“Greetings!” she whispered in her thin but pleasant voice.
“Greetings!” whispered Tambo, who preferred the big owl to the hoot owl.
The bird started the conversation. “You know I live with Him.”
“What!” Tambo was gravely surprised. “You’re friendly with Him?”
“Very intimate.”
Tambo stared at her. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Afraid?” The owl’s laughter sounded like a melancholy song. “Every day He calls me and I go to Him. He always has some tidbit for me.”
“Mm, that’s right,” Tambo remembered. “In the winter He lays out sweet clover and piles of chestnuts for us.”
“There! You see? He’s good.”
“Still,” objected Tambo, “I can’t help being afraid of Him. Not exactly afraid—but still—”
“Then you’re very foolish. Why, I lie in His arms and let Him pet me. He knows just what kind of petting an owl likes best.”
Tambo looked at the speaker as if he could hardly believe her. “Amazing!”
The owl began singing to herself in low crooning hoots, remembering happily. The sound made Tambo drowsy.
“I think I’ll go to bed now,” he said gently. “Good-by.” He walked quietly away.
The owl sang him a friendly farewell and swung gracefully up into the air.
It was still long before day and quite dark. Tambo lay down to sleep, not in his accustomed bed but in a remote part of the underbrush. He slept, but only in snatches. Again and again he opened his eyes, pricked his ears, sniffed cautiously, and then dozed off once more.
When he finally arose the morning was far gone. Feeling hungry, he began to graze, but fastidiously, choosing only the delicate grasses.
Then he had another visitor. Near his lowered head, the woodpecker knocked on a poplar trunk. “Good day! Beautiful weather!” the cocky bird greeted. “And it’s a good day for me because last night again no one caught me.”
“Who would do anything to you?” scoffed Tambo.
The woodpecker laughed shrilly. “You’re funny! Don’t you know any great owls, any hoot owls, any martens?”
“They aren’t all after you, are they?”
“Whether they’re after me specially or not, I don’t know. But if they can snap me up on the way it’s all over for me just the same.” He laughed bitterly. “So far they haven’t had a chance at me, though. I hide too well.”
“Aren’t you afraid during the day?”
“Oh, much less then. Of course I must always be on guard.” He flew higher, ending the chat without formality. He drummed and laughed aloud now and then.
Tambo dozed standing. But a shaking and chattering in the branches again brought him wide awake.
Perri the squirrel dashed down, nearly tumbling. She stopped suddenly with a raised flag of tail on a beech branch. “Greetings, powerful one!” she called. “Oh, lucky you! No one dares come near you, but I meet so many dangers.”
“Who’s after you now?” asked Tambo in concern.
“Oh, there’s a robber at large in the forest! Nobody knows him. He’s neither fox nor marten. But he climbs trees like a marten. I saw him! He just chased me. He’s fast, but I’m much faster—lucky for me!” Perri bared her gnawing teeth.
“Too bad there must always be robbers,” Tambo sighed. “Of course you’re right that I needn’t be afraid.”
“But you act as if you were,” Perri said saucily.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” Tambo admitted. “But it’s only caution. It’s—I don’t exactly know what. It’s my nature to be wary. But I’m not afraid of robbers. I live peacefully and feed myself from the green plenty around us. I hate stealing and killing just as much as you do.”
“Don’t say that, powerful one.” With her forepaw Perri wiped her face in momentary embarrassment, but then grew pert again. “Little birds taste wonderful. I just found some nests filled with—”
“I’d rather you didn’t tell me such things,” Tambo interrupted. “The forest would be heavenly without you fellows who kill to please your stomachs.”
“Oh, you’re mistaken, powerful one,” laughed Perri. “Without us the forest would be boring. Nobody could stand such a dull life! The way things are—with danger, with the need for courage, with the sweet relief of escape, with the well-earned success of staying alive at all—that’s why I love the forest!”
“It’s a matter of taste,” Tambo muttered uncomfortably.
