Peter played on, and gradually at first, but then in faster steps and ever increasing strides, the wolf began to run. And as he ran he howled his rage to all the world, and throughout the forest, every other creature trembled in its den. Peter heard him for more than an hour after he began playing, howling fainter and fainter into the distance. Then, when he couldn’t hear the beast, he still continued to play for as long as he could, hours at least, hoping that he was truly sending the danger farther and farther away.
Finally, when he couldn’t play any longer and had to stop, he noticed only then that his chin and shirtfront were drenched in blood. His mouth was cut in many places from Frost’s sharp blade. The wolf had been unable to touch him, but Frost had bitten him thoroughly in return for its saving magic.
And that was how Peter spent Frost’s first gift, making danger pass him by.
Afterwards he cleaned himself as well as possible in the stream, before setting off to find Bo again. But he found neither Bo nor any of the others. The Black Forest had swallowed them without a trace, or perhaps it had swallowed him. Who can say which?
PETER WAS LOST in the forest for months. He had no gold to spend, for that was left behind, in his bundle at the camp. And besides, there was nowhere in the forest to spend it. He had no coat or warm clothes, except for what he was wearing when he first ran out of the camp, fleeing into the night, away from the attacking soldiers, whom he never saw for himself. But Max had, and his condition at the time was ample testimony that they were indeed real and dangerously close. He had only Frost and the clothes on his back.
For all of Peter’s life, the Piper family had lived on the move. Traveling often in the country and through the woods (though always on the protected roads), he’d grown up gathering wild plants and mushrooms for their dinner. Mother would direct him to this tasty fungus, or that buried tuber, identifiable by its sprouts, or its color, or shape or markings. “The forest is just a book you have to learn to read,” she’d say. Under her direction he’d jump down from the wagon several times a day to snip wild herbs or any of a hundred edible plants and mushrooms. This knowledge saved his life in the Black Forest.
Peter lived as a wild boy, scrounging his meager dinner in the daytime and finding a hole to sleep in at night, or climbing a tree as necessary. Once in a great while he’d catch a fat toad, or some creepy crawly thing, and the best of all prizes was when he’d come across the half-eaten carcass of some other creature’s dinner. How he feasted then!
Fresh water was plentiful. Hundreds of small streams bisected the forest. One only had to be cautious of who or what else might be coming to drink.
And wherever he wandered he always looked for Bo, or his mother, or anyone else from their escape party, but there was never a sign of them. He’d daydream for hours about finding someone, and it was always Bo who was foremost in his mind, before he’d remember that there were others to look for and long for as well. He wandered so far and so aimlessly that he could have been a hundred miles or a hundred yards from that old campsite and he’d never know it. Many times he’d daydream that Max would suddenly appear, his sword flashing in his hand, and announce that he’d killed or driven away all of the threats in the forest, and he’d come to take Peter home. But Max never appeared. No one did.
Peter carried Frost with him always, but seldom played it and never to use one of its two remaining gifts of safety. The wolf hadn’t returned and most other creatures seemed content to give him a wide berth. He ran and hid from the more aggressive ones. Once he’d seen a lovely dark-haired woman in the woods and he started to approach her to ask for her help, but she was naked, painted in weird red designs, and talking in a strange tongue to a coal-black goat with high twisty horns. And that disturbed Peter enough to pass her by. At another time he spied a great ogre, as tall as the Peeps’ old house. The thing had its back to Peter, who watched it bite the head off a black bear with one chomp and then suck out the innards, before finishing it with another single bite. Peter made no sound, but backed away slowly and then put miles of distance between the ogre and himself.
And then long after he’d lost count of the days, Peter stumbled onto the banks of a great river, winding its majestic way through the woods, and it sparked a dim memory of something someone said: “West to the river and then upstream to Hamelin Town. That’s the plan.” He recalled it now! That was where they were all going to meet again, if they got split up. That’s where he would find the others!
Peter followed the river upstream. It was slow going, because he’d learned over his recent troubled months that he could successfully live off the land or move through it, but seldom do both with good results.
Gradually the forest widened out from the riverbanks on both sides, as small villages and farmsteads began to appear. Peter was torn, not knowing what to do. He was filthy and cut and scraped and dressed in rags by then, and had no idea what sort of reception he was likely to receive should he present himself at any of these strange doors. At the same time, the idea of Hamelin Town had become a talisman to him — a name to conjure with. If he could only make it to Hamelin Town, all would be well again. His family and the Peep family would all be there, safe and comfortable and waiting for him. Hamelin itself was transformed in his mind to a magic place of refuge. Peter couldn’t risk his welcome at any place but Hamelin, so he passed the other settlements by. He stayed at the edge of the forest, sometimes venturing out at night to steal eggs from henhouses, or vegetables from fields or gardens. And once even (oh, glorious day!) he helped himself to an entire blueberry pie that had been set out on a country cottage’s windowsill to cool.
