Peter & Max

by Bill Willingham

  Then she remarked, “And know now that it’ll be much worse the next time, because he’s sampled all that I could bring against him. Even as I kept his own attacks at bay, I could perceive him studying mine, learning from them.”

  The last dreg of the influenza had played itself out in the meantime. Armistice was signed in Europe, the boys came home, and all of the nations of the world vowed to make war no more, because at last it had grown too terrible to contemplate. In Fabletown few children were conceived, and those that were, were delivered stillborn in horrifying shapes of deformation. Frau Totenkinder, the Black Forest Witch, along with her sorcerous colleagues on the Woodland’s thirteenth floor, worked for decades to undo the curse. In time, nearly a century later, she developed a potion, which she contrived to place in the hands of a scoundrel, knowing he’d use it (not entirely understanding it) against his perceived enemies, the Great Wolf and his one true love. Nine months later seven live children were born to them.

  “That’s a good start,” she said to her associates. “But both of them were among the most highly magical of our community. The Wolf is the offspring of one of the most powerful of the gods, while his woman occupies the center of countless fateful crossings in the primordial magic flow. I suspect their own enchanted natures strove to help the remedy along. So, though we can consider ourselves on the right track, we’ve still much work to do to perfect a lasting and universal cure.”

  And up at the Farm, Peter and Bo lived their lonely lives together in their remote home, always waiting, without always realizing it, for word that his brother had returned.

  In which, at long

  last, Max finally

  gets his wish.

  IN MUNDY GERMANY’S HAMELIN TOWN, IN THE waning days of October, Max Piper appeared before his brother, for the first time in ages, and for the very first time in this world. “My oh my, brother, how you’ve changed!” Max cried. “This world has beaten you down, Peter, for in truth I’ve seen you grim before, angry, and even desperate, but always with a healthy resolve behind it. I’ve never seen you so miserable though, as if you’ve let yourself become bent, weighed down, veritably encrusted with a heavy mail coat of gloom and failure.”

  “Max,” was all Peter could manage in reply. He tried to rise from his seat on the edge of the fountain, but discovered he was unable to do so.

  “Oh no, Peter. You don’t get to move, until I let you. I’ve already attached my strings to you, and now I decide when you can rise up and dance for me.” Max was dressed identically to the other costumed Pipers, in his colorful tights and cape and pheasant feathered cap. As far as any tourists could tell, he was just another one of the musicians hired by the town to help celebrate the annual Pied Piper festival.

  “If you imagined this was going to be some sort of confrontation between us,” Max said, “a heroic duel, or in any way a repeat of our last encounter, then I must sadly lay your childish hopes to rest. I didn’t send for you in order to let you make some courageous last gesture of defiance before your demise. Oh yes, Peter, I sent for you. Did you actually believe it was some sort of detective skill on your part that led you to deduce where I’d be in the wide world? You were never that clever, baby brother. After centuries of failing to find you, due to Frost’s misguided loyalties, it finally occurred to me to call out to you instead — to invite you to come to me. You followed my magical trail of breadcrumbs perfectly. And now, on this most glorious day of the year, this day devoted to me and my great works, we meet for the final time. I have one last bit of unfinished business to conclude with you, after which I’ll enjoy the rest of the day and then be on my way. You, on the other hand, will not be on your way. This meeting ends with your death, Peter. But I suspect you already know that much.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Peter said. He attempted to reach out and take Frost’s case from the edge of the fountain, and was mildly surprised to find that he could.

  “Go ahead,” Max said. “Hold Frost close to you. Embrace it one last time. But it can’t help you anymore. Its three magical protections are long spent, isn’t that so? You can’t send me scampering off in sorcery-induced fear this time, can you?”

  “How far did you run?” Peter said.

  “Oh, quite far indeed,” Max said. “You should be proud of how well your musical spell worked. For years I ran, and cowered, and hid, and then ran again, always fearful that you might be too near. And even though I could never divine where you were, I was ever paranoid that you might be closing in. I put worlds between us, and traveled in distant lands where men should never go. I hope you enjoyed your victory over me, because even though it spanned many lifetimes of normal men, it was still only a temporary one. Eventually it wore off, and now it can’t be repeated.”

