• "Legerdemain"

    Aflame with color, Death came gaily strolling one day

    Through field and wood, to village small. And there he

    Stopped to rest a while. Little ones, big ones,

    Very ugly rats perched on his shoes, chittering his name

    His work in their paws and his visage in their beady black eyes.

    “Save us.” Unsuspecting people; fathers, mothers, sisters,

    Brothers, children, elders. A group.

    A gathering waiting in his glade, while he stretches out his arms, charismatic and

    Appealing. Telling them: “I can.”

    Imaginary gold, promised to his mantle, threaded into his clothing with exuberant joy

    They are happy. It is assured.

    Pied garments all aflutter, he stands, arms bent

    Flute pressed to his cold lips; kiss of music, strains of fulfillment

    The piper plays.

    He kicks up a tune, using the wind as his steed and the earth at his road

    And hell is a flowing ribbon of blue.

    Waiting. Silently. As Death does.

    He danced and he played, and one

    By one

    The rats

    Follow.


    The world in its passion cries aloud, smothered by the black false-death that reaps the

    Benefits of the life sown. He plays furiously. He is Orpheus scorned; his Eurydice lost

    To the whim of precariously perched deities; he is madness, sorrow, anger and fear.

    This is Death who leads the dance, the song, to the torrid waters of the Weser

    And stuffs the vermin into its gluttonous mouths.

    Catlike, the foam laps at the tails last vanishing, the Piper’s fathomless gaze

    Is upon his contractors.

    “Payment.” He demands.

    “Witchcraft is not rewarded.” They are fearful; they should be. “Payment”, once more

    He demands; his hand offered, palm up to gather their promises to his aching soul

    Crying still for Eurydice, for Life, for a reward to his savage mystery from whom

    No-one has returned.

    “We have not the money.”

    Scorned. Wounded. The world becomes a little darker, the music less bright, the Piper

    (Death) (Orpheus), savior of one small village among thousands; chosen were they,

    Refused was his good Will. Imagine the blackest cloud, hanging as a monster from childhood dreams, waiting

    With sharpened claws, to rip the love from your chest. Once, it was not the Piper's purpose.

    The Piper was mercy; a father, a husband, a lover. Beaten, he leaves an

    Ungrateful town, a beacon in the darkness of plague; a vengeance waiting.

    A whirlwind gale! Dawn rises the day before him, and even God’s house cannot stand

    In defiance of his matured rage. Gilded doors are thrown from their hinges; the pied

    Garments are gone. The flute as silver and cold as a knife poised to the throat, beading

    Blood at the tip, stealing life without killing. “Revenge!” The rooks clamor, an explosion of

    Black feathers. “Murder!” Cries the murder. Death of Color now bedecked as Death of

    Black. Legerdemain; he sweeps them into a danse macabre. Arms bent, the flute to his

    Cold smile. “Come little children”, the music whispers prettily, “Baubles and tokens I

    Have for you. A palace of candy and light. Come follow me, and forget all of this life.

    I give you Death, and Eternity.” Smitten, they tore after his light step; black linen flying

    Akin to the birds wheeling high. His dark eyes held spark, for still could Orpheus the

    Musician enchant what he pleased. Golden hair in curls, a wolf in Cherub’s face, and

    Apollo cried against the evil sweet music could bring.

    Vengeful, vindictive; Orpheus of Death stole them

    Straight from the arms of their mothers, crying

    Hysterically over the cost of a broken promise.


    At the river Weser, his toes stir the edge; his music stalls, a reflection cast by the silver

    Mirror below.


    Even Acheron of Woe is accusing.

    “Children”, the river says mournfully. “They are but children. And Hamelin needs her

    Future, her stories need to live on.”

    And Death looks back; one-hundred-and-thirty children wait behind him. Small hands

    Clutching his robes, small eyes misted with music.

    Farther back:

    A lame boy, a deaf girl; desperate to follow as well. Desperate for the beauty promised

    To their own broken states. The deaf girl curious, the lame boy wanting; supporting

    Each other far behind with the only hands they could have ever known, reaching for the silver flute in his fingers.

    And Orpheus looks back, and the magic is broken.

    And all the Eurydices of the world flee from the greedy river, flinging themselves against

    Their parents. The way she never would, lost forever to his hand, desperately grasping

    A shade.

    And his own eyes are misty, guilt-ridden, shamed. His feet in the rising river

    And the lame boy, and the deaf girl finally nearing him so that they could

    Take his hands and smile and pet the rooks at his side, and hold the flute in their reverent

    Hands and kiss his cheeks as he bent to carry them both

    Black melting to color, brilliant and mending,

    While he carried two broken, unwanted children away, to where they were whole

    And loved.

    Finite, this story is ended.