The town of Wolford was infested with rats. The rats caused disease and death. The town was desperate for help. The pied piper came from the forest. The pied piper led the rats to their demise. The pied piper demanded his money. The town refused. The pied piper was angry.

The town of Wolford was infested with rats. The pied piper was angry. The town was desperate for help. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper led the rats to their demise. The pied piper was angry. The town refused. The pied piper was angry.

The pied piper was angry. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper was angry. The pied piper is angry.

 

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It is an unspoken rule that nobody goes into the forest. The forest used to be our friend. Older generations would let their kids climb the branches of its trees and explore every inch of its domain. Their fathers, husbands, and brothers would hunt its deer and rabbits, laying intricate traps along the forest floor which would cause the mothers to warn the children to be careful not to land in one of them. Their mothers, wives, and sisters would wash their clothes in its river and pick berries from its bushes. Then an incident occurred and now the forest is an enemy. Not many of us know exactly what happened. 

When we ask the older generation what happened, they only tell us about what great fun they experienced in the forest. Nothing more, nothing less. When we pry them for more information, they fall silent and press their lips together as if they had just eaten a lemon. Kids rarely heed the warnings of those older than them, instead using the forest to show their bravery. Perhaps more of us would follow in their footsteps, and test the forest to see how long each of us could last in the grasps of the bare branches that look skeletal in nature. We could make a game of tempting whatever animal or creature may reside within the forbidden labyrinth with adrenaline pumping through our veins as we twist and turn between the trees, but we do not. We don’t hold the same fear that our elders hold, but most of us live far enough away that we only pay it mind when we are in the town square. The Porters are unfortunate enough to have their farm right up against the forest. They never talk of any strange experience, but their neighbor Sarah Miller will never pass up an opportunity to talk of the screaming and wailing she constantly hears from their house. There was one night where she talked of the Porter’s son and how she saw him emerge from the forest, a look of terror so strong on his face that it caused her body to tremble.

We never take what Sarah Miller says seriously. Especially when it’s about the Porter’s house. She is willing to say anything to elicit a reaction from anyone. We know better than to take her word. That’s why we were all surprised that fateful Saturday. Oh, the shiver that’s sent down our spines as we think of it! What chance was there that Sarah Miller of all people may have been right? That our older generations were right to fear the forest? 

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We have the market every Saturday. It goes on from sunrise to sunset. Most of us are small farmers and can only sell whatever our families cannot eat. For example, Mr. Wilson’s daughter is tragically allergic to strawberries, but that is the main crop of their farm so he sells what would have been her share at the market. Similarly, the Johnsons were lucky enough to acquire an extra cow after a game of cards, and so they usually sell bottles of milk. There is the occasional big farmer like the Hagley Family who has lived in this town much longer than the rest of us. They have spent decades building their farm and are now big enough to hire workers and use the shiny city equipment. They sell almost anything you could imagine whatever fruits and vegetables are in season, a variety of meats, milk, cheese, even some clothes that Mrs. Hagley stitches up.

This Saturday’s market was just like any other. We all show up, even if we don’t have anything to sell or any money to spend. The big stands like the Hagley’s sit in the middle of the town square while the smaller farmers like Mr. Wilson and the Johnsons are near the edges where the forest starts to spill onto the cobblestone. The small farmers don’t mean to, but they all lean closer in towards the center of the town square, their backs bending away from the grasps of the forest. Everything is going smoothly, indistinguishable chatter filling the air as we all bargain with our neighbors for lower prices. Todd Hagley is screaming at Sarah Miller that one shilling is more than a fair price for a pound of blueberries. The Wilsons are begging people just look at their strawberries. Some of the berries have already started to brown and if they don’t sell the rest by the end of the day, they will be forced to throw them all away. Then, silence as all eyes slowly start to turn towards the edge of the forest.

Now, it should be noted that Wolford is a small town, if it could even be called that. It’s a village at most, but more akin to a small cluster of farms and houses with a makeshift town square in the middle whose cobblestone now has grass growing between the largening cracks. The town square itself is barely able to hold that title, with just a wooden church that could barely fit the entire town in it and a small townhall that looks more like a shack than where the town’s political matters (such as whether Billy Porter’s crop really are creeping onto the Johnsons’ land) are discussed.  Perhaps this is why all heads turned to get a look at the man who has emerged. We rack our brains in an attempt to figure out who he can be, but nobody recognizes him. Not even Sarah Miller, who has a habit of listening in on others’ conversations and talking the ear off of anyone who is unfortunate enough to cross paths with her. 

The man is tall in stature and is as thin as a stick. He has a deep red cloak and a black top hat that creates a shadow, blacking out his eyes. It seems that he has appeared from near the forest. The chatter has quieted down by now and we are all much more cautious. He steps up towards Mr. Wilson’s stand since it’s the closest one to him. Scanning the strawberries, the man looks unimpressed. Mr. Wilson, who moments ago had been praying for someone to pay attention to his stand, now cowers away from the man, wishing that he would take his attention elsewhere. The rest of us are all trying to sneak looks of him, but not wanting to seem rude. 

“Have you seen him before?” Billy Porter whispers to Sarah Miller.

“No. But I wish he would take off that ridiculous hat. I cannot make out his face for the life of me.” 

We whisper to ourselves, taking care to stop once he walks by us. As soon as he passes, we continue our whispering. He walks throughout the town square, looking over each and every stand. At some he nods approvingly. Others he only stands there, glaring at the produce before moving on. We assume underneath the shadow of the hat he is frowning at those stands. After a while of this weird routine, he looks around the town square.

“It was lovely seeing you all again,” he says. His voice is like nothing we have ever heard. It seems to be coming from everywhere but where he is standing. It surrounds us as if meaning to suffocate us. His words seem to have a musicality to them. They are soft and airy, as if being played by a flute. We all fall silent, feeling as if we’re drowning in the voice. As we are struggling to catch our breaths, he turns back towards the forest before making his way towards it. We all watch silently. Mrs. Hagley is shaking quite badly as the man walks away and Billy Porter’s son starts to tear up. We only start to feel like ourselves once he is out of view.

We decide to end the market early that Saturday. We don’t want to admit it to each other, but the man had unsettled us all a great deal and the thought that he might return frightens us greatly. We all want to be in the safety of our house with the doors locked and a fire roaring in the fireplace. We recount the story to the older generation who stay at home during the market to do housekeeping. They all freeze, each one of them looking as if they were staring death in the eyes.

The next morning is when the crops start to die. No amount of water or fertilizer can help. Even the Hagleys, who have state of the art equipment, are unable to revive their plants. Our children are now sick with an awful illness that nobody recognizes. They suffer from a body-shaking cough and have dark rings around their eyes. One has already died. Nobody wants to say it, but we are afraid the strange man is the one who is afflicting these horrible curses upon us. Every now and then, one of us will hear our elders talking of a “pied piper.” We are not sure who that is, but that same unsettling feeling arises whenever the name is mentioned. We have reason to believe it was this pied piper who visited us at the market. Though he did not have a pipe, or any instrument for that matter, he did have his voice. His voice could easily be an instrument of its own as he played out the notes that spelled out our demise.  We ask for the King’s help to find this pied piper and release us from his curse. If not, we fear that the town of Wolford, a town that is barely a town and more of a village with its small square and imposing forest, will be no more.