by Felix Salten
Hidden in the leafy roof of the tree which shaded the gamekeeper’s lodge, Perri looked down at Annerle while she waited for Porro. Perri had heard him following her, grumbling every minute.
When he caught up with her, he drew back in horror, scarcely hearing her say, “Look!” He scrambled a couple of branches higher, and fled to the trunk, scolding: “That’s your carelessness! That’s what we get for your stubbornness! Here we are in the most awful danger! Just imagine what might happen to us! He lives down there! He! Don’t you know what that means? Are you crazy?”
“But I’m not crazy at all,” she tried to soothe him, “and I know what power He has—”
“Oh,” Porro interrupted, “so then you don’t know your way in the woods, and run blindly to destruction—”
She did not let him finish. “I’m not blind; I’m not running to destruction! Don’t be scared. He is not there, and that human child down there I know very well; that’s what I wanted to show you.”
“Thanks!” jeered Porro. “I don’t feel curious.”
“Come on down,” said Perri. “Come with me!”
“I wouldn’t think of it!” he shouted. “And you’re staying up here! Stop! Stop, I say!”
But Perri had already reached Annerle.
“Where have you been all this time?” asked the child.
Perri had no answer, and just repeated bashfully, “Hello, hello . . .” She peered upward, hoping Porro would join her.
“They’ve all been here,” said Annerle, “the blackbirds, the magpies, the finches, the woodpeckers—even the jay and the pheasants. Even your mother was here—you’re the only one who didn’t come. I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“I’d never forget you—never!” Perri declared.
“What do you keep looking up for?” asked Annerle. “Is the marten after you?”
“Oh, no,” smiled Perri, “my friend is up there; you’ve never met him.”
“Tell him to come down.”
“Porro doesn’t want to—he doesn’t dare. He’s afraid of you,” Perri confessed.
“He’s afraid of me?” laughed Annerle. “What did you say his name was?”
“Porro.”
Annerle called, “Porro! Porro! Don’t be afraid—I won’t hurt you!”
A brief rustling in the leaves; then silence.
“Is he so timid?” asked Annerle. “Or so grouchy?”
Perri came to his defense: “He doesn’t know what fear is. He’s always full of fun, and bursting with curiosity—I can’t imagine what’s wrong with him now.”
“Porro!” Annerle cried once more; then Annerle and Perri together called, “Porro!”
All was still.
“Let him be,” said Annerle gently. “Perhaps he’ll come later—another day.”
By way of excuse Perri added, “He’ll have to get used to you first. Or wait—I’ll try again.”
“What’s the use? He’s gone.”
But Porro was still there. He was hidden, crouching in the leaves so that only his keen little eyes sparkled, like polished onyx. He gazed down, listening with up-pricked ears. He had a feeling strangely pleasant but at the same time uncanny. He admired Perri for being on such familiar terms with Annerle; he was astonished at the human child, who filled him with awe and a strange yearning. His feelings were all confusion. He started to jump, but something held him fast; he kept hesitating, and finally he decided that nothing could drag him to Perri and the child.
He slunk away. He did not run as squirrels usually run in trees. He went very quietly, with slow, dispirited step, until he saw another tree ahead of him. Then he sprang across; not until then did he whip off through the woods.
He was discontented, sulky, and out of humor with Perri, with the human child and with himself. He did not go near Perri for days.
Chapter Fourteen
THE HEAT OF SUMMER COVERED the land. Sometimes a quick storm, without violence, would offer brief respite. Then again the sun would burn down from morning to night, rising fiery red over meadow and hill, quickly drinking the wealth of dew from leaves and grass blades, and sinking again as a fiery red ball.
This was the love season of the deer.
Days before, when the roebuck had passed Perri and Porro, he had been seeking the trail of a young beauty.
That was the beginning. Bucks and does grew wilder and wilder.
The males seemed to take leave of their senses; they forgot the slightest caution, wandered restlessly about, exposed themselves in broad daylight to the eye of the hunter, and often paid for their wild fancy with their lives.
