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bookishwenchLast one in Yuletide Madness, this time for lightningwaltz.
The Second Dance
The Mayor’s daughter saw the piper through the window one night, his eyes reflecting the light of the hearth like a cat’s. She had thought it was a moment of imagination, a fantasy, but he had smiled slowly, showing too many teeth for safety, and then passed on into the darkness. There had been a scratching sound, like rats’ claws against the brickwork, and she had lacked air to scream. Instead, she fainted into nameless nightmares until morning.
When her father casually mentioned over breakfast that he had decided not to pay the piper his fee, her hands went so numb that her knife clattered to the floor. She begged him to reconsider. He laughed at her, calling her foolish, a frightened child. She remembered the sound of the rats drowning in the river, the cruelty it would take to accomplish that, the impossibility of it, but he would not listen.
Instead, it was she who listened, she and the children. The piping was clear, but nothing else was, only the urgency to move to the tune. She felt like she was underwater, and to break to the surface and breathe once more she must not swim but dance. Each step from the house, to the cobbles, down the road, past the gate, into the fields, was a requirement of life. She had no choice; she remembered the smile and knew it held no pity. Children flocked around her, whirling like dried leaves in autumn, skittering about against their will. She saw the river, saw the bridge, closed her eyes against the plunge that must come, but she felt her feet tap against the stones until they were across.
They went into the woods, the darkness closing in, the piper somewhere ahead, until the mountain loomed up and cracked open like the stories from long ago of Orpheus going to fetch his Eurydice. It was then she knew who he was. Only one had ever played music so sweetly as to bend the will of all around him to its sounds. Eurydice had not come with him, but now he had a rich tribute for the thief who had stolen his wife. How long had he waited to find such a prize? Long enough to break his mind. For the town’s guilt of greed and lies, he had taken in vengeance one hundred and thirty little souls and one maiden, one like the new wife who had been taken from him centuries before. They were a ransom.
As she jerked into the darkness, for one moment she saw the piper’s eyes again at the crack that opened into the green world, and a shape was next to him, thin as vapor but somehow becoming solid as she beheld it, the form of a young girl. The piper’s payment had been accepted, and the mountain snapped shut on them with a noise like death.
She knew they would never behold the springtime world again.
The Mayor’s daughter saw the piper through the window one night, his eyes reflecting the light of the hearth like a cat’s. She had thought it was a moment of imagination, a fantasy, but he had smiled slowly, showing too many teeth for safety, and then passed on into the darkness. There had been a scratching sound, like rats’ claws against the brickwork, and she had lacked air to scream. Instead, she fainted into nameless nightmares until morning.
When her father casually mentioned over breakfast that he had decided not to pay the piper his fee, her hands went so numb that her knife clattered to the floor. She begged him to reconsider. He laughed at her, calling her foolish, a frightened child. She remembered the sound of the rats drowning in the river, the cruelty it would take to accomplish that, the impossibility of it, but he would not listen.
Instead, it was she who listened, she and the children. The piping was clear, but nothing else was, only the urgency to move to the tune. She felt like she was underwater, and to break to the surface and breathe once more she must not swim but dance. Each step from the house, to the cobbles, down the road, past the gate, into the fields, was a requirement of life. She had no choice; she remembered the smile and knew it held no pity. Children flocked around her, whirling like dried leaves in autumn, skittering about against their will. She saw the river, saw the bridge, closed her eyes against the plunge that must come, but she felt her feet tap against the stones until they were across.
They went into the woods, the darkness closing in, the piper somewhere ahead, until the mountain loomed up and cracked open like the stories from long ago of Orpheus going to fetch his Eurydice. It was then she knew who he was. Only one had ever played music so sweetly as to bend the will of all around him to its sounds. Eurydice had not come with him, but now he had a rich tribute for the thief who had stolen his wife. How long had he waited to find such a prize? Long enough to break his mind. For the town’s guilt of greed and lies, he had taken in vengeance one hundred and thirty little souls and one maiden, one like the new wife who had been taken from him centuries before. They were a ransom.
As she jerked into the darkness, for one moment she saw the piper’s eyes again at the crack that opened into the green world, and a shape was next to him, thin as vapor but somehow becoming solid as she beheld it, the form of a young girl. The piper’s payment had been accepted, and the mountain snapped shut on them with a noise like death.
She knew they would never behold the springtime world again.