“Nonsense! Even for you danger has charm. That ‘caution’ of yours—you enjoy it. You know you do!” Perri leaped impudently over the great stag and with flirting tail dashed up an oak trunk. “Farewell—powerful and gentle friend!”
Tambo fell to grazing. He started on a new round, moving alertly through the trees, browsing in search of something especially tasty. Often he slowed his progress to listen and to catch passing scents. He avoided making any sound.
There! A footfall, very soft, very stealthy. It was He, trying not to make the least noise!
Sudden fright shot through Tambo’s great body, dimming his sight and paralyzing his legs. He whirled clumsily and broke into a run.
Presently he stopped to catch his breath, for he realized he was hidden by heavy foliage. He could hear Him moving somewhere far off. And he heard his own heart beat.
Hoofbeats close by frightened him again, so violently that his rear legs trembled. He heard the soft padding and the panting of some smaller animal. Poor Tambo fell into terrible confusion. He ran senselessly in the same direction as the horse and dog trotting outside on the forest road. He was hidden from Martin, out on an innocent pleasure ride, only by the thicket and a thin wall of trees.
Then, like thunder roaring down out of a clear sky, a shot crashed.
The sound went through Tambo like a blow. His body lifted as if he had been hit by a bullet. He leaped to one side, dashing here and there blind with terror. He broke through hedges, and stopped with gasping chest only when a jay swooped in his path, fluttered around his nose and shouted at him with loud croakings:
“Be calm! Be calm, my friend! No danger!”
Tambo tried to conceal his trembling. He whispered in a low voice, “The thunder-stick—”
“The thunder-stick wasn’t meant for you,” the jay soothed him. “It fetched the marten down off the tree. That was the older He—the one with the gray fur on his head.”
“And the galloping?” Tambo demanded, still anxious. “All that trampling—and the yapping?”
The jay smiled. “The younger He right over there behind the trees. He doesn’t seem to have any thunder-stick at all. He rides only for enjoyment. Yes, on His horse. His dog runs along, just for fun too. All three of them are as innocent of any killing as you are.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m very sure.” The jay spread his wings. “Farewell! I’ll watch, and I’ll warn you if it’s necessary.” He flew away.
Tambo breathed in deep relief. Perhaps the squirrel was right! The happiness of being safe burned fiercely in him. He glided back through the bush and the thicket without a sound.
He went on pondering what Perri had said, and now he was convinced. “Yes,” he told himself, “it’s beautiful in the forest just the way things are. For us they are as they should be!”
Chapter 6
IN THE EARLY-MORNING HOURS WHILE it was still dark, Lisa began to groan. She groaned softly at first, then louder and louder.
“Quiet!” neighed Devil.
But Lisa continued, always louder and more complaining.
“I want to sleep!” The stallion stamped. “Haven’t you any consideration? Be still!”
“Be still yourself!” retorted the donkey. “Don’t you know what’s happening? The milk-giver is going to have her baby. It’s we who must have consideration for her.”
The stallion fell silent.
Witch went over to Lisa. “Is the pain bad?”
“Yes, very bad,” the cow replie
d. “And oh, I’m so worried.”
Manni too had pushed into Lisa’s stall. “Worried? Nonsense. You’ll be all right.”
“No, no—about my baby—because of Him.” Her groans started up again.
“Don’t be afraid,” the donkey comforted her. “He won’t take your baby. Not our He! I know He won’t.”
But the cow moaned.
“Listen to me,” Manni urged. “I tell you I know Him well. You must trust Him. I’ve seen every creature that was knocked down in the forest with the thunder-stick. It was always for mercy. And I’ve told you there’s never been a young one among them. Never! And He’ll spare yours too.”
An hour passed. As dawn was coming softly, Peter stepped into the barn. He had been expecting Lisa’s calving for days and had been keeping close watch on her day and night. He had a bucket in his hands and a lighted lantern.
At sight of Lisa’s crowded stall, he laughed. “Now, look, children, this is impossible. I need room so I can help her. Go away!” He patted the smooth shanks of the horses and added, “Go on. Be reasonable. There, boy—there, good girl—there.”
Obediently the horses returned to their stalls.
