Fanfic -- The Ratcatcher's Song
Short Phantom story, no pairing. Has anyone ever written a Ratcatcher fic before? Also available at ff.net
The Ratcatcher's Song
There are more glamorous jobs at the opera house. I know that, sure, but it don’t follow I’d want to have one of them. The way I see it, those ballet types are nothing but trouble. Why, there was one the other day, creeping through the third cellar no doubt doing something she ain’t supposed to, and when she saw me she just screamed her fool head off. “The ghost!” she screamed, and ran off the other way. I didn’t stop her.
I’ve heard of this Ghost fella. Seems to get a lot of attention round here; I hear things, you know, on my rounds, even when folks don’t see me. He gets paid quite a lot more than I do; but then, I ain’t a ghost and I reckon they’re pretty rare. See, I’m just the ratcatcher. I don’t know nothin’ about ghosts. But I seen some strange goings on down here in these cellars.
The rats, for one, are pretty interesting. They’re not as dumb as folks like to make out; they know their business, which is why there’s so damn many of ‘em. Which is why they have to hire someone like me to keep them under control. Over the years I come to respect the rats some. They keep me on my toes, they do; never know what they’ll figure out next. But before you get all teary eyed over ‘em, it don’t mean they ought to get in the way of us as built the place; it’s me against them, I guess, no matter how smart I think they are. And if it weren’t for me, you folks up top would have to deal with ‘em, and I’m guessing you wouldn’t be quite so respectful if the ugly little critters was scurrying under your petticoats.
Then there’s the people that come down here. There’s folks supposed to be here, like me, like the guys who run the furnace. But then there’s things I reckon they don’t think I see. One time I saw that new manger down here with some fat opera singer; least I think that’s what she was, the way she was carryin’ on. Can’t say as I share his taste, but we’ve all got a right to take our pleasure. That, I understand.
There’s stuff happens I can’t rightly explain, though. Sometimes I feel like there’s someone nearby, and it ain’t the rats. Like I said, I don’t know about ghosts, but there is someone down here. And I have proof. It started one night as I was taking my dinner. I sat down next to some fake farmhouse in the third cellar and ate my sandwich and I must have drifted off some because next thing I knew I woke up to this voice. It was singing somethin’ sounded like German, though of course I got nothin’ to do with them. It said:
Ich bin der wohlbekannte Sänger,
Der vielgereiste Rattenfänger
I sat up quick and looked around. I shone my lamp around too, but there wasn’t nobody there. “Who’s that?” I said. Wasn’t very manly of me, but my voice felt like to give way.
The voice laughed a little. “I suppose you don’t speak German. Very well; here’s something from English; my own translation.
He advanced to the council-table:
And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
It, or I guess it was a he, it sounded like it, laughed again, and I felt the hair on my arms stand on end. It wasn’t a nice laugh, I’ll say that much. I still didn’t know where it was coming from.
“Don’t worry, friend,” he said, sort of over-hearty like, “I shan’t trouble you in your work. We’re in something of the same profession, you and I; though I’d prefer to leave the rats as they are.”
I found my voice again, as I usually did when hearing my work disparaged. “Well I don’t mind them much, but folks up there don’t like the looks of ‘em.”
The voice giggled. “Isn’t that always the way? But a few like them. Yes, I believe there are some who can bring themselves to pity the rats and spiders and frogs of this world. Don’t you?”
“I reckon so,” I said, just to get away. But then I remembered something about frogs. “I heard a story once, about a princess and a frog, I think.”
“Just so,” he said solemnly. “And yet you’ve never heard of the Pied Piper?” The voice started to move away, it seemed to me. “What is education coming to?”
I had a sense I was being made fun of, but I didn’t want to stay and find out. I picked up my lantern and got myself out of there. It wasn’t over though.
A few hours later, as I was finishing up my rounds, I came to the little trickle of water in a passage I figured no one used; it was convenient for drinking water. There was someone there already, though, and I ducked back into the passage when I saw them. A man in black bent over a girl; I thought she looked familiar, probably a ballet girl or singer or something. There was a horse there, too, which I thought was odd. The man was pouring water on the girl’s face, like she’d fainted or something, and I couldn’t figure what they were all doing there. They wouldn’t need a horse for what folks usually got up to, and it was a dark and unused corner of the cellars.
As I watched, there came another man, a man I’ve only ever heard called “the Persian” though I reckon he has a name like the rest of us. He walked toward the couple, but before I could blink the man in black rose up and knocked the other man on the head so that he fell down right there on the floor. “Oh, daroga,” the man sighed, and just as I realized I’d heard that same voice just hours earlier, he turned back to the girl and I saw his face was covered with a mask as black as his clothes. I thought it best to stay quiet and out of sight until they were gone. These opera folks is obviously unbalanced, and it’s best to let them go about their business and not try to interfere.
So these are the things I can’t explain; I think it might be healthiest for me if I don’t try to. But this opera does crazy things to folks, and I can’t help but be grateful I wasn’t raised to it. Seems not one of ‘em can go about their life quiet-like, without any fuss, like I do. They can have it, I say. Least I’ve got my rats.
