The Piper’s Melody in Hameln
The sound of a flute drifting through Hameln. This is a story from a small village, back when the King had been murdered by a witch—or perhaps a black-magic-wielding queen—and his crown usurped. There lived a poor boy who had lost his parents at a tender age. The other children in the village mocked him, calling him a filthy, parentless brat. In truth, those who only mocked him were the kind ones. Most of the children would curse him as a beggar, chase him away, or pelt him with stones.
What did the adults of the village do when they saw children tormenting a poor, defenseless boy? Did they warn their own children strictly not to associate with such a boy? Did they look at him with contempt and chase him away? If they had done that, they would have been decent adults. But there were no decent adults in the village where the boy grew up. The adults were the ones leading the charge in tormenting the poor child. On freezing winter days, they would douse the boy in cold water when he begged for food. If parents saw their own child playing with him, they would shove the boy aside, grab their child’s hand, and scold them, saying, "You must never play with a thing like that," before walking away. Thus, the boy was subjected to groundless hatred from wicked adults and ignorant children alike.
In a harsh world, they had chosen an easy target—a helpless orphan—as someone they could vent their frustrations upon without fear of repercussions. His life was a miserable existence, receiving only sandy bread, bowls of porridge on the verge of spoiling, or half-bowls of watery soup in exchange for enduring all manner of unreasonable and cruel insults. Yet, the boy was not lonely. He had friends who always stayed by his side. Were they the village brats who threw stones and cackled? No. Were they the pathetic adults who led the bullying? No. The answer was the animals and insects who listened to the boy’s grass-flute melodies.
The swarms of rats that gathered, hoping to feast on the boy’s flesh before it rotted, actually served as a cotton quilt, sharing their fur-covered warmth to help him survive the winter. Sometimes, nectar-gathering insects like bees and butterflies would share a spoonful of the honey they had collected so the boy could fill his starving belly, and small birds would pool their efforts to bring him a single cherry, a wild strawberry, or a hawthorn berry. Because they were small, no one noticed. If a beggar had a large apple or pear, there were plenty of people who would snatch it away, but a few berries the size of fingernails could be tucked into a pocket without being discovered. Thanks to this, the boy could endure the harsh winter, knowing he had true friends even in a village where he had nowhere to call home.
Then, one evening. It was a cold winter night, and the boy was enduring the biting wind in his crumbling, tiny house—the only thing his parents had left him—using black rats and white mice as his blanket. Some kind-hearted village children, worried that the village beggar might suffocate to death in that narrow, musty, and foul-smelling shack, headed toward his house to break the windows and punch holes in the walls to improve the ventilation. Since it was rude to put holes in a house while the owner was away, they peered through the window, and lo and behold—what did they see? Filthy rats were covering the beggar’s body, acting as his blanket.
Cackle, cackle, cackle! The children laughed. They mocked him, saying the beggar brat was being eaten alive by rats. They laughed for a while, but the laughter didn't last long. They, too, realized something was strange. The rats weren't eating the beggar. The rats covering the boy’s body were all huddled together, desperately sharing their warmth so the boy could survive the cold winter night. Even if they didn't understand exactly what it meant, it looked wrong to the children. Rats—the vermin that ate the grain in the warehouse, ran noisily between the roof and the ceiling, and dirtied the ceiling with their urine—were acting as a blanket for a beggar instead of scurrying around the house? It was strange. They weren't tearing apart a corpse, either. If it had been one or two, they would have sneered that the beggar was keeping filthy rats because he had nothing to eat, but there were so many of them. Rats that would normally squeal and scatter if one appeared before them were so docile, and there were so many of them.
To the mature, the unknown offers a chance to broaden one's perspective through curiosity, inquiry, admiration, and longing. But what happens when children encounter the unknown mixed with disgust? It becomes an object of fear and exclusion. A new slew of derogatory nicknames was added to the boy, who was already called a filthy beggar, a pathetic orphan, and a parentless brat. Rat-human, Rat-witch, Human-rat, and so on. Why "witch," even though he was a boy? Because the story of a witch killing the king had reached even the rural villages, and the meaning of "witch" had shifted from "a woman who performs all sorts of wondrous magic" to a synonym for "an immensely evil and wicked person."
Clatter! Clatter! The children threw stones and ran away. It was the same as what they had always done. Except for one thing. Normally, they would have thrown stones, and if they hit the beggar, they would have run away clutching their stomachs in laughter, but now, the children were running away crying and screaming. For the boy who had been trying to sleep in his shack with rats as his blanket, it was a bolt from the blue.