The females still seemed to keep a remnant of fear. Indeed, they grew shyer and more cautious than ever. They did not roam so much; never appeared in meadows or clearings, but stayed in the heart of the thickets. Perhaps they wanted to be sought, or perhaps they wanted to draw their suitors to cover instead of letting the bucks expose themselves foolhardily.
When the females were alone, however, they grew alarmed. Overpowered by their feelings, they would begin to call for their lovers. Their calls were not many or loud. They called only two or three times, then waited bashfully. “Come, do come!” There was a fervent beauty in their “Pyeeeh!” And the one for whom it was meant raced nearer, spellbound.
But the coquettish doe failed to receive her suitor with tenderness; instead, she charged away—and thus the game would begin, teasing, evading, racing. Despite the show of flight and pursuit, it was a blissful game. Gasping, the doe would whip through the underbrush; with a loud panting the buck would charge after her. Grass and ferns rustled; the bushes crackled, thin stems broke, and stripped leaves fluttered to the ground. Smaller and smaller grew the circles, stronger and stronger the madness that possessed the deer.
Perri and Porro were scrambling high among the treetops again. Neither of them had mentioned the human child. Perri was satisfied not to, while Porro seemed to have forgotten everything. In fact he had almost forgotten that particular morning; its vague memory was like a dream.
The two of them were delighted at finding acorns nearly ripe, some even quite ripe.
“Wait! What’s that?” cried Porro, looking down.
Perri stopped in her tracks.
A pair of deer galloped past below.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Perri, starting to tremble.
“Unheard of!” interrupted Porro.
“Usually they’re so quiet,” said Perri.
Porro confessed, “I don’t understand what’s wrong with them.”
“Oh, well,” replied Perri reasonably, “how should we know, anyway?” With that she was calm again.
Then the deer came past once more. There was a loud panting, a trampling of hooves, a crackling, rustling, tearing of bushes.
Perri smiled a pleased smile. “They’re trying to imitate us. How funny!”
“Not at all!” Porro contradicted. “Nobody in the whole forest can play like us—nobody! They couldn’t possibly jump into the trees.”
“No, certainly not,” Perri admitted.
“Well, then!” Porro disposed of the matter.
But the matter was not disposed of. The two deer charged past for the third time. Tense and puzzled, the two squirrels watched the drama.
“I’m sure she must have done something awful to him, and he wants to punish her,” Porro decided.
“Say!” Perri said with a start, “say, do you suppose that could be . . . love?” She could not have explained what suddenly gave her this notion.
“Nonsense!” growled Porro.
“Yes, my good friends,” chattered the magpie, who had flown up, “yes, my good friends, that’s love.”
Angrily Porro spun around to whistle at her. “Be off with your lies! We’re not that stupid!”
“Haw!” screeched the jay from hiding. “Not that stupid! Haw!”
And the woodpecker, high up on a tree-trunk, gave a mocking laugh. Then he drummed with delight.
&n
bsp; “When I tell you, Porro,” persisted the magpie, “—you’ve often asked me about love—when I tell you that’s love, you can believe me.”
“I don’t believe you, you impudent liar,” cried Porro in a fury. “You can tell that to the jay, the silly fellow; he’ll believe you.”
“Haw!” screeched the jay. “The silliest creature in the whole forest calls me silly! Me! Haw, haw!”
“You can all think what you please,” yelled Porro, “but I won’t take that nonsense.”
“You’re right,” Perri soothed him.
“I won’t talk to you any more,” declared the magpie. And she flew off.
Once more the deer charged past.
“Of course I’m right,” said Porro, ignoring the magpie’s departure. “I see what I see. Nobody can tell me differently. The way that roebuck behaves is just plain hate.”
“You know everything,” Perri praised him.
Hearing this last, the blackbird perched beside them.
“Am I right?” Porro turned to her. “Or do you take us for fools too?”
