Peter & Max

by Bill Willingham

  They sat silent for a long time, before Bo said, “It seems that the only fair and honorable way out of a binding oath is if we’d each sworn to an earlier one that conflicts with the others.”

  That’s when Peter became truly excited, grabbing Bo by each arm. “Bo, you’re a genius! I could kiss you!” And then he did.

  HUGO THE CHARITABLE, Bishop of Hamelin, the Weser River Valley and Lower Saxony, woke with a pounding ache in his head and a foul taste on his lips.

  “That’s the taste of the antidote,” Bo said, in reply to the sour faces the Bishop made. “It’s not pleasant, but it does overcome the sleeping mist, and we needed you awake sooner than you’d have done so naturally.”

  “What’s the meaning of this outrage?” Hugo sputtered, trying to sit up in his bed. It was hard to be sure in the room’s darkness, but he thought he could see two strange figures looming over him, a man and a woman, both dressed in dark clothes, such as what low villains and night skulkers might wear.

  “We need you to marry us,” Peter said, with a broad grin splitting his face.

  “And be quick about it,” Bo added. “The sun will be up in another hour, which means we’ll need to be gone in half that.”

  Hugo was still half asleep and couldn’t understand what was happening to him, but even in this state he knew the solution to his anxieties. “Guards! Guards!” he called.

  “Scream all you like,” Bo said, “but no one’s going to come save you.” She placed the tip of a very sharp knife under one of his quivering chins. “Now please get on with the ceremony.”

  The dagger’s point helped Hugo wake up more quickly — instantly in fact. “Why? What do you want with me?” he cried, tears forming in his eyes. It was stifling hot in the room, but still someone had started a fire in his fireplace. Why light a fire on a hot summer’s night? Nothing made sense in this madman’s nightmare.

  “The only way to cancel an oath is to act on a previous one that supersedes it,” Bo said. “Long before I ever took my vows among the masters of the Rowan House, I swore I’d marry Peter some day. It turns out that someday is today.”

  “And I made a similar vow,” Peter said. “True, I didn’t specifically swear to marry Bo, but long ago, after I’d made her cry one day, I felt bad and did promise myself that, from now on, if Bo ever agrees to talk to me again, I’d do whatever she told me to do.”

  “That sounds like a solemn oath to me,” Bo said, smiling wider than Peter, if that were possible. “In any case, my society doesn’t allow us to marry.”

  “Nor does mine,” Peter said. “At least not outside of our Brotherhood.”

  “So, unfortunately and reluctantly,” she said, “we both have to resign from our respective professions.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Peter said.

  “So hurry up and say the words, old man, before I add a bright new smile to your face.”

  Bishop Hugo said the words.

  THOUGH HIS LIFE WAS SPARED and his ring not stolen, the good Bishop Hugo was nevertheless unable to make his scheduled speeches the next day. He was discovered late in the morning, in his bed, bound by velvet curtain ropes and screaming in pain, by his sleepy guards and servants who couldn’t understand what had come over them in the night. Those same guards and servants, good churchmen all, were shocked to also discover that infernal markings had appeared on the Bishop’s face in the night. There was the bleeding outline of a goat’s head burned into his forehead, and twin upside-down stars, burned one-each into either cheek — clear indications that the Bishop had entered into foul pacts with creatures of the pit.

  Hugo loudly protested, to anyone who’d listen, that he’d been the victim of an evil act from two very human intruders. They’d forced him at knifepoint to wed them, after which they twisted normal copper wire, such as can be found in any household, into the semblance of goats and stars, which they heated up in the embers of his own fireplace, and then used to burn these brands into his innocent flesh. Some believed the Bishop’s bizarre story and some didn’t, which is the way of people anywhere, in any time.

  Regardless of anyone’s belief, one way or the other, the Bishop couldn’t be allowed to preside over important matters of church and state, from that day onward. Nor could he remain a Bishop. He was stripped of office and cassock, and bound over for trial, as a consorter with unsanctioned fiends and devils. His own servants testified as to how they’d been ensorcelled into a diabolical slumber, while the Bishop crafted his infernal bargains in the night.

