Chapter Thirty
PERRI HASTENED DOWN HER TREE toward the roe-deer gathered in the clearing. Her fur was standing out quite straight with indignation.
“Never in all my life,” she gasped. “Never in all my born days . . . !”
“What’s the matter?” asked Nello.
“The thunder-stick!” Perri’s emotion paralyzed her voice. “I—I—why, it went off at me!”
“At you?” exclaimed Gurri. “Why, I thought you said . . .”
“I know! I know!” Perri interrupted her. “I was wrong, that’s all. I tell you, I don’t know what things are coming to. You hold beliefs, you—you cling to certain basic principles and—pam! everything blows away around you.”
“After me, the deluge,” the screech-owl muttered.
Perri jerked around to face him. “What was that?”
“Nothing. I was merely commenting on the weather. Whom else is the thunder-stick attacking? Not owls, I hope.”
“Some pigeons and a few magpies.”
“How extraordinary!” Faline murmured.
A woodpecker flew down to join them. She was laughing wildly. “I’ve been shot at! Can you imagine that! Shot at! Me!”
“But you weren’t hit?”
“No. But that’s not the point. It’s an outrage, that’s what it is.”
They fell to discussing this lightning war. Gurri remembered the great horned owl’s comment, made long before, about the thunder-stick:
“I’ve watched it very carefully and sometimes it goes off and nothing happens.”
The chatter among the forest creatures ceased. Bambi had arrived. He greeted them quietly.
“I’ve heard something of what you’ve been saying,” he said.
“Do you know anything about it?” Perri asked.
“Yes. The smaller animals and birds must be very careful. This killer is a young He. I can tell He’s young because the skin He wears on His legs is short and there’s no fur on His face. I suppose He’s learning to kill. His thunder-stick is very small, too, not big enough to harm anything larger than a polecat. In fact, He has killed a polecat on the outskirts of the forest. But He doesn’t aim the thunder-stick very well. If you are careful, none of you need come to harm.”
Gurri thought, “Then the great horned owl was right. He does direct the thunder-stick.”
Bambi continued, “The brown He has been teaching Him, but the brown He is taking no part in the attack, and the young He is often left to His own devices.”
* * *
Bambi was quite correct.
A boy of about fourteen was taking his first lessons with a gun. He was enthusiastic over his new sport and shot at everything he saw. He had beginner’s luck, for after he had hit the polecat, he caught sight of the marten and wounded it so severely that it died.
The gamekeeper congratulated his pupil on this feat.
“Many a good pheasant will live the longer for that,” he said.
Nevertheless, he determined to stop this shooting.
The boy’s father was an important man in the district and it had been hard for the gamekeeper to refuse to teach his son the art of the gun and rifle; but it was bad for the deer to disturb them at this season of the year.
“You’ve had a lot of fun,” he told the boy, “but you’ll have to be patient for a few weeks longer before you can start in seriously. This is not the season.”
The boy was not pleased at having his sport interrupted, but he was forced to agree.
Peace returned to the forest.
It was the calm before the storm.
After his quarrel with the heron the fox retired to his den to recover. His wound healed slowly.
Because it was difficult for him to hunt he grew thin from lack of food. Brooding over his condition—his pain, his hunger—his temper, naturally sour, turned savage. He came to hate all created things. A lust to kill rose in him.
When he finally recovered, One-Eye the fox became the terror of the district.
One-Eye ranged far abroad. He was not content to confine himself to the area near the stream. He found much better hunting in the part of the forest where the roe-deer lived.
Wherever he went, he left strewed behind him a trail of his victims’ bones; their last flurries were clearly printed in the earth.
He grew big and strong. His coat took on a lustrous depth. His brush grew thick and long.
One-Eye was known and feared by all; all, that is, except certain of the deer and the heron.
The fox never forgot the heron. At the bottom of the hate that filled his heart and body was a seed from which it sprang. That seed was the memory of the heron.
