Creative Works   

Second Coming (Part 3)
By Carla Kozak
© 1999
writeangled(at)yahoo.com

Disclaimer: All of the characters from BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox Television and the WB television network. I am merely a BTVS enthusiast who has woven these characters into a story of my own.
Author's Note There are several versions of the legend of the Pied Piper, in folk tale, novel and play form, as well as Robert Browning's poem, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," quoted herein. There also are several theories explaining what may have happened to more than 100 of Hamelin's children, who disappeared approximately 700 years ago.

Of additional interest, perhaps: In the BtVS season 3 episode, "Helpless," Angel's gift to Buffy on her 18th birthday was an elegant edition of SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE, a classic collection of love poems written to Robert Browning by his wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Angel inscribed the book with the word "Always." Unfortunately, Buffy dropped and presumably lost it on her way home, when she was attacked by the vampire Kralik.

. . .

Part Three.
REPRISE: Vexed to Nightmare/The Time is Nearing

Angel and Cordelia hurried to Tamar’s house. Cordelia sat in the den with Aaron, who was wavering between fear, confusion and belligerence. Cordelia understood this; it was how she often dealt with scary situations.

Angel was with Naomi and Jake, whose haggard faces showed everything they were going through. “We thought we had every minute covered,” Naomi whispered. “But when I went to pick her up at the Academy she had just—disappeared.”

“What did the police say?” Angel asked.

Jake spoke as though reading a script. “They asked us about her schedules, habits, who she knew. There are some patterns for these sorts of things: abductors can be strangers, or they can be someone close to the family, a person with influence over a child, or one who has something the child is attracted to."

Angel said flatly, “Any one of those descriptions could fit me.”

“We’ve considered that,” Jake’s voice had become icy.

“Of course,” Angel said. “I don’t blame you for that…especially as I’ve been less than honest with you.”

They both looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m not a journalist,” he said. “I’m a private investigator, and I’ve been looking into this case on my own.”

“That’s very convenient,” Jake commented.

“I know, the coincidence is creepy. I feel that as well. But maybe…” Angel paused.

“Maybe what?” Naomi asked. There was ice in her voice, too.

“The other night, I promised Tamar I’d protect her. I aim to make good on my promise.”

“Protect her?” Naomi said. “How did that even come up?”

Angel thought back to the party, and the tension that had come over Tamar. “It was odd. She’d been so happy all evening, having fun. But right after the concert Tamar’s mood changed suddenly. She seemed nervous, and frightened of something…or someone. And it seemed to be related to the missing children. I wondered at the time what might have caused her behavior to change. What happened just then?”

“People started mingling, and eating again,” Naomi remembered.

“No,” Angel said. “Before that. When the concert was ending…the doorbell rang.”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “It was Karin Hanson, and Stu Speigel, from the Academy.”

“Is one of them the new teacher?” Angel asked. “Tamar said, ‘it’s the new teacher.’”

“The new teacher came with them,” Naomi said. The three of them looked at each other, and Angel felt his “spider sense” activating.

“Who is the new teacher?” he asked.

Naomi answered. “He’s been conducting the orchestra, in evening sessions—they’re scheduled to do a few holiday concerts next week. His name is Piet Brunswick.”

Suddenly, everything gelled for Angel. The stories he’d been reading, the chilly tingles down his spine. “Damn,” he said. “It’s worse than I thought. He’s losing his subtlety, too.”

“What are you talking about?” Jake asked.

Angel continued, almost as if he were talking to himself: “I’ll bet his instrument is flute? Sorry,” he apologized to Jake and Naomi. “I think I may have cracked this case, and it just got personal. Naomi, Jake, ask the police, and the school, to investigate Piet Brunswick—although I’m betting they won’t find much—including him.”

“What is this?” Jake asked again, sounding exasperated.

Angel turned to Naomi. “Come on, Naomi. I’ve been relying on your insight for a few weeks now. Don’t fail me. What’s in Brunswick?”

