Peter & Max

by Bill Willingham

  The conversation lasted a good while longer, but eventually the old man, whose name turned out to be Meinard, by the way, gave in, unable to turn down the small fortune in silver and gold that the (almost certainly) insane young couple pressed upon him. While Peter handled the bulk of the negotiations, Bo kept a wary eye out down one direction and then the other, knowing that any passerby at this point might ruin their plans. After a while, a considerably happier, and richer, old Meinard went back on his way, down the country road, and entirely out of our story.

  Once he was well out of earshot, Peter said to his lovely wife, “Okay, that’s done. Now will you please tell me why we let three perfectly respectable grocery wagons pass us by, but absolutely had to procure this one?”

  “Because lovely old Gaffer Meinard had the best pumpkins,” Bo said. “Look at the size of these giants — this one in particular.” She indicated the biggest, fattest pumpkin in the cart, and Peter had to admit that it was truly impressive.

  “So Meinard had good results from his pumpkin patch this year,” Peter said. “Good for him. Perhaps I’m not as clever as you are, because I don’t divine the necessity of big pumpkins among the crop we use to explain our way past the guard post. As long as we appear as humble farmers —”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking about, while we hid among the hedges,” Bo said. “So far, we’ve always appeared as two people together on the road. But, if the military authorities are still looking for us, or if agents of your former brotherhood, or my former society still hunt us, they’d all be looking for a man and a woman together on the road.”

  “True,” Peter said. “In hindsight, we shouldn’t have written farewell letters to our respective masters.”

  “No, it was still the right thing to do, seeing as how we’re both still clinging to the notion that we found the only honorable way to resign from our professions. I’ve scant eagerness to spend an eternity in Hel’s dark realm, ripped apart each day to be tossed into a giant iron kettle, to be gnawed at by dreaded Garm and his fellow witch dogs, which is the fate of all oath breakers in the next life. An official statement of resignation, including an explanation of the reason behind it, was required from each of us.”

  “Well, truth be told, I more alluded to the reason behind my sudden resignation and disappearance, rather than state it openly.”

  “I suspect you managed to communicate the gist of it.” All the while that they were talking, Bo was busy carving at the largest pumpkin, with one of her many sharp knives. In time she’d cut a wide circle clear around the pumpkin’s fat stem, and with a great heave, she lifted the heavy orange plug free from the rest of it.

  “Help me scoop this out,” she said.

  “As soon as you finish explaining your cunning plan,” he said.

  “Simple enough. Once we’ve got this nicely hollowed out, I’m going to hide inside of it, while you take us through the military checkpoint.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’m smaller than you are, silly man, and more limber. As big as this thing is, you’d never fit.”

  “I meant why does one of us have to do it at all?”

  “Really?” she said. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

  “What can I say?” he said. “I’m tired from too many days with too little sleep, and from the constant stress of being on the run. And, as you’ve so often pointed out — but always in a loving way — I can be dense at times.”

  “It’s simple. With me hiding in here, and the plug pressed down just right, so the cut doesn’t show, you will then be a single man on his own, bringing his goods to market. They aren’t looking for a single man on his own. But, even if you could be the one to fit inside this grandfather of all gourds, a single woman bringing her goods to market, though she may not fit the description of the particular fugitives they may be seeking — well, a woman alone attracts a different kind of unwanted attention.”

  “Yes, I confess, that is rather clever.”

  “Now that we’ve only one last obstacle remaining between us and the ship that can carry us away to this new world of sanctuary, I don’t want to take any chances. So help me get down inside this pumpkin, Peter, my love, and then put the plug back in. And be sure to pile other vegetables all over the top, just to be safe.”

  “Very well,” he said, “but cut yourself a small air hole down low in the thing, and be sure to call out if you get a cramp or become claustrophobic.”

  “I don’t get claustrophobic, and why should I bother calling out?” she said, with a wicked grin. “You’d likely not recognize my voice anyway.”

