The
following morning he waits for the town's church bells to stop
ringing, the strides purposefully into the civic centre. He knows
that today is a feast day for some saint or other, so the town's
adult population will be safely occupied with prayers and giving
thanks. In the heart of the town he stops and, producing a pipe from
multi-coloured coat, starts to play.
In
a matter of moments the first face appears, peeking gingerly from
behind a street corner. When he sees those eyes, bright with wonder,
he dances a little jig, right there on the spot. The child edges
forward, cautious but curious, emerging from the shadows slowly. He
jumps to dance another jig, then looks at the child directly and
nods. The child, a young boy, tries to copy his move, cavorting
awkwardly but giggling and happy.
He
smiles and claps, but continues to play as more young faces appear,
more children crowd around him, more young limbs prance and strut,
the morning air filling with innocent, bubbling laughter. Once he's
gathered quite the crowd, he turns, jigs once more, then begins to
lead them in a promenade through deserted streets. They follow
willingly, without any questions, this young happy train, copying his
every move as best they can.
Out
past the edge of the town they go, dancing and laughing, skipping and
whirling, until the town of Hamelin is far, far behind them. Not
long after they reach a fork in the road. To the left, the road
continues off through the trees as it has always done. To the right
is a new road that wasn't there yesterday, sparkling with every
colour of a rainbow, leading into woodland that twinkles and shines,
plucked from a dream.
“Good
day to you, little piper,” the strangely dressed gentleman greets
him, appearing from nowhere. “Come now, in your checkered coat,
with your bright young entourage,” he bends almost double, pointing
up the rainbow road, “And welcome to your new home.”
