“Please do.” Devil was very meek now.
“I really don’t think you meant to kill Gray.”
“Thank you, mother. You know I was innocent.”
“Oh, no, by no means innocent. You were always in a rage because Gray was smarter than you.”
Before anyone else could speak, Manni fell to the floor. Horrified, they all leaped toward him, stood around him.
“Are you feeling bad, Gray?” whimpered the stallion.
To their surprise Manni answered in a clear voice: “Bad? Oh, no! I feel light, wonderfully light . . .”
“Good! Good!” the stallion rejoiced. “That’s the beginning, Gray.”
“Quiet,” the cow warned him. “It’s the beginning—of the end!”
Frightened, Devil kept quiet.
Manni’s head swept back and forth on the floor. He sighed, “Oh, how beautiful the forest is—how fragrant—”
Understandingly, the mare entered his delirium. “Whom do you meet in the forest, little Manni?”
“Whom do I not meet? Tambo, you magnificent stag . . . Tambo, I’m not afraid of you. We’re friends after all.” Manni’s voice grew weaker. “Oh, the three nice roes are here again. Welcome—welcome!” Now he was whispering indistinctly. “Don’t be afraid—of the Fiery One—he won’t hurt you—he is—really—” Then louder again: “Oh, He—”
A shudder ran through Manni’s body. He stretched and then lay still.
Chapter 23
SPRING FOUGHT ITS WAY BACK to the countryside only after long delay and great effort. Chilly weather persisted with its wintry breath. The sky and the earth seemed cut off from each other.
But though gray clouds still masked the sun, the trees began to sprout delicate young leaves. Bitter-cold rain poured down, yet the grass sprouted afresh and the flowers bloomed. Icy winds swept through the forest, but the migrating birds returned joyfully, built their nests and sang as if it were really spring.
The roebucks grew their new horns and would soon be rubbing off their coverings. Their red summer coats, however, were not yet growing properly, so that they went around in off-colored dress from which thick tufts of hair hung loose.
The same thing happened to the coats of the great stags, who looked very shabby. They had lived through the winter in herds, once again experiencing the shame of bald heads. Now their crowns sprouted anew, looking fantastically magnified by the covering.
Tambo’s crown rose slowly, but to great height. It was almost ready to give him the delight of rubbing it off.
He too now walked alone. A dark feeling filled him: a vague memory that kept dissolving into nothing, yet tugged at his heart until it hurt. There was something lacking for him. He wondered what it was.
It was loneliness from which he suffered. And he had nothing to confirm his dignity and majesty, his rule over the others. He became irritable, attacked those who crossed his path and was glad the other stags kept away from him. For a while it amused him to frighten roebucks and does, to chase and threaten horrified fawns. He became the menace of the forest.
Then, just as quickly, he felt bored, and ashamed of doing such silly things. He resumed the proud gentleness better suited to his nature.
Finally the sunshine and warmth of real spring triumphed. The singing of the birds took on a truer tone. The throbbing of the finches, the rejoicing of the orioles, the calls of the cuckoos, filled the forest with happiness. The squirrels dashed gaily along the branches. The magpies loquaciously chattered all kinds of stories. And the titmice whispered in the bushes.
Gnats danced from early morning till late evening, only to sink down dying at night to make place for new generations. Butterflies, drunk with light, flitted over sunny meadows.
Bumblebees and beetles dashed and whizzed through the air. “Those butterflies,” said a fat beetle to his son, “are flowers that have liberated themselves.”
“Well, well!” answered the youngster. “Of all things!” Then a bird snapped up the father in flight. The youngster simply repeated, “Well, well! Of all things!” He lighted on a leaf and crawled thoughtfully upward to the branch. “I must be careful.”
A magpie came to Tambo as the stag was selecting a bedding place. “Are you alone?”
“Yes,” Tambo admitted, “I’m all alone.”
“That’s good,” the magpie chattered. “It suits you.”
Tambo was silent, for he realized that this solitude suited him in fact very little. He had been used to something different. But he could not remember what and sank to pondering.
“Don’t you like to gossip with me?” the magpie asked after a pause.
“No,” Tambo retorted brusquely.
“You’ve become very rude,” the magpie remarked and flew away.
Tambo lay down. The early light shimmered and he was sleepy.
Close overhead Perri the squirrel sat on a low shaking maple branch. “Greetings, Tambo.”
The great stag looked up, “Greetings.”
“All alone, Tambo?”
“You can see for yourself.”
“Where is—yes, where’s Debina?”
Tambo sprang up. That was the name he had been seeking in his memory! Suddenly he remembered his modest companion, remembered her timid devotion. Longing rose in him. “Debina! Debina!”
“Where is she?” asked Perri.
Tambo sighed. “I wish I knew!”
Perri sat leaning on her beautiful flag, holding both forepaws against her fluffy white breast. She sighed too. “Yes, everything good comes to an end some time. . . . Farewell, Tambo!” and she sped like a red streak toward the treetop.
Tambo could not fall asleep for a long time. “Debina,” he thought. “Debina!” That he could have forgotten this name! That this lovely memory could have slipped away from him! He repeated Perri’s observation: “Everything good comes to an end some time.”
He could not remember how the end had come about. How? And when? No matter how he pondered, no details came to him.
Had Debina deserted him? She? She who was so faithful and devoted; so patient, so unselfish? Impossible!
Then—had he run away from her? He? He remembered how panicky fright had once driven him away from her while she slept, and how she had searched for him, and found him.
No, he couldn’t have deserted her. She would have followed him. She wouldn’t have rested till she was near him again.
Or had some misfortune come to her?
Tambo’s thoughts became confused. He slept fitfully, dreamed wildly, started up, left his bed even before gloaming.
“Debina, Debina!”
He grasped at the name which Perri had brought back to him.
