A few days passed at a leisurely pace.
Every day at dawn, Gwof and the others would head to the river with their fishing rods. The dew dampened their trouser legs, a cool and refreshing moisture that was quite pleasant.
The river water was still clear, and the fish were more active than in previous days, with silvery-gray shadows darting beneath the surface from time to time, like a handful of moving crushed silver coins.
Ben's fishing skills were as good as ever; he could catch three or four plump fish in no time, and the fish bucket quickly became heavy.
Gwof, as usual, was unhurried. He occasionally pulled up his rod, catching fish that were neither too big nor too small, just enough to add a side dish.
Liya and Little Bottle had completely given up on the fishing rods. One squatted by the river grooming Ugly Duckling, and the other gathered a pile of dry firewood and quickly built a stone stove on the bank.
By noon, the smell of cooking smoke drifted along the riverside.
Little Bottle skewered the fish on sharpened branches and placed them over the fire. The flames "crackled" as they licked the fish, and fat dripped into the fire, sending up a plume of smoky aroma.
He frantically tried to flip them, resulting in fish that were either charred black on one side and still pink with raw meat on the other, or he forgot to sprinkle salt, making them bland and tasteless.
Liya imitated Ben, trying to boil fish in a clay pot, tossing in a handful of wild scallions and a few wild berries. However, the fire was too strong, cracking the bottom of the pot. The fish soup leaked everywhere, leaving only half a mushy fish mixed with the earthy smell of dirt.
"Why don't I take over?"
Ben watched their frantic efforts, shaking his head with amusement as he took the skewers. He rubbed some salt and wild honey onto the fish with his fingertips and rotated them over the fire. Soon, they were roasted golden and shiny, the smoky aroma mixed with sweetness drifting far away.
Strangely, even though Little Bottle's charred fish had a burnt smell and Liya's leaked fish soup was mixed with grass clippings, everyone ate with exceptional gusto.
Little Bottle gnawed on his half-burnt fish, his mouth slick with oil, and mumbled, "It tastes better than the restaurant's!"
Liya scooped up the remaining bits of fish from the bottom of the pot, drinking the soup and sediment, her lips stained purple-red with berry juice, her eyes curved into crescent moons as she smiled.
Gwof took a bite of the small fish he had caught. The meat was slightly tough and had a faint earthy smell.
Suddenly, he didn't feel the taste was so bad after all.
Perhaps because they had roasted and cooked it themselves—even if it was burnt or spilled—what they were enjoying wasn't the flavor, but the messy, vibrant energy of the moment.
When they packed up in the evening, there weren't many fish left in the basket, but the stones next to the campfire were stained with many charred marks, Liya's skirt hem was smudged with ash, and Little Bottle's face was smoked black like a kitten.
Ben walked ahead carrying the empty bucket, and Gwof followed behind, watching the sunset stretch their shadows long.
Just as they reached the entrance of the town, they heard a sudden clamor, like boiling water churning in a pot.
The Woman who was embroidering clothes by the street, the peddler carrying a pole, and even the old man mending shoes had all dropped their tasks and rushed toward the town Square, shouting, "He's here! He's here!"
Gwof's gaze suddenly sharpened—this commotion almost certainly meant the Piper had arrived.
He exchanged a look with Ben, pushed through the crowd, and squeezed inward.
Liya followed closely, holding Ugly Duckling. Little Bottle, relying on his agility, darted ahead like a loach, not forgetting to shout, "Excuse me, excuse me, coming through."
When they reached the front of the crowd, everyone fell silent, leaving only the "whoosh" of the wind sweeping across the Square.
In the open space in the center of the small town, a man was standing there, having arrived unnoticed.
His colorful clothes looked like they were pieced together from all the scraps in a dye house—bright red sleeves paired with a brilliant yellow lapel, indigo trouser legs stitched with emerald green patches. The fabric was also sporadically adorned with sequins, which flashed blindingly when the sunlight hit them.