Naomi’s voice faltered, “What the hell are you talking about, Angel? What do you mean, what’s in…oh dear God.”

“Naomi…” Jake started to speak.

She interrupted him. “'Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, by famous Hanover City.’ It’s the Browning poem, Jake. ‘The Pied Piper.’ Angel—where is our child?”

Angel was already walking toward the door. “That’s what I’m going to find out,” he said over his shoulder.

. . .

Angel hadn’t give much thought to the Millennium doom-sayers. He’d seen too much doom in years that didn’t have the cachet of catchy numerals. But he had a bad feeling in his gut, and not “The Pied Piper,” but another poem was going through his head: “The Second Coming,” by his countryman, William Butler Yeats. “'The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere/the ceremony of innocence is drowned;’” he was quoting it softly, as he searched his notes one more time. “Blood. It always comes back to blood. 'The darkness drops again; but now I know/That twenty centuries of stony sleep/Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,’” Angel spread his note cards out, over the large map of Los Angeles that he’d opened on the table.

“'And what rough beast, its hour come round at last/Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?’ So, Piet, you’re making a second coming. And vexing me to nightmare, damn you.” Angel dropped his head into his hands. This wasn’t going to be easy. But hadn’t Naomi said worthwhile achievements rarely came with ease?

It was with anything but ease that Angel considered the so-called Piet Brunswick, for he had known him for many years, and under many names. It was never easy for Angel to look back on his demon years, and this particular chapter was one he had tried to avoid. That’s why he hadn’t picked up the clues earlier, of course. They all had been there for him. Such is cowardice, he thought, and its results. For now, along with putting someone he cared about in danger, his denial of the obvious just caused his wounds to fester, and he had a sick need to pick at the scabs.

Angel’s thoughts roiled, though he knew he needed to be clear-headed. “Please,” he prayed, “let me push them aside until I find him—and Tamar. I’ll face them then. I’ll face anything then.” He forced himself to search for places where his old acquaintance could be hiding: abandoned warehouses, condemned office buildings, and real estate white elephants were all possibilities.

And there it was: a former private boarding school, long vacant, the product of a forsaken experiment in education, on land no longer usable due to underground pollutants. Angel had to offer grudging admiration, because the place was perfect. No one had been near it years.

No one except the Ratcatcher, and his prey.

. . .

Berlin, 1895

Angelus was enjoying himself. Piet had taken a shine to Drusilla, and Spike wasn’t happy. He and Dru were meeting Piet for the first time, but Angelus had crossed paths with the slight, dark and beguiling vampire on several occasions. He’d learned a lot from Piet, who was older even than Darla, and had methods straight out of the Dark Ages. The mercurial Piet was also a storyteller, actor and musician, and all of his talents had caught Drusilla’s fancy. His current passion was narrative poetry, which he brought to life with apparent ease:

“And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away.
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbors lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterranean prison,
Into which they were trepann’d
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.”

Piet finished the poem, to Dru’s applause and Spike’s scowl. “Eerie, what Robert Browning put into that ending, isn’t it?” Piet appealed to Angelus. “I swear, he must have overheard me telling my story sometime in Italy, and had an inkling into my, shall we say, darker nature…along with somehow figuring out that my sire was Transylvanian.”

“Oh, right, man—your story!” Spike spat out. “What should we call you, ‘Pieter Piper’? Are you saying you’re the pied one himself? Next you’ll be telling tales of the Crucifixion.”

“No, I’m not that old,” Piet laughed. “And convenient name not withstanding, I wasn’t the Pied Piper.”

His face darkened, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“I was one of the children.”

Cold winter nights in Berlin provided the perfect atmosphere for storytelling. Angelus settled back comfortably into a deep, soft chair, and pulled Drusilla onto his lap. Might as well pour salt on Spike’s wounded ego, he thought. Drusilla adored Spike almost as much as he loved her, but the boy was still in the possessive stage. It seemed like he was going to be in that stage for a long while. “My Angel,” Drusilla breathed, running her fingers through his long hair. Spike gritted his teeth, then straddled a wooden chair, facing them.

