Peter & Max: A Fables Novel

by Bill Willingham

  “Have heart,” Max said, sotto voce. “This time it’s only the end of the world for some of you. I haven’t yet learned to play Fire well enough to usher in a full worldwide apocalypse, but trust that I will, dear people. I’m dedicated and I practice daily, so someday I will.”

  MAX TOOK HIS SUPPER at the elegant (but unpopular in these days of understandable rage against all things German) Kaiserhof restaurant, just across Broadway from the Metropolitan Opera House. Nearly alone in the large dining room, he ate a leisurely meal of assorted wursts and Bavarian-style potato salad, while reading the paper. He noted that the Billy Sunday Crusade was headed into town and, true to the afternoon paperboy’s promise, things were indeed very bad in Tahiti. A full seventh of its major city Papeete’s entire population had succumbed to the disease, food and medicine were scarce, and the massive piles of the burning dead were everywhere. A country-by-country list of death totals was published on page three, and the numbers were breathtaking. “Well done,” he congratulated himself.

  When the check arrived, he paid the exorbitant $1.25 fee with two glistening silver dollars, inviting the mildly astonished waiter to keep the change. Then he added, “But spend those quickly. They’ll fade in a day or two.” The waiter dismissed the strange admonition, thinking the confusion was entirely his fault, due to some defect in his admittedly shaky command of English, which was not his cradle tongue.

  Afterwards, Max emerged onto a still-bustling Broadway, enjoying the cool of the evening. “Don’t Try to Steal the Sweetheart of a Soldier” was playing softly from the broadcast speaker mounted outside of the Rexall Drug Store a few doors down. With a full belly and content that he’d seen at least some of the effect his work had done in this greatest of all mundy cities, he decided to head uptown, to be about the real reason for his visit to these shores.

  With a short dash he was able to scramble aboard one of Broadway’s electric trolleys, headed uptown, at full acceleration between two stops. Immediately he was greeted with curses and catcalls, as well as actual blows from some of the other passengers standing closest to him.

  “Where’s your mask?” one of them yelled.

  Even the uniformed trolley operator shouted at him, when he tried to pay the six cent fee, saying, “Don’t you know it’s against the law to board a New York trolley unmasked?”

  “But I have a mask,” Max said, and suddenly it was true. A white, butter-cloth mask covered his mouth and nose, just like those worn by the astonished operator and his passengers. Every morning Max played a tune of general conjuration, which he could make use of throughout the day, drawing on it incrementally as a businessman draws upon his expense account. His skill with the magic flute had grown so acute over the ages that he no longer needed to play a separate tune for each small thing he desired.

  No one bothered him for the remainder of the ride. In fact they backed as far away from him as the crowded coach would allow, leaving him a truly comfortable amount of room all to his own.

  Carrying Fire with him, as always, he rode the merrily clanging Broadway trolley all the way to Columbus Avenue, transferring there to one of the city’s last horse-drawn omnibuses — most of the horses having been taken away to the New Jersey countryside, to help plow open mass trench graves for disposal of the influenza dead. The omnibus brought him due north, paralleling Central Park, deep into the neighborhood called the Upper West Side, where he finally disembarked at 104th Street. Max walked from there, following Fire’s gentle pull, leading him to where he would stay the night. He walked east, along 104th, coming at last to Central Park and an impressive four-story stone castle that overlooked it. The building was bordered on its three remaining sides by luxury apartment towers, but not so close as to intrude on its wide lawns and gardens. It was a single-family mansion called Twilight Castle, and J. Randolph Coppersmith, the infamous oil and steel tycoon, owned it.

  Max pondered the modern castle for a time, decided that it was fit to host him, and raised Fire to his lips. The cloth mask that had covered his mouth dutifully disappeared back into the nothingness it once was. He played a simple tune, and in no time at all, liveried servants, stout butlers, row upon row of maids and cooks, and two uniformed chauffeurs marched off the grounds, all in single file, and disappeared into the park. Just a few moments later, J. Randolph Coppersmith himself followed suit, marching at the lead of his pleasantly plump wife and two rotund children. Soon enough, they also vanished into the park.

