by Felix Salten
Shah, however, did not know he had sinned and knew even less of repentance. So he accepted the welcoming caresses of his master as his just due. Condescendingly, in an offhand manner, he renewed his friendship with Treff, the hunting dog.
“Come on,” Shah whispered. “I want to see the horses again and Gray and the cow.”
“The cow’s just had a calf.”
“That’s fine,” Shah said casually.
Treff sniffed the tomcat. “You smell of the forest. You smell interesting.”
“I had a nice time there,” Shah admitted.
They stole out of the house and ran to the stable.
At sight of Shah, Manni exclaimed, “You back again?”
“We thought you’d died,” Devil neighed.
Shah swaggered around the stallion’s legs. “On the contrary, I lived richly and happily.”
“Who fed you?” asked Witch naïvely.
Shah gave himself still greater airs. “No one! I fed myself. A pheasant one day, a hare the next. In between, sometimes a squirrel or a jay. I tell you, it was a wonderful life!”
“Murder,” grumbled Lisa, “murder . . .”
Shah arched his back and challenged the cow. “I dare you to say that again!”
“Don’t listen to her,” Devil soothed him. “She’s stupid.”
“I can’t understand what’s so wonderful about killing other creatures,” Manni put in. “But since I don’t understand it I won’t express an opinion.”
“No,” Witch agreed, “I won’t give my opinion about it either.”
Devil shook his mane. “Such things are strange to us.”
“Right!” chuckled the Persian; “you’re soft grass-eaters. But this one’s my friend.” Shah rubbed tenderly along Treff’s flank. “He understands me. He envies me!”
“Maybe I do,” Treff admitted. “I can imagine how happy you were. But I could never do anything like that myself. I have too much conscience.”
“Never mind.” Shah’s manner was condescending. “You’re a good fellow. Even if we are different, we can still be friends, can’t we?”
For answer Treff wagged his tail and pushed the cat over onto his back. He playfully seized Shah’s throat in his jaws while Shah braced both hind paws against the dog’s shaggy chest.
“Aren’t you afraid?” called Witch.
Lithely the Persian sprang up. “Of course not!”
“What if he should bite you?” the stallion asked worriedly.
Shah was amused. “He doesn’t bite hard. Any more than I ever hurt him with my claws.”
Treff chuckled too.
“Are you going to stay with us now?” Manni inquired of the tomcat.
“I feel like staying,” Shah admitted. “It’s very comfortable here with Him. I don’t have to exert myself. There’s plenty of milk, which I’ll confess I missed up there. And there’s also a warm little corner where I can sleep without being disturbed.”
Witch looked puzzled. “How can you be in the forest alone so long without a master, and now be so nicely obedient again?”
“Obedient?” Shah was surprised. “I don’t know what it is to be obedient. And don’t call Him my master. I know no master. He’s my friend.” Shah stretched and yawned. “I wanted to see Him again. I’m quite fond of Him. Just the same, He didn’t have to catch me in a wooden box! That wasn’t a friendly thing to do. But I suppose He thought it was the only way. That was it—He put it there because he longed for me! Touching, isn’t it? During that night in the box I hoped He’d come quickly. I wanted to see Him too. And the forest—well, I wasn’t really having any fun in the forest anymore. So now I’m going to stay here.”
Manni looked skeptically at the tomcat. After a short silence he said: “But suppose you should want to go again?”
Shah was washing himself. He paused and admitted casually: “Of course, if I want to, naturally I’ll go. But not to stay so long again. Only for a night. For a pheasant,” he added. “It’s as good as caught. They sleep in the trees, and sleep quite soundly. No, I won’t need to stay any longer than one night another time.”
“What about Him?” asked Devil. “Will He stand for it?”
“He won’t find out anything! He’s far from being as smart as I am.”
“Oh, go on with you!” Manni snickered. “You really mean you think you’re smarter than He is?”
“I certainly do and I certainly am,” Shah said as if stating obvious facts.