Perhaps this hatred overflowed against all birds. Perhaps it was because of this that One-Eye became such a scourge to the pheasants.
The gamekeeper found skeleton after skeleton, some picked clean, some simply used for sport and left in tattered balls of blood and feathers. Stolidly he followed this trail of corpses. It led him far from the forest, across an open field, past the pool where the willow flourished greenly, over a sparkling stream where a litter of feathers was a memorial for some slain duck, into a tangled coppice of trees and bushes.
At his heels Hector trotted patiently. Over his shoulder he carried not only his shotgun but a spade. In a deep thicket he discovered One-Eye’s lair, a narrow hole hidden by creeping plants.
Swiftly he gathered brushwood which he thrust into the entrance to the den. Thoughtfully he packed his pipe and, with the match he used to light it, set the pyre to burning.
A column of smoke surged upward. Flames crackled merrily. But some inward curve in the hole kept the smoke and flame from entering.
The gamekeeper waited for the flames to die. He took his spade and attacked the sandy earth. Hector sat stiffly watching these activities, his eager eyes intent.
But nothing happened. Empty as an opened oyster-shell the lair lay bare. A narrow, backward-running tunnel told the story. One-Eye had not only a way in but also a way out.
The gamekeeper cursed but was not upset. He laid a snare or two in likely places and retraced his steps; but One-Eye left the skeletons of slaughtered hares and pheasants near the snares as though in mockery. Naturally he did not return to his den. That was ruined as a home. He took to gipsying, sleeping in any suitable place. Every path and trail, every thicket and cave, were known to him, even Bambi’s cave on the hillside.
He was bound for Bambi’s cave at sun-up one morning when he crossed the clearing where Faline and her family slept. They were not there, but Perri was on the ground near the hazel bushes seeking some morsel with which to break her fast. Immediately One-Eye flattened down on his belly and crept toward the unsuspecting squirrel.
Like a puffball borne on a playful breeze Perri capered ahead of One-Eye, now darting a few steps forward, now rising upright while she searched the grass with eager, beady eyes. One-Eye slightly increased his pace. Two good springs and Perri would be his. One snap of that snarling mouth and another corpse would moulder with the others.
A voice said quietly, almost as though it were a matter for laughter:
“Quick, Perri! One-Eye’s on your tail!”
One-Eye spun round with astonishment. Perri leaped to safety.
“So you’re One-Eye,” said Bambi.
The fox and the roe-deer faced each other. Bambi’s head was held high, a beautiful mark for any throat-tearing killer; but One-Eye knew better.
“And you’re Bambi,” he replied.
“You have heard of me?” Bambi pretended surprise. “Do you allow any of your victims time for conversation? Aren’t you afraid that some rabbit will attack you one of these days if you give him time to talk?”
One-Eye said nothing. His cunning brain was weighing chances, wondering if it would be possible, perhaps, to attack an animal this size successfully. Bambi read his thoughts.
“Don’t hesitate! Spring! The heron didn’t have as many prongs as I!”
“D
on’t be ridiculous,” One-Eye said slyly. “I wouldn’t dream of attacking you.”
“I think perhaps you’re telling the truth for once. I’m a little bigger and a little better protected than a hare. Now I’ll give you another invitation. Come to my cave sometime when I’m there. Believe me, I’ll give you a welcome that will stay in your memory a long time.”
“I come to your cave!” exclaimed One-Eye with a great show of astonishment.
“That’s right. Sometime when I’m there.”
“My dear Bambi,” One-Eye said, “it’s very kind of you, of course, but I swear I don’t even know where your cave is.”
“That’s very strange,” Bambi remarked, “it smells of you once in a while.”
“Someone else, I assure you.”
“No. You. Your scent is rather peculiar, you know.”
One-Eye looked thoughtful.
“It couldn’t be that place on the hillside which the dead tree hides.”
“So! I see we understand each other.”
“But I hadn’t the remotest idea . . . !”
“Of course you hadn’t! But now you know. I’ll be waiting for you, if you live long enough!”