The stallion whispered to Witch, “I’m really concerned about the baby.”
“No reason to be,” answered the mare, also in a whisper. “He only wants to help her.”
“Manni, you’re in my way,” scolded Peter in a gentle voice.
“That Gray has to meddle in everything,” the stallion muttered.
Peter went to work, relieving the cow’s pain as best he could. Lisa felt the relief he brought her, and after another half hour Peter held the little calf in his arms.
He took several handfuls of bran from his bucket and sprinkled them over the small moist body. Then he carefully stood the calf on its unsteady legs near its mother. “There you are.” He gave Lisa a friendly smile. “The rest is your affair.”
The calf stood dizzily while Lisa proudly washed it with her tongue. Peter saw that everything was in order and that the calf was muzzling for its milk. He caressed the cow’s flanks. “That was pretty well done,” he said, and went out of the barn.
He was no sooner gone than the horses rushed to Lisa’s stall.
“Oh, what a cute baby!” cried the mare.
“It’s beautiful all right,” the stallion admitted.
Manni asked Lisa, “Now you’re happy, aren’t you?”
The cow didn’t answer, but went on washing her baby.
“Never forget the help that He gave you,” said the donkey.
“He and His help! I don’t trust it,” whispered the stallion.
Lisa lifted her head and uttered a loud cry of despair. Her big dark eyes showed returning fear.
“Must you frighten her?” the donkey scolded Devil. “You ought to be grateful yourself and you talk like a base ingrate!”
“I’m only warning her, that’s all,” Devil defended himself. “Just in case—”
“Well, your warning isn’t needed!” Manni grew angry. “He was good to the milk-giver. He’s always good to us, always does the very best He can for us.” He turned back to Lisa. “You’d better be grateful and stop being so suspicious! Nobody’s going to take your baby!”
“I hope you’re right,” Lisa sighed. She resumed her washing.
“How that baby drinks!” Witch said gently.
“It tastes good to him,” remarked Devil, who felt somewhat ashamed now.
Thoughtfully, contentedly, Manni watched the cow and her calf.
Chapter 7
THE THUNDER-STICK HAD SPOKEN again.
Martin had known that it would, and stayed home.
A dangerous outlaw stag had to be killed. He had run amok. With his two sharp daggers he had threatened to murder or wound every opponent he could find. He had been attacking all the other stags—until Peter found him.
And now Arilla, the dead outlaw’s mate, would not move from beside his body.
Even when Peter lifted his victim up and carried him away, Arilla slipped along too, hidden in the thicket. She looked mournfully at the dangling head of her mate. When it finally disappeared from sight, she sent forth a trembling farewell.
“How beautiful he was! How wonderfully beautiful and proud!”
She wept, for she thought she was alone.
“Proud?” Rabot, a young buck, joined her. “Proud as evil!”
“No!” she contradicted him. “He was brave—the bravest of all!”
“With a crown like his it was easy to be brave.”
Arilla broke into fresh tears. “That crown! Long, straight as a fir, and so richly pearled! With points as blindingly white as sapling wood when he had rubbed off their covering!”
“Those sharp points were deadly and he threatened everyone with them!”
“Yes.” Arilla straightened up proudly. “You feared him. Everyone feared him.”
“Does that seem good to you? That is certainly a worthy ambition to have! To make everyone afraid of you!”
“Well, it is.” Arilla tossed her head. “Then you’re respected. No one attacks you. No one dares to.”
“You’re wrong, Arilla. Listen, I’m your friend—we’re all friends together, aren’t we?”
“Ye-es.”
“All right, then tell me: who was his friend? Not a single one of us!”
“He didn’t need any friends!”
“Oh, now you’re wrong again. Everybody needs friends. Having friends gives a fine feeling of security. Friends make life happy.”
Arilla kept her head turned away. “He had a feeling of security. Because—”
“Because he fought so? Wait a minute. Wait a minute. He might have been secure against attack without so much violence. None of us ever thinks of attacking another one of us. We fight a little bit in mating time, yes. But apart from that we’re always peaceful. You think he was respected? Well, he wasn’t. Fear isn’t respect. When I’m afraid, I avoid the one who makes me afraid, but to my mind he was a bad fellow and I pay no respect to a bad fellow!” Rabot ended emphatically.
