One Morning in July The Sun glistened on the river Weser, bouncing its rays off the softly flowing waters, which bubbled with the early morning vigour of a myriad dancing insects. A kingfisher lingered in reeds on the far bank, waiting its chance to pounce for its breakfast. A grassy bank led up from the river, towards a row of small, tidy stone houses; each fronted by a small yard. Sonja lazily scattered barley to the hens, trying to take in the scene in front of her, while husband Otto, busied himself with cleaning the butter-cask. Their actions were automatic, having no need of thought, so even less need of emotion. They had no emotion to spare. A rat suddenly scurried past. Sonja thought that strange, as nobody had seen a rat in many a long month. She took its appearance as a sign. A sign sent to bear witness to the saddest day this town had ever seen. The grief was tangible, and it was everywhere. In front of their house - in front of every house, young people were packing carts with their possessions. Pots and pans, linens, simple furniture, hand-woven rugs, grain, fowl, goats … and their children. Soon it would be time to say goodbye. Sensing Sonja’s almost total despair, Otto left the butter-cask and walked over to his wife, laying a comforting arm around her shoulder. He did not feel confident that he could comfort at all though, as his eyes were filled with his own sorrow and his heart overflowed with the most terrible loss. Ah, but it would be for the best. A small girl skipped over and hugged her grandmother around the knees. The sight of her flaxen plaits and her plump red cheeks, added to the ethereal beauty of the morning. Her brother and two sisters were already seated on the cart, by turns bickering and laughing; excitement of a journey ahead, making them oblivious to the misery all around. Their mother and father were talking to the ‘leader’. The leader was a man who had entered all of their lives only a few weeks previously and was taking them, eastwards, to a promised land, where their lives would be better and futures sure for their children. He was a man in his middle years, whose skin had a peculiar sallowness about it. He had a jovial, round face and an infectious laugh and he told such tales of delight that it was almost as though he bewitched the children. Sonja felt nothing but loathing for him and this frightened her. She had not realised that she had been capable of hating so fiercely. All around, the birds sang as though nothing had changed and that nothing ever would. The lone rat hid in a hollow in a nearby wall; it knew differently. The town was Hamelin. The year, 1376. "And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honeybees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings" Robert Browning, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin: A Child’s Story", 1849 (525 words) Footnote: I was given the idea to write this short story, after hearing a programme on Radio 4, discussing the origins of the myth of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, and Robert Browning’s subsequent poem. It is thought to have been in reference to the migration of young people of (then) Prussia, to Eastern Europe. Back to A174