  As they talked, tourists would stroll by, from time to time snapping pictures of Max in his bright costume. On each occasion he would break off his conversation long enough to strike a pose for the crowds. And sometimes he’d dash off a few notes on his red flute. At those times the tourists would lose their happy smiles and quickly move along. Fire never played any but the most drear and mournful notes in Max’s hands.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” Max said. He turned and threw one arm out, in a gesture that took in the entire town. “Isn’t it incredible, Peter? These mundys had their own tiny version of Hamelin Town, and it turns out they lost children from it as well. My capturing spell was so powerful, my song so enticing, that the evil deed was mirrored here. And in some rudimentary way, they knew I was the cause of it, even though I was never here. To be sure, they got some of the details wrong, but look how much they got right! My legend seeped through along with Fire’s magic. I wonder now if there were other versions of Hamelin, in other unknown worlds, and if each one of them lost their precious little darlings on the same night? Do you think so? How many children did I end up taking, all told?”

  “What happened to them, Max?”

  “The children?”

  Peter nodded.

  “I had debts to pay. Some of those worlds I traveled were dangerous places, and I had to strike many bargains in order to survive them. The little brats didn’t die happy, I’ll tell you that much. But that’s all blood under the bridge. Where were we?” A bright smile returned to Max’s face.

  “Oh yes, I remember,” he said. “We were discussing this version of Hamelin. How bizarre is it that, not only do they know of me here, but they celebrate me? I stole away a hundred and thirty of their kids, the most horrifying deed in the city’s history, and they love me for it! I almost wish you could stay long enough to see every moment of the great party they’re throwing in my honor.”

  “So do I,” Peter said.

  “Yes, I imagine so. But that’s not to be. This is my day, and I can’t let you remain to spoil it for me. You’re just too gloomy.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “It’s simple enough. First, you’re going to stand up — Yes, you can do that now — and divest yourself of all those nasty toys your wife made you bring along.”

  Peter stood up and started removing the knives and other killing things. One by one he dropped each deadly implement into the fountain’s lower pool. Each object made a satisfying plop as it sank into the water.

  “How is the lovely Bo Peep by the way?” Max said. “Are her kisses still as sweet, now that they’re the only marital joys you can ever receive from her? Or have you actually tried to poke around down among her scars, desperate for a husband’s rightful privilege?”

  “Are you going to kill her too, once you’ve disposed of me?” Peter asked. He twisted a bright copper ring off and dropped it into the pool, where it sparkled next to the miniature blowgun, and its darts, and the other discarded weapons. And though it wasn’t among his weapons, and posed no possible threat, Peter was also compelled to twist his wedding ring off his finger and add that to his dropped possessions in the water.

  “I don’t think so. I’m enjoying her suffering too much
. Why end it for her? Besides, she’ll no doubt pass away on her own, once she learns what became of her loving husband. You two seem to enjoy that rare storybook sort of love, where one can’t live without the other.”

  “You seem to know a lot about us.”

  “Absolutely everything, except where you were,” Max said. “That was the one little detail Fire could never uncover for me. You have no idea how frustrating that was.”

  Peter was finished depositing all of his weapons in the fountain. He stood there, holding Frost’s case in one hand, waiting for Max to command him in some new way.

  “Now strip,” Max said. “Just in case you missed anything.” Peter did so, and the tourists looked on, snapping pictures all the while. Perhaps they thought this was some sort of hypnotism show, to demonstrate the powers the legendary Piper was supposed to possess over people. Peter set Frost down again, on the edge of the fountain, worried that Max might rush forward to take it. But Max stayed away, reveling in the things he was forcing his brother to do. Peter removed his jacket and let it drop at his feet. Then he unbuckled his pants and let them fall beside it. He stepped out of his shoes, pulled off his socks and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  Some of the impromptu audience members began to gasp and tsk tsk at this crude public display. “They go too far,” one of them said. “We have children here.”