  Max entered his new home and settled in for the night.

  HE ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, bathed, and fixed himself a hearty breakfast from the castle’s well-stocked kitchen. Then he conjured a new set of clothes that were as gaudy as the previous day’s ensemble. Leaving his old clothes behind, to fade when they would, he set out on foot for Fabletown. He strolled south until he was in the nineties, and then west towards the Hudson River until he came to a small cross street — hardly more than an alley — called Bullfinch. Actually he passed it several times at first, going back and forth along Andersen Street, being drawn one way and then the other by Fire’s insistent pull, until at last he noticed the tiny Bullfinch Street, and the tall, gray Woodland Building which sat brooding like an ancient watchtower in its center.

  “My name is Max Piper,” he said to the uniformed security guard, who was quietly dozing behind a desk just inside of the Woodland’s lobby. “I’m a lost Fable, newly arrived in the mundy world, and I’m here to join your community in exile.” This was enough to startle the guard out of his slumbers.

  “Excuse me?” the guard said, snorting and coughing himself into full wakefulness. He was short and slim. His uniform was gray and black, and he wore a revolver in a holster on his black patent-leather gun belt.

  “Watch out,” Max said. “Coughs and sneezes spread diseases. As dangerous as poison gas shells, or so the ubiquitous public notices claim.” He smiled his most charming smile, and doffed his hat with a flourish.

  “What did you say you wanted?” the guard said. Looking deeper now, Max could see that this fellow wasn’t human after all. Peering beyond the powerful illusion, which surrounded the man like a cloak, he could dimly make out that the guard was in truth a large and fearsome bridge troll, with rough, pinkish skin and deadly yellow fighting tusks.

  “Call your superiors, my good creature. I’m here to sign up.”

  In scant time, two actual human Fables, in fact as well as appearance, were summoned to the lobby. They were a lovely woman and an older gentleman. She introduced herself as Snow White, first assistant to the other fellow whom she identified as Ichabod Crane, the deputy mayor of Fabletown. After the introductions were settled, they invited Max up to one of the building’s guest suites, where they could all be more comfortable while they worked things out.

  “You don’t have an office?” Max said as they rode the modern caged elevator skyward.

  “We do,” Ichabod explained, “but it’s off limits to all but our own people.”

  “Of which I’m the latest,” Max said.

  “Perhaps,” Snow said, “but that remains to be determined.”

  Once they were settled into the promised suite, Snow White immediately got down to business, even though the gangly and bespectacled Ichabod seemed content to hem and haw for a goodly while longer.

  “Will you tell us more about who you are and how you escaped the Homelands?” Snow said. She had pale skin and night-dark hair, which she wore pulled back into a severe bun that allowed not the slightest strand free to dangle and play in any stray breezes the day might bring. She was dressed in dull brown, and though her skirt hem was as high as the current style demanded, her long laced canvas and leather “spectators” prevented any chance of the slightest hint of bare leg showing.

  In response to her request, Max narrated a truncated and mostly fictional account of his history, up until his arrival in the mundy world. He omitted any mention of his conflict with Peter, nor his dealings with the Hamelin of the Hesse.


  “He’s lying,” a voice said from behind him, once Max had concluded his story. Max turned to see that an old woman sat behind him, in a rocking chair that occupied one corner of the room that he would have sworn was empty when they’d first arrived. She had steel gray hair, and her face and hands were a symphony of wrinkles and wrines. She wore a faded print dress of small white flowers against a green field. She knitted from a straw basket in her lap as she rocked gently back and forth.

  “Frau Totenkinder, I didn’t know you’d be joining us,” a flustered Ichabod said. He scrubbed frantically at his glasses with the end of his black necktie.

