Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [53]
He seldom thought of Bo, or at least tried not to, because he no longer felt worthy of her. He couldn’t bear what he’d become — a human version of vermin, a filthy rat in the streets — and knew that she’d be justifiably shocked and appalled by him now.
Sometimes he thought of his father, and when he did he imagined a terrible sight of many scarred and bearded soldiers standing over an unrecognizable thing on the wet forest floor. They wore his father’s blood, spattered over their face and skin and clothes, and didn’t mind it. Each one of them looked as frightening as Max had on that unspeakable night so long ago.
When he could, he went from door to door in one of the town’s sixteen distinct residential neighborhoods, asking after his lost ones. Most of the time he’d had the door slammed in his face, before he could get his story told. The residents of Hamelin were learning not to talk to strangers for any reason. None of the few willing to listen to his plight had ever heard of anyone named Peep or Piper. No one he spoke to ever had a crust or a scrap to spare, and most were shocked to see someone beg without a license.
In addition to the residents, any one of whom might think it prudent to turn him in, he had to be careful to avoid the guard patrols. On more than one occasion they’d tried to run him down. So far he’d managed to outrun them, scampering into the hidden warrens and shadows that any big town offered, and which he was learning in minute detail. But he was getting weaker, and therefore slower, by the day, while the goblins, though not as fleet of foot as the average human, were always well fed. Sooner, rather than later, they’d catch him sure enough.
Once recently, one lucky gob had actually gotten a hand around Frost’s carrying case, which Peter still wore slung over his back. When he could feel the strap slipping, about to hitch up to where it would either come free of his head, or choke him around his neck, Peter had suddenly stopped running, turned and kicked the massive goblin in his large round belly. His attack couldn’t possibly have hurt the creature, but the gob was so surprised by the bold act that it let go of Frost’s case, and Peter got away. That sort of miracle wasn’t likely to happen twice.
When nearly a month had passed since his arrival in town, Peter had to admit to himself that he was dying, slowly to be sure, but dying just the same. The days had steadily grown colder and wetter as winter approached, and he’d grown too weak to succeed much longer in avoiding or outrunning each one of the many dangers in this very dangerous place. In desperation, he considered his remaining options.
First, he could turn himself in to the occupying soldiers and be taken off into one of their slave camps. He knew that in his frail condition he probably wouldn’t last long, but at least he might get to eat something close to a real meal again before the end.
The second option was to try to steal the food he had no way to pay for, or earn in any other honorable way. The idea was abhorrent to him, especially so in light of his brother’s past accusation that he was nothing but a dirty thief all along. How long ago was that? It seemed so distant, but it couldn’t have been much more than two months past. How odd back then that Peter hadn’t any idea he’d ever want for enough to eat.
The third option was the most alarming to imagine. He could try to find some way to sell Frost, his only thing of value, or trade it for something to eat. But even in his terrible state, knowing full well he was dying, the idea seemed monstrous to him. He’d promised to guard and cherish Frost always, ultimately surrendering it only when he had a son he could pass it on to. It was the first oath he