  “Don’t fret, my darlings,” Max turned to them. “I won’t be taking any of them today.” Then, after thinking a moment, “Well, I probably won’t. We’ll see how the evening goes.”

  Peter stood naked in the street, in front of the Piper’s Fountain. He realized he was able to pick up Frost again, and did so. Some of the tourists began to huff away from them, looking for someone to complain to.

  “And now,” Max said, “we come to the final part. Long ago you refused to hand Frost over to me, even though we both knew it was my rightful inheritance. That’s what you’re going to do now. And then, once Frost is mine, I have a final promise to fulfill to an old and treasured companion.” A long sword appeared in Max’s hand — the one that wasn’t already holding Fire.

  “This is Frost Taker, and long ago I promised him he would be the one to taste your life’s blood on his blade. Take Frost out of its case, step forward and hand it to me. And then steel yourself for my gift in return.”

  Peter did as he was commanded. In fact he found himself eager to do it. After all, despite his promises to Bo and to the authorities in Fabletown, this is what he’d planned to do all along, wasn’t it? He opened Frost’s case and let it fall away from the thin bone-white flute. Then, grasping Frost by its slightly belled end, he boldly walked forward and shoved its razor-sharp mouthpiece deep into Max’s chest.

  As in the past, Max was cloaked in every sort of protective spell. Nothing could get through his invisible, magical armor save what Max wanted to get through. But Max wanted Frost more than he’d ever wanted anything else. Frost’s sharp end sliced through Max’s spells as though they weren’t there. It pierced his jacket and the flesh beneath it. It cut through bone and muscle, and finally penetrated Max’s coal-black heart. He was dead before he realized it. His legs crumpled beneath him. Dropping Fire and Frost Taker, Max’s lifeless body followed them in a tardy spray of blood.

  Someone in the diminished crowd of onlookers screamed. Another shouted for the police to be called.

  Peter ignored them. He placed a foot against Max’s still chest and pulled Frost out from it with both hands. Then he grabbed up Fire, followed by as many of his clothes as he could scoop up on the run, making sure at least that he took his pants, with its car keys, wallet and identification inside.

  Holding his bundle of flutes and clothes tightly to his chest, Peter ran off, down Market Street, towards the old town’s south gate. In the distance he could hear the wa-wee, wa-wee of German police sirens. Closer behind him he heard a shouted “Halt!” followed by two sharp blasts on a whistle.

  He ran faster, recalling the old days in a different, bigger version of Hamelin, when he was the boldest thief in the city.

  In which our story

  concludes.

  FOLLOWING THE LONG HARSH WINTER OF THE new year, Beast, the sheriff of Fabletown, kissed his Beauty goodbye and drove the rusted red delivery truck north out of Manhattan, up past Albany, and into the wider expanses of Upstate New York, until he came to the Farm. The mixed human and animal Fables of the Farm helped him unload the supplies he’d brought up from the city, after which he shared a late dinner with Rose Red. He retired that night in the main house’s single VIP guest room and slept fitfully, which he always did when his wife Beauty wasn’t beside him.

  The next morning Beast and Rose Red took her Range Rover out to Peter and Bo’s house, where they found the two of them sitting out on one of their many porches. Bo was sitting down on the deck, a tartan blanket covering her legs. Her wheelchair stood empty nearby. Peter sat close to her and played a low, haunting tune on the red wooden flute named Fire.

  “Good morning,” Bo said cheerfully, when Beast and Rose Red climbed out of the truck.

  “Good morning,” Beast said. “I see you two managed to get through the winter okay.” There were still many patches of snow here and there, on hill and meadow. The morning breeze was chilly, but not oppressively so.

  “We had plenty to keep us busy,” Peter said. He’d stopped playing with Fire when their guests had arrived. “I’ve still got a lot to learn with this thing.” He held the flute up for all to see.

  “That’s what I came up here to talk to you about,” Beast said. “The Witch tells me that’s a very dangerous weapon — perhaps the deadliest magic thing in existence. I can’t let you keep it, Peter. It needs to be locked away in the Business Office.”

  “And it will be,” Peter said. “I promise. But only after I’ve mastered one specific tune on it. I’m determined to undo what my brother did to Bo.”

