THE PIPER

The powder

The stranger disappeared into the background of everyday life. Time had stood still for him once before, but it now went on and the piper slowly faded and became an everyday figure.





Two months passed. I never forgot that day. My friends would stare at me strangely whenever I mentioned it. Following that morning, Mother began to get worse. She was losing her grip on this world, and it scared me.





And then – the Piper came.





The children had taken to calling him the Piper. Only now do I wonder why no one thought it strange that he never gave us his name . . .





The Piper knocked on our door, and from then on things changed.





I slowly opened the door, tiredly looking out. A cool breeze wrapped around me, and a smell. The scent of overripe fruit, and the taste of bittersweet wine . . . I swore I could hear a child’s laughter.





Slightly disoriented, it took a few minutes for me to register the silent figure of the man on the threshold. I quickly let him in, and he nodded his thanks. I didn’t yet know who the Piper was, nor what his presence met.





I shouldn’t have let him in. I shouldn’t have let him in.





The Piper carefully laid his coat on a chair just for that purpose, and turned to face me. His hair, so striking in its unusual color, was short but shaggy. His features were narrow and sharp, unreadable. His eyes were a dark, dark black.





“Your mother. I have heard that she is sick?”





I couldn’t tell if he was asking me for confirmation, or not sure if he really had heard that she was sick. I nodded vacantly. The Piper’s voice was strange, and just like that, I couldn’t think why. I couldn’t describe his voice at all. In fact, it was hard to even remember him talking, though the words echoed in my mind.





“And your father, he is no longer . . . in this world, true?”





I nodded again, wondering if I was really needed in this conversation.





“I believe I could be of some assistance to you, Maria.”





That made me listen. Why? Why did I listen? Didn’t I wonder – how did he know my name?





“Take this.” The Piper handed me a small pouch. “Give it to her. A spoonful a day. Trust me. It heals sicknesses of the mind.”





I tentatively peeked in the pouch. It was full of a strange, black powder.





And I trusted him.





That very day – I gave my Mother a spoonful. The pouch sat there, tempting me – and I did it. I gave it to her.





And it worked. Or it seemed to. Mother’s eyes cleared, minutes after I administered the medicine. She sat up, and it was wonderful. So wonderful. She answered me, and that very day made dinner. It tasted just like I remembered.





But there was a light in her eyes. Not a good light, of energy or happiness, but a bad one. It was hard to tell, but just the set of her eyes, and the coloring, it was all off. Mother’s eyes were brown. But twice I turned around – and they were black.





I convinced myself it was just the bad lighting. Foolish. I was so foolish.





I kept giving Mother the medicine. It was three days after the first dose that I left to ask after some new candles. We had plenty, but I thought a batch must have had bad wax in them. That was what I told myself.





Waxer, the candle-maker, had horrible arthritis, and I knew it had been getting worse, so I expected Tat – the candle-maker’s one-legged son – to be minding the store. To my surprise, it was Waxer himself.





As I complained about my candles and got some new ones, I noticed Tat entering the store, his crutch tapping the floor. I waved him over, and while Waxer was in the back getting candles I asked him how Waxer’s arthritis is doing.





Tat explained. His explanation was surprising. But what he said afterward . . . it scared me, bad.





The Piper had come to Tat’s house. The Piper had come to Tat’s house three days ago. The same day he had come to mine.





He had given Tat the black powder. Tat had used it that same day. Now Waxer’s arthritis had all but disappeared. For the first time in the last couple of months, he could move with no pain.





It wasn’t really suspicious, I told myself. Again and again I told myself. But then Tat lowered his voice.





“Maria, I’m wondering. Did . . . did Waxer’s eyes . . . did they look at all . . . dark, in any way?” He rushed on, explaining, as my heart skipped a beat. “I know I’m being silly . . . but I keep looking around . . . and his eyes are black. And they aren’t his. It’s just me, I know . . .”





I cut Tat off. My voice sounded faint. “No, Tat. That’s been happening to me. The Piper came to my house, three days ago. For Mother. She seems fine. I blamed the eyes on our candles. Bad wax or, or lighting.”





Tat looked nervous, but his voice was carefully blank. “I doubt it’s related. The powder and . . . it’s just a trick. A trick of the eyes.” He laughed. But his heart wasn’t in it.





I’d always, always been superstitious. I stayed away from black cats, though there weren’t any in our small valley, and handled all mirrors carefully. This was something different. This was gut instinct, and when I got home, all I wanted to do was throw that dark powder away and forget all about it.





I wanted to. I should have.





But I didn’t.





Mother was doing so well, and my younger brothers were so happy. We were a family again. Mother hadn’t been so calm and rooted since Father. I couldn’t ruin that!





I couldn’t. I didn’t have any other choice. It was too late by then.