by Felix Salten
Cautiously he moved from bush to bush. Occasionally a twig snapped under his beginner’s foot.
Boso started nervously. He had a feeling that danger was near. He began to move, slowly because he was not sure from where the subtle hint of danger came; but soon the quick drumbeat of his hoofs would mean his safety.
The boy flung himself on the ground, his own nerves tense with the fear of disappointment. Hardly sighting in his haste, he brought his rifle up and fired. The bullet, like an evil message, streaked for Boso. Desperately leaping at the rifle’s sound, Boso sprang away. He felt his chest sear with a burning pain. With a snort of terror he rushed into the rising sun.
Bambi, on guard, sprang to his feet. Like a flashing shadow his passage through the trees was swift but silent. He met Boso at an angle among the columns of a grove of pine. The young roe-deer was staggering with fear and pain.
“Come,” Bambi commanded, “follow me!”
Dumbly Boso obeyed. His blood ran down his chest and made a trail of ruddy spots behind him. He wanted to lie down, to rest, to tremble, alone and quietly, as is the way of wounded deer; but Bambi was firm. He knew the danger of those bloody tracks.
“Hurry,” he urged. “We must stop that bleeding or He will surely find you.”
They came to a tiny glade where a crystal spring welled up and fed a lawn of clustering herbs. Bambi chose one.
“Eat that,” he said.
Boso took a mouthful of it and spat it out.
“It’s horrible,” he groaned. “Let me lie down and rest.”
“Nonsense,” Bambi growled. “You’re hardly scratched. I thought you were so brave—such a great fighter! Do you give up when a bramble scratches you?” He grinned suddenly, remembering the time when Boso had burrowed like a rabbit into a tangle of thorns. “Come now, eat, and eat well. That herb will stop your bleeding.”
“I’ve been struck by the thunder-stick,” Boso wailed.
“And you’re alive to tell about it! You’re lucky, my boy. Lucky—and a fool to be out in daylight.”
Grudgingly Boso ate the gray-green weed.
“That’s it,” Bambi said. “That will do.”
Bambi made Boso walk in front of him while he keenly eyed the path. When the telltale bloodspots ceased, he halted.
“Now, follow me,” he ordered.
Along a twisting course Bambi circled through the wood. It dawned on Boso that he was returning to his mother’s sleeping place. Soon they arrived. Rolla and Lana lay side by side, but Rolla was not asleep.
“Now get in there,” Bambi snapped. “Apologize to your mother for causing her so much worry and in the future behave like a deer with brains instead of an empty-headed loon!”
Boso tried to stammer his thanks, but Bambi stopped him short.
“Goodbye,” he said. “I have other things to think about.”
Bambi could not know that in saving Boso he sacrificed Até. How could he understand the character of this boy in the green shooting suit? Bambi dealt in facts like life and death and love and fear. He did not guess the puny resentment of a pampered youngster, used to getting everything his heart desired.
After losing Boso, the boy came back regularly. Each morning saw him stealing through the forest trees, the magazine of his light rifle loaded not only with shells but with spite. For several days he never saw a deer. There were skunks and squirrels, but they did not tempt him. His victim was to be a deer or nothing.
Gurri did not invite Até to a moonlight meeting and the young buck kept his threat. He moved boldly about the forest paths, feeling the warm sun on his silken coat, grazing with carefree ease on ripened grass.
Jays and magpies scolded him, but he laughed at them.
“My time is not yet, I tell you,” he mocked them. “I shall have fourteen children.”
Perri warned him solemnly.
“There is danger in the wood. I have seen Him stalking. Courage is an excellent thing, Até, but rashness deserves the reward it always gets.”
“You’re worse than the screech-owl with your old sayings,” Até cried. “As for me, a long life and a merry one!”
At that moment death grinned at him. The rifle, aimed by spiteful hands, spoke twice.
