Far to the north of Manhattan and the other boroughs, deep into the wider, wilder reaches of Upstate New York, there is a vast area of largely undeveloped land known as the Farm, because some of it has indeed been cultivated. And some of it is occupied by a quaint, rural village of huts and houses, barns and stables. But most of the Farm’s uncounted acreage has been left in its original wild state. The Farm is Fabletown’s sister community, its upstate annex for housing all of the Fables who also fled their Homelands for this world, but who can’t pass as human. Where the human-looking Fables are largely free to come and go wherever in the world they wish, Farm Fables are confined in this one place for all time — a large and comfortable prison to be sure — but a prison just the same. They’re confined to the Farm because the most vital of all Fable laws strictly forbids anything that might reveal their magical nature to the mundys. And nothing is more immediately and unmistakably identifiable as magical than a talking duck, with a penchant for discussing the collected works of Jane Austen, or a moo-cow who can leap over the moon. Granted it was the moon of another land, which was both smaller and nearer than ours, but still an impressive feat, all things considered.
You can’t find your way to The Farm, even more so than to Fabletown proper, because many more-powerful concealment and misdirection spells protect the place, deflecting all nosy mundys away or around it. But if you could, if you could bring yourself, by some tremendous act of will and raw, stiff-necked determination, to drive along that narrow old road, by the low, moss-covered stone wall, and turn in on the dirt track, where the tired wooden gate sags against the ancient, brooding chestnut tree, you might possibly discover that the Three Little Pigs live in a piggy-sized house of bricks (they learned their lessons long ago) just down the lane from where the Old Woman dwells in her giant shoe. Being perfectly normal looking, she could leave the Farm any time she wished, but not with her beloved shoe-house, where she’d raised so many children, so she chooses to stay where she is.
Our tale, the one that couldn’t quite remain a simple love story, begins then in Fabletown and almost immediately moves up to the Farm. It happens because a witch learned something that she told to a beast, who phoned a wolf, who in turn called his wife’s twin sister, who never was a princess but perhaps should have been.
ROSE RED, THE NO LESS LOVELY BUT considerably less famous sister of Snow White, wiped the sleep from her eyes as she climbed into her rust-colored Range Rover; hers at least in the sense that she ran the Farm and this was one of the vehicles owned in common by all who dwelled there. She had glossy red hair the color of fire in the daylight and dark satin at night. She wore old boots and farmer’s clothes: denim pants and a flannel shirt, both of which started out in different shades of blue, but which had since been worn to the universal color of fade. Clara the raven, who’d once been a fire-breathing dragon, sat perched on the front porch railing of the main house, where Rose Red lived, and where she’d been sound asleep until just a few minutes before.
“You’re out and about early,” Clara said. Her breath sent a sharp flicker of fire and an attendant wisp of smoke into the brisk morning air. Having elected years ago to turn from dragon into raven, she nevertheless decided to keep the fire.
“I got a call,” Rose mumbled. “Have to deliver a message.”
“It can’t be good news then,” Clara said. “Nobody wakes someone to give out good news. Nobody civilized, anyway. Want me to go with you?” Clara served as Rose Red’s personal bodyguard, a job considered necessary due to an attempted revolution against Farm authority some years back. That was why Clara thought it prudent to hold onto her fiery breath. It was a brutal and devastating weapon which served as a no-nonsense deterrent against further uprisings.
“No,” Rose said. “I’m just the messenger. This business won’t put me in any danger, though I can’t promise the same for its recipient.” With a few light curses and some pleading, Rose Red coaxed the truck’s cold and reluctant engine to life. “Go back to sleep, Clara. All is well, more or less.”
