracks.”

Frederik shook his head. “But Frau von Reymbertink…” He allowed his voice to fade as he looked across at her. Tears turned to ice on her cheeks and her lips, no longer concealed beneath the shawl, were blue. She would perish in this cold. As soon as the snow settled upon her, she would freeze to death. He turned as he felt a flake settle on the back of his neck. “Take her into the shelter of that cave,” he pleaded, pointing to a gap between the ground and two horizontal stone. The opening was so narrow the sledge would not fit through, but the horse might.

“What cave?” Hans asked.

“There,” Frederik pointed. As neither Hans nor his father moved towards the opening, Frederik hobbled forward and took Frau von Reymbertink’s hand. She was so cold already. As cold as death. But her eyes were dry as she meekly followed him. His own speed was steady so, with the help of the other two people, she could easily keep up with him.

She went through first, muttering words of thanks amid giggles which made her sound like a child. Hans helped her negotiate the small opening while his father guided the horse down. The gap was so thin it was impossible to unharness the horse as it passed into the underground cave.

Frederik turned as he heard rhythmic beating behind him. It was the sound of hooves and, out of the thickening snow, rode one of the town guard.

“What are you doing up here, boy?”

Frederik felt his teeth chatter as he lifted his head to face this man, exposing his bare throat. This sudden chill stole his breath and he huddled in on himself.

“Surely you didn’t drag this yourself,” the man continued, dismounting and gathering the discarded halter of the sledge. “Where’s your horse?”

Through the snow, Frederik pointed to the shelter where his companions had gone. The guard walked forward, searching the horizon left and right, staring over the cave’s entrance.

“It’s left you now, boy,” he continued, helping Frederik over to his own horse. “You shouldn’t come up here. It isn’t safe.”

Frederik continued looking over his shoulder, willing Hans, his father, or even Frau von Reymbertink to appear and explain what had happened. But none did. Instead, the guard climbed onto the sledge and lifted the mute Frederik onto his horse, and returned to the town. By the time the walls of Hameln came into view, Frederik was already falling asleep.

His detour into the town lasted until the snows had left, his pilgrimage delayed as he recovered in the church’s almshouse. The priest was happy to admit Frederik after Father Willehad’s letter had been found on the unconscious boy. Frederik convinced himself it had only been the numbness of his fingers which had tricked him into believing he had lost it but, on watching as another tally was etched into the board, the town was filled with the story of Frau von Reymbertink’s disappearance. Her wealth had been left to fund the establishing of an orphanage in the memory of her late daughter whose husband and son, Hans, had disappeared at the same time as the old woman.

As March drew to a close, Frederik prepared to continue his pilgrimage. There was a great temptation to walk out along Bungelosenstrasse, through the east gate, and up to Calvary. But he felt too uncertain to pass that way. He was not afraid of what he might find, but rather what he would not find. Besides, he reminded himself as he glanced over his shoulder at Bungelosenstrasse and continued to the southern gate, leaving by the wrong gate in Hamburg was what had delayed his pilgrimage and brought him to this strange place. Not that he regretted it, but neither did he understand it.