Even Treff looked unconvinced.
Amiably the Persian explained to him: “You know I always do only what I want to do. Unlike you, I serve no one. I follow only my own will. For instance, right now—I’ve had enough of all of you.” He squeezed through the barn’s swinging door, and Treff pushed through after him.
“Stuck-up thing!” the stallion neighed indignantly.
Chapter 9
CLOSE BY, MARTIN COULD HEAR the finch singing his gay little song, fresh and sprightly as a short poem in lilting rhythm. Over and over he repeated the melody, for he knew no other. Between spurts of music he flashed his quick Psst! Psst! as if calling someone’s attention. Then he started his sweet little song anew.
Martin was sitting on his observation platform in the treetops, close to the edge of a small clearing in an out-of-the-way part of the preserve. He had a lovely view from here of branch and foliage, and the little meadow and its grass and bog.
Again the song of the finch sounded. Nearby three other finches sang happily to one another. The first finch joined them.
Under Martin’s very nose, on the railing of the observation platform, sat a forest mouse, staring as if spellbound. When the young man moved a trifle, she jumped a little distance away, then paused for an instant as if to make up her mind. She threw him one more glance and disappeared as if by magic.
A little squirrel leaped onto the railing. He stopped in amazement as if saying, “Oh, look!” Then he made a flying leap right over Martin to the trunk of a tree.
Beneath Martin suddenly something rushed close to the ground—a burst of sparkling color. It was the kingfisher flashing by, and again Martin’s desire to see him at close range was aroused. But in vain. Martin had never seen him except by lucky circumstance. He had caught a glimpse of him once, hardly bigger than a child’s fist, earnestly balancing on a branch with his very short legs. The kingfisher was never to be seen walking or hopping; only in swift flight or, once in a great while, sitting very still.
A fluttering above him took Martin’s mind from the unattainable. A crow, obviously trying to escape an enemy, came through the trees on frightened wings.
The enemy she could have killed with a single stroke of her strong bill was a tiny golden oriole. But she fled from him madly as he flew under her, hacking furiously at her belly, giving up only when she escaped into open space. Then he flew back, still indignant, returning to the nest where he had surprised the robber crow about to murder and eat his brood.
Martin was reminded by this dramatic scene that the sense of property and parenthood can lift the weakest to genuine courage, and that the strong are made cowardly and defenseless by the feeling of guilt.
The stately hare, serious as always, sat quietly on the edge of the clearing, unable to reach a decision of any kind. He bent his ears forward, then pressed them flat against his back. His white whiskers trembled with his incessant scenting of the air. He looked up with tilted head, the very picture of a father distracted by anxiety.
Completely unworried, a roe strolled about. Unlike the hare, he did not scent the breeze or jerk his head up. He merely nibbled, daintily moving his thin legs.
The hoopoe, raising his semicircular crest mistrustfully, eyed the roe with curiosity, half wanting to go closer to him, half shunning acquaintance. After a moment he made off into the thicket.
Far below, the flight of water wagtails entranced Martin—a flight without wide curves. And he was amused by their pretty walk, in which they nodded agreeably to one another,
both with their little heads and their narrow tails, as if to express how good the world seemed to them.
Suddenly Tambo appeared.
The roe did not notice him at first. When he did he leaped away without emitting a sound of fright. But after a few moments, from a distance, Martin heard twice his Ba-uh!
Only the hare remained in his place. He was not afraid of Tambo.
Magnificent and proud, yet somehow timidly embarrassed, Tambo stood in full view. Martin saw that the stag paused to watch the roe’s flight. Tambo remained motionless a minute, then majestically yet swiftly vanished into the underbrush.
Now, three, four, five king pheasants walked regally across the clearing. Streaks of radiant gold and black gleamed on their bodies like ceremonial vestments, and ceremoniously they dragged behind them the long train of their tailfeathers. Their passage, Martin thought, was like a procession of archbishops.
