Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [17]
Eventually the gravel road turned into little more than an overgrown footpath, and in time disappeared altogether, so Peter had to take the truck overland, avoiding the bigger boulders he could see above the tall grass, and bouncing over small ones he couldn’t. He maneuvered around stands of trees and any number of hidden culverts, ditches and sinkholes. A trip that would have taken minutes on a good road took most of an hour cross country. He kept the truck aimed more or less east, and a bit north, towards a notch between the lowest of the rugged hills girdling Wolf Valley. From a distance at least it looked like the easiest route over to the other side.
The grade got steadily steeper the closer he approached the hills, and the number of trees, rocks and other obstacles increased. Finally, when the accumulating hazards were more than the vehicle could safely handle, he parked it to get out and walk. He zipped the flute case into a daypack, added a few bottles of water, and a light rain slicker, in case the weather turned, and set out at a brisk pace. He passed a hand-carved wooden sign that announced he was about to leave the Farm. A few feet beyond that, another sign warned him that he was entering Wolf Valley, even though he was still at least one long ascent away from anything remotely valley-like. The slope increased as he went, and in scant time he was doing as much actual climbing as hiking. He pulled himself upwards, grasping branches and rocks overhead, or anything else that looked solid enough to take his weight without dislodging. There were some evergreens here, but most of the trees were still broadleaves, and this high up they’d already turned every possible variation of red and orange. The overhead leaves stained the blue ceiling of the sky like dried blood spatter.
After some time Peter finally crested the top of the hill, only to discover that it was a false summit — a ridge that looked like the top from below, but which turned out to be just another step along the way. The rest of the hill continued upwards, following a short tease of gentle down-slope. He decided it was a good time to take a break, so he found a fallen log to sit on. No sooner had he gotten comfortable than a deep bass voice surprised him from somewhere nearby, though its owner remained quite concealed.
“You made good time,” the hidden someone said. “I was just heading overhill, to meet you at the edge of my property. I thought I’d save you the tough climb.”
“Bigby?” Peter said, standing up to look left and right, not entirely certain from which direction the voice had come. Then, with a soft rustle of leaves, a huge shape detached itself from the concealment of rock and root, and padded forward through intervening trees, resolving into the form of a wolf as it did so. And such a wolf it was! It was a monstrous thing, as tall as a grown man at its shoulders. Its coat was black on top, shading to gray under its belly. It had yellow-white fangs as long as daggers, and its eyes reflected the filtered light coming through the overhead canopy, amber one second and then dark red the next. This was Bigby, the legendary monster, the subject of countless nightmares, the Lord of All Wolves.
“And,” Bigby continued, “I thought it best we had this conversation alone, rather than let you come all the way to the house and risk upsetting my wife and cubs. They’ve had their share of tough times lately and don’t need a new worry to fret over. Especially when it’s nothing they can do anything about.”
Bigby came closer and Peter took an instinctive step back.
“Don’t worry,” Bigby said, “I won’t eat you. Haven’t you heard? I’ve stopped doing that, especially to those I’ve invited into my company.”
“You didn’t always