Até’s smile stiffened. His fine muscles, tensing, threw him into the air. Six great leaps to cover he made; and then he died.
Perri heard his last words:
“Gurri, please . . . !”
The gamekeeper came running through the trees just as the jubilant boy broke cover. They met over the still quivering corpse.
“Not two years old!” the gamekeeper ground out. “You young ruffian, didn’t I tell you to leave deer under six years old alone?”
The boy grinned cheekily.
“You can leave out the preaching,” he sneered. “I’ll do what I like around here.”
The gamekeeper paused with his hunting knife in his hand.
“You will, eh?” he snapped.
“Yes! And if there are any objections from you, you won’t be working long.”
The gamekeeper carefully put his knife back in its sheath.
“You’re going to go whining to your father, is that it?” he said slowly.
The boy backed away.
“Now listen, you! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone!”
“I will, will I?” Almost absent-mindedly the gamekeeper advanced on the young hunter. “Well, I’m not so sure about that.”
There was a sharp smacking sound in the forest. The boy’s hand flew to his cheek. Tears sprang in his eyes.
“You hit me!” he yelled. “You hit me!”
“Right,” said the gamekeeper. “Right you are! Now go along home and tell your father about it, you . . . !”
But he did not finish his sentence. The boy was no longer there.
Chapter Thirty-Three
THERE WAS GREAT SORROW IN the clearing, where Geno was now chief, when Perri brought her news.
“Até,” Gurri cried. “Oh no, not Até! I don’t believe it.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Perri advised her sadly. She was quite out of breath. Torn between her natural desire to spread the news of Até’s death and her fear of hurting either Geno or Gurri, she had for long, and unknown to the roe-deer, swung from tree to tree about the clearing like a creature possessed, trying to decide what to do.
Now, with her little forefeet working nervously against her white downy front, she said, “I warned him very seriously, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I warned him too,” the magpie grumbled. “Dear me, what fools males can be!”
“I warned him very seriously,” Perri repeated. “Poor fellow, he was so handsome.”
“I should have asked him to walk with me in the moonlight,” quavered Gurri. “Oh, Mother!”
Faline comforted her softly.
“How could you know? You cannot blame yourself.”
“Not even Bambi could have helped Até—and you know, Bambi helped Boso,” Perri interrupted.
“Boso!” Geno exclaimed. “What in the world has happened to Boso?”
“He was wounded, but Bambi saved him. One of my relatives told me about it.” And she related the whole story of how Boso escaped from the young Him with Bambi’s help.
As though it, too, mourned the passing of the carefree Até, the weather changed. Clouds obscured the sun. A melancholy rain fell steadily. Once or twice thunder rumbled in the distance, but for the most part rain dripped continually, gathering in murky pools under the trees, running in sluggish rivulets along the forest paths.
The roe-deer stayed in sodden discomfort in their sleeping place, not daring to venture abroad because of the thunder-stick which was heard throughout the forest, whenever the rain did pause briefly to renew its strength.
This threatening sound only served to remind them of Até’s death which was, in any case, a constant topic of conversation with them.
Flinching, Gurri would say, almost to herself: “Poo
r, poor fellow! So gay, so young . . .”
And Geno would interrupt her: “And Boso, too. Boso was wounded.”
“Do you suppose his wound was serious?” Membo asked one night just before the time when they usually went to the meadow.
“Who would know?” demanded Nello. “They say Boso has turned into a regular hermit, always off by himself.”
“How terrible for Rolla and Lana!” Faline exclaimed.
“Why don’t we go to see them?” Geno suggested with suppressed excitement.
“How can we?” Nello stirred restlessly. “How do we know we would be welcome?”
They were saved further argument by the unexpected appearance of Rolla herself.
“Rolla!” Faline exclaimed.
“I just couldn’t stay away a moment longer!” Rolla burst out. “What with Boso being well and everything, I just had to come. Please don’t be angry with me any more. I believe I shall die if you are.”