“You claim,” fluted the blackbird, “that that’s hate?”
“Yes!” replied Porro with aged gravity. “I saw it perfectly plainly, and that’s what I claim.” He looked delightfully droll.
“It’s the heat, too,” said the blackbird kindly, “the terrible heat.”
“Possibly,” Porro admitted, “quite possibly.”
“Haw!” the jay’s voice was heard. “Aw, haw!”
The hammering of the woodpecker rattled through the woods like a drum tattoo.
Chapter Fifteen
TWO ROEBUCKS PUSHED EACH other, brow to brow. Digging stiff legs into the withered grass they stood with heads chest-high for the thrust. Their eyes were bloodshot. In this posture each had warded off the other’s attack. Only their foreheads crashed together, blocking the fatal stab at the flank.
It was a battle of rivals in love. They had always lived peaceably, without contention; they had been gentle and noble. But now suddenly they flamed with battle, like a fire kindled by lightning; their gentleness and timidity were burned to nothing. They begrudged each other not merely a moment of love, but life itself. They staked their lives unhesitatingly, each mad to destroy the other. They did not know that the bride whom they had both chosen had since fled, and was giving ear to an outsider’s wooing. They did not dream that she would not wait to reward the victor; they fought a life-and-death battle for a vanished hope.
Two splendid champions were fighting, evenly matched. They were careful to keep their foreheads together, so that neither could pretend to give way suddenly and then dive for the flank of his staggering enemy. Their bodies twitched; their breath came in muffled snorting gasps.
One roebuck wore a tall six-pronged crown with ivory-yellow points. The other had but two branches. They rose high above the ears, were thickly pearled for half their length, and terminated in two sharp ivory-colored daggers. The one with the six points gradually lost heart. Gathering his last strength, he thrust harder against his adversary’s brow, and suddenly sprang far back, so that the other pitched forward. Before he could pull himself together, the six-pointer made a quick turn, and dashed off. His enemy of the murderous daggers pelted after.
“A war has broken out among the deer,” Porro decided. “How odd! Let’s watch.”
Perri followed. They roamed the woods, stopping when they heard a doe calling.
The doe was taking short, impatient steps among the dogwoods without moving.
“Come!” she belled tenderly. “Come!”
A young gallant charged up. The doe leaped away, and the chase began.
“That was the challenge,” Porro decided. “She challenged him.”
The blackbird agreed, “Yes, that’s right, she challenged him.”
Perri admired Porro immensely, “You are clever; you understand everything!”
They leaped and whisked gaily through the treetops. Porro’s triumph of wisdom put him in a particularly good humor.
Again they heard the call of a doe from afar. They headed in that direction at once.
There was a strange unrest afoot. Magpies flew through the trees; the jay was speechless. Titmice whisked here and there. Finches, robins, nuthatches and yellowhammers were everywhere. Even the woodpecker, interrupting his pounding, swung in curving flight from one treetop to another.
The belling of the doe stopped, and then began anew. It was sweet, irresistible: “Come! Come!”
Curiosity and uneasiness hurried the two squirrels forward.
All at once Perri started in horror. A fearful scent blew full in her face, an odor that paralyzed her with terror, although she had never smelled it before.
Porro, equally startled, climbed higher and higher like a flash. In the swaying treetop he waited for Perri, who joined him as fast as her legs would carry her. They crouched together with pounding hearts. Here they were above the wind; they got none of the crushing scent, and had a good view.
Down below was He. He was behind the young beech, a few steps from the little glade. He stood chest-deep in the underbrush, and the shadow of the beech hid his face. He would never have been noticed but for his scent.
He stood motionless, a horrid sight. Just his upright figure, this ability to stand on two feet, was puzzling and ghastly. How horrible his green body, his bare neck and his naked face tufted with hair! Dark-green fur covered his head. He could remove this piece of fur, which slid loosely about on his head; merely to watch him doing so was painful. And then his forepaws! Threatening hands, holding a third, the fire-hand.
