Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [6]
Rose pulled her truck slowly into the barely used driveway and parked it. Closer now, she noticed more details. The cottage was surrounded by a complex multi-terraced wooden porch that had all manner of ramps connecting each level. It spread out from the house in every direction and looked as if it had been added to over a large span of years. There was a green lawn and several small, well-tended flower gardens, which were also surrounded and traversed by a maze of raised wooden pathways venturing out from the porch.
As Rose stepped down from her truck, the cottage’s front door opened and Peter Piper appeared in the doorway, pushing his wife Bo in front of him in her wheelchair.
“Good morning, Rose,” Peter said, his wife’s echo only a half beat behind him.
Then Bo said, all on her own this time, “What brings you out all the way to Casa Piper?”
They seemed cheerful at least, Rose thought. She hadn’t run the Farm for very long, and hadn’t lived here much longer than that. She didn’t know the Pipers very well, except that they preferred to keep to themselves, way out here in their remote home, where they’d lived alone with each other, year after year, century after century, ever since escaping from the Homelands.
“Morning,” Rose answered. “I need to talk to Peter.”
“Sounds ominous,” Peter said. “Can Bo join in, or is this a private matter?” Bo had pale blonde hair that was nearly white in the morning sun. It was long but she wore it pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She was lovely, as most Fable women tend to be, but hers was a wistful beauty that threatened to disappear into sadness at any moment. She wore a tan sweater and a green tartan blanket covered her legs, concealing the ruined limbs beneath. Rose had seen Bo’s dead legs only once by rare accident, at one of the Farm dances, when a pair of geese, over-spirited by too much dancing and too many beers, tumbled into her chair, causing her blanket to slip for a brief, terrible second. Rose had been embarrassed at how quickly she’d turned away from the sight. Bo laughed off the incident at the time and didn’t seem to mind for the rest of the evening, but she never returned to the main village after that.
Peter was of average height and slim, threatening towards skinny, without quite getting there. He had dark brown hair cut short and matching brown eyes. He wore a maroon cotton shirt over a long-sleeved undershirt, khaki pants and old hiking boots.
“I’m not sure,” Rose said. “I think we better make it private, until you hear what I have to say. Then you can decide if it’s something you want to share. I apologize if that seems rude, Bo.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bo said. An uncommitted smile touched her lips briefly and then vanished. “It’s such a lovely morning, we were going to have breakfast out on the patio. You two have your talk while I move everything out to the picnic table. You’ll join us of course.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned her chair deftly and wheeled herself back inside.
Rose and Peter walked away from the house, along one of Bo’s wooden wheelchair pathways. This one led out quite a distance to where a thick wooden target had been securely propped upright. It was roughly carved into the shape of a full-grown man and had hundreds of tiny cuts and gouges in its surface.
They left the wood pathway at its farthest point and stepped down onto the turf, where the green lawn grass ended and the taller yellow livestock grass began, and then continued farther out into the fields. Itinerant gusts of wind bent the tall grass in playful patterns. Fifty yards away a pair of energetic sheepdogs yawped and maneuvered, pushing a portion of the flock their way.
“They’re good dogs,” Peter said. “Good friends. They always keep a few of the sheep near our house, especially the new lambs when they come. Even after all this time, Bo still likes being near her lambs.”
“Even