The forest muffled the sounds
within and beyond
it as if the trees
themselves swallowed noise—all
but the tune of the unseen piper.
He followed the sound of the keening pipe.
The boy ran faster,
fast enough that it felt like he flew,
anxious to get to the world the song spoke of.
Its unfamiliar melody,
absurdly cheerful,
jarred him from the carnage.
It filtered through the pores of his skin
and infused him with the strength and warmth
he needed to run through the icy clutches of winter.
He even began to catch glimpses
of the piper through the trees.
Though he scampered and danced
as he played his pipe,
he appeared sometimes before,
sometimes behind,
and sometimes beside the boy.
He wore a black hooded cloak
that hid his face.
Beneath it his clothes were pied,
a patchwork of vibrant color
impossible to miss
whenever the wind whipped back the cloak.
His pipe and fingers were white,
of bone.
And just like the boy,
he left no footprints in the snow.