  “I hadn’t planned to,” Totenkinder said, “but dear old Max got my attention when he arrived. I’ve past history with the man that I thought you should be made aware of before you do anything rash, like invite him to sign our compact.”

  “I’ve never seen this person in my life,” Max said.

  “Not like this,” Totenkinder said. “I was younger and prettier when you borrowed that flute from me.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” Max said, and his eyes narrowed, perhaps to conceal the dangerous look that steeled their way into them. “Once again I have to remind you that Fire isn’t yours, it’s mine.”

  “Only in the sense that you’ve managed to prevent me from taking it back so far,” she said.

  “Yes,” Max said, “I could feel you tugging at it over the years, but it’s happy in my possession and not likely to abandon me for more centuries spent sitting ignored on a shelf. Fire likes to play and create among the myriad worlds. It has no love of rest and idleness.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on between the two of you,” Snow interrupted, “but one thing’s for certain. If we accept you into our community, you wouldn’t be allowed to keep any dangerous magic implements you bring with you. I assume this ‘Fire’ the two of you refer to is that flute you carry?”

  “It is, but —”

  “Then you will have to surrender it for storage in our Business Office,” Snow continued. “One of the non-negotiable conditions of Fabletown citizenship is that all magic items spirited out of the Homelands are held communally, for the use and benefit of all of us.”

  “A sensible ordinance,” Max said, with a crafty smile, “and one which I’ll gladly obey. Of course, among its many virtues, Fire is indeed, as you’ve surmised, a dangerous weapon. More than once it’s saved me from a tough scrape with the Empire’s forces. But, since no imperial troops rule here, in this cozy island of peace and refuge, I don’t need a dangerous weapon anymore, do I? However, in the interests of public safety, I’d need to train someone in the proper means of handling and storing it, which might take some time.”

  “There’s no end to this reptile’s deception,” Totenkinder said. “If the two of you can’t see he’s lying, then I fear for our future under your administration. Max Piper has no intention of surrendering his flute. I believe his sole purpose in attempting to join Fabletown is so that he can learn the whereabouts of his brother, Peter — one of the few secrets that are beyond Fire’s powers to reveal.”

  “Oh? Is my brother here?” Max said. “I had no idea. But yes, if that’s the case, of course I want a reunion with him. Families should be together, but we’ve been kept apart from each other for too long.”

  “He tried to kill Peter in the past and plans to try again,” Totenkinder said.

  “My understanding is that all sins of the past are washed away, once I sign the Fabletown Compact. Is that not the case? If not, then there are many past deeds this witch has perpetrated that you should be made aware of.”

  “Past crimes are forgiven and forgotten,” Ichabod said.

  “But any new ones, after signing the Compact, are dealt with harshly,” Snow leapt in to add.

  “I promise you’ll find my repentance is deep and sincere,” Max said.

  “Then we’ll adjourn this matter until we’ve had a chance to discuss it,” Ichabod said. “Max, you can stay here for the night, as our guest, and we’ll let you know of our decision in the morning.”

  “Lovely!” Max said. “Wonderful! But there’s no need to put me up like some freeloader off the streets. I’ve secured my own lodgings while in town. Just tell me when you want to see me in the morning and I’ll be here.”

  THAT EVENING, AND LATE INTO THE NIGHT, the witch and the two Fabletown officers discussed Max’s application for citizenship. They held the debate in the mayor’s penthouse residence, high on top of the Woodland Building, with King Cole, the mayor, joining in the discussion. The arguments went round and round, as arguments will. Totenkinder was steadfastly against it, Snow expressed a wary need of caution, while Ichabod Crane and King Cole questioned, dithered and dissembled, as they often did, when hard decisions were in the offing. But finally King Cole resolved himself and said, “I believe I understand all of the reasons why we shouldn’t trust this Mr. Piper, but the universal amnesty is the single foundation on which all of Fabletown rests. If we deny membership to one man, based upon what he’s done in the past and what we fear he may do in the future, then the house of cards we’ve built may come tumbling down around us.