When the sun was high in the heavens and silence fell in the forest, Martin went home reflecting:
“We always remain strange to them. They don’t understand us. They don’t know what an endless measure of inspiration they are, what a font of mystery and magic. No. We fill them only with fear and enmity. It’s been in their blood since the oldest times, and has become their sharpest instinct. It is sad. And the worst of it is that I suppose we human beings are responsible for it.”
Chapter 10
LISA THE COW CRIED OUT at hearing human footsteps approaching. Her terror was so great this time that her stable companions were alarmed and confused.
“They’re coming!” she cried, whipping her flanks with her tail. “They’ll take my baby from me!” She pressed the calf into a far corner of her stall. It stood there close under the crib trembling and bawling miserably.
The horses stretched their necks over the wall.
“Be still, mother,” whispered Witch. “How often have we told you nothing will happen to your baby?”
Devil contradicted Witch with a snort. “You’re right, mother. You can never tell what He will do.”
Manni turned to Devil. “That’s just like you! Why do you tease the good soul?”
To annoy Manni the stallion neighed, “Defend yourself, mother! Defend yourself!”
When Martin and Peter entered the stable, the cow had her head lowered, ready to gore wildly. But both men passed her by and went to the horses instead.
“Well, which one shall I saddle?” Peter asked.
“The mare,” Martin decided. He glanced at Lisa who was glaring and kept switching her tail. “Odd how the cow’s behaving.”
Peter, putting the bit on the mare, looked over at the cow. “She does seem a little excited.” He strapped the saddle firmly on Witch.
Lisa became somewhat more quiet.
Martin put a foot in the stirrup, swung onto Witch’s back and guided her out. Peter stayed behind and went over to the cow. He petted her between the horns and offered her a handful of salt. “Well, how’s your calf, Lisa?”
His gentle tone soothed Lisa. Hesitantly at first, then more confidently, she licked the salt from his hand. His other hand caressed her thick brown neck.
Babette’s voice was heard suddenly. “I want to see how the calf’s getting on.”
At once Lisa began to lash her tail again.
“That calf will be very beautiful,” Babette said. She would have entered the stall but Lisa blocked the way and snorted wildly.
“Don’t come in!” Peter said. “She doesn’t want you to.”
“If you don’t”—Babette smiled at Lisa—“then I won’t.”
She and Peter left the stable.
The stallion was triumphant. “You’re very brave. You chased them away, mother!”
“Yes, they’re gone,” Lisa mooed softly. “My baby wasn’t touched.”
The donkey brayed his kindly but incredulous laughter.
Chapter 11
GRAY CLOUDS COVERED THE BLUE skies. The fall had lost its patience and would be delayed no longer by the lingering summer. It broke forth with furor.
Cold wind swept foliage from the trees. Cold rain splashed down and countless leaves fell, so that many trees were suddenly left with bare limbs.
A radiant morning followed. Its cool freshness made the forest look new born. The air was crisp and sparkling. In the meadows and clearings mellow frost lay like sprinkled sugar. This glittering cover did not melt until the sun mounted high. Then wilted grass appeared.
O-eh! came the first bay of a stag.
Soon a second and third rang through the woods.
Fascinated, Martin listened to this primitive sound which came only at one time of the year. By tomorrow the forest would be filled with the mighty trumpeting of the stags.
With the first pink of dawn Martin went stalking, accompanied by Peter. Peter carried a gun hung on his shoulder, for he was prepared—just in case. But Martin, as always, had no weapon. Worshiping every living creature, he could not bear to kill.
When they reached the forest, Peter turned off and Martin went on alone. He breathed deeply of the sharp air and watched his warm breath vanish like thin smoke.
The roaring of the stags sounded. Martin stood stock-still to listen. With his finely tuned senses, he could tell the voices apart. Now one bayed. And then another cry thundered deep and throaty.
The voices of the younger animals pealed clearly. In contrast sounded the commanding basses of the Kings.