  The judge found the evidence against Hugo compelling, though slight enough to warrant sparing the man’s life. Hugo ended his days in a distant world, in a forced labor camp, where he was once congratulated by his goblin overseer for fashioning better bricks than most of the other slaves.

  THAT SAME FATEFUL NIGHT, wherein Hugo was framed for witchcraft, Peter and Bo Piper were never seen again in Hamelin Town. But Peter’s private strongbox in the Brotherhood’s Hall was discovered the next morning, unlocked, open and empty of all of its jewels and coin. A letter to Carl the Arrow was the only thing found in the box. This is what the letter said:

  Dear Carl,

  I’ve gone to find this world of sanctuary of which we’ve heard so many whispered tales. I was skeptical before, but I have to believe now that it exists, because my lovely new wife and I find ourselves in need of it. Feel free to follow, if ever your spirit grows restless, or the thieving life gets too boring or dangerous. Give my best to all of my former brothers and to your dear brother-in-law, our king. He turned out to be a good and honest one, which seems an odd thing to say about so accomplished a criminal.

  Your eternal friend,

  Peter

  In which the rats come

  home to roost.

  OUTFITTED WITH HALF A DOZEN HIDDEN daggers, and at least twenty other concealed implements of murder, carrying Frost in its hard plastic case, Peter entered Hamelin’s Altstadt, the old town, and almost left the modern mundy city behind.

  Almost.

  The cobbled streets were similar to the medieval town of his youth, and many of the oldest of the old buildings, constructed in the over-ornamented Weser Renaissance style, looked vaguely familiar, if somewhat smaller than he remembered. But no matter how deep into the past he’d seemed to regress, at any time, all he had to do was to look up and see the sky punctured on all sides by a small forest of massive steel construction cranes, completely surrounding the old town section, busy adding new towers of chrome-tinted glass and brushed steel to the greater metropolitan skyline.

  And of course this version of Hamelin, even in the old section, was much too clean to truly reflect the Hamelin of his past, or any medieval era town for that matter. These cobblestone streets were swept. There weren’t corpses set out into the thoroughfare to be removed. There were no piles of human waste and discarded refuse rotting in every alleyway, which in turn meant that there weren’t the attendant clouds of gnats, fleas and flies everywhere, or the ubiquitous rats. In the lost Hesse’s version of Hamelin, even after the Pied Piper’s miracles, the rats eventually returned, though the stolen children never did.

  Granted, there were plenty of rats to be found here, but they were artificial. The good people of mundy Hamelin seemed to have embraced the rat as a beloved symbol of its history and heritage. One of the bridges spanning the Weser River had a huge, gold-plated statue of a rat mounted at the apex of its overhead suspension superstructure, standing astride the two center tower supports like a vermin colossus. One of the local ice cream shops (where one can purchase ice cream dishes formed into the convincing likenesses of various popular restaurant entrées, such as steak and potatoes, or spaghetti and meatballs) had a brightly painted plastic statue outside of its main entrance, depicting a giant ice cream cone of many flavors, which had somehow spilled into the shape of cyclopean rat. There were little, plastic wind-up rats, plush stuffed rats, and articulated wooden rats in the windows of every one of the numerous toy stores. Carven st
one rats decorated every fountain and building cornice, and painted rats were included in the composition of every bit of commercial signage. Children could ride spring-mounted rocking-horse rats in tiny play parks, scattered liberally throughout the town, or the larger, plastic green, pink, or purple galloping rats in the Market Square’s gigantic motorized carousel. After a battle that lasted centuries, the rats had finally conquered Hamelin town, much to the approval of its citizens.

  At this early hour, Peter nearly had the town to himself. Only a few deliverymen, hand-carting crates and boxes from their large panel trucks, were also up with the dawn. They were busy restocking the many shops and restaurants, helping Hamelin make its final preparations for the first of its big festival days, which would begin as soon as the town could rouse itself from its nightly slumbers.