  “We’ve already made progress,” Bo said. Her smile contained none of the sadness that it had borne for so many years. “There are actual patches of pink flesh on my legs — you’ll understand if I don’t show you. And yesterday my toes itched something awful for hours on end! Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “It is!” Rose Red said.

  “How much longer will this take?” Beast said.

  “Who can say?” Peter said. “But the moment it’s accomplished, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll turn Fire over to you, without hesitation. It’s a foul and sullen thing, and I dearly wish I didn’t have to have anything to do with it. Unlike Frost, there are no joyful songs that can be wrung from it.”

  “Hurry then,” Beast said. “And, in the meantime, every two weeks you’re to report down to the city, for as long as Fire’s in your possession. This is nonnegotiable. The Witch is going to examine you, on a regular basis, to make sure you don’t succumb to Fire’s corruption the way Max did.”

  “That seems fair,” Peter said. “But, as awful as this is to say about my own brother, I suspect Fire succumbed more to Max’s corruption, rather than the other way around. Makes no difference now though. The damage is long done. If anyone can restore goodness to this flute, it’ll take centuries, and it won’t be me. Once Bo is made well, I plan to play nothing but Frost, until the end of my days.”

  In the months that followed, Peter and Bo showed up more often to the Farm’s many dances and firelight celebrations. Peter played with the band, marrying Frost’s wild and joyful tunes to Boy Blue’s trumpet, Seamus’s harp, Joe Sheppard’s drums and Puss’s mad, screaming fiddle. Bo would surprise them all then by enthusiastically clapping along, and sometimes even singing off key, which everyone enjoyed, even though it was generally agreed that she couldn’t carry a tune, even if she made extra trips.

  Then, one evening, almost a year later, Bo appeared at the dance standing (albeit not too steadily) on her own two feet, needing only the help of two matched wooden canes.

  “My wheelchair?” she said. “Oh, I threw that horr
id old thing away ages ago.”

  I AM INDEBTED TO MANY PEOPLE WHOSE GENEROUS HELP was essential to the completion of this story, so many in fact that I apologize in advance to those I’m about to inadvertently leave out.

  At DC/Vertigo, Shelly Bond, my editor, caught and corrected a host of sins on my part, after which copy editor Arlene Lo (Robin to Shelly’s Batman) weighed in, and like any good alchemist, found a way to transform my rough gibberish into something resembling actual language. Any mistakes still in the text are there at my barbaric insistence and not the fault of these two stalwarts of proper syntax and clarity of prose. Also at DC, Karen, Paul, Bob, John, and so many others helped to make this novel a reality. Thank you all for your great efforts, above and beyond, and of course for your patience.

  My friend and colleague Mark Buckingham, along with the fine gentlemen of Clockwork Storybook, the second greatest writing group in the history of English letters (coming in close, right behind The Inklings), read the chapters as they were completed, and provided many helpful suggestions. They are: Mark Finn, Chris Roberson, Matthew Sturges, and Bill Williams. Mike Sinner, the fellow in the dedication, was always on hand, at the end of the phone, to help me recall details of our shared days in Germany, on those all too frequent occasions when my poor memory wasn’t quite up to the task. Thanks, Mike.

  Dr. Radu Florescu’s scholarly work In Search of the Pied Piper was enormously helpful in finding the character Max, and in constructing both versions of Hamelin Town found in this story. I would also like to thank the good people of Germany, who were fine and generous hosts during my years living there, and specifically the citizens of Hamelin. Let me apologize now for the gross liberties I took with your country and your town. My sole excuse is that the changes I made were never for capricious reasons, but were always for the good of the story. Some readers will have caught that I had Peter pay in Deutschmarks, rather than in Euros, in this story, and that was intentional. My version of Germany steadfastly exists sans Euro, for reasons too complex, or petty, to explain here. Certain things, like the robotic missile silo car park, the ice cream rats, and many of the more extraordinary details of modern Hamelin and its environs actually exist as described. I couldn’t make such things up. But some of them have been moved a bit, here and there, to better suit my needs.