Max had once accused Peter of being a terrible thief and it seems his accusation, while false at the time, was prophetic. Peter had become a thief indeed. When he saw a new (to him anyway) set of clothes, hanging out on a line to dry, he took them to replace the rags he wore. It would not be fit to present himself at the magical city’s gates as a filthy ragamuffin. Likewise he stole a bar of good lye soap from an outdoor washtub, and bathed himself in an isolated spot along the river.
Peter looked quite human again as he topped a rise one day and looked down into the valley beyond. There in the distance, spread out over two hills, and filling the lower lands between them, was the great walled city of Hamelin. The sun was out, birds sang in the forest, and all of Peter’s troubles were finally over.
In which we ponder
the eternal question:
How good were the
good old days?
THE MORNING AFTER HIS INTERVIEW WITH THE sheriff and The Witch, Peter boarded an international Lufthansa flight from New York’s La Guardia airport, bound for Frankfurt, Germany.
The last time he’d flown on a plane, it was powered by propeller engines, seats were roomy, full meals were served in-flight by polite and pretty hostesses who seemed genuinely glad to serve you, the napkins were cloth, the dinnerware was made of real glass and china, utensils weren’t made of flimsy anti-terrorist plastic, and all of the passengers applauded after every successful takeoff and landing. Things had changed since. Now the airport was an oppressive mess, the flight crew seemed annoyed at the passengers, just by virtue of their existence, the seats were cramped, and the meal (designated a snack actually, and six dollars extra for those in coach) was a pre-packaged mystery in aluminum foil. Worst of all, no one besides Peter seemed at all impressed by the absolute miracle of the flight itself — crossing an ocean in less than a day? Wondrous!
Surrounded by grumps and the terminally jaded, he pulled out his book (a paperback detective story) and settled in for a long flight.
In which a terrible
transformation is completed,
and Max passes up
a good meal.
AFTER EVERYONE ELSE HAD SCATTERED into the darkness, screaming and crying and moaning their fears, Max stood alone for a moment in the small circle of soft, flickering light given off by the dying campfire. He felt the blood drying on his face an
d the alarming thrill of what he’d done. He trembled with the enormity of it. There would be no going back now. Max Piper was no more. The flute-playing son of a flute player had died forever, victim of the same heavy, wet stone that had brutally transformed his father into raw memory and carcass. Max the heroic swordsman was also gone forever. Some part of his mind recognized that version of himself as nothing more than the temporary conjuration of a boy wishing to become a man. Only Max the Great and Terrible Beast of the Black Forest remained — neither a child nor an adult, not even a man, but a completely new sort of thing, ageless and eternal, and totally lacking human compassion, or love, or (most important) guilt. Instead the new Max possessed appetites, cunning and calculation, and that was enough.
He considered the various packs left abandoned in the campsite, along with the food, the blankets and most of the warm clothing. Each pack, of which there were twelve in total, contained a fat purse of gold marks, and all of it belonged to him now. But gathering his money would have to wait. There was a much more pressing treasure that needed collecting now, before it was lost forever. Frost was out there in the dark with Peter. That’s what needed sorting out first and foremost. Frost Taker, still hanging heavy in one hand, was eager to be about its work and needed to drink deep of Thief Peter’s innards. Only then the family treasure would be restored to its true owner. Only then would things be set right. That’s what Max needed to do first, before Peter could get away. Mere gold could wait.
Max stepped into the darkness, following in the direction he’d watched Peter go just two or three minutes earlier, dragging his sobbing little sweetheart behind him. Before long Max was as lost and confused in the pitch black of the endless forest as everyone else must be. At first he thought about finding his way back to the camp and making a torch from the fire. But he quickly discarded the idea, realizing that, although it would certainly provide him greater light to see by, it would also alert others to his coming. Even someone as stupid as filthy little Peter couldn’t help but easily avoid someone carrying a lit torch in the night. No, instead Max would creep silently and carefully, pausing often to listen. That’s how the other night prowlers hunted, and he was certainly one of them now.
He did so and in time his practice was rewarded. Pausing at the top of a slope, Max heard the quiet murmur of a stream far below, accompanied by distant voices. Listening intently, halting his own breathing to help unmask the nearly inaudible sounds, he eventually recognized Peter’s voice, along with the bratty Peep girl. It was hard to be certain, but they seemed to be arguing about her shoes, or perhaps just one shoe, along with something he couldn’t fully make out about a snail.
Ever so slowly he began to creep down towards them, taking care not to slip and thereby betray his presence. By the time Max reached the stream at the bottom of the gully, he could hear Peter and Bo, quite clearly now, on the water’s far side, crawling up the opposite slope. Max let them get farther up the hill, into the tree line, before crossing the stream after them. Be patient, he had to remind himself, when his every desire was to throw caution to the wind and dash boldly up the hill. Stealth and guile is what will win this night’s contest. Oddly, he began to suspect that he wasn’t the only one in danger of surrendering to impetuosity. Was it only his imagination, or could he now actually feel Frost Taker’s intense hunger for Peter’s blood? It seemed to practically vibrate in its sheath, like a prize colt being restrained from its desire to run.