Faline felt her heart soften.
“Rolla,” she cried, “I’m really glad to see you. It’s been terrible having no one to talk to. Where are the children?”
“Boso,” Rolla called, “come here at once!”
Timidly Boso came forward. All of them noticed the scar across his chest. Gurri ran to meet him.
“Please join us, Boso.”
Boso was obviously ill at ease. Rolla said quickly:
“Bambi saved him! Isn’t it wonderful? He wants to thank him, to say he’s sorry to you and Geno, don’t you, Boso?”
“Why, Rolla,” Faline interrupted, “we owe you at least as deep an apology as you do us. As for what Bambi did I’m sure it’s enough reward to see Boso alive and well and to have you all with us.”
“But where is Lana?” Geno cried.
“I’m here,” she answered shyly, joining them.
“Am I forgiven?” Geno whispered.
“Of course. I was stupid.”
“Well,” said Nello, “this is more sweetness and light than I’ve seen in a long time!” Then he asked, “You said Bambi saved you?”
Boso threw his head up. “He certainly did! I think Bambi’s the greatest Prince who ever lived in the forest.”
“All but one,” said a sepulchral voice.
They looked up and saw the screech-owl.
“W-who was ever g-greater than Bambi?” stuttered Membo wrathfully.
“I don’t know his name,” the screech-owl replied, “but his fame lives on.”
“What did he do?” asked Geno.
“He attacked and overthrew Him.”
“I don’t believe it,” Geno declared stoutly. “When Bambi rescued Gurri from His den, he did the greatest thing that was ever done.”
“There was a Prince who attacked Him in single combat and got the better of Him.”
“It isn’t true, is it, Mother?” As though he was a fawn again, Geno found himself appealing to Faline.
“There is a story that runs something like that,” Faline admitted slowly, “but no one knows if it is true or just a myth coming from wishful thinking.”
“Wishful thinking?” repeated Lana doubtfully.
Faline was enjoying this sudden return of her authority.
“Yes,” she explained, “wishful thinking is to believe something is the truth because you wish to believe it.”
“That makes sense,” Nello declared shortly, “more sense than the screech-owl’s just saying it’s true without proof.”
“Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” the screech-owl remarked. He scraped his claws on the branch on which he was perched and blew his feathers out grandly. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
He managed to make his voice sound very booming, and there was silence for a moment.
“I think that’s right,” he concluded anxiously.
“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Boso grumbled. “Listen,” he turned to Geno, “why don’t we all go to the meadow to play? I haven’t had a good game almost since I can remember.”
“It’s getting late, too,” Nello put in.
Jostling and chattering, they made their way to the meadow. The screech-owl flew above them, keeping his wide eyes open for danger.
“It’s wonderful, being together again,” whispered Lana to Gurri as they drew up at the rear of the troop.
“Do you like Membo and Nello?”
“Oh yes, they’re sweet.”
Rolla, just ahead of them, turned to Faline.
“Too bad Membo stutters,” she said.
Faline answered sharply, “We don’t mind it. We really love him the more for it.”
Rolla bridled. “Oh, but really, Faline, you misunderstand me. . . .”
Lana remarked thoughtfully. “I was jealous of them once, Gurri.”
“Why?”
“Because they replaced us. We never went with anyone else after you.”
“Mother invited them into the family, and I’m glad she did. They’ve been so good for Geno.”
“Yes,” Lana agreed with conviction, “they are nice.”
“Mother,” Gurri called, “I’ve a feeling Father is around somewhere.”
“I’m almost afraid to meet him,” declared Boso.
“Y-you needn’t be,” Membo reassured him. “B-bambi’s kind. He understands everything.”
“He looks as though he could see right through you.”
“I believe he does know more or less what we’re thinking.”
Conversation died when they reached the meadow. Until the first glimmer of dawn, they ran and played, enjoying their companionship to the full. Only Faline was upset. Once when Gurri passed her, she said:
“Gurri, I feel, as you did, that your father is here.”