“Let’s hear it, then, Ratcatcher,” he said to Piet, sounding bored. “I know you won’t be happy till you’ve shared your story with us, as well.”

“Rats were the problem,” Piet said. “No one knew it at the time, of course. Life wasn’t easy, but people in Hamelin got by. We heard rumors of the horrible plague, how ships would drift into a harbor without a living crewman aboard, and then the townspeople would take sick and die, the bodies piling up because any left alive to bury them were far too frightened to do so. But while the Black Death hadn’t reached us yet, some of its side effects had.

“Landowner’s fields were lying fallow; mills were still: the very fabric of life was unraveling, because there weren’t enough bodies to do the work. There was no Pied Piper. But there were kidnappers, paid by these landowners, to steal healthy children from remote towns, and bring them back to work as slaves. The religious zealots were having a heyday, too, gathering young marchers for the Children’s Crusades, which they said would be a route to eternal salvation. All too often, the parents were willing participants. If they were poor, with too many mouths to feed—well, why not send a child to earn his own bread and board, or to open a door to heaven? Especially if there was a shiny coin tossed into the bargain.”

“Your parents sold you into slavery?” Drusilla asked, wide-eyed.

“Into slavery, and abuse, and every terror a child could experience,” Piet answered, his voice bare of emotion. “To their credit, they didn’t know that would be my lot. But they didn’t know otherwise, either. And I’m sure they spent their coins wisely.”

“Most of us are changed against our will, or at least in ignorance. But not I,” he continued. “Crossing over was my salvation. It turned the tables for me. Before, I was everyone’s pawn. But since that day, I have wielded power. Oh, it was pure pleasure to visit my tormentors, and make them squirm, and hear their screams. And also to do unto others, what had once been done to me.”

Piet’s face had not changed to its demon form, but his eyes gleamed even so.

He smiled then, at his company. “Well, enough of my sordid little tale. I suggest we go out on the town; I have tickets for a concert. There’s a lovely young violinist here from the East, and the word is that she’s a sensation. If one is in Berlin, one ought to take advantage of its culture, don’t you think?”

“We came here to take as much advantage of it as we could,” Angelus laughed. “You’re the perfect host, as always, Piet. I don’t wonder that you have been muse to the poets.”

Piet took his hosting duties seriously indeed. He always showed his guests a bloody good time.

. . .

Angel had entered the abandoned building through the broken panel of an almost hidden window. The memories he’d allowed himself as he found his way to the place were not the worst ones he could have dredged up. He was unwilling, still, to visit those.

The place was mildewed, vermin-ridden, and crumbling from neglect and the after-effects of several small earthquakes. But it was huge, and its halls wound about like a maze. Angel wondered how it had ever functioned when it was new and occupied, and he wondered how he would find Tamar with any expediency.

Then he heard the music of a violin, from somewhere in the bowels of the decaying edifice. He would have known who the musician was even if he hadn’t recognized the tune. Tamar was playing “Rock of Ages”, and like the Pied Piper, she was leading Angel to her subterranean prison.

It was one of several dank, cell-like rooms. Whatever could their purpose have been, years ago? Had this been a school for problem children, and were they locked away if they misbehaved? Small wonder then that Piet had found it; he could sniff out pain and terror years after they had occurred, and he was drawn to such smells. Angel ached for Tamar, locked in that chamber of horrors, and playing so bravely. He leaned into the door, breaking it with one blow.

The only light was from a moonbeam that had found the one barred and filthy window near the low ceiling of the cellar room. Tamar stood half in shadow, holding her violin. She’d stopped mid-note when Angel had smashed the door, her bow posed above the strings. Her eyes went huge with relief when she saw him.

“Tamar, sweetheart,” he spoke softly, reaching out to her. “It’s all right now, I’m here….”