“If I live long enough!” The fox looked startled. “That’s an unpleasant thing to say.”
“You should know,” said Bambi sternly, “that your kind doesn’t flourish for long. You’ve an enemy more cunning than I and quicker than the heron.”
“Who?” whispered One-Eye.
“The brown He.”
The fox laughed. “Oh, I see. I was worried for a moment. Don’t worry about me because of Him. I have proved myself more than a match for Him.”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” screeched a new voice.
Bambi glanced up. “Quite right, screech-owl,” he agreed. “Others have tried to fight in a duel with Him. All of them are dead.”
With that retort Bambi sprang into the bushes. One-Eye stood listening and thinking. The sneer faded from his face.
Chapter Thirty-One
GOLDEN SUMMER DAYS SPED ON. Each morning the dew lay heavier in the hollows. Each evening the departing sun painted more colorful pictures in the western sky.
The noons were lazier, the scents that drifted in the air were heavy-sweet. Already now the hedgerows gleamed with cups of pinkly tinted roses, and leaning fence-posts bloomed with columbine. Wherever sunlight pierced the forest, midges swarmed and drowsy flies buzzed heavily.
“The time has come,” said Bambi, “to sleep by day and take the forest paths when darkness falls. Be careful, now, for the thunder-stick will shortly start its business of destruction.” He turned to Geno. “You understand, my son?”
Geno nodded simply. He understood that with those four simple words his father placed him in charge of the family; and so it was.
Faline ceased to lead and counsel. Now it was Geno who led the family forth at evening and brought them back with dawn’s approach.
He took his duties seriously. Not a rustle disturbed the underbrush that he did not hear; not a scent moved in the air that he did not sample and understand.
Then, as Bambi had predicted, the thunder-stick was heard again.
The roe-deer had just lain down to sleep. It was a pearl-gray morning with a heavy mist above the ground that dampened the rays of the sun. The forest birds were sleepy, late with their song. Even the blackbird had done no more than clear his throat.
Nello and Membo had already closed their eyes. Geno and Gurri talked in whispers. Faline thought her private thoughts.
“We have seen less of One-Eye lately,” Gurri said.
“Since he saw Father.”
“Yes.” Gurri shivered, although the morning was not cold. “I wish I could forget to be afraid of him.”
“I’m sure you have no need for fear. You’re not so small as you were when the brown He rescued you.”
“I’ve told myself that. I’m like Mother when she sees the Kings, I suppose. I know that One-Eye will not harm me, and yet I am afraid.”
“Listen!” Geno commanded.
They heard the heavy sound of the thunder-stick—once, twice.
Perri came hurtling through the trees. In misty weather or clear, she was about her business at the sun’s first rising.
“One of your kind,” she advised them. “A young buck.”
Geno and Gurri were silent, grieving.
The noise of the reports had awakened Nello and Membo.
“Is it coming this way?” they queried anxiously.
“I don’t think so.” Perri worked her jaws nervously. “I’ve had a greater sympathy with your peril since I myself was a target for the thunder-stick.”
“Then perhaps you’ll use even more watchfulness on our behalf,” said Geno shrewdly.
Perri was offended.
“I’m sure I’ve always tried to do my duty,” she said.
“Of course you have,” comforted Gurri. “There’s not a finer watcher in the forest.”
“Except on her own behalf,” Nello teased.
“D-don’t look now, but One-Eye’s on your tail,” Membo joked.
Perri spun around on her branch. “Up here?” she cried. “Can this fox climb?”
They all laughed silently, and even Perri joined them finally.
“You should be ashamed, making fun of your elders!” she said. “But as far as watchfulness goes, Geno, you needn’t worry. I’ll do my best.”
Later on, when the sun was almost directly over their heads, Até came to see them.
“Well,” he cried gaily, “all asleep except Gurri. Why, you lazybones!” He stretched himself beside the watchful Gurri. “How is it you’re awake? What are you thinking of?”