After he judged that his prey was far enough up the hillside so that Max could not be easily overheard, he began to climb. It was beginning to get easier now to track them, and Max’s confidence was growing to fit the new circumstances. Not only were his eyes adjusting to the darkness by now — it had been thirty minutes at least since he was exposed to the camp’s firelight — but the children seemed intent on making his task easier by talking all the time. Max continued to climb.
And then he stopped.
No, he hadn’t intended to stop, but he stopped all the same. He wasn’t overly tired from the steep climb and felt nothing physical holding him. His desire to continue was undiminished — was growing in fact. But even so he remained still, as if rooted in place, halfway up the hillside.
Then, softly at first, Max began to hear the music. It was Peter somewhere up above him and he was playing a tune on Frost! Was the child insane? Who stops to play a flute when he’s on the run from any number of angry soldiers? Did he want to be caught? The music swelled in volume, and Max’s understanding grew with it. He’d heard the same tales of the ancient flute’s powers that Peter had and realized that Peter was using Frost’s magic to make danger pass him by. That’s why Max was suddenly stuck in place. Amazing! But how could Peter have known how close Max was to overtaking them? I must have made some sound, he thought, given myself away in some small manner.
The music continued, and as it did so Max had an increasing desire to turn and retreat back down the slope and then splash his way back across the stream. But then, before he could act on the growing compulsion, he was frozen in place by a new sound.
“What have you done to me, boy?”
It was a terrifying voice that shook Max to his bones! This was neither Peter nor Bo. It was the voice of something huge and deadly, not in the normal way of fearsome but entirely comprehensible dangers, but deadly in the way the old gods themselves must have used the word.
The creature went on to say more, but Max didn’t make it out, because just at that moment something came crashing down on him from above, striking him with such force that he was sent tumbling down the hillside, not stopping until he lay stunned, half in and half out of the chilling waters of the stream. Somewhere along the way he’d heard high screaming, which might have been his own, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. A beast of the night didn’t scream — at least not in such a high pitch.
Gradually his senses began to return and Max made out the dim figure of a little girl standing over him, holding a sword to his chest. It was Bo Peep and the sword was his own Frost Taker. That was impossible! Frost Taker would never allow any hand but his to wield it! And yet here was this ridiculous little girl, crying and shaking all the while, but definitely holding the sword towards him.
“Don’t move, soldier,” she sobbed, “or I’ll run you through!”
“I’m no soldier!” Max shouted in return. At the same time he discovered that the spell holding him in place was gone now. Wait, that wasn’t true. On further examination it was still in place, because he realized he couldn’t possibly make himself return up the hill to where Peter was still playing his haunting tune. But that same spell wasn’t keeping him from all movement, and did nothing at all to protect Bo, down here with him in the gully. Max could tell that he was perfectly free to take his sword back and slaughter little Bo Peep with it.
“Either my brother doesn’t actually love you after all,” Max said, “or the magic only works to protect him. Isn’t that hilarious?”
“Max?” Bo said, and there was fear and confusion in her voice.
“Give me my sword back, girl, and I’ll protect you, since Peter seems unable or unwilling to do it.” Max reached out, but Bo took a step back. She still had his sword and its point remained fixed somewhere between his chest and throat.
“You look strange, Max,” she said. “Sort of wild in the eye.”
“Give me my sword, you stupid little witch!” This time Max lunged at Bo, who screamed once and flailed wildly with the blade, catching Max on the base of the thumb. This time it was Max who screamed in pain and rage.
That was too much for Bo. She dropped the sword and ran off once more into the night. Max’s first instinct was to follow her and gut her from neck to belly for cutting him. But then he thought he’d better first find out how deep the cut was. He stood and tried as best he could, in the nearly nonexistent light, to examine his bleeding palm.
And while he did this the music of the flute continued above him, while the forest all
around him reverberated with the howls of a great and savage monster. Gradually, over the span of an hour or more, the bestial howling faded into the distance.
MAX COULDN’T FIND PETER again after that night, nor was he able to find Bo or the camp where his gold waited for him to come back and retrieve it. And who knows? Those twelve purses of good Hessian marks might still be there today, patiently waiting for someone to discover them.
Like Peter, Max had also learned enough basic woodcraft from their mother to recognize many edible plants and mushrooms, and like Peter, that was how he survived those first long days and nights following the incident at the camp. During that time, unknown to either brother, their lives paralleled each other’s. Both wandered without direction, living on scavenged plants and grubs. But unlike Peter, Max didn’t remain alone in the woods for long. On his fourth, or possibly fifth, day Max stumbled into a small clearing where two of the Peep girls were huddled, more dead than alive, under the half-hollowed trunk of a giant fallen evergreen.
“Look, Dorthe, Look! Here’s Max come out of the woods like an angel to save us!” It was either Brigitte or Elfride who was pointing at him, as if he were a handsome prince come to take her away on a white stallion. In all of their past visits, Max had never bothered to learn one Peep daughter from another very well, and now in their dirty and disheveled state, it was even harder to tell them apart.
Both girls crawled out from under the fallen tree and clutched at him, frantically, the way a mother claws at a lost child who was suddenly restored to her, not quite willing to trust such a happy miracle.
Peter & Max: A Fables Novel Page 11
