The Pied Piper of Hamelin

The town of Hamelin lay by the river Weser. Once the streets there filled with an unexpected and terrible noise: hundreds, yes thousands of rats. They crept into pantries, gnawed at corn sacks in the mill, bit holes in bread loaves, and even climbed up into children's cradles and scared them. The cats gave up, the dogs barked themselves hoarse, and people barely dared to sleep. At last everyone gathered in the town hall and begged the mayor for help.

The mayor pounded his fist on the table. "Whoever saves Hamelin from the rats shall receive a great reward!" he called. The councilmen nodded, but no one knew how to get rid of a whole sea of whiskers and gnawing teeth.

Then the door opened and a stranger stepped in. He wore a long coat sewn from patches of fabric in all possible colors: red, yellow, green, blue—like a living rainbow. On his back hung a pipe on a simple leather strap, and in his eyes glimmered something determined.

"Good day, good sirs," he said politely. "I am a piper. If I receive the reward you promise, I can make your town free from rats."

The mayor leaned forward. "Free from rats? All of them?"

"All," answered the stranger and laid his hand on the pipe. "I want a thousand gold coins."

The councilmen whispered among themselves. A thousand coins was much, but the rats were even more. "Do it!" called the people outside. The mayor smiled broadly. "Do your best, my colorful friend. If you get rid of them, you'll get your coins."

The piper nodded, went out on the square, and lifted the pipe to his lips. At first it was quiet. Then a melody floated through the air, so strange and enticing that it seemed to spin around chimneys and creep under door sills. It wriggled like a silver thread through the whole town.

Rats stopped in the middle of their gnawing, lifted their heads, and listened. One by one, two by two, in long rows they came out from cellars, pantries, and wells. They blinked at the light, shook their wet whiskers, and began to follow the piper as if the melody carried them forward. Children held onto their mothers' skirts and dared to peek, amazed at what was happening.

The piper went ahead, quick and sure, and the rats followed like a dark, squeaking ribbon through Hamelin's alleys. He led them out through the town gate, down to the river Weser. There he stopped on the shore and let the melody swell and shine like the sun in the wave crests. The rats stepped straight out into the water, as if the music were a bridge they had to cross. One by one they were drawn out into the river and disappeared with a last splash. When the last tail sank, the melody fell silent.

The town rejoiced. People hugged each other and laughed. "We are saved!" they called. The piper stepped again into the town hall and bowed. "I came to ask for my reward."

The mayor looked at the councilmen and shivered at the thought of a thousand shiny coins changing owners. He cleared his throat. "Well... surely you've done a good deed," he said slowly. "But a thousand coins for a tune? That was going too far. You'll get a hundred."

The piper's eyes darkened. "You gave your word before the whole town," he said calmly. "A promise weighs more than gold."

The mayor laughed shortly and shook his head. "A hundred coins. Take it or leave it."

Then the piper lifted the pipe a little, but didn't play. He only said: "You shall have my second melody. I hope you listen better next time." Then he turned and walked out, while the mayor shrugged and let the treasure remain.

Some days passed. The rats were gone, and people almost began to forget what terror they'd just felt. Then came a sunny morning, when church bells called to service. Men and women went into the church. The children who were too small to sit still stayed out on the square with their older siblings, curious and excited.

Then a new melody was heard. It was light as butterfly wings and warm as summer wind, a song that sounded like games, laughter, and secret adventures. The piper came walking, his colorful coat gleamed in the sunshine. He lifted the pipe and let the tone fly through the streets.

The children turned their heads, almost as if the melody had taken them by the hand. A little girl dropped her doll, a boy stopped jumping rope. Out of the town they went, happy, dancing, laughing, in a long, colorful row. "Wait!" called a lame boy who walked with a crutch. He smiled and struggled on, but his legs carried him more slowly.

The piper led the children out through the gate, up a path toward a green mountain just outside Hamelin. When they arrived he stood a ways off and played a tone that was soft as moss. Then the mountain opened, quiet and still, as if a door of stone had always been there. Into the mountain went the children, one after another, with eyes wide with wonder. The lame boy reached just as the last girl disappeared. He stretched out his hand—but then the mountain closed again.

At the same time the parents came running, warned by the children who hadn't heard the music or who had stopped to tie a shoe. The church bells fell silent, and cries filled the air. "Our children! Where are our children?" The mayor became paler than the whitewash on the church wall.

The lame boy told breathlessly what he saw, and tears ran down his cheeks. "I followed the music, but my leg... I was too slow. They went into the mountain. The door closed."

The mayor staggered forward to the boy, fell to his knees, and begged: "Show us how! Show us where!" The people ran to the mountain, searched with their hands over stone and moss, called into the silence. But the mountain was as hard and smooth as always. No door was visible. No tone was heard.

Then everyone remembered what the piper had said: A promise weighs more than gold. And now a thousand gold coins felt lighter than a feather compared to the emptiness that had settled over Hamelin.

Years passed. People in Hamelin worked, married, baked bread, and sang, but every time the river Weser glittered extra clear or the wind carried a whistle through narrow alleys, they stopped. Some said the piper led the children to a land where no one got sick, where the apples were always ripe and the play never ended. Others said he just wanted to remind the world what a broken promise costs. The lame boy grew up and became a man who often sat with the children who came after and told: "Keep your words, little friends. Say no more than you mean, and mean what you say."

And still today, if you come to Hamelin, you can hear whispers through time: about rats that disappeared in the river, about colorful coats and melodies that change everything, and about a town that learned that a promise shall be kept, however expensive it may seem.