  “Are we going to discuss that again?” His smile matched hers. “I hadn’t seen you in ten years. It was dark. There was a bloody damned stone wall between us — an exceptionally thick one at that. You were whispering. And your mouth, along with your whole face, was swaddled in that long black scarf you like to wrap around your head as a mask.”

  “I have white-blonde hair and perfect alabaster skin that shows up like a lit candle, in even the darkest room. I need a mask in order to skulk about in the night. But granting all of those fine excuses you constructed, you’d still think a man would know the voice of his own true love.”

  “Please, oh eternal light of my life, get into the damned pumpkin. We really need to be on our way, before anyone else comes along.”

  “Yes, dear. Thump once on the outside of it, when you need me to be completely silent inside, twice when we’re clear of the tower, and then thrice once it’s safe to come out.”

  It turned out they needed to hollow out two of the largest pumpkins. One was required to conceal Bo, as planned, and the other to hide their remaining treasure, and all of their baggage that couldn’t be explained as belonging to a poor young farm boy. Working together, they accomplished this in little time. Then, throwing the wet, stringy pumpkin innards over the hedge, Peter took the donkey’s guide rope in hand and led the cart back on its interrupted way.

  THE ROAD MEANDERED past fields and farms, then its winding character increased, as it began to turn more sharply back and forth on itself, beginning its ascent into the hills. Peter led the cart up gentle grades and steep ones. Sometimes the donkey resisted, digging all four of its surprisingly strong hooves into the dirt, and braying its protests loudly. Peter tugged on its rope, while he cursed and bargained and pleaded with it.

  “Come on, Gertraud,” he’d complain. “Once we get to the top, it’s downhill all the rest of the way. I promise!”

  When this happened, sooner or later, he’d find the right combination of applied force and spoken imprecations to get the stubborn beast started again, and they’d press on.

  Still going uphill, they quickly left the fields behind and passed through scattered woods of maple, ash and hawthorn, their leaves already dressed for the fall. Gradually these gave way to holly and then scrub pine, that sometimes clung to the sheer sides of the granite cliffs with impossible daring and determination. In the late afternoon, after a series of grueling switchbacks, they finally turned the corner and saw up close the dark tower Bo and Peter had only scouted from a distance the day before. The tower sat just off the road, which had grown quite narrow in the pass, threading a slim notch between steep scarps. A high wall and portcullis gate reached out from either side of the tower, sealing off the scant space between impassable rock cliffs. Any traveler would have to pass by the tower, through the barred gate, or turn back. There was no other option.

  Peter spotted one fat, squat goblin soldier at the open gateway, stationed so that he could release a single rope and thereby send the iron bars crashing down to close off the passageway. Another two gob troops, armed with curved horn bows, paced the tower top, three stories above them.

  Peter paused the cart while still out a ways from the tower and walked once around it, as if inspecting how its contents might have shifted during the ascent. As he did so, he gave a single offhand thump against the largest pumpkin, nestled deepest into the cart’s b
ed. Then he took Gertraud’s guide rope once more in hand and proceeded the remaining thirty feet towards the checkpoint.

  All the way up the hill, Peter had silently practiced all of the possible answers he’d give to as many questions as he could anticipate. He also made a few grim decisions on how he’d conduct himself if the guards got too curious about the cart and its contents. In his years of thieving, he’d practiced often with various weapons, until he was familiar with all of them and an expert with some. He could place a thrown dagger within an inch-wide circle, from nearly twenty paces. But he’d never once had to use a weapon in earnest. However, when Bo’s life is at stake, he’d decided, I’ll kill anyone I need to and not shed a tear of remorse afterwards.

  All of this he had in his mind when he approached the gate, but the bored goblin guard simply waved him through, without making him stop, or asking him a single question. Fifty yards further down the twisting road, they’d circled three quarters round a giant pillar of rock and were well out of sight of the guard tower. Peter thumped three times on the big pumpkin and then helped Bo climb out of it, and rub life back into her cramped limbs.