“He wasn’t bad,” Arilla protested; “not to me. He was good to me.”
“Now you are mistaken!” Rabot retorted sharply. “You can hold it against me if you want to. But I say you’re badly mistaken. Every one of us knows he was rude to you. Domineering and ill-tempered! A bully! Deny it if you can!”
Arilla dropped her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “But I loved him. His death hurts me.”
“That’s something else again, Arilla. But you’re alone in your love and your sorrow.”
“You mean nobody liked him at all? Nobody is sorry he’s dead?”
“No one! In fact everybody’s pleased he’s gone!”
Arilla shuddered. “How horrible!”
“Yes, it is horrible to have no friends to mourn you. Now you see, Arilla, what it really means to be ‘proud,’ and ‘brave,’ and everything else that you say about him. He was a ruffian, a terror to all who wanted to live peacefully. An object of hatred! Now he’s gone and we all feel relieved. So you must stop grieving. He was never worthy of your love and he’s not worth your sorrow.”
“Is this just your queer way of consoling me?” Arilla whispered in distressed suspicion.
“No! But it should console you—to learn the plain truth. If you don’t believe me, wait and see whether anybody else has a bit of regret for him.”
Arilla stood wretchedly. Then she broke out with, “I never thought—I never believed that He would do anything to him! That He would kill him with His thunder-stick—He, who was always so gentle!”
“And just. Gentle and just. Do you deny that He’s just?”
“Yes! Yes! I do! I can never have confidence in Him again!”
A fawn came up to join in the talk. “Don’t be bitter, Arilla. You forget how good He has always been to us.”
A few others, bucks and fawns, arrived.
“We’re all grateful for His generosit
y,” a strong roebuck said decisively.
Members of the group around him agreed loudly.
“That’s right!”
“He deserves our confidence!”
“Yes, even our love—”
“Why, in the winter He sees to it that we don’t starve!”
Arilla looked pleadingly around the circle. “But you aren’t all glad He killed my mate—?”
A chorus of “Yes! Yes, we are!” answered her.
“He’s given us peace from a murderer,” a handsome buck declared.
“Just as we’ve hoped He would,” added another. “We’ve all been hoping for this very thing. We expected it of Him. We trusted Him to come and help us. And now He’s done it—He’s put an end to the wretch.”
The last speaker pushed forward. “Look, Arilla, look at me.” He showed his flank along which ran a wide scar. “That’s a little token your mate gave me. Only a miracle saved me then! I was sick and weak for a long time and suffered horrible pain!”
“Are you still surprised, Arilla?” Rabot asked quietly. “Or do you think we’re cruel?”
She shook her head silently.
And then, all at once, they were saying: “We’re sorry for you, Arilla! . . . We always pitied you. . . . You were blinded. . . . You can begin a new life now. . . . Yes, yes, a new life, no longer enslaved . . . no longer mistreated . . . no longer intimidated. . . . You’ll learn of love . . . of tenderness, from another mate. . . .”
But Arilla would not listen anymore. She made a sudden leap and fled.
“Poor fool,” was Rabot’s judgment. Still, for a long time he gazed after her.
The buck with the scar concluded: “Well, anyway, we’re rid of that tyrant. Now we can live without fear again.”
Chapter 8
OFF AND ON FOR A long time Shah the Persian tomcat had been ranging the forest. Peter had tried hard to ambush him, but the cat had succeeded in outwitting his master. At length Peter laid a snare and caught him. Shah was now facing his last moment on earth, for the tender-hearted Peter had steeled himself to execute his pet for preying on the little forest folk.
But Shah sprang out of the box trap so gracefully and innocently, and purred around Peter so lovingly, that he was not condemned, but pardoned instead. Martin and Babette welcomed the tomcat into the house again as if a beloved prodigal had returned, repentant.