She drove slowly out of the village’s main square, past the blacksmith’s forge attached to one of the stables. She maneuvered carefully around Tom Thumb’s miniature castle keep, with its tiny moat and curtain wall, and then past the goat pen, where there was a mailbox out front with the name Three Goats Gruff painted on it. An intrepid squad of mail mice was already out beginning their morning rounds. They looked dignified in their miniature frock coats, puffing important little clouds of white vapor into the cold air. And dignified they were, for it’s as true among mice as among men that the swift delivery of the mail is a sacred trust. They had their delivery ladder propped against the box, and one of them was making the ascent with a letter addressed in a bold hand to one Mr. William Gruff, Esquire slung over his back. It was hard to guess which of the goats it might actually be for, since all three of the brothers were named Bill.
Rose left the village behind, driving northeast and then due north along a single-lane dirt and gravel road. After a few hundred yards of undeveloped scrubland, she entered the farmlands proper. There were cultivated fields to either side of her, newly planted winter wheat to her right and endless rows of silage corn to her left, tall yellow-green stalks, as high as an elephant’s eye and groaning under the weight of their treasures. The corn harvest would have to begin in a few days, which made her wince a bit, as most of the harvester’s engine was still scattered across the tractor shed floor. She’d have to get back to work on that today. To the east, the sun began peeking over the distant high hills that folks in this part of the country insisted on calling mountains. On the other side of the hills was Wolf Valley, which used to be part of the Farm, but had recently been turned over to the family of a legendary monster — her brother-in-law.
Rose came to a fork in the road and turned northwest. As she did so, the rising sun stabbed at her from her rear-view mirror. Grumbling, she angled the mirror away from her line of sight, squinted to banish the spots from her vision and drove on. The road paralleled a small but determined river for a while and then crossed it with a short wooden bridge, when the river abruptly changed direction. She left the cultivated fields behind and entered a wide rolling expanse of grasslands, where the mundy livestock were fed and fattened. Herds of cows were moved into an area to graze, bringing the grasses down to a reasonable height, then flocks of sheep were moved in after them, reducing the same grass to low stubble. A few farmhands were already in the fields, driving scattered clusters of cattle in the distance, towards fresher grass. Most of the farmhands were Fable animals earning their keep; talking horses, who talked seldom, unless they really had something to say, and talking dogs, who chattered constantly, believing that just about anything that was possible to say should be said, just in case it turned out to be important. But there were absolutely no talking cows among them. Fable cows wouldn’t normally mix with mundy versions of their own species, finding the thought of their dumb cousins’ eventual fate as steaks and burgers more than a little unsettling. Some of the farmhands were human Fables who lived up here because they preferred it to city life, or because they’d been caught breaking one or more Fable laws and were working off the judgments. Fabletown imposed a lot of laws on its citizens.
After crossing another dozen small bridges, as the river settled into an entrenched meander, constantly turning back on itself, Rose crested a rise and looked down into a golden field full of mundy sheep being pushed around by a half dozen Fable sheep dogs, who scolded their charges with heavily accented epithets. At the far end of the field she spotted her destination, a small isolated stone and timber cottage, perched on the top of the next rolling crest and nestled under a stand of cottonwood trees. Rose was pleased to see a trail of smoke coming from the home’s chimney. At least I won’t be waking anyone up, she thought. Maybe they’ll even give me breakfast.
Rose pulled her truck slowly into the barely used driveway and parked it. Closer now, she noticed more details. The cottage was surr
ounded by a complex multi-terraced wooden porch that had all manner of ramps connecting each level. It spread out from the house in every direction and looked as if it had been added to over a large span of years. There was a green lawn and several small, well-tended flower gardens, which were also surrounded and traversed by a maze of raised wooden pathways venturing out from the porch.
As Rose stepped down from her truck, the cottage’s front door opened and Peter Piper appeared in the doorway, pushing his wife Bo in front of him in her wheelchair.
“Good morning, Rose,” Peter said, his wife’s echo only a half beat behind him.
Then Bo said, all on her own this time, “What brings you out all the way to Casa Piper?”