  “That feels grand,” she said, as Peter massaged her legs. “Don’t stop.”

  “You smell like pumpkin pie,” Peter said. “I dearly love pumpkin pie, especially the way Queen Gisela used to make it for me, back in the Brotherhood. You’re making me hungry.”

  “We’ll have a proper supper in town,” she said, “including as much pie as you like. We deserve a small celebration, before looking for the Tenacious and her captain.” According to the information they’d purchased, at a dear price, the three-masted trading ship Tenacious should be anchored at SonnenSee until the end of October, at which time it would make sail in its last voyage of the year, bound for its winter port. But along the way, or so they were told, the captain could be bribed into making a brief side-trip, crossing a patch of magic-impregnated sea that connected to the seas of a much different world — the world of sanctuary they’d heard so much about, over the years. Anchoring off a nearby shore that was sometimes an island and sometimes part of a vast continent, they’d be put ashore to find their new lives in a new world, while the Tenacious sailed off to complete its appointments back in the Hesse.

  “Well isn’t this a fine picture,” someone said, startling the couple. “I set off looking for one old score to settle and find two. Fortune is indeed my sweetheart.”

  Both Peter and Bo came instantly alert, as a tall, slim figure appeared from around another bend in the road ahead of them. The newcomer was dressed in tunic, hose and a long coat, all of many discordant colors. He had long brown hair and a beard of the same shade. Both were so wild and tangled that they looked as if they’d never known the touch of a comb. The man carried a flute of deep red wood, and he had a mad and predatory look in his dark eyes.

  Despite the years and wealth of changes in the fellow, Peter recognized him instantly.

  “Max!” he cried, relaxing his hand away from the dagger he’d instinctively sought out, inside the open lapel of his jacket.

  Bo hadn’t made the connection as fast as Peter had, not realizing this was her husband’s long lost brother, until Peter had named him aloud. But she’d known in the first moment that the man intended to kill them both. The evidence of it was written there in his eyes for anyone to read it.

  “Careful, Peter,” she warned. “He has blood in his heart.”

  “Your little bitch has the right of it,” Max said. “I am going to kill the both of you, slowly and quite painfully in point of fact. But that doesn’t preclude a friendly chat first. It’s been so long. How’ve you been, brother? Have you had many adventures since we were separated, oh so long ago? The witch mentioned you’d had quite a few of note, when she finally put me on your trail last month.”

  But Bo hadn’t waited for Max to finish his grotesque pretense at a friendly conversation. She sprang into deadly action immediately. Quick as a thought, two daggers flew towards Max, striking within an immeasurable moment of each other. But it wasn’t flesh the daggers hit, but the air in front of him, as if an invisible shield of tempered adamant had been raised to protect him. The twin knives hung suspended in that solid wall of air for a moment, until one of them transformed into a red robin and flew away, while the other turned into a cluster of golden maple leaves that drifted merrily to the earth.

  Max gave no sign that he even noticed these miraculous occurrences, or the violent acts that preceded them. He simply finished his questions to Peter, as if they were having an enjoyable reunion in fact, as well as pretense.

  Peter was stunned, and for a long time had no idea what to do. Frost in its dull, worn and scuffed leather case was strung across his back, as always, but suddenly it seemed much heavier than normal. Peter could actually feel his brother’s desire for it as a physical manifestation, as if his naked coveting was adding actual weight to it.

  Following the failure of her knives, Bo unstoppered a tiny blue glass bottle and spilled its contents towards Max’s face. But the heavy amber liquid, which began to pop and sizzle once it met the air, turned into a fine mist before it could touch the man. The mist corkscrewed and whirled for a while above Max’s head, dipping and twisting into a dozen remarkable formations before fading away into nothing.

  For the first time Max turned to regard her directly. “Must you persist,” he asked, “while I’m trying to catch up with my baby brother? You can’t harm me. Over the years, as I traversed many a dark and blasted land, I played a hundred impenetrable armors and protections about myself. Neither you nor any of your child’s toys can touch me, save that I wish it so.”

