Peter & Max

by Bill Willingham

  So Max walked in the rear, making his plans and biding his time, his resentment growing toward every one of those in front of him, who could have warned him about this root or that whipping branch, or any other of an endless number of invisible obstacles in his path. But they didn’t and so he entered every further misdeed into his mind’s ledger, against that time when all accounts would be balanced.

  They’d walked throughout the night, and then, after too short a rest, throughout the day that followed. Day was almost as dark as night under the wood’s canopy. It was ever and always a shadowed, haunted place. Max had heard every manner of hoot and caw and grunt of beasts, and once even a growl of something not too distant, which had so frightened him that he froze in place for so long that he nearly lost the rest of the group ahead of him. He only found himself able to move again when he heard the thing pad off, away from him, grunting quietly with every heavy step.

  AND NOW, AT THE COMMENCEMENT of the second evening, they stopped to make a real camp, to sleep for the entire night, before setting off again with the new day. They lit a fire and built it up into a big one, to keep them warm and the beasts away, unconcerned that there’d be soldiers to spot it — not this far into the woods. “I think we’re distant enough to be safe from pursuit,” Mr. Peep said. “No army is likely to enter the terrifying untouched parts of the Black Forest, simply to chase a few scattered runaways. We didn’t harm any of their men before we fled, and as far as they know, we didn’t make off with any great treasure. I think they’ll be content to let the forest have us.”

  Mr. Peep had also said some confusing arcane things about finding their way by examining which side of the trees had moss growing on them. This made no sense to Max but seemed to please the others that Peep knew his business. “And I can only do that by daylight,” Mr. Peep said, “so we’ll have to stop at night from now on. Otherwise we’d have no way of reconfirming which way is west and might become forever lost in these great woods. Remember, west to the river and then upstream to Hamelin Town. That’s our plan.”

  While Mother and Mrs. Peep worked to fashion their dinner out of the supplies they carried, and the daughters chattered and complained and pulled off their boots to examine their poor feet, Max sat apart on a moss-crowned rock and thought his thoughts, which alternated between despair and wary satisfaction. At that moment he went over in his mind every frightening tale he’d ever heard of what lurked in the depths of the Black Forest. There were ghosts out here, spirits of the dishonored dead, doomed to spend eternity in this evil place, feasting on the souls of those who wander into it. And there were witches, who conjured evil spells and ate children as their only diet. And there were giants and ogres and every other sort of monster. What was that thing that had come so close to me in the night? Max asked himself. He could still hear every note of its rumbling growl, a noise that could only be made by something big and deadly. It was a foolhardy decision to enter this place, and his father should never have allowed it. Then again, Father’s judgment had also been demonstrably faulty in other ways of late. How could he give Frost to Peter and not to him?

  And then Max considered the other hand. I was reborn here in these woods, which couldn’t have happened elsewhere. Before, I was only Max Piper, a simple flute player in a family of vagabond minstrels. Now I’m Max the Swordsman, who saved Arianne and Brigitte and young Elfride, with her pretty blue eyes, from any number of dangers so far, simply by guarding the rear of our line against them. I stood alone and faced down the growling thing, until the others could get away, which is how he resolved to remember the fearful incident from now on.

  So he looked at the bright side, even as he looked at the bright blade of the sword lying across his lap, now that he was finally able to study it. It was thin and sharp and just the right size, almost as if it had been made for him personally. Max had never held a real sword before, but like any child of the age, he’d practiced often with sticks. He knew that one chopped with its edge and thrust with its tip. That was enough for the basics, and everything else was just a matter of practice and refinement. He would practice and grow ever more sure and deft with his blade, until every villain feared Max the Swordsman and every good man respected him. A sword this grand needs a name, Max thought, and it was then that he looked up across the fire and knew what his blade must be called.

  On the other side of Max, by the light of the crackling fire, Father was showing Peter some of the intricacies of his new flute. Frost was the only item not directly essential to survival that Father or Mr. Peep would allow anyone to take with them, and then only because Father had whispered a few family secrets into Mr. Peep’s ear, no doubt telling him that Peter could use the flute to make danger pass them by. Yes, Max knew that story, because many times in the past, when he was supposed to have been long asleep, Max had lain awake to hear Father and Mother murmur to each other in the night.

  “In most ways, Frost is no different from any other flute,” Father said. “But look here at its mouthpiece.”

  “It’s so sharp,” Peter said. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps it needed to be carved just so in order to achieve the sweet and perfect notes that only Frost is capable of playing. Or perhaps ancient Jorg, being as great a warrior as he was a musician, thought that one should pay a price for the opportunity to play so wondrous an instrument. But whatever the reason, you have to be ever careful as you play, or Frost will cut you. See these tiny scars on the corners of my mouth?” Max had seen them many times before, just as Peter had. They were nearly invisible at all times and would be extra hard to see by flickering firelight. Nevertheless Peter leaned forward to intently study them, just as though he’d never noticed them before. Good little Peter, always quick to do anything Father asks.