  “Fabletown is a fragile experiment in a new way of living, where a pauper and a king enjoy equal freedoms and responsibilities. One misstep could end it. I believe, in the final analysis, we have to treat Max Piper just like we did Bigby, and you, Frau Totenkinder, and even me. Each of us committed terrible crimes and shameful deeds in the old worlds. We all came damaged and sinful into this new world, and only prospered as much as we have together, through borrowed grace. None of us deserved our place in Fabletown. Instead it was a gift we gave to each other. Barring unimpeachable evidence that he plans to further harm Peter, or his poor wife, or any other of us, I can’t see any way we can avoid giving this man the same chance to start over that each of us has been granted. When he returns tomorrow, we have to let him sign the Compact and receive the general amnesty.”

  And so it was decided.

  But later that same night, while Max slept peacefully in his stolen castle, a visitor appeared quietly in his bedroom. She made no sound, but nevertheless Max awoke before she could cross the room and remove Fire from where it lay next to him on the large bed that seemed to cover acres of floor.

  “I thought you might try a midnight visit,” Max said, coming fully awake in an instant. He lifted Fire, sat up in the bed and regarded her in the night-shrouded chamber.

  “I can’t let you sign the Compact tomorrow,” the witch said. She still looked as old as she’d seemed the afternoon before, but now there wasn’t a hint of frailty about her. She stood thin and small in the center of the floor, but this time there was a sense of weight and solidity attached to her, radiating invisibly but substantially from her.

  “And I can’t let you stop me,” he said. “Unless you’re ready to tell me where my brother and his miserable, broken little wife have hidden themselves. In that case I’d be willing to settle old matters with them alone and be on my way, like the proverbial happy wanderer, never to darken the Woodland’s door again.”

  “I don’t think I’ll do that,” she said. “Instead I think I’ll do what I should have done ages ago and rid the world of you — rid all the worlds of you. At long last, I’ve finally learned that one can’t bargain with monsters. They simply need to be destroyed when discovered.”

  Max stood up.

  “You can’t beat me,” he said. “Fire’s too strong and I’m its master.”

  “And you’ve wandered into my place of power,” Totenkinder said. “I’ve had centuries here to prepare the ground.” Tendrils of long dormant enchantments yawned into life and began to tickle the air around her, invisible to anyone but these two. “I can read the protections layered around you as if I’d written them myself. And I know what you’ve done and continue to do in this world — the plague you’ve unleashed. That was power ill spent, Max Piper, because, though it’s killed and continues to kill many a mundy, it’s had
no effect on Fables.”

  “You think so?” he said. “Yes, my gift to the world kills many of the weak dullards who people this world, but that was just a side effect of its true purpose. They weren’t its real target. I trained my influenza to affect Fables in a different way, and it’s already done its work among you. Don’t you know me by now, witch? I don’t kill outright when I can attack you through your offspring. My bug has wormed its way in and taken all of your children away from you — not those you’ve already had, but those you might have had from now on. Fabletown is barren, old woman, from this day forward. Call it the most oft-repeating motif in the never-ending concerto of my life. I steal children. That’s what I do. That’s what you created me to do.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll undo when I take Fire back from you.” The witch spread her thin arms and gathered all of her fell powers around her. Max raised Fire to his lips, but he was too late.

  Outside, over the past hour, black storm clouds had piled up over the city, building in fury. Now they released it. Ten thousand windows shattered from the thunderblasts, and hard rain pounded down from the heavens. The fevered and infirm thrashed in their sickbeds, crying out from nightmares, and then died in greater numbers that night than ever before. A dozen fires were started by lightning strikes throughout the five boroughs. Murders and suicides increased by a factor of ten, and a hundred other deaths were attributed to inexplicable acts of God. But no god played any part in them. Every calamity in the city was caused by the overflow of dark energies emanating from a gray stone castle on Central Park.