Martin walked the narrow trail step by step, carefully avoiding every dry twig that might crack. But suddenly close to him came a rustling and breaking. A stag rushed by, so near that Martin could have touched him. Martin groped his way on noiselessly.
About eighty paces ahead in the bush, something dark moved. Then came a mighty roaring.
That was he—Martin’s favorite, monarch of the forest. It was from him that the other had fled.
Tambo bayed forth. His black mane stretched almost horizontally, so that his brown crown seemed to lie on his back. The roaring came from the depth of his breast. Martin could see its power, a cloud of steam floating in the morning air.
A number of stately does, seven in all, huddled together close to Tambo, their ears moving. They were rapt in awe of their tyrant husband.
Completely hidden in the thicket an older, weaker stag lurked in ambush, waiting to see whether in a lucky moment he could steal one of the seven, but at the same time ready for flight.
The does listened to Tambo, faithfully admiring him, but at the same time prepared to desert him should another woo them.
When one started to slip off into the bush, Tambo leaped over and drove the fugitive back to her place with a few admonishing blows with his antlers. She accepted the punishment without protest.
Tambo bayed in triumph.
Deep and continuous in the near distance sounded the baying of an old stag. It rose in a clearer, higher sound, fell off and began again at once. This new voice drowned out all others. It was a challenge to a struggle, a mockery of the weak and cowardly, and a proud wooing. Tambo cocked his head to listen.
That, Martin realized, must be the giant King who, a few years before, had carried fourteen points, but had recently reverted to ten. Now his big crown ended in long, blank spears which shone like ivory.
His baying grew closer. The other stags were silent, frightened and tense. Tambo waited as the great voice came.
Martin felt anxious. In spite of his aversion for killing, he almost hoped that Peter was at hand, to shoot the old warrior in Tambo’s defense if necessary.
And then the old stag appeared at the edge of the thicket. He stood motionless for a second, before he plunged berserk at Tambo.
Tambo seemed about to sacrifice himself, so close did he let the old one come. With swift agility, he executed a slight turn and lowered his crown a bit.
Dully the two heads crashed. At once, with a somewhat sharper sound, the antlers knocked together.
Each fighter strained against the other, snorting, p
utting forth his entire strength. Their eyes were bloodshot. They breathed in short gasps. The old stag jumped backward.
As the pressure against him withdrew suddenly, Tambo stumbled forward. This, the watching Martin knew, was the moment of greatest danger.
But before the old one could drive his horns into Tambo’s exposed flank, a shot rang out!
Martin saw the mighty stag leap into the air once and again; saw his eyes open wide with amazement; saw his convulsive staggering; saw death force down into the wilted meadow grass a great animal that just now had been full of life.
The does had disappeared. Tambo too had vanished.
Martin, shaken and trembling, met Peter by the old stag’s body, looked down into the dead eyes which shimmered glassy green. He heard Peter mutter, “I didn’t want to shoot you down, old fellow, but I had to.”
Martin sighed. “That’s how it always is! Age dies that youth may live.”
“Don’t feel too badly about him,” said Peter. “His end came at a moment of victory. And it was sudden. Better than if he’d had to die slowly, like other senile animals. He’d have been dethroned, and wandered around humiliated. He’d have died gradually with great suffering. Now he’s been spared that.”
Yet his mood of depression continued as Martin wandered home.
Chapter 12
JUST BEFORE DAWN ONE LATE fall morning the roe Genina, with her two kids, came to the Forest Lodge. They stepped gingerly around the house, where the human beings were still sleeping. Treff pricked up his ears, but did not bark.
The roes wandered toward the stable where the doors opened at the slightest touch. Followed by both her young, Genina stepped into the warm space which was filled with the odor of sleeping animals.
“It’s pleasant here,” said Genina to her children. “Let’s stay. We’ll be safe.”
Manni stood up quickly at the sound and stared in amazement at the intruders. “Look! Look!” he cried to his sleeping companions. “The wild ones from the forest!” He went toward Genina, still unbelieving. “Why did you leave the forest? Anything wrong there?”