Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [100]
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