Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [78]
The rats swarmed southward and eastward, along every avenue and byway, filling each street by the tens of thousands, until they congregated in the great open square where three major avenues converged at the Western Gate. That was where Max stood, in the very center of the open gateway, playing his compelling tune on the pipe named Fire. A vast and wriggling pile of rats was forming around Max, as the ones in the rear scrambled and surged forward, to be nearer the source of the commanding music, while those in the front kept a respectful distance of at least three feet all around the sorcerer. Small mountains of living beasts kept forming and collapsing around him, until Max finally turned and led the way through the city gate and out onto the broad stone bridge that spanned the mighty Weser River.
The rat army followed Max out onto the bridge and then midway across the wide Weser, they felt compelled to hurl themselves over the low stone railing and into the dark waters down below. Rats great and small gladly killed themselves, all at the musician’s command. Brown, black and grey rats eagerly jumped to their doom. Lithe young friskers leapt over grave old plodders, in order to drown all the more quickly. It took hours for the last of the rats to jump to its destruction.
When it was all done, and he could finally stop playing, Max was tired, as tired as he’d ever been. He thought briefly about turning back into the city, to magically force someone out of his home and hearth, so that he could collapse into the commandeered bed. But the thought of even that much extra expenditure of Fire’s powers was beyond his will to contemplate. Instead he continued across the rest of the bridge and into the forest that girdled the far bank. It’s the full flush of summer, he thought, and I’ll be warm enough in the open. As soon as he was just a few paces into the woods, where he was sure to be unobserved by any passerby, he dropped like a stone into the underbrush and fell fast asleep.
Eighteen days and nights passed before Max woke and presented himself once again at Hamelin’s City Hall.
“GONE?” MAX SHOUTED. “What do you mean my money’s gone?”
Mayor Wenzel fairly quivered with fear, but somehow summoned the courage to answer the mad-eyed piper. “When you never showed up to collect it, the money went back into the city treasury. Since then it’s been spent on other vital necessities of the community.” Baron Diederick sat silent in the room, behind his big oaken desk, perfectly content to let Wenzel spin his web of lies and impromptu fabrications. In fact he almost admired the old man’s alacrity at being able to create so many reasonable-sounding falsehoods so quickly. Then again, Diederick reminded himself, to keep this moment in mind the next time Wenzel came to him with his usual excuses and prevarications for things not done.
“But I’m here to collect my reward now!” Max yelled.
“Too late,” Wenzel whimpered in reply. The documents have already been filed and the accounts closed. You should’ve been more prompt, young man. There’s simply nothing we can do. If you still feel you have a grievance, it’s a matter for the courts now. But of course you’ll have to wait for an opening in their schedule, which is always quite full. I think early November is the soonest they might possibly fit you in.”
“I’m supposed to sue you?”
“Not me personally. It’s the City of Hamelin you need to contest against, which of course is part of the Weser Mountains Region, which is part of the Greater Southern Saxony Administrative District, which — well, your lawyer will explain all of that to you. Basically it’s the Empire you have to sue, but I caution you to proceed most carefully, young man, because those who undertake legal actions against the Empire tend to wind up in dank dungeons — or worse.” Wenzel’s voice dripped with sincere concern