  Bo answered him by closing the distance between them and delivering a kick that would have exploded his kneecap, had it landed. But it simply slipped aside, without contact. Undeterred, she kicked again, and punched and slashed at him, with the edges of her hand, and with a third blade that she produced seemingly from nowhere. True to his boast, nothing she tried could touch him.

  “You weary me, Bo Peep,” Max said. Then turning to his brother, he said, “Peter, I’m going to do you one last favor, before I kill you today. First I’ll give you an executioner’s divorce from this annoying harlot. At least you’ll have a few minutes of joy back in your life, before the end.”

  Max raised his flute to his lips and played a single loud note, which caused Bo to be lifted, as if by a giant’s unseen hand, and then tossed far away from him. The road, which wound around a massive pillar of rock on one side, dropped off in a sheer cliff on the other side. Bo flew helpless towards the dropoff, tumbling through the air like a jester’s comic pantomime of a circus acrobat. At first it looked as if she might strike the last few feet of solid, horizontal road surface before reaching the edge, but instead she flew past it. Then, at the last second, with a scream of agony, as her arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket, she managed to reach out and grab a branch of one of the scrub pines that clung like a spider to the vertical rock face. The tree was anchored just below the lip of the road. Too far away to be of any help to her, Peter gasped in incandescent horror, waiting a terrible second to see if Bo would manage to hang on, or if the small tree would give way. She did and it didn’t. Slowly and painfully she was able to grab the tree with her other hand, improve her grip with the first hand, and pull herself up and over the lip of the precipice.

  “That was a bit closer than I liked,” she said, attempting a rakish smile.

  Peter couldn’t say anything over the violence of his own heart pounding in his chest.

  Then Max blew another single half note on his pipe and Bo flew back again, this time disappearing entirely over the ledge, with no lucky branch within reach to help her.

  “No!” Peter screamed, rushing towards the cliff’s edge.

  “You’re well rid of her,” Max said. “She always was a brat and a pest.”

  Peter looked down over the ledge and spied Bo lying perhaps as much as twenty feet below him, in the
middle of the road, the same one he was on, which had obviously turned back on itself again, somewhere around the bend, to continue its descent down the cliff face. She seemed unconscious, but he could see that at least she was still breathing. There was some blood on her scalp and one of her arms lay twisted at an unnatural angle.

  Max was standing well back from the ledge. He couldn’t know that Bo was still alive, and Peter decided to keep it that way. This should have been a fight solely between the two of us anyway, he thought. With a cry of rage, he turned on his brother, hurling his own favorite throwing knife as he did so. It splashed against Max’s invisible shield like water, which then fell to the ground in a miniature rainfall of a thousand cooling iron shards.

  “I can’t believe you tried that,” Max said, “after seeing your late wife fail so miserably at the same thing.”

  “I wanted to see if your magic shield worked differently, under different conditions,” Peter said, “such as if you weren’t expecting an attack from your own brother.”

  “Aren’t you clever? Father always pegged you as the smart one. You should have sworn off the musical life and entered the philosophic world instead, where you could have experimented with worldly phenomena, investigated the true nature of nature, and charted the stars in their courses. But, your theory in this case was — what’s the word real philosophers use? Invalid? In any case, let me assure you, my protections aren’t all that conditional and can’t be fooled or distracted.”

  “So what do we do now?” Peter said, all the while wishing with every fiber of his being that Bo should stay safely unconscious below, making no sound, until he figured a way out of this.

  “Now I kill you. But before that, I’ll have my rightful inheritance — the flute that you stole from me. And though I could play a tune that would have you dancing on the end of my strings, forcing you to hand it over, I’d much rather have Frost from your hand, freely given. We both know I should’ve gotten it in the first place, and I expect you to acknowledge that much, without coercion.”