Forest World

by Felix Salten

  The others awoke, and all marveled over the guests. They stared at them curiously, but welcomed them, glad they had come.

  Witch inquired, “Poor things, haven’t you anything to eat?”

  “Oh, we have enough,” Genina answered. “Sweet hay, chestnuts and turnips. Yes, we’re full.”

  “What’s the matter then?” asked Manni. “No thunder-stick is crashing now.”

  “I know. It is not your He that we are so afraid of. If we were, we wouldn’t have come here.”

  “Whom are you afraid of?” demanded the stallion.

  “There are others—who murder without the thunder-stick.”

  “How?” Manni wanted to know. “No He can kill without a thunder-stick.”

  “That’s what you think,” the roe mother retorted. “I don’t understand how, myself, but they murder us much more cruelly than with the thunder-stick. You hear nothing, see nothing. Suddenly you can’t move from the spot. You writhe helplessly, gasping for air. But no use! Life is over only after great torture.”

  “Oh, come on! That’s hard to believe!” snorted Devil.

  “Just the same, it’s true,” sighed the roe. “Many hares have fallen victim to this strange death, a few grownups of my family, five or six of our young. And when you have two little ones . . .”

  “Nothing will happen to you here with us,” Lisa consoled the roe. The cow had forgotten now that she had ever been afraid of her two-legged guardians herself.

  “I hope not,” Genina sighed; “but you really don’t know anymore whom you can trust.”

  “You can trust us completely,” Witch affirmed.

  “And our two-legged ones as well,” Manni nodded.

  “Yes, I know them,” said the roe mother. “They do no evil.”

  The kids, Mena and Loso, had hung timidly behind their mother.

  “Here you are, little ones. Have some.” Devil pushed his crib a little so that some oats fell to the floor. The twins scrambled for the grain, seeking it out gaily and eagerly in the straw, treating themselves to the new and strange meal.

  “You’re quite different from us,” Genina said suddenly.

  “Obviously.” The stallion drew himself up very tall. “You can see that from the size of our bodies.”

  “As far as that goes,” the roe said, “we have distinguished relatives in the forest who are no smaller than you. And besides, they wear wonderful crowns.”

  The surprise of the horses, the cow and the calf, amused the mother roe. Manni of course recalled seeing Tambo. The doe continued: “What I meant was that your way of life is different from ours.”

  “Decidedly,” Devil agreed. “We don’t live such dangerous lives.”

  “We live much more comfortably than you do,” cried Manni.

  “Our life is simply grand!” Witch spoke enthusiastically.

  “Yes, I see. But I wouldn’t change with you for anything,” Genina remarked.

  “Yet you’ve come here to us,” snorted the stallion.

  “Yes, because I had to. I was afraid for my little ones. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you.”

  Manni was curious. “Why not? Why wouldn’t you like to lead our beautiful kind of life?”

  “Because you lack the most precious thing of all.”

  “To be knocked over by the thunder-stick or to be tortured to death?” mocked the stallion.

  “You don’t understand. I mean our freedom. Even the thunder-stick—it’s hurled very rarely after all—and even slow death by torture belong with our good life. Our wonderful freedom isn’t destroyed so easily. Freedom can never be paid for too dearly!” The mother roe stood radiant in her grace and pride.

  The animals of the stable were all silent, bewildered but moved by an unconscious respect for the delicate little creature.

  The stallion as usual lost patience first. “Describe this freedom to us.”

  “I can’t. To know it and understand it, you must live in freedom from your first day on earth.”

  Devil pawed impatiently. “Why?”

  “None of you can possibly understand. You’re His servants. You’re fond of Him and you obey Him. That’s the difference between you and us. That’s what really makes us strangers to one another.”

  “Strangers!” Witch echoed. “I think we’re getting along together very well indeed.”