They seemed cheerful at least, Rose thought. She hadn’t run the Farm for very long, and hadn’t lived here much longer than that. She didn’t know the Pipers very well, except that they preferred to keep to themselves, way out here in their remote home, where they’d lived alone with each other, year after year, century after century, ever since escaping from the Homelands.
“Morning,” Rose answered. “I need to talk to Peter.”
“Sounds ominous,” Peter said. “Can Bo join in, or is this a private matter?” Bo had pale blonde hair that was nearly white in the morning sun. It was long but she wore it pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She was lovely, as most Fable women tend to be, but hers was a wistful beauty that threatened to disappear into sadness at any moment. She wore a tan sweater and a green tartan blanket covered her legs, concealing the ruined limbs beneath. Rose had seen Bo’s dead legs only once by rare accident, at one of the Farm dances, when a pair of geese, over-spirited by too much dancing and too many beers, tumbled into her chair, causing her blanket to slip for a brief, terrible second. Rose had been embarrassed at how quickly she’d turned away from the sight. Bo laughed off the incident at the time and didn’t seem to mind for the rest of the evening, but she never returned to the main village after that.
Peter was of average height and slim, threatening towards skinny, without quite getting there. He had dark brown hair cut short and matching brown eyes. He wore a maroon cotton shirt over a long-sleeved undershirt, khaki pants and old hiking boots.
“I’m not sure,” Rose said. “I think we better make it private, until you hear what I have to say. Then you can decide if it’s something you want to share. I apologize if that seems rude, Bo.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bo said. An uncommitted smile touched her lips briefly and then vanished. “It’s such a lovely morning, we were going to have breakfast out on the patio. You two have your talk while I move everything out to the picnic table. You’ll join us of course.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned her chair deftly and wheeled herself back inside.
Rose and Peter walked away from the house, along one of Bo’s wooden wheelchair pathways. This one led out quite a distance to where a thick wooden target had been securely propped upright. It was roughly carved into the shape of a full-grown man and had hundreds of tiny cuts and gouges in its surface.
They left the wood pathway at its farthest point and stepped down onto the turf, where the green lawn grass ended and the taller yellow livestock grass began, and then continued farther out into the fields. Itinerant gusts of wind bent the tall grass in playful patterns. Fifty yards away a pair of energetic sheepdogs yawped and maneuvered, pushing a portion of the flock their way.
“They’re good dogs,” Peter said. “Good friends. They always keep a few of the sheep near our house, especially the new lambs when they come. Even after all this time, Bo still likes being near her lambs.”
“Even if it means being out here so far away from anyone else?” Rose said.
“We’re happy out here. Happy enough, anyway.” Peter had a number of old scars on his lips and at the corners of his mouth. They were tiny and nearly invisible, except with a lucky combination of proximity and perfect light. In the distance, through the cottage’s open door, they could hear the muted dry tink of porcelain cups being mated with saucers and then one quick scrape of a heavy skillet along the top of a cast iron stove.
Peter was generally a quiet man, never demonstrative, except on those rare occasions when he came into the Farm’s village to play his pipe, often accompanied by Boy Blue on his horn, Seamus McGuire on his harp, and Baby Joe Sheppard on drums. And sometimes, when the mood struck, even dour old Puss would join in with his wild, screaming fiddle.
Peter would take his time getting through a sentence, punctuating even the shortest of them with one or more extended pauses. Some Fables got like that. They lived so long that they could no longer work up any sort of hurry. Urgency just faded out of them over time. His facial expressions were even more reserved than his speech, almost to the point of nonexistence. But Rose thought she could detect a contained sadness there, matching that of his wife. “Why don’t you tell me what you came to say?” he said, after awhile.
“Bigby phoned me from Wolf Valley,” she said. “He isn’t allowed on the Farm proper, so he wants you to go see him. Today,” she added.
“I guess I could do that. Long walk though.”
“You can take my truck most of the way. Just drop me back home first, and return it when you’re done. You’ll still have to hoof it over the hills.”
