Free Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay Page B

her lovely mouth moving but could hear no sound coming from her sweet lips. Then, all at once I felt a great agitation within my satchel and I opened it to witness both ears leap from it and once again attach themselves to each side of my head.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Oh blessed miracle, from her lips I heard a hymn to the glory of God in a voice that only an angel could possess.’
    Not accustomed to such flattery I blushed deeply and then, in an attempt to be dismissive of such a pleasing and romantic notion, replied, ‘You play with me, Reinhardt the Ratcatcher! You cannot turn a crow into a peacock. Besides, I am a peasant and my ears are well seasoned with salty words.’ In my mind I recalled the foul language my father used in the pigsty and told myself that if my ears had not then withered and dropped from my head, they would be safe with any tale told of Christian folk. ‘You must tell me everything, leaving no detail out, or I shall be most unhappy,’ I scolded, knowing that a story, like gossip, becomes a lesser tale with the juicy bits removed.
    I knew myself defeated. The ratcatcher’s way with words was well beyond my own. He was making me beg for his attentions and it was plain to me that he was now back in command. I was pleased that he no longer saw me as a challenge, although I did not suspect at the time that with his tomfoolery he was drawing me deeper and deeper into his company. Apart from the village children, it had never occurred to me that anyone would willingly seek my company for the pleasure it might bring, or that he hoped his stories would so enchant me that I would sojourn with him that night.
    We had almost reached the edge of the village when the dogs came out to bark, closely followed by the children who stood shyly, kicking at the dust as we drew closer. ‘Leave the talking to me,’ Reinhardt instructed above the barking of the dogs, at the same time removing the flute from his leather belt. Placing it to his lips he blew a note so shrill that it was barely to be heard by human ears. Then he followed it with three less sharp, but still sufficiently high notes to rise above the barking. The dogs became at once silent and collapsed to the dirt with their noses placed upon their forepaws, eyes raised dotingly to the ratcatcher. Reinhardt approached each dog and touched it lightly on the forehead and as he did so it jumped to its feet, tail wagging, eager, friendly, as harmless as a dormouse.
    The children, no longer shy, laughed and clapped at such a clever trick. ‘Follow me!’ Reinhardt called out gleefully. ‘We shall march to the pipes and enter your fine village like soldiers returning to their loved ones from a great pilgrimage!’ Placing the flute to his lips he commenced to play a merry tune and all the children fell into line behind him. They stood, their necks stiff, chins up, arms locked at the elbows. At his command, ‘March on!’, they started to march, their arms swinging straight as a walking stick, each little face as serious as a soldier’s on the king’s parade. I glanced back to see that the dogs had joined the throng and followed the children in single file, tongues lolling, tails wagging – they too were caught in the spell cast by the ratcatcher’s magic flute.
    It was just coming on dusk, the time of gloaming when the birds call out their evensong before finally nesting for the night. The peasants, returning from the surrounding fields with their scythes over stooped shoulders, trudged wearily up the hill and the shepherd boys brought in the ewes and goats for milking. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the cottages as women primed the hearth in preparation for the evening meal.
    We came to a halt in a cobbled square at the top of which grew a large oak stripped of its summer garb and almost bare of leaf. We stood beside its massive trunk and Reinhardt continued to play. Some of the marching