Most of us are likely familiar with the 1842 narrative poem, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” by Robert Browning. I cannot recall when I first encountered it, but suspect it was sometime in elementary school.
At once both charming and chilling, it tells of a lower Saxony German town, Hamelin, with an infestation of rats over 700 years ago. Such a nuisance have the rats become (they are everywhere and into everything), the villagers threaten the mayor his position if he doesn’t do something about it.
With luck (or maybe something else?), a strange man appears. Unlike any other in town. Tall, thin, and colorfully attired like a court jester, he introduces himself as the Pied Piper, and promises to rid the town of its rats — for a fee. He has gotten rid of pests before.
The mayor readily agrees to his fee (1000 guilders) and the Pied Piper works his magic.
He plays his pipe, and rats — by the dozens, by the hundreds, maybe the thousands — follow. He leads them out of town into the river Weser — where all but one drown.
Mission accomplished, the Piper then returns to town to collect his fee.
Up to this point, all has been well.
But it seems that, in every Eden, there lurks a serpent. It may be invisible, but it is there, nonetheless. Sometimes it may lie…
