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Pennywhistle

You always have to keep your eye on single men who hang around playgrounds. I spotted him sitting by himself at a picnic table by the water fountain, and I watched him while Nathan played with his cars in the sandbox. The guy actually seemed okay -- fresh-faced, a little older than college-aged, dressed in khakis and a nice tweed sports coat. He was probably only trying to enjoy a sunny day in the park, just like us moms and our kids. But then I saw him reach into his blazer. I saw the glint of metal.

"Piper," I screamed, fumbling in my purse. Too late. He brought his pipe to his lips and blew a note that almost made my eyeglasses shatter. Over at the sandbox, Nathan rose to his feet. He started moving towards the man. All the children did.

The piper's notes bounced off the tree boughs, and I saw Nathan break into a trot. He was thoroughly hooked.

Some of the moms panicked and forgot their training. It's easy to do. They rushed for their kids, grabbing at little hands and arms, trying to put their bodies between their kids and the piper. You can't blame them. That's just instinct.

I averted my eyes. I don't like to see blood under the best of circumstances.

My hands found the pennywhistle in my purse. It was just a cheapie I got for free at Nathan's school. A police officer had given us a big scare talk and then handed us pennywhistles and spent a few minutes showing us how to play them.

I covered the six holes with my fingers. You had to make sure to fully cover the holes. I tried blowing, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I licked my lips. I tried again.

My tone sounded airy and weak.

The piper played with one hand, the other grasping for the kids who had almost reached him. Nathan was near the front of the group. I wanted to throw the pennywhistle down, to run to Nathan, gather him in my arms. It's just instinct. But that would have doomed my son.

I played, joining my notes with those of the few other moms who'd kept their heads.

When a piper strikes, hooking a child, there's only one way to stop him. You can't take your child back by force. The piper's music hooks too deeply. Nathan had to go to the piper, and I couldn't unhook him. I could only change his intent.

I played the whistle, just as the cop had taught me. A few more moms remembered their training and joined in.

When Nathan and the other kids reached the piper, I forced myself to watch until the sound of his pipe was replaced by the sound of his screams.

When it was over, Nathan was soaked in blood. All over his clothes. In his hair. Under his nails. He smiled at me. His teeth were smeared in blood.

"Pretty music," he said.

[Hear the podcast of this story at Escape Pod.]