  “Of course we are. And I think I could be quite devoted to all of you. But—but there’s a deep gulf between us just the same. You don’t envy me my way of life and I envy you yours even less. . . . Oh, let’s not talk about it anymore.” She made herself comfortable, closed her eyes and was asleep almost immediately. The two kids slept nearby, exhausted by the excitement of their new adventure.

  Witch bent down and breathed over Genina. “Isn’t she pretty?”

  “A little sure of herself, it seems to me,” Devil puffed.

  “Not at all,” Manni defended Genina. “She’s an innocent, simple thing.”

  Lisa looked over. “The two little ones are adorable.”

  Now there was deep silence. The horses, the donkey, Lisa and the calf dozed off too. They were all waiting to be fed and watered. Lisa longed to be milked.

  It was almost daylight when Babette entered the stable. Peter came in right behind her. At their heavy steps, the roes leaped up frightened, and fled into the farthest corner where the kids huddled close to their mother.

  “Look! Peter, look!” cried Babette. “Roes! From the forest! Oh, how beautiful!” she whispered. She went over to them and caressed one after the other. They trembled under her hand. “Don’t be afraid,” she murmured softly. “I won’t hurt you. Peter, why do you suppose they’ve come to us?”

  “It’s almost a miracle,” Peter answered.

  He and Babette hurried to the house to tell Martin about the surprising visitors.

  Manni mused, “Wouldn’t it be fine if He understood our speech, and we didn’t have to guess at His!”

  “We can guess only vaguely what He says and means,” grumbled the stallion.

  Manni whispered to the roes, “If such understanding were possible, you could tell Him what goes on in the forest.”

  “Yes, but it’s a vain hope,” sighed Witch.

  “A vain hope,” repeated the mother roe. “I never think of hoping anything like that. It makes me tremble to have Him come so close to me, to have Him touch me. Somehow even though I know He will do us no harm, He makes me terribly afraid—and my little ones too.”

  “But that’s foolish.” Manni tried to calm her. “He’s so good and kind.”

  “Don’t be afraid, youngsters,” Witch said to the twins.

  * * *

  Meanwhile Martin was hearing about the new arrivals. He was amazed. “Why would roes come to the barn?”

  “In flight,” Peter suggested.

  “But from whom? From what?”

  “I’m sure they were chased here by something,” Babette said. “Maybe a fox.”

  “Come on, I must see them,” said Martin and they all went back to the animals. While Babette busied herself milking Lisa, and Peter fed and watered the others, Martin stood by the roes. He was too puzzled to caress or touch them.

  “Give them clover,” he said, “and some oats.”

  In the corner where the roes had fled Peter made a bed for them. He piled clover before them and liberally poured out oats.

  “I don’t understand this at all,” Martin said in bewilderment.

  “Now that I think about it, it isn’t so hard to figure,” muttered Peter. “Poachers! They might be at it pretty badly!”

  “Yes, that might be it,” Martin said and his face flushed with sudden anger.

  “Might be? I’m sure of it! A roe doesn’t run here with her kids for nothing.”

  “But I heard no shooting.”

  “You’re—well, sir, may I say innocent? They’re mighty careful to make no noise. They lay out traps, the scoundrels!”

  “Peter, we’ve got to put a st
op to it.”

  The older man said nothing. He only nodded grimly.

  Chapter 13

  PETER WAS SCOUTING THROUGH the forest, staying on the trails when he thought he might be seen by any other human being at large in the preserve, breaking through thickets to stalk along wild paths when he could be neither seen nor heard.

  For a long time he found nothing. Then a squadron of crows gathered somewhere close by in the brush, cawing and flapping their wings.

  Peter turned toward where the sound came from. At his approach the crows flew off, leaving behind the remains of a deer. This, Peter could tell, was where the poachers had cut up the prey. But where had the roe been killed? Peter’s expert eyes made out a man’s footprints, alternately deep and shallow in the soft ground.

  He followed them. Now he could see marks in the drying grass where the garrotted roe had been dragged along.

