Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [12]
“What if it wasn’t a hunter?” Max said. “What if this is from an advance scout for an invading army?”
“Well, I imagine that’s the sort of thing that someone would notice,” Radulf said. “Neighbors would certainly spread the word about armies tramping around in our woods.”
“But I have heard about it!” Max said. “Lots of times!”
“I’m afraid my son has fallen in love with some wild stories he picked up in other towns,” Johannes interrupted. “There are always rumors about terrible invading hordes. It’s standard tavern talk by bored men who want to imagine their lives are more exciting than they are. But of course the fanciful armies have always invaded that distant town no one trades with, or that faraway kingdom that nobody ever visits. It’s never anyplace someone actually knows. Finding a bit of arrow stuck in a tree is just the sort of thing to reignite his imagination.”
“It’s perfectly understandable,” Radulf laughed. “Why, in my childhood, I can’t begin to count the number of times I had to single-handedly repel foreign barbarians from those very same woods. Perhaps we should all get inside, where we’ll be safe?” he laughed again, and others joined in. Then he turned to Peter and said more soberly, “I suspect you’re wondering where my youngest has gotten herself off to? Well, she can’t seem to pull herself away from her lambs these days, not even long enough to show basic courtesy to honored guests. She’s got it into her head that every blessed one of them is this year’s top prize winner. Why don’t you go out behind the house and see if you can find her?”
“And save her from Max’s pillaging hordes,” Elfride said, which inspired more laughter.
Peter ran off around the house and everyone else began to move inside, including Max who’d turned quiet and sullen again. He trailed behind the rest of them, hanging his head and beginning to sulk at the fun that was made of him. But when he tried to enter the house behind the rest, Johannes paused in the doorway, blocking it. “Not you, Max,” he said. “Not before you unhitch Bonny Lumpen from the wagon and give her a good brushing.”
“Why?” Max whined. “They have servants here to do that.”
“They aren’t our servants,” Johannes said.
“Why am I being singled out? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“This isn’t punishment, boy, it’s duty. You’re becoming a man now, and a man learns to get his work done before he rests and plays.”
“But Peter got to run off and play.”
“Peter’s only ten years old. When you were still ten I didn’t make you do such chores either. I did them. But now in my rapidly approaching dotage, I’m reminded of a rhyme someone once taught me. ‘The name of my son is my work’s done.’ More and more each day, that’s going to have to be you, Max. Think on it. And think about this too while you do your honest labor. Peter’s the most gifted player of the three of us. Whether he works harder at it than we do, or it comes natural to him, I can’t say. He can simply do things with a flute that you or I can’t match. Which means he brings in more money than either of us. So, consider that when you’re tempted again to worry about who is or isn’t pulling his full weight around here.”
So Max unhitched Bonny Lumpen and walked with her to the stables where she amiably chatted with the other animals — those who could talk — while he brushed her down. Reluctant though he was, he did a good and thorough job of it, because the mule could tell on him if he didn’t. As he worked he stewed about the arrowhead he’d found. I did hear about real invaders, he thought. Not just rumors, because too many of the stories matched. They got lots of details the same. They should have listened to me.
And they probably should have listened. Although it’s doubtful, had anyone believed him, that they could have done anything different to stave off or even mitigate the many sorrows to come.
LITTLE BO PEEP WAS STANDING in the greenest field of grass Peter had ever seen. It was a small,