"Eric Frank Russell - The Rhythm of the Rats" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

incantation—until our reckless forefathers had had enough of her." He paused a
moment, stared dully at the sky. "Whereupon they trapped her by trickery and
burned her for the foul old witch she was."
"Oh!" I felt a cold shiver on me.
"And then they hunted her son, her only child, who was half-wizard, half-witch,
but he escaped. Hiding in a place afar, he developed his dark talents and bided his
time for vengeance."
"Go on," I urged as he showed signs of leaving it at that.
"When he was ready, he tested his powers in a distant town. They worked
perfectly. So he came back to us... and took away our children."
"What?"
 "He charmed them away," said Hansi, grim and bitter. "Every one but those able
only to crawl—and even those strove to squirm from us. From that day to this he
has slunk around like a beast in the night, waiting, always waiting. Most of our
women are afraid to have children. The few who dare have to send them to distant
relatives until they reach adulthood or, alternatively, lock them in the kinderhaus
between every dusk and dawn." He glanced at me. "Where I was locked for many
years. Where you were locked last night."
"Only at night?" I asked.
He nodded. "There is no peril by day. Why, I do not know. But always he is
ready by night, ready to take a child—and give us back another rat!"
"You mean… he changes them?"
"We cannot say for certain. We suspect it. We fear it." His big hand clenched
into a knotted fist. A vein stood out on his forehead. "Children have gone, fix-eyed,
with outreaching hands, like blind ones feeling their way—and rats have come back,
tame, playful, wanting food and mother-love." His voice deepened, became harsh.
"Some day we shall deal with him as our forefathers dealt with the witch who bore
him. If the people of that distant town had killed him when he was in their hands—"
"What town?"
He said, briefly but devastatingly, "Hamelin."
Then the train came in.
At this date I often wonder whether the stones of the Giant Ghormandel's castle
still rot upon that fateful hill; whether far beneath them lies that accursed village in
which it is dangerous to be born. I wonder, too, whether that long, lean shape in red
and yellow yet roams light-footed beneath the moon, laughing and gibbering and
piping its terrible invitation.
So far, I have had no desire to return and see for myself. The elements of dread
are stronger than curiosity despite that the passage of years has made it safe for me
to go. It was anything but safe when I was there. Then, I had needed the watchful
protection of the sad ones at a mere nine years of age.