  Peter walked towards the center of town to the open market square, where a hundred bright tents, in every color of the spectrum, had been erected to shelter the visiting food vendors, gaming hosts, and souvenir merchants who would come to occupy them in only a few hours’ time. And then, past the carousel, which was permanent and operated year round, he could see the grand old Saint Nicolai’s, which also turned out to be smaller than the Homeland’s version of the same building of his past. This one wasn’t even a proper cathedral, but only a very large, though still impressive, church. This one was also attached to a smaller copy, though no less ornate, of the Hochzeitshaus, the High Holy House, where, in a different world, Peter had helped to force a frightened and outraged Bishop to wed him to Bo.

  Peter turned away from the church and strolled down Market Street, which had been converted into an open-air walking mall, where no motorized vehicles were allowed. Restaurants, small diners and snack stands lined the street, which also had tables and chairs under shady umbrellas set out in the middle of it. Peter sat down at a random table, to wait for one of the restaurants to open up and provide him with breakfast. And even though he was quite alone in the street, he resisted the urge to constantly pat himself down, to make sure that all of his deadly secret weapons were still in place. He set Frost’s case on the table in front of him, and wondered if he shouldn’t open it up and play himself a tune. Perhaps the last song I’ll ever get to play on it, he thought, a sad and simple little farewell requiem just for myself.

  PETER LOOKED OUT OF THE RESTAURANT WINDOW as he finished his breakfast, and noticed that the town had woken up at last. A man in a Pied Piper costume strolled past the window, playing merrily on his flute, and followed by a half dozen happy tourists, busy snapping pictures of him with their digital cameras. The Piper was dressed in a red and purple tunic, over tights of orange, green, yellow and white. He sported a cape of many colors and a cap with a trio of two-foot long pheasant feathers arcing out from it. He played a modern style metal transverse flute. Then, less than a minute later, another Pied Piper passed by, going the other way. This one was dressed identically to the first, but played a modern clarinet instead of a flute. In addition to his modest flock of tourists, this one was followed by a troupe of children dressed in gray mouse costume pajamas, with long cloth tails and hoods that had plush, pink and gray mouse ears sewn onto them. There were at least thirty children in the procession, and they followed their Piper in pretended enchantment, dancing and prancing along to his tune.

  Peter hadn’t been able to finish his bacon and eggs. He was too nervous about the coming confrontation to do justice to a full meal. Placing a twenty-Deutschmark note on the table, for the check, plus a nice tip, he picked up Frost and left the restaurant. Market Street was crowded now. Hundreds of early-bird tourists had turned out to soak up every atom of the day’s celebrations, which might begin slowly, but would end tonight in grand, drunken feasts, public concerts and exploding fireworks. Peter turned south, away from the center of town and the largest mass of crowds.

  Almost immediately, just outside of the old town’s post office, around a gradual bend in the street, Peter encountered a large stone fountain depicting the Pied Piper of legend. This was the particular fountain he’d been looking for, the one that appeared, as if by strict regulation, on the cover of every tourist brochure. It had a five-sided base, which enclosed its main pool. A pillar rose out of its center, which blossomed out into a cup-shaped upper pool that was decorated all around its circumference with carvings of parading children, along with the required rats. A life-sized bronze statue of the legendary Piper stood up from the stone cup’s center, looking nothing at all like his brother Max. This one at least was depicted as playing on a front-held, flair-ended flute, similar to what Max had actually played, so many years past.

  Peter sat on the fountain’s edge, setting Frost’s case down beside him. There were many coins in the fountain’s pool. He dug into his pocket and came out with a copper ten-pfennig piece, which he threw into the pool, making a wish as he did so.

  And almost at once, perhaps for his many sins, his wish was granted.

  “My dear, long lost brother!” Max Piper cried in delight. “How extraordinary, and how absolutely wonderful to find you here!”

  In which Peter puts his

  wife in a pumpkin shell,

  and tries to keep her

  very well.

