Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [29]
But one thing saved him. Before he could sink into that final abyss of despair, the one so deep that no man could ever fully escape, Max noticed something that made him angry — very angry indeed. He’d missed it at first, because as usual, Peter was dressed in a shirt and breeches of simple brown homespun, whose color almost exactly matched the shade of the thing hanging across his back. It was a narrow tube of hard leather, just over a foot long, and attached to a strap at both ends, which was looped crosswise over Peter’s back, over one shoulder and under the other. Once he actually saw the thing, Max recognized it instantly.
Peter was carrying Frost!
“Give that here!” Max shouted, startling all into stunned silence. Peter faced him, as did everyone else in the room.
“Max?” Peter said, an authentically worried expression on his tear-stained face, his eyes still watering from the harsh pepper. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re carrying Father’s flute. That’s not right. If Father doesn’t have it, then I should be the one to hold it for him. You can’t keep it safe. I’m the oldest, and he put me in charge.” Max’s face was twisted with anger, as if Peter had done something personally to hurt him. He held out one hand. “So give it to me.”
“No, Max, you don’t understand. It isn’t Father’s flute anymore. Last night he gave Frost to me.”
“Liar!” Max screamed.
“He did,” Peter said. “I know you wanted it, and I always thought you’d be the one to get it, but Father decided otherwise.”
“He wouldn’t do that! I’m the oldest! I’m the one who gets Frost and not you! You’re just a big fat liar and a thief!”
“But, Max …”
“You are! You’ve always been a thief and you always will be! You steal everything from me and take everything that should be mine! But you won’t get away with it this time! Give Frost back to me!”
Max threw himself at Peter and hit him, first once and then again. Peter staggered back, shocked into immobility. Like all brothers, Peter and Max had had their squabbles, but it had never before turned violent. Max had never hit Peter in the past, and he could hardly believe he was doing it now. Some detached part of Max realized he was out of control, but he couldn’t help it. His face was a contorted mask of rage and there was madness in his eyes. He lunged at Peter wildly, hitting, scratching and clawing at him, screaming “Give it back” all the while. Peter fell to the floor, curling up and covering his face with his arms. Max dropped on top of him, continuing to claw and scratch and now also biting. He bit Peter in the fleshy part of one arm, and when he moved it out of danger, Max tried to bite Peter’s newly exposed face and neck. By now Max’s screams had degenerated into an incoherent wailing of pure agony.
And then, all at once, Max felt himself levitating into the air, still flailing madly, but no longer able to reach Peter. Big Wilhelm had lifted Max off his brother. Wilhelm held Max suspended in one huge hand, preventing him from doing anything but striking and clawing at the empty air and wail his frustration. Mother Piper was also standing there, looking angry and hurt.
“What are you doing, you daft child?” Mother said. “Are you insane that you’d start a fight in the middle of an invasion, where any sort of trouble is liable to inspire goblin monsters to come in here to chop us dead?”
Max only answered her with continued wailing.
“He’s not a rational creature no more,” Wilhelm said. And then he shook Max vigorously, still up in the air, trying to shake all of the fight and struggle out of him. “I think his mind’s broken. I’ve seen it happen to others like this, back in my army days. They just get too afraid and something snaps inside them.” Max continued to struggle in Wilhelm’s arms, but weaker than before. Wilhelm shook him again, as a terrier will shake a rat caught in its mouth, to snap its neck, or at least shake the fight out of it.
“That’s enough, I think,” Mother said. “Please set my son down.” Max no longer looked mad, just stunned and confused.
“I don’t know, Ma’am. He might still