  So the criminal had not cut and divided the body where he had snared his victim. “A cunning fellow!” thought Peter in disgust.

  It was easy to follow the trail; fur caught here and there on the branches of low bushes showed the way. Peter came to a crossing of two wide paths made by stags and does. Peter knew, for trails made by hares and other small animals are thin as threads.

  “And,” he thought to himself, “that fellow knows too.” He came to a spot where the earth had been dug up and the bushes trampled down—the spot on which the roe’s death struggle had been played out.

  Peter had learned enough for one day. He went home by a roundabout route. “Scoundrels are at work, that’s sure,” he muttered. “But—one, or two?”

  When he told Martin what he had discovered rage drove color into the hunchback’s face. He whispered hoarsely, “I’ll help you find out!”

  Peter objected. “I’d rather you didn’t do anything, sir—take your usual walk, follow your regular trails. That’ll be less likely to cause suspicion.”

  “But I want to—”

  Peter broke in. “You understand, sir, that catching the fellow now is the most difficult thing. Only one of us can do it. Leave everything to me, won’t you, please?”

  Martin looked helplessly into Peter’s determined face. But he knew Peter was right, and thereafter the older man continued his stalking expeditions day after day alone.

  For days he found nothing—no snares, no traps. Every evening Martin asked for results, but Peter only shook his head.

  He had seen more than enough in the way of evidence: the roe’s remains, the dragging trail, the prints of boots, the place on the roe trail where the trapped animal jerked itself to death. Proof upon proof of evil. But he could not find the evil-doer.

  Then, after two days more of wasted time, Peter found a snare in the midst of a thicket. It hung barely a hand’s breadth above the ground.

  “This is for a hare,” he said to himself.

  With the utmost care he avoided leaving any trace of his own presence. But here and there he broke a thin twig so that it swung loosely. He marked the way by sticking a dry branch with a few wilted leaves into the ground in an inconspicuous spot.

  He decided this was the place to watch if he were going to surprise the poacher. But he mustn’t come too close, or he might defeat his own purpose. As long as no hare dangled in the snare the poacher would not crawl into the bush. If caught outside, he could say he had only been taking a walk, although walking here in the preserve was prohibited to strangers.

  Another two days Peter visited the snare, but with no results. On the third day he observed a quaking of the bushes around the snare. A hare must have been caught and was struggling to free himself.

  “Poor little fellow,” he thought, “how gladly I’d help you! But I can’t. You must die so that the lives of many other creatures may be saved.”

  He tested his flashlight, loaded one barrel of his shotgun with buckshot and crawled close to the snare.

  The hare was struggling wildly, violently, with desperate leaps into the air which only trussed him tighter. Finally his efforts grew weaker and weaker.

  “Shameful torture,” thought Peter, who was himself suffering with the trapped creature.

  * * *

  With the coming of twilight the hare was still. “It’s all over, poor fellow,” thought Peter.

  The twilight slid into night and soon the half-moon shone palely from the sky.

  Stealthily someone moved nearby. Almost with admiration Peter noted how cleverly the fellow slithered through the thicket. Now he must be with his victim. . . . Now he would have his booty. . . . Now he was getting away!

  Peter leaped out to bar his path, snapping on his flashlight. The man gave a cry.

  “Stop!” Peter gasped, breathless with anger.

  He saw the hare fall from the poacher’s hands.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” Peter swung the gun barrel lower. “Not a step!” he warned.

  With difficulty he repressed his rage. Now that he had caught the miscreant, he wanted to deal with him coolly. He ordered: “Pick up the hare.”

  The fellow obeyed fumblingly.

  Peter threw the flashlight beam into his face.

  The man was in his middle years, pale as a corpse, the picture of cringing fear. He fell to his knees. “Have mercy! This is the first time I’ve—”

  Peter kicked at him scornfully. “Get up!” After taking the hare, he tied the man’s hands. “Now get along!”

  The man whined. “Don’t lead me like this, tied up like a criminal!”