Notes:
German poem from “Der Rattenfänger” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
English poem from “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” by Robert Browning
The Ratcatcher's Song
There are more glamorous jobs at the opera house. I know that, sure, but it don’t follow I’d want to have one of them. The way I see it, those ballet types are nothing but trouble. Why, there was one the other day, creeping through the third cellar no doubt doing something she ain’t supposed to, and when she saw me she just screamed her fool head off. “The ghost!” she screamed, and ran off the other way. I didn’t stop her.
I’ve heard of this Ghost fella. Seems to get a lot of attention round here; I hear things, you know, on my rounds, even when folks don’t see me. He gets paid quite a lot more than I do; but then, I ain’t a ghost and I reckon they’re pretty rare. See, I’m just the ratcatcher. I don’t know nothin’ about ghosts. But I seen some strange goings on down here in these cellars.
The rats, for one, are pretty interesting. They’re not as dumb as folks like to make out; they know their business, which is why there’s so damn many of ‘em. Which is why they have to hire someone like me to keep them under control. Over the years I come to respect the rats some. They keep me on my toes, they do; never know what they’ll figure out next. But before you get all teary eyed over ‘em, it don’t mean they ought to get in the way of us as built the place; it’s me against them, I guess, no matter how smart I think they are. And if it weren’t for me, you folks up top would have to deal with ‘em, and I’m guessing you wouldn’t be quite so respectful if the ugly little critters was scurrying under your petticoats.
Then there’s the people that come down here. There’s folks supposed to be here, like me, like the guys who run the furnace. But then there’s things I reckon they don’t think I see. One time I saw that new manger down here with some fat opera singer; least I think that’s what she was, the way she was carryin’ on. Can’t say as I share his taste, but we’ve all got a right to take our pleasure. That, I understand.
There’s stuff happens I can’t rightly explain, though. Sometimes I feel like there’s someone nearby, and it ain’t the rats. Like I said, I don’t know about ghosts, but there is someone down here. And I have proof. It started one night as I was taking my dinner. I sat down next to some fake farmhouse in the third cellar and ate my sandwich and I must have drifted off some because next thing I knew I woke up to this voice. It was singing somethin’ sounded like German, though of course I got nothin’ to do with them. It said:
Ich bin der wohlbekannte Sänger,
Der vielgereiste Rattenfänger
I sat up quick and looked around. I shone my lamp around too, but there wasn’t nobody there. “Who’s that?” I said. Wasn’t very manly of me, but my voice felt like to give way.
The voice laughed a little. “I suppose you don’t speak German. Very well; here’s something from English; my own translation.
He advanced to the council-table:
And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
It, or I guess it was a he, it sounded like it, laughed again, and I felt the hair on my arms stand on end. It wasn’t a nice laugh, I’ll say that much. I still didn’t know where it was coming from.
“Don’t worry, friend,” he said, sort of over-hearty like, “I shan’t trouble you in your work. We’re in something of the same profession, you and I; though I’d prefer to leave the rats as they are.”
I found my voice again, as I usually did when hearing my work disparaged. “Well I don’t mind them much, but folks up there don’t like the looks of ‘em.”
The voice giggled. “Isn’t that always the way? But a few like them. Yes, I believe there are some who can bring themselves to pity the rats and spiders and frogs of this world. Don’t you?”
“I reckon so,” I said, just to get away. But then I remembered something about frogs. “I heard a story once, about a princess and a frog, I think.”
“Just so,” he said solemnly. “And yet you’ve never heard of the Pied Piper?” The voice started to move away, it seemed to me. “What is education coming to?”
I had a sense I was being made fun of, but I didn’t want to stay and find out. I picked up my lantern and got myself out of there. It wasn’t over though.
A few hours later, as I was finishing up my rounds, I came to the little trickle of water in a passage I figured no one used; it was convenient for drinking water. There was someone there already, though, and I ducked back into the passage when I saw them. A man in black bent over a girl; I thought she looked familiar, probably a ballet girl or singer or something. There was a horse there, too, which I thought was odd. The man was pouring water on the girl’s face, like she’d fainted or something, and I couldn’t figure what they were all doing there. They wouldn’t need a horse for what folks usually got up to, and it was a dark and unused corner of the cellars.
As I watched, there came another man, a man I’ve only ever heard called “the Persian” though I reckon he has a name like the rest of us. He walked toward the couple, but before I could blink the man in black rose up and knocked the other man on the head so that he fell down right there on the floor. “Oh, daroga,” the man sighed, and just as I realized I’d heard that same voice just hours earlier, he turned back to the girl and I saw his face was covered with a mask as black as his clothes. I thought it best to stay quiet and out of sight until they were gone. These opera folks is obviously unbalanced, and it’s best to let them go about their business and not try to interfere.
So these are the things I can’t explain; I think it might be healthiest for me if I don’t try to. But this opera does crazy things to folks, and I can’t help but be grateful I wasn’t raised to it. Seems not one of ‘em can go about their life quiet-like, without any fuss, like I do. They can have it, I say. Least I’ve got my rats.
Notes:
German poem from “Der Rattenfänger” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
English poem from “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” by Robert Browning