But now He began to bell. He could do even that!
His voice was alluring, sweet, longing, as if a doe were calling, “Come! Come!”
Perri was dizzy with horror. Porro trembled in every limb. “Let’s go!” he whispered. “Let’s go! I can’t stand this.”
They departed cautiously, then raced breathlessly out of the area scented with danger. They stopped at the other side of the little glade, for now uproar began on all sides.
Warning cries rang out. “Stop!” yelled the magpie. “Danger!” screeched the jay. The blackbird shouted, “You’re heading for destruction.” A second magpie called, “Stay where you are!” Even the crows, roaming high in air, screamed, “Don’t be fooled! Don’t be cheated!”
A roebuck stalked forward in the brush, solemnly lifting his legs. It was the one who had escaped from the murderous dagger-horned buck. Here he felt alone; here was neither battle nor enemy. And his beloved was calling.
He was feverish with pride. He did not and would not heed the warning cries. He panted after the voice.
Everyone was gathered close about him now—all the winged watchmen who were trying to protect him. It was no use; he was deaf to their calls.
Perri and Porro, excited and tense, stumbled around close above him. They looked into his face, wondering how to hold him back.
“I’ll jump on him,” hissed Porro, “and whisper in his ear that He’s lying in wait over there.”
“Don’t you do it,” whispered Perri. “That roebuck is beside himself; he’d jump out and kill you.”
Just then a second, a mighty buck, came with measured tread from a deep brush thicket. Magnificent antlers rose from his head; their enormous black stems were richly beaded, widespreading, the polished points rising to a tremendous height. His body was a splendid red; it seemed to overflow with power. A few white hairs on his face showed age, but his eyes were fresh and youthful; they were gentle, yet imperious and compelling.
All the creatures who had watched and warned were silent when this imposing figure blocked the way of the younger buck. The latter gave way a step; he realized that battle with such an adversary was hopeless, but he would not flee without trying to fight.
He stood still. The imperious one saw his indecision, and felt him screwing up his courage to spring forward.
“Calm down,” he said, “I don’t want to fight you for
your lady love.” The six-pointer looked doubtful, so he repeated, “Really I don’t. There’s no lady love far and wide around here. You can believe me.” He went on, “Be good, now; you’re a plucky fellow. It would be too bad if anything happened to you.”
Once more there was a witching “Come! Come!”
The six-pointer, spellbound, made a turn to get past the mighty buck and rush on. But the big fellow blocked his path again with an incredibly quick spin.
His voice was immensely grave. It was an absolute command: “I tell you to stop! That’s He! It’s no female of our kind, it’s He! Do you know what that means? He’s luring, imitating the sweet calls. Whenever you hear a call like that, always make a careful round until you’ve got the scent. Now, my son, go carefully around the spot where the call comes from. Go on, no matter how much you want to rush in. If it’s your love, you’ll still reach her in time. If He’s lying in wait, you’ll escape his fire-hand. Go now, my son, and in future listen to the sentries in the trees. They see more, and they see everything sooner than we do.”
The six-point buck stammered confused thanks, and crept away. The imperious one vanished, no one knew how.
Blackbirds, magpies, jays, woodpeckers, finches, all sat in respectful silence in the trees.
“Who was that?” whispered Perri.
“That was Bambi, the prince,” replied the magpie.
“It’s all too much for me,” grumbled Porro, and whisked off.
After a while there came the fear-call of the six-point buck, “Bah—oh!” and the sound of his wild flight through the brush. The buck had discovered that He had been the tempter.
Chapter Sixteen
OFF IN THE FOREST THERE was a shot. Perri and Porro, who heard the explosion but faintly, paid no attention.
The owner of the preserve thrust a new shell into the barrel.
“Well,” he asked, “I hit him, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” replied the hunter, “you hit him, all right. But where? Not in the shoulder.”
“Oh, behind the shoulder, I guess.”
“He went off all doubled up,” said the hunter.