He was of average height, neither tall nor thin, standing there like a colorful Scarecrow stuck in the ground. Moreover, his face was dusted with white powder like flour, and coupled with his slightly crooked pointed hat, he looked not mysterious, but rather comical.
He looked a bit like a modern-day clown.
At this moment, he was tilting his head and playing a flute. The tune was not the soul-capturing melody one might expect, but rather like a nursery rhyme sung by a Child, so cheerful it made people want to tap their toes.
As he got into the swing of playing, he suddenly pulled a cloth bag from behind his back, gave a flick of his hand, and a dozen bright red apples tumbled out, "rolling" onto the ground. Some landed in a Child's arms, others bounced off an adult's shoulder, drawing a burst of laughter from the crowd.
A little girl with braids failed to catch her apple, and it rolled to her feet. He scurried over, bent down to pick it up, wiped it with his sleeve, and handed it back. The bell on his hat brim jingled softly.
"Alright, alright!"
He suddenly stopped playing the flute, tucked it into his waist, and clapped his hands. The smile on his face was so exaggerated it looked painted on.
"Now that you've all enjoyed the show, it's time to hear what I have to say!"
The crowd gradually quieted down, all watching him with keen interest.
He cleared his throat, then suddenly spread both hands wide, the sleeves of his colorful clothes stretching out like wings. He took an exaggerated half-step backward, as if standing before a room full of nobles.
"Gentlemen! Ladies!"
His voice was as booming as a gong, and he deliberately raised the pitch of his final syllables.
"I am Jack the Pied Piper,"
He moved the flute away from his lips and tapped the body of the instrument with his knuckles, producing a crisp "tap-tap" sound.
"I wouldn't call myself homeless; I just follow the wind. When the wind blows south, I go to the seaside to collect shells; when the wind blows north, I go into the mountains to pick wild fruits."
He suddenly spun around, the skirt of his colorful clothes kicking up a swirl of dust and grass clippings that settled on the tips of his shoes.
"As for my livelihood,"
He bent down, picked up the apple that had rolled to his feet earlier, tossed it up, and caught it again.
"Besides playing the flute to amuse the Children, I occasionally run errands for people. For example, I helped the blacksmith find his lost donkey; I spent half a day acting as a runner for the doctor—of course,"
He suddenly leaned close to a Woman in the front row who was holding a Child, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
"I mainly rely on this to eat."
Saying this, he held the flute horizontally to his lips but didn't blow, instead just rubbing the finger holes with his thumb pad.
"I hear things haven't been peaceful in your town lately? You constantly hear 'squeaking' at night, the sacks in the granary are being gnawed through, and even the shoes of the mayor's daughter have been carried off?"
A chorus of agreement immediately rose from the crowd, and someone shouted while holding up a pair of torn trouser legs:
"Exactly! Half of my bread was gnawed away!"
"My cat chased a mouse, only to be led to the edge of the well and almost fall in!"
Jack suddenly straightened up, pointing the flute "whoosh" toward the clock tower in the center of the town.
"That thing fears my flute, just like a Sparrow fears an eagle."
He suddenly grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes bunching up.
"Of course, I don't help for free. I heard someone say just now that you all gathered a chest of gold as payment?"
He deliberately drew out his words, his eyes scanning the crowd as if counting who was clutching a money bag.
"Not too much, not too little,"
He held up three fingers.
"Three chests—oh no,"
He retracted one finger.
"Two chests will suffice. One chest is for me to play the flute, guaranteeing those little things follow the music; and the other chest,"
He suddenly jumped onto a nearby stone block, spreading his arms wide from his elevated position.
"Is for me to perform a 'Rat-Dispelling Dance' for you all, guaranteed that within three years, rats will take a detour the moment they see your town's sign!"
Gwof looked at Jack's gaudy, colorful clothes and suddenly felt that this Pied Piper was quite different from the one written about in stories.
He lacked an ominous aura and eerie flute music; instead, he resembled a circus clown performing tricks.
Hmm... right.
In the story of the Pied Piper in Colorful Clothes, it was the mayor who broke his promise first.