Piebald

When he was young, his mother would take strips of cloth stained a motley of clashing colors and wrap them up his arms. She dressed him like a court jester. 

“I want you to feel,” she said once, “how it is to be stared at.” 

His mother, of course, was not very kind. She called him Rat, Rat the Piebald Prince. His step-sister gave him a whittled flute and christened him Piper for his incessant performances. He had no skill; he was rather trying to replicate the sort of music he heard in his own head, constantly, even when he fell asleep. 

There was no music when his mother danced herself to death. She’d strapped on the scalding iron shoes under duress, her wincing, wailing performance accompanied only by the undercurrent of story that swirled around the assembled wedding guests: her crime, her envy. His sister herself watched the deed, behind the arm of the prince who’d found her coffin in the wood and thought to take it home. 

There was no music — save for that roaring in the head of little Prince Piper. When he began to scream, Snow motioned for him to be taken away. Locked in a tower, he bruised himself barrelling towards the door, until, exhausted, his fingers found the flute. Only hours later, when the melody stilled momentarily, did he know that his mother had died. 

Twice more, he saw someone dance to the inaudible music. The first time, a whole village was swept up, caught in the frenzy of a tune only he could hear. It tugged them, impulsive. Whenever the tempo picked up again after a lull, many — at times a whole street of people — did not rise with it. They were contorted, grown stiff. Among these was his little son. 

The second time, the music came from far away, and at last, he discovered a town readying itself for plague. Only one person had died, but many knew what would come. They knew, and they feared, and they cursed the rats that raced without and within the walls, in their grain, in their wells, in their children’s dreams. 

It was their music that he was called to. The clatter of the rodents’ nails, their toothy chirping in the night, their thriving, hungry, joyous noise. Piebald Prince Rat heard their song. 

He lifted his flute to his lips and began to play along. 

About the Author

Julianna Reidell is a sophomore English and French major at Arcadia University. Her work won Gold and Silver medals in the national Scholastic Art and Writing Awards competition during high school; her humor piece “Love with Romeo and Juliet: A Parody” was featured in the Scholastic publication Best Teen Writing of 2019. Her work can be found on the teen humor website The Milking Cat, as well as in Kindergarten Mag and in former issues of Quiddity.