  PETER AND BO CROUCHED TOGETHER, BELOW the low green hedgerow that bordered a gently winding country lane. In the three months since they’d escaped Hamelin, retrieving various stashes of Peter’s loot from scattered hidey holes, and an equal number of Bo’s hidden bundles of exotic weapons from secret caches, they’d made their way nearly four hundred leagues, south and westward, across the Hesse, to the outskirts of a southern little seaport town called SonnenSee. Even in October, this was a pleasant, summery land of rolling golden pastures and rich farmlands, occasionally separated by miles-long stretches of high granite hills, on the lower slopes of which could be found the only substantial stands of uncleared woodlands. Both of the fugitives were more than happy to have left the deeper, more primeval reaches of the Black Forest far behind.

  They hid on the landward side of the hedgerow, in order to avoid detection from a solitary farmer who was leading a creaking old donkey cart down the road. The ponderous two-wheeled cart was piled high with fresh produce. No doubt the farmer was bringing his harvest goods into SonnenSee, to sell in the public markets that sprang up in every town and village during the harvest season.

  This close to the sea, bright white gulls dotted the wide azure sky, their wings tipped with black or gray. Some drifted high, riding the lazy thermals that rose up from the chalky seaside cliffs and inland granite escarpments, while others dived and banked closer to ground, on the lookout for their next scavenging opportunity. Always they squawked and scolded and called to each other, being a very chatty sort of bird.

  When the farmer had come very close to their hiding place, Peter and Bo vaulted lithely and easily over the hedge and confronted the man, who was an older fellow and scrambled backwards, all the while clutching at his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” Bo said. “We didn’t mean to startle you. We just needed to make sure that we’d be able to talk to you with no other witnesses. Be assured that we mean you no harm and we’re not thieves.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, I am,” Peter said, “but not today. In truth we’re here with gold in hand, willing to buy what we want.”

  “At a very good price,” Bo added.

  “What sort of people hide behind bushes, only to jump out at innocent, hardworking country folk?” the old farmer said, looking suspicious, accusatory and still breathing hard, if no longer quite showing a danger of some sort of imminent collapse. “What exactly is it you want from me?”

  “Everything,” Peter said, flashing a jolly smile. “The donkey, the cart and everything in it. Think of a good price for the lot, and then double it. We’re feeling particularly generous today.”

  “And add to that,” Bo said, “the cost of insuring that you’ll go straight home from here, back the way you came, whe
re you’ll stay for at least a week before venturing to go to town again.”

  “What do you need my cart, my crops and my Gertraud for?”

  “We’ve got it in our hearts to be simple farm folk for a day,” Peter said.

  “For the past three months we’ve been every other sort of folk,” Bo said. “We’ve been an old grandfather and his old wife. I’ve been an old woman with her grown son. And Peter’s been an old man with his grown daughter. Once even, lacking time and materials to fashion disguises, we even traveled as a young man and his wife. Now it’s time to be something else.”

  “To be perfectly candid,” Peter said, “the gobs, and their wicked masters who now rule this land, may still be looking for a young married couple traveling together, so we tend to avoid appearing that way.”

  “You’re villains on the run?” the old man said.

  “Hardly villainous,” Peter said, “but you’ve deciphered the crux of it.”

  Bo started pacing around the cart, closely evaluating its bountiful contents, quietly murmuring “hmmm” and “ah” as she made her examinations.

  “I can’t lose my Gertraud, for any price,” the old man said. “She’s become part of the family.”

  “She talks?” Peter said.

  “No, but —”

  “Good,” Peter said, “because we can’t risk anyone speaking up and giving us away, as we pass through that rather imposing guard tower — no doubt garrisoned by a squad or more of bloodthirsty goblins — which straddles the last high pass, leading down to SonnenSee Town. Still, I had a beloved family mule of my own once, back in a more innocent age, and I know well the reluctance one might have to part with such a creature. So, I’ll tell you what; we’ll still pay you double a good sell price for your dear Gertraud, but only to rent her for a week. When next you come to town, you’ll find her fine, fit, and nicely fattened, at the public stables. And we’ll pay for that too.”