Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [75]
“Exactly so.”
“And therein lies our new bargain?”
“You’ve unearthed the full measure of it,” she said.
AT THE HEIGHT OF SUMMER, in the ninth year of its occupation by foreign invaders, a stranger presented himself at Hamelin’s easternmost gate and demanded entrance into the town. He was dressed in a feathered cap, a newly cleaned and mended suit of bright colors, over which he wore a long, pied jacket, all of which seemed much too much of a muchness, both in its riot of color and the sheer totality of stifling cloth, for this was a very hot day. But the man appeared not at all affected by the heat. He had long hair and a long beard, both of which were all a-tangle. And he had wild, angry eyes that were never the first to look away. He carried a long red flute and nothing else.
“I’m Max, the Piper,” he boldly announced to the guards at the gate, “and I’ve come to confer with your town fathers.”
Now, by this time, the freedom to hear and play music had been restored to Hamelin, among various other liberties. Things had settled down over the years, as things will. Day by day, and year by year, the townspeople gradually grew more cooperative, as they acclimated to their new lives, lived in service to their new lords. In time, the new way seemed to become the natural way. In response, the ruling authorities had rightly calculated that their iron grip over the day-to-day activities of the indentured populace could be relaxed in some areas.
But Hamelin was still governed by a military bureaucracy, so there was a certain way everything had to be done. Those minstrels wishing to ply their trade in the city first needed to seek the proper permissions, pay the prescribed fees, and obtain the appropriate passes and licenses, from each of the many civil ministries who shared oversight of such activities. And all had to be undertaken with a respectable measure of humility and deference. One didn’t simply march up to the nearest city gate and boldly announce one’s intentions, demands, or grand expectations. It just wasn’t done.
And yet that’s precisely what this arrogant, or foolhardy (or perhaps suicidal) pied piper did.
Grubel Kaidan was a goblin who knew his place in the grand scheme of things. He was a soldier of the celebrated Twenty-Third Horde. And he intended to remain such, until a glorious battlefield death claimed him, or he’d reached the age where mandatory retirement would send him packing. He always did his duty, never shirked, and looked out for his troops as much as he could within the strictures of good military discipline. He made it a point to always know what his superiors expected of him, just as he made sure those under his command always knew what he expected of them. “That’s the only way to run an army,” he’d often opine. He didn’t much care for garrison duty, preferring the joys and terrors of frontline combat. But he did it, and without complaint, because any gob who thought he should be the one charting his own course in life wasn’t fit to be a soldier. On this particular day Grubel was serving as the Sergeant of the Guard for that section of the town which included its Eastern Gate.
“What’s all this uproar about?” he said, when summoned to the East Gate.
“These creatures are attempting to keep me out,” Max said, before either of the goblin soldiers could report.
“Then you’d best be on your way,” Grubel growled in reply, “before I allow one of my troops to chop you into tidy pieces for the enlisted gobs’ stewpots.”
Max only smiled.
Without further discussion, he stepped back a pace or two, raised the flute named Fire to his lips and began to play a simple and cloying tune. Grubel snorted once and blinked hard and rapidly, to clear the tears from his suddenly burning eyes. He wiped furiously at his eyes and runny nose with one of his large, meaty fists. His two goblin troopers also seemed to be suffering from the same malady, as they too sneezed, squinted and frantically rubbed their faces.
Then, just as suddenly, the awful feelings passed, even though the piper played on. Grubel