  “Yes,” Peter said.

  “Frost usually got me when I became too caught up in the music I was making to worry about my safety. Sometimes there’s just no way to prevent it. You’ll pay in blood for those magical moments when you’re reaching for true greatness in your music, just as I have.”

  “Was it worth it, Father?”

  “Every time.”

  Father continued, giving Peter his lesson, and good little Peter gave him rapt attention, as he always did. Max smiled to see Peter’s bruised face, with one eye so wonderfully blackened that it had nearly swollen shut. I did that to you, Peter, Max thought, and that’s just the start. And neither Father nor Peter took any notice of Max, or had the faintest clue that, just a few feet away from them, across the revealing flame, Max had just named his sword Frost Taker.

  THE FIRE HAD BURNED LOW and all were asleep, except Max, who’d been woken an hour ago to replace Squire Peep as their guard. Max the Swordsman, brave wielder of fabled Frost Taker, was on duty. That’s who he was now, but he’d also become something else — something stronger and more frightening than just another hero of legend.

  He sat his watch and peered outwardly, to be sure, but he also observed the others as they slept under their blankets, cloaks or coats, huddled in a close circle around the fire. Mother and Father slept together, wrapped up in a shared blanket. Mother had suffered in the day and night before. He’d seen it in the weary sagging of her shoulders and in her eyes, which no longer shined with the delight she took in nearly every day of her life. Her world was gone. She lost it when they turned away from their caravan wagon, filled with drums and bells and her beloved wooden xylophone. The fact that she now carried in her purse more gold than she’d ever had in her life, more than the total worth of all that she’d left behind, and that Father, Max and Peter each had an amount to match, was of no comfort to her. That wagon was her home and it was gone forever. But she never complained, not once. Mother wasn’t the type.

  Mr. and Mrs. Peep also slept together. He was so large, and she was plump enough in her own right, that they could barely get their arms around each other, but somehow they managed it.

  The Peep daughters slept in one great extended bundle. Som
e covers had been kicked off in the night, lying as they were so near the warmth of the fire. Max could see the fascinating curve of one girl’s body, or the flutter of an eyelid, or the delicate quiver of another girl’s perfectly formed and achingly lovely lip as she breathed in and out. Many times he reached out almost touching one of them, before drawing back his hand. Not now, he thought. I’ll wait for the right time, which will be soon enough.

  And here was Peter, the only one sleeping alone under his coat. Poor little Peter, who was out in the woods on a great adventure with his dear little sweetheart Bo, but unable to enjoy it. Even now he can’t touch her, Max thought, like I know he wants to. It wouldn’t be proper, and Peter is nothing if not always proper and good. But I could touch the little piggy girl right now if I wished. But I don’t wish because she’s not among the ones I want. Bratty little Bo was sleeping just a few feet away from Peter, so enticingly close, on the outside edge of the tangle of Peep daughters. How Peter will wail and cry when he sees what happens to her.

  Out in the darkness the beasts were calling their calls and making every sort of noise. While here by the light Max wasn’t as afraid of them as he had been just hours before, because he was now a thing transformed. He’d pondered imponderable thoughts, and come to dark decisions, as he grew more and more certain that the only way to survive in such a place as this was to become one of them. Just like the creatures beyond the light, Max was now a fell beast of these woods. And none of these foolish sleeping people knew what a terrible danger sat so quietly among them, regarding them without compassion or mercy, with his cold, reptile eyes.

  WHEN ANOTHER HOUR had passed, Max gently shook his father awake. “It’s your time to stand guard,” Max whispered close into his ear. Slowly his father came awake, carefully extricating himself from his makeshift bed, so that he didn’t wake Mother. He stood up, found his boots and his sword belt, and put them on. Then he led Max a small distance away from the others, so that their talk wouldn’t disturb them.

  “Can you keep watching for another few minutes, son, while I step into the woods a ways and make my water?” Father said. “And then, when I return, if you’re not in too much of a hurry to get back to sleep right away, I’d like to have a private talk with you about some of the decisions I’ve made lately.”

  “You mean about giving Frost to Peter,” Max said.

  “Yes. That and other things.”

  “Of course, Father. I’ll stay up as long as you like.”

  “Thank you. I won’t be long.” And with that Father turned and stepped gingerly into the darkness, pausing once at the very edge of the firelight to turn and say, “I’m proud of the way you acted today. I’m proud to see my first son grow into so steadfast and reliable a man.”

  Max the Great Swordsman, the hero of many a legend, would’ve been elated to hear those words from his father, as would simple Max Piper, the fourteen-year-old boy. But they were both absent just now. It was Max the Beast of the Woods who heard and cared not at all. He waited for a few seconds, listening to the faint sounds of his father walking off into the forest. Then he followed, stooping down once before he left the circle of firelight to pick up the biggest stone he could carry in one hand.