The fear of the "Rat Witch" spread through the village like wildfire. Adults armed with hoes, pickaxes, and clubs surrounded the house—the boy’s only sanctuary—and shouted. A torch was thrown, setting the house ablaze. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The fire from the torch, which had entered through the broken window, spread rapidly. Poor boy. He had no chance to protest, for his only friends were small animals and insects. He screamed that it was unfair, that it was a misunderstanding, and asked what he had done wrong, but his voice reached no one. Except for the small rats, who were fleeing in a panic.
As the boy’s consciousness faded amidst the thick smoke and scorching fire, a true witch—no, a demon—awoke within his heart, which was filled with resentment and agony. The grass-flute melody, which used to sing of the small joy of spitting apricot seeds precisely into the entrance of an ant colony at the top of a small sand dune, was gone. Now, in the boy’s grass-flute melody—in the notes and lyrics that would have been written on a crooked staff—there was only hatred. He would return everything in kind, and if they were so afraid of the disaster a witch might bring, he would become the disaster itself.
*
"...Hey... what's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" Seeing Hansel’s expression twist like a ghost the moment he heard the name of the village, "Hameln," Sophia shrank back and trembled.
"What’s wrong?"
Gretel asked for the reason, seeing Hansel’s expression, which had gone from displeased to furious, but the answer that came from Hansel’s lips was unexpected.
"...Is there some kind of village festival today?"
While Hansel strode toward the door, Gretel, who had focused her hearing, realized that a flute was indeed playing a song, just as Hansel had said, and asked Sophia.
"No, there’s nothing like that."
Crash! Like debt collectors coming to collect, Hansel kicked the door he had entered through. The innocent door didn't open; its hinges shattered, and it tilted before finally collapsing.
"Ugh... ugh... why on earth are you doing this?"
"Don't worry. Hansel doesn't do things like this without a reason."
Even though they weren't very close, Sophia, who had believed Hansel to be a decent person, began to tear up at his sudden change in demeanor, and Gretel comforted her.
"Ha, fuck. Seriously."
"What is the matter? Hmm. I understand."
Pinocchia, who had followed Hansel, understood the reason for his profanity the moment she saw outside.
"Squeak! Squeak-squeak! Squeak!"
"Aaaargh!"
"What are these rats! Get away! Get away!"
Some were fleeing from the rats, while others, with over ten rats clinging to their bodies, were running in a panic, only to crash into walls and collapse. Amidst the faint sound of the flute, swarms of rats were flooding the village. If one were to take the locusts—the ones called "yellow pests" that travel in swarms of tens of thousands, devouring every leaf, stem, and grain of crops—and reduce their numbers by a factor of several hundred, and then replace the locusts with rats... and if they were attacking people indiscriminately instead of crops... that was the scene in Hameln right now.
"What on earth... oh, wow."
Gretel, who came out last, saw the situation and understood. Gretel turned back, entered the shop, grabbed Sophia by the hair, and dragged her out.
"Stop blubbering and get out whatever rat poison or insecticide you have, and spray it around this house."
"E... eh? Eeh!"
"What do you mean 'eh'? Aren't you paying attention?"
Slap. Gretel lightly slapped Sophia’s cheek.
"Pull yourself together. I’ll say it again. Spray rat poison, insecticide, anything around this house so the rats can't get near."
"Ye... yes!!"
Sophia, who had been on the verge of losing her mind at the sight of the village overrun by swarms of rats, snapped to her senses at Gretel’s shouting and rushed back into the shop to gather insecticide and rat poison.
Pinocchia pulled a pistol from her waist and aimed it at the rats, but stopped and holstered it again.
"It would be one thing if it were one or two, but this many cannot be handled with a pistol. What will you do?"
Instead, she let wires dangle from her left hand and asked Hansel. Having judged that since Hansel was the first to notice the anomaly, it was his role to come up with a way to counter it, Pinocchia requested that Hansel provide instructions and a plan of action.
"What are you going to do?"
Gretel looked at Hansel with green eyes filled with a trust that would not waver under any circumstances.
"There must be someone hiding and playing this annoying flute. What happens if we kill that person?"
As if to reward that trust, Hansel gave an answer filled with nothing but conviction, devoid of any doubt or hesitation.