Faline and Gurri were right in their feeling. Ever since the young He had slain Até, Bambi had kept close watch on His comings and goings. Whenever He came to the forest, Bambi awaited Him and, close behind Him, trailed His every step.
Perhaps Bambi did not realize how great a need there was for caution. The boy returned to the forest, seeking only vengeance.
He had gone to his father to report the gamekeeper’s assault upon him. He had painted the simple story in lurid detail. His father had rebuffed him.
Even now the boy could not believe it. This father, generally so indulgent, had almost balanced the gamekeeper’s blow with one on the other cheek.
Brooding over this situation, the boy decided on a means of revenge. He would pay his debt to the gamekeeper by shooting more deer, any deer—even if they were week-old fawns.
Several times the young He was successfully outwitted by Bambi. Sometimes he would send a magpie with an urgent message for some unsuspecting buck picking his carefree way to the pool, or command Perri to race and warn some wanderer near the salt-lick.
Failing to get a close shot, the boy discarded his own light rifle and stole a special gun of his father’s: a weapon of small caliber but terrific power. Armed with this, he prowled the forest from the first crack of dawn until the gloom of night was thickening above the trees.
Even without Bambi’s interference, the task he had set himself was difficult, for it rained incessantly and the deer kept to cover.
Quite by accident he stumbled on the meadow where Faline, Rolla and the children played. Dawn had not yet broken, and the weather was clear. The sight of eight roe-deer frolicking with such lack of caution surpassed his highest hopes.
It was a fine herd.
He crept stealthily to the edge of the forest and watched them.
Behind him came Bambi.
The magpies and the squirrels were fast asleep. The owl, Bambi’s only hope, cried mournfully but far away. There was no one he could send as messenger. He was troubled. He must act—and act fast.
The young He was between him and the field. To dash past Him was to invite certain death, not only for himself, but also for some members of his family. For Bambi knew that the thunder-stick s
poke more than once and that quickly.
If he circled the clearing and entered from the other side, the same danger existed. He would have to leave cover and, worse than that, the young He would be unobserved for a period of minutes.
During those minutes anything could happen.
The youth rose to his knees and reached into a leather case he wore slung about his shoulders to extract a pair of night glasses. Through them he examined the herd again. There were two magnificent roes, but no full-grown buck was with them. Filled with disappointment, he rested his glasses on Geno—young, but well built and with small, new antlers.
Geno would do.
Silently the boy steadied himself on one knee, dropped his glasses, lifted his rifle and cuddled it against his cheek.
At that moment, Bambi, too, acted.
Lowering his mighty antlers he shot from his hiding place.
Like a stone from a sling he charged the boy, his antlers driving straight at the boy’s back.
An unheard-of sound of human fear and anguish rose high among the trees. The thunder-stick went off, but the bullet discharged straight upward.
Bambi leaped over his adversary and disappeared into the shadows. The roe-deer in the meadow had already fled. The screech-owl came hurrying through the trees like a thing possessed, almost flattening his face, which was already flat enough, against the trunks of trees.
He cried as he flew:
“The hero’s name is Bambi! Bambi attacked Him!”
The whole forest was awake. From the smallest wren to the hovering crows, from the tiniest mouse to One-Eye himself, the news spread in a flood of joyous chatter.
Only the Kings remained aloof.
Perhaps, in their majesty, they never heard of this great feat; perhaps they disdained to gossip of it; perhaps they were jealous that it was not one of their own great tribe whose fame rang far and wide.
Wearily, spent with excitement, the screech-owl perched upon a branch. Over and over he muttered to himself:
“After me, the deluge!”
The robin, anxious to create his bit of history, flew to the spot where the young He had been. No boy was there now, but the thunder-stick lay among the bushes where it had been dropped.
The robin flew down and perched upon it.