Gurri shifted uneasily.
“Nothing,” she said indistinctly.
Até’s eyes widened.
“It couldn’t possibly be me, now, could it?”
Gurri replied sharply: “Of course not. Why should I think of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Até grinned. “I think I’m a very good subject for thought.”
Geno woke and cut in testily, “You’re a good subject for anxiety, running around in full daylight when the thunder-stick’s about.”
“Oh, come now, you gray-coated fuss-budget! Don’t you know I believe in fate?”
“Then you are heading for an extremely unpleasant fate, if you ask me!”
Até’s reckless eyes gleamed. Larger than any of them, his antlers more mature, he looked extremely handsome as he rested with his head held high.
“My time has not come yet,” he declared. “I shall probably die a stiff-legged old buck with fourteen children, and, if I die young, the fault will be yours,” he teased Gurri.
“Why will the fault be mine?” Gurri asked with interest.
“Oh, wilier than the serpent!” Até exclaimed. “As though you didn’t know that I don’t sleep because of you!”
“Shut up and at least let this deer sleep, will you?” demanded Membo.
“You croak more hoarsely than the raven,” Até said. “You don’t know what you’re missing, wasting time here when the sun’s so warm on the meadow and the pool sparkles like a sweetheart’s eyes.”
“Listen to the poet!” growled Nello.
Faline chimed in. “I think Geno is right; you really should be more careful, Até.”
“Of course he should!” Geno fixed Até with his eyes. “Promise me you’ll stop this foolish wandering about by daylight.”
“The moon’s as beautiful as the sun just now,” Gurri murmured.
Até stared at her.
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ll accept your invitation to join you in the moonlight.”
“I gave no invitation,” replied Gurri coldly.
“I get a message . . . !” chimed in the magpie suddenly from a hazel twig.
“What is it?” demanded Até.
The magpie stared at him with glazed eyes and puffed out, speckled neckband.
&nb
sp; “I see a death,” she chattered. “I see a fine roe-deer spread helpless on the earth. He is named . . .”
“Spare us the name,” Até grinned. “It would be dreadful to meet a neighbor and know him for a ghost already!”
“You’re a mocker,” the magpie accused him.
“A mocker? Not I! I just face the world as I find it.” He looked hard at Gurri. “I’ll join you in the moonlight when you do invite me, Gurri. Meantime, I’ll stretch my legs.”
He got up, his muscles rippling under his shining coat.
“Goodbye, my friends,” he said. “Sleep peacefully and dream”—he had not stopped looking at Gurri—“of me.”
Gurri felt a curious prickling behind her eyes. Her mother’s gaze was on her. Impatient of that understanding glance, Gurri pretended to fall promptly into slumber. Their moment of peace was rudely interrupted. The thunder-stick spoke again, quite close at hand this time. Like an angry wasp they heard the bullet whine its way through the lower leaves.
“Até!” Gurri cried to herself in silent agony. “Até!”
But it was not Até who was struck by the thunder-stick. It was Boso.
Chapter Thirty-Two
SINCE HIS DEFEAT BY GENO, Boso had walked alone among the younger deer. He led the life of a hermit, shunning the paths his fellows took, reversing his mode of living. When they roamed the paths to the tender fields of grass, the salt-lick or the cooling pool, he slept; and when they slept he wandered. His temper was not yet spoiled. He was moody, but he had not yet turned his loneliness to bitterness.
Now that the roe-deer slept by day, he grazed. So it was that the boy whose training in the hunt had begun under the gamekeeper’s teaching, found him in a thicket.
Dressed in a new green shooting suit, the boy carried a light repeating rifle. He still had to bag his first deer.
When he saw Boso, excitement gripped him. True, this deer must be very young because his antlers were so small, but he would have time to worry about that later. The important thing now, at this actual moment, was to get a deer.
The morning light was still clouded with mist, the shot a long and difficult one. Moving down wind, the boy began to stalk his quarry.