But she was focused beyond him then, and terror again filled her dark eyes.

“I thought that was you, the other night, Angelus,” Piet Brunswick, of Hamelin Town, spoke from behind Angel, in a voice that had not changed over the century. “What a coincidence that we should meet again, so far from our homelands, and after so many years.”

“The beard threw me off, Piet,” Angel said, turning toward his former companion, trying subtly to keep himself between the vampire and Tamar. “You didn’t have it when I last saw you.”

“It adds dignity, don’t you think?” Piet was relaxed, unhurried. “You’ve changed too, since that time. Or so I’ve heard.”

“I did,” Angel said. “And back again.”

“Rumors abound—I’d heard that, too. You keep our people in constant confusion. I’m inclined to believe you, Angelus. If you had a soul, it would have collapsed upon itself by now, under the weight of all your sins.”

“Not an easy way to live,” Angel agreed.

“I wouldn’t know,” Piet said. “I’ve never had that problem. You’ve kept apart from us, though. Even more than usual.”

“I hunt in my own way, as always,” Angel said. “It’s the lone wolf in me. I don’t like others crossing my paths.”

Piet laughed. “I’m so sorry. Have I encroached on your property? I didn’t realize this calf carried your brand.”

“Oh, I’d say I’ve made an impression on her.” Angel hated to think of Tamar listening to their conversation. “I have a yen for this girl. It’s a personal thing.”

Piet moved nearer to Angel and Tamar. “I’d forgotten your penchant for violinists,” he said. “That beautiful young woman from Vilnius—the one who got away, wasn’t she?”

“Was she?” Angel asked. “Or did I just have to bide my time for a few generations?”

“You’re kidding me—no, you’re not.” Piet moved between them then, and lifted Tamar’s chin with one finger. “There is much similarity of feature, and in the names, too. This one is the other’s descendent?”

“Direct line,” Angel said. His jaw clenched; he hated seeing Piet touch Tamar. She had not moved, nor uttered a sound.

Piet stroked her hair, as though he were petting a kitten. “What a wonderful coincidence! And what a determined hunter you are. It seems as if I should be generous, under those circumstances,” he mused. “I know you prefer to work alone, but come, Angelus. Let’s play together, for old time’s sake. I’ll follow your lead.”

“You’re not the playmate I had in mind, Piet. And I’d planned to take my time. I’ve waited over 100 years, but the girl’s a bit young for me. I’m envisioning keeping her for just a little while longer, as I never quite developed your taste for veal.”

“As I recall, you ate your share, and seemingly with enjoyment.”

“Of course,” Angel said. “Why say no to a free meal? And it’s always interesting to be under the tutelage of an expert. But I figure I’ve paid for this one.”

“Surely I deserve at least a tip, for delivery?” Piet grinned.

Angel did not return the smile. “I never asked you to deliver, Piet. As I see it, you usurped my order. Now I’m asking you politely to hand it back.”

“Oh, you’re good, Angelus. As you always were.” The grin turned evil, and fanged, as Piet’s face took on its vampiric form. “Do you think I can’t smell your putrid soul? You think you have changed from Angelus to some avenging angel because of it? You are no better than you ever were. It’s been fun, old friend, but the game is over.”

Angel felt his face change, too. “And the fight’s begun.”

“It’s true then,” Piet said. “You do kill your own. It will be my pleasure to end your self-righteous crusade. We’ll be well rid of you, Angelus, killer of kin.”

“You think I’d give you that satisfaction? Guess again. And I’m not part of your family anymore. I don’t know why it’s so hard for some of you to accept that.” Angel felt for the stake in his pocket, moving in to attack even as Piet, likewise armed, lunged toward him.

And then he was looking at Tamar through a cloud of dust.

She stared at Angel in shock, still holding her violin in one hand, and its broken bow in the other. Then she threw herself into his arms.

Angel held her close, whispering as his face relaxed into human form again, “My brave girl. It’s all right now, we’re safe.”

End Reprise

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