“That doesn’t bother me. Only —”
“Only you want to know why?” Rose interrupted. “What was the part that I didn’t know if your wife should hear?”
“Yes. Only that.”
“Bigby can tell you more details than I can.”
“All conditions, exceptions and dissembling are duly noted and acknowledged, Rose. Now please tell me the bad thing you know but don’t want to say.”
“Your brother is back in this world,” Rose said, almost so quietly that the wind took her words.
A shadow passed over Peter’s features and stayed there. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he said, “Someone will have to come out here and stay with Bo.”
“Why? You should be back from Wolf Valley before nightfall, provided you leave right away. Even with her wheelchair and all — Well, I thought she was pretty independent.”
“She is,” Peter said. “She’ll be fine on her own today. But later, tomorrow probably, when I leave, I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. It could be for some time, and there’s always the chance I won’t make it back. Someone needs to stay here with her, while I’m hunting Max.”
Out in the golden fields the dogs herded sheep and the winds played their early October games, while overhead clouds gathered to spoil the blue skies.
In which Max finds a
mystery and Peter comes
into possession of a
family heirloom.
LONG AGO IN THE LAND OF HESSE, FAR from the fields that we know, a gray spotted mule named Bonny Lumpen pulled a fat and rickety caravan wagon down a dusty road. No one sat up on the caravan’s front bench to steer her. In fact, no reins connected her to any driver, present or absent, because she was one of the talking sort of animals who could simply be told where to go. And besides, she’d traveled this route many times before, once every year in fact, and she knew the way. Bonny Lumpen plodded along at her accustomed sedate pace, pulling the caravan behind her, which swayed precariously, first one way and then the other, in the road’s deep ruts, always threatening to turn over, but never quite making up its mind to do so.
The caravan belonged to the Piper family who, as their name implied, were traveling musicians. Just as Millers mill and Fletchers fletch, the Pipers piped. At least three out of the four did. The father, Johannes, and his two sons, Max, the eldest and young Peter, all played the long pipe, which was sometimes called the single pipe, or occasionally even the flute as it was still known back then, before some enterprising soul came along later and decided all true flutes should be turned sideways to play. Mother Piper though never had a knack for playing any sort of wind instrument, but instead found herself gifted at
playing just about everything else. While Johannes, Max and Peter would weave intricate melodies with their three flutes, madly sweeping and swooping in and out of one daring harmony after another, Mother, whose name was Beatrice (thank you for asking), would accompany them on a skin drum for one song, or strum along on her lute for another, and then deftly switch to a lovely and resonant wooden xylophone — the pride of all her personal possessions — for yet a third. Or she’d ring bells, or crash cymbals, and generally find some way to coax music out of anything that could be struck, strummed, picked, thumped, whacked or plucked.
The family had no home, except for their wagon. They lived the life of happy vagabonds, traveling here and there, throughout the year, going to festivals and fairs, and every other sort of scheduled celebration, where they’d make their living by letting anyone call the tune, provided they were willing to pay the Pipers.
On this particular day, when the autumn leaves were just beginning to flirt with a change of dress, they were on their way to their favorite venue of the year, the harvest festival which would take place in Old Winsen Town just two days hence. It wasn’t the quality of the celebration that attracted them, though it was certainly one of the nicer ones, nor was it any aspect of the town itself, which seemed in every measurable way a pleasant town indeed. No, it was the stop along the road that they would make later this afternoon, provided Bonny Lumpen could keep up her pace and no unforeseen hazards blocked their path.
Every year, on their way to the fair the Pipers would stop the night before at the country estates of Squire Radulf Peep, a gentleman farmer of local renown, husband to Cresentia, and father to Arianne, Agathe, Brigitte, Dorthe, Elfride, and Esmerault, or as young Peter once called them on a previous visit, “An entire flock of daughters!”
Peter & Max: A Fables Novel Page 2