  “You’re worse than a criminal! Move on!” Peter jabbed the shotgun barrel into the small of the fellow’s back.

  Reaching the Forest Lodge with his captive, he reported: “Caught in the act!”

  Martin and Babette, silent and shocked, looked at the strangled hare and at the prisoner.

  “I’m taking him to the police,” Peter declared.

  The poacher let out a cry and looked appealingly to Martin. But the little humpback, staring at the dead hare, shook his head and turned away.

  Chapter 14

  THE DEER JOINED TOGETHER AND moved about in herds. Forgotten now was every battle—all competition, envy, anger, humiliating defeat or proud victory. For the time of mating, so recently over, no longer lived in the memory of the stags.

  Peace came again to those with the high crowns. The gentleness of their natures asserted itself. They bedded down close together; they marched through the forest and appeared together at the feeding places. They did not quarrel.

  Now there was no difference between the strong and the weak; only a willing recognition of the elder by the younger.

  The youngest and the weakest moved in the lead. Behind them came the stags of middle strength, and finally the very strong. This was not a matter of rank, but a mysterious age-old measure of strategy by which the weak were sacrificed to protect the ablest.

  Now in winter they still had their crowns. Tambo, though he showed only twelve points, paced along at the rear, while others, ahead, carried crowns with fourteen, even sixteen points. Yet this order was fair, for Tambo was obviously superior, not only by the might of his horns, but by the power of his body. No other stag could compare with him.

  Most of the birds had long since fallen mute. Many had sought southern lands where there was neither snow nor cold, where sunshine always gave warmth and nourishment.

  The blackbirds, ill-humored and with ruffled feathers, crouched hardly visible on tree branches, or hacked at snow-free spots on the ground for something, anything, to eat.

  The pheasants sat still on their sleeping-trees. After awaking late they swung down to the ground and let out a cackling, more muted than usual and sounding like a poor attempt to crow. They minced to places under the house eaves where He had strewn buckwheat for them. Only the magpies chattered now and then, not so talkative as usual, but never quite silent.

  The many crows cawed loudly as they flew eagerly about, spying about for dead and dying forest residents. Screeching, they gathered around s
ome victim to gobble their meal while they quarreled noisily.

  Completely silent, commanding in their dignity, the stags proceeded through the forest. They paid no attention at all to the does, just as if there had never been ardent wooing or fierce fighting over them.

  A few paces behind Tambo, Debina followed the stags. This young doe constantly kept close to the crown-bearers, standing modestly beside them in the hay fields where clover, chestnuts and burgundy turnips grew enticingly. The stags endured Debina’s presence as if she weren’t there.

  A day came when Tambo felt that itching on his head which he dimly recalled from previous years. His twelve-pointed crown began to feel heavy—strange and lifeless as if it did not belong to him at all. He grew nervous. Deliberately he hit the crown against strong branches. It withstood the shock. Nevertheless his nervousness increased. He felt feverish and queerly impatient.

  He did not bump his crown against a tree again, but suddenly, after days and days, its roots dissolved in a few minutes and it tumbled down into the snow.

  With a quick feeling of freedom Tambo lifted his head. From the pores of the two smooth, iron-colored plates on which the crown had rested, tiny drops of blood seeped out.

  But Tambo knew nothing of that. He felt no pain. Presently, though, the frosty air blew across both plates and made him realize his baldness. Humiliating shame raged within him. At once he left the herd. He wandered lonely from now on, wanting to hide and not be seen by anyone.

  But Debina remained on his trail tirelessly.

  Still Tambo ignored her until she followed him into the thickest underbrush. He faced her suddenly. “What do you want?”

  Debina hesitated, embarrassed, and said softly, “Nothing . . .”

  “Why are you always around me?”

  She dropped her young and beautiful head. “I don’t know.”

  “Then go away. I want to be alone.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Let me do as I’ve been doing. I won’t disturb you.”