Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [28]
Max was suddenly quite afraid, and it wasn’t just the general fear he’d felt all day, when any of a hundred different unspecified dooms could have befallen him. This was a very particular sort of fear, in response to a specific and immediate threat, from a grown man right in front of him. All heroic fantasies vanished in an instant. Max wanted nothing so dearly as to run from the room, or worse, even more humiliating, into his mother’s arms. And the shame of this immediate and fully potent fear hit him hard. The entire room could see him wilt like a flower. At that very moment his spirit was on the threshold of being crushed for all time.
And then, when it seemed there could be no greater humiliation than this, it suddenly increased tenfold.
“You leave my brother alone!” Peter cried. He barged forward into the middle of the room and faced the large, scary Wilhelm as if he were ready to fight him on the spot. It was a comical sight, this small boy standing up to such a big man. First Wilhelm gaped at the surprising scene, and then he laughed a great roaring laugh, and soon nearly everyone in the room joined in.
“You’re quite the fierce young wolf!” Wilhelm said, a broad grin splitting his scarred face. “A warrior among men. Here, son, have a true man’s treat. See if you have a taste for tough vittles.” He held out the open jar to Peter, who just stood, quivering, but otherwise not doing anything in response.
“Go on. Try one, boy.” The jar stayed there, suspended in front of Peter, looking less to Max like a peace offering and more like some sort of mysteriously renewed threat every second. “It’ll grow you some hair down there.” Even Max understood that this was now a challenge his little brother must meet. Peter hesitated and then started to reach for the jar, ready to pull his hand back at an instant.
“Hurry up, little warrior. Pick something. It won’t bite. Well, it will, but not until you bite first, which seems only fair now, doesn’t it?” More laughter, but quieter now, pensive as all waited to see what the little boy would do.
All at once, he seemed to screw up his courage. Peter picked a pickled pepper. He bit it hard and fast, and suddenly his eyes mushroomed with new tears and his nose blossomed bright red. His face scrunched into a mask of anxiety and regret. And then he began coughing and sputtering. Tears flowed freely and snot ran down his lip. Wilhelm and his mates exploded with renewed laughter.
“And look at that!” Wilhelm shouted, “He didn’t even spit it out!” Which was true. Peter grimly chewed the pepper and swallowed it, his face a study in agony all the while. “You’re a better man than I am, young hero! Even I don’t eat the little red ones. We call them dragon’s warts for good reason. They keep too much of their fire. I just eat around those.” Wilhelm gave weeping, coughing Peter a huge slap on his back — the kind that said, “You’re our friend now and equal to any of us,” and that broke the last remnants of the spell of danger in the room.
Max had stood to one side during this tableau, quite forgotten by all in the chamber, which was a blessing, considering what might have happened before his little brother bravely intervened. But if so, it was a miserable blessing indeed. Once again Peter was the hero and Max was