  He stalked through the night, and being who he now was, he made little sound and stumbled not at all. He crept deftly and silently around tree and root, and ducked under intervening branches. Max found his father with his back to him, splashing his night water against the base of a tree. Max approached and his father turned, alerted by a small sound, or maybe just the presence of another creature so close to him.

  “You should be back with the others, son. You’re still on guard until I’m done.”

  Max raised the stone and struck down hard on his father’s skull.

  Father wobbled in place, looking at Max with an odd expression, which wasn’t only due to the now distorted shape of his head — sunken and indistinct on one side. Yes, there was confusion in his expression, and maybe some pain as well — it was hard to tell for certain in the dark. But mostly Max thought he saw a look of deep regret in his father’s eyes.

  “Max?” Father said.

  His hands lost their ability to grip the trousers he’d unlaced to make his water, so the trousers collapsed down around his ankles. The sword he’d never even tried to unsheathe clattered loudly against some unseen rock or root on the ground.

  The stone in Max’s hand was wet now.

  He struck again, and his father fell like a dropped bag of onions.

  Something warm had splashed Max’s face. His father, lying crumpled at his feet reached out weakly with one trembling hand, trying to touch Max, but then it fell unmoving by his side. Max knelt next to his father and hit him again and again with the slippery stone. He continued doing it for a long time, and when he’d finished, and stood up again, his father was no longer there. No discernible man at all existed in the grim pile of ruined meat and spilled wetness at his feet.

  Max dropped the stone and drew Frost Taker from its sheath, intending to plunge it a few times into the mess below. But then he thought, no, I’ll wait to let Frost Taker drink for the first time from the child thief who stole my inheritance. So he turned, with the blade still in his hand, and walked back towards the firelight, which was partially obscured by the trees of the great and terrible Black Forest — his home.

  In which three can

  quickly be reduced to two,

  and two can be reduced

  to one all alone.

  PETER SLEPT, AND AS HE DID HE DREAMED. He dreamed of the woods at first, and all of the scary things which lurked within them. The forest noises, which never stopped through the night, fed into his dream, conjuring up all manner of fearsome creatures to beset him. But later in the night he dreamed that Max had spoken to him — he couldn’t be sure where, because one moment they were in the Peeps’ great hall, and the next moment they were riding on top of their own lost caravan wagon, swaying hypnotically with the contours of the road, as dear old Bonny Lumpen pulled them along.

  “Peter?” Max said in the dream. “I’m sorry I hit you and I don’t want to be mad at you any longer, even though you got my flute. You’re my little brother and I love you. I’ll never let anyone else harm you and I’ll always look out for you, from now on.”

  Then Peter handed the flute over to Max and said, “No, I’m not going to keep Frost. It’s yours by birthright. It was just a mistake and I talked to Father and he said I could give it to you now.”

  The two brothers embraced and were friends again. They talked about innocent boyhood things from that point on, about swimming holes and big green frogs and good sticks for swords, but the exact details of their conversation were a little hard to make out, because Bonny Lumpen kept interrupting from the front of the wagon, saying, “Am I dead yet? Is it time for me to be dead?”

  And then there was terrible screaming.

  But the screaming wasn’t only in Peter’s dream. It was still there when he woke up. In fact it was worse than ever. “The soldiers found us! Run away! They’re here!” This is what Peter heard as he struggled to wake up and make sense of the world. It was still nighttime, but the fire had burned much lower since he fell asleep. He had trouble seeing, so he wiped at his eyes — which caused the blackened one to smart — and then looked again, but it was still too dark to make out much. All the while the sounds of fear and panic went on and even grew. He wasn’t sure who was doing the screaming, but the voice sounded familiar.

  Peter sat up and looked around him. Mother was already on her knees, rising to her feet, but also clutching her empty blanket to her breast and looking about, as though she were trying to spot someone in particular. Two of the Peep daughters were trying to pull Mr. Peep to his feet as well. Both daughters were screaming too, or at least crying loudly enough that it added to the indecipherable cacophony. And then Peter saw Max, standing in the firelight. He was wearing his bright performance clothes, which is what he insisted on wearing fo
r the escape when everyone else chose rugged and durable clothes that could withstand a long journey and many hardships. He recalled the terrific fuss Max had made two days ago, until finally Father had relented, so as not to risk attracting the soldiers’ interest.

  Max was still in his bright clothes, but now there was something wrong with them. They’d been stained with yet a new overlay of color — ropes and curls and looping tendrils of bright red. Not only that, but the new color was all over Max’s face as well, in garish stripes, and matted into his already tangled hair.

  Blood, Peter realized, with a shock that made him dizzy and unable to rise to his feet. He also realized that Max was doing most of the screaming.

  “They found us!” Max shouted. “The soldiers! You promised they wouldn’t follow us, but they did! They killed Father and almost got me! And now they’re coming to get the rest of us!” Max had a horrible look in his eyes and he was holding his new sword, stabbing it here and there, in the air, at no one in particular.

  “We need to run away!”

  This time Peter bolted upright, no longer dizzy and now fully awake.