He had never ranged so swiftly as on this moonlit night, had never grazed so sparsely, so hastily. When ever he saw a doe he thought it was Debina. He stormed toward her, but when he saw that she was a stranger, and indifferent to him, he let her flee.
But there was one who did not flee when he ran up to her. An old one. She awaited his fierce approach placidly.
“Do you want something?” she asked. Her tone seemed sarcastic.
“Nothing of you,” he answered gruffly and started to turn away.
“You thought I was someone else, Tambo.”
“That’s none of your business,” he grumbled.
“Tambo, I know whom you’re seeking.”
In a flash he turned back.
“Your old friend, your Debina. Your former Debina.” Now the irony sounded open.
He asked quickly, “Where is she?”
“I can tell you that too, Tambo. But it won’t help you.”
“Where? Where? Where?”
She described a certain part of the forest in exact detail. Without thanks Tambo rushed away. And indeed, in a little glade he found Debina peacefully grazing. She looked up as he darted toward her.
“Debina!” he cried excitedly. “Debina!”
“Greetings,” she said without emotion.
?
??Don’t you know me?”
“Yes, I do. Tambo.”
“Come with me,” he begged eagerly. “I’m so happy to find you again. Come! We lost each other.”
“Yes, Tambo, we lost each other.” She spoke soberly.
“But don’t think of that now,” he implored. “Just come back to me. Our companionship was so beautiful.”
“Yes, it was, Tambo. Beautiful . . .”
“It can be so again.”
“Never, Tambo, never again.”
“Because of someone else?” He flared up proudly.
She smiled gently. “Because of your child which will soon be born.”
“My—my child?” he stammered.
“Yes, your child, Tambo. If it’s a doe, I hope she’ll be wiser than I was.”
“Oh, Debina, no one could be so wise as you.”
Calmly, she continued: “If it should be a male—then I want to see that he becomes as powerful as you. But he must never lose his dignity as his father lost his.”
Hurt and ashamed, Tambo bowed his high-crowned head. “You’re unjust, Debina! Unfair!”
Quietly, and this time without grief, she said, “Farewell, Tambo.”
The word of parting struck his heart like a blow. He stayed rigid. A queer cloudiness swam before his eyes, so that he did not really see Debina’s departure.
When he peered around finally, he found himself alone. He felt sad, incapable of decision. Without a goal, he wandered through the moonlit night. Now he cursed Perri. Why had the squirrel awakened his memory? What for? He had already forgotten Debina, had been almost happy again. . . . No, that wasn’t true. He had not been happy the whole long time. Something had been wrong with him. What? Yes, what?
At first he had thought it was his bald head that was torturing him. His bald head! What a little thing indeed compared with the real cause. Yes, and now that was over. He could not count now upon her devotion to him alone.
But he did not know what his fault had been. He had lost his dignity, she had said. He didn’t understand. He thought her unjust, but he mourned her bitterly.
Now the old doe came across his path.
“Don’t grieve so, Tambo,” she told him. “You’re just learning a lesson of life. You will come to accept it. This is not serious. It’s only in age that the really serious things come. Then you’ll think how unimportant this was. It will seem distant and strange, as if it has never been.”
But Tambo barely heard her and what he did hear he hardly comprehended.
Chapter 24
MARTIN HAD BEEN RIDING Devil on the wide forest road. But, as he rode without spur or whip, he had been unable to bring the usually prancing stallion to a gallop. Devil had always been willing, gay, even capricious. But throughout the winter his fiery temper had subsided and now, in the midst of beautiful spring, he was dull and ill-humored.
Martin rode him at a listless pace. Peter came forward to help Martin down and to unsaddle the stallion.
“There’s some sort of change going on in this horse,” the hunchback remarked as he dismounted clumsily.
“What do you mean, sir?” Peter asked.
“I can’t explain it exactly. He’s developed a lazy streak. And he’s losing weight.”
“Losing a little weight can hardly hurt him.” Peter grinned.
As the two men left the stable together, Martin said worriedly, “I hope he hasn’t the same illness poor Manni had—whatever it was.”
* * *
“He’s dissatisfied with you,” Witch admonished the stallion.
“Let Him be, for all I care,” Devil snorted.
“Don’t let go of yourself,” mooed Lisa. “It’s not wise.”
“Since when have I been wise?”
“You have enough wisdom to know what you owe Him,” said Witch.
“Do I owe it to Him to be in good humor when I’m sad?”
Lisa spoke very gently. “You must stop grieving over Gray.”
“Just look at me.” Witch came to Lisa’s support. “Have I lost my calm? I’m terribly unhappy about Gray. But sometimes I can be in quite a happy mood.”
“Good girl,” the cow praised her. “I was very fond of Gray. I mourn him, yet I’m usually in a good humor too.”
“It’s easy enough for you,” answered Devil. “You didn’t murder him.”
“What a thing to say!” Lisa was indignant.
“But you didn’t murder him either,” Witch argued.
“Well, let’s say killed. I killed my poor friend.”
“No!” Witch cried out.
“Oh, you didn’t!” Lisa exclaimed.
“You want to console me. Thank you.” Devil spoke slowly. “But no matter how you turn and twist it, I’m still to blame for Gray’s death.”
The calf said in a grown-up tone, “It was an unfortunate accident.”
A long silence.
Since Manni’s passing, the stable company had not really enjoyed life. They had lost their confidence with the departure of the donkey, the happy-natured fellow who knew how to smooth over everything untoward, how to get around all difficulties. Now the daily round became dreary and forlorn.
Suddenly, to their vast astonishment, Peter brought in a new donkey, answering to the name of Raggo.
They greeted their new companion in friendliest fashion.
Raggo, however, was young, stupid and brash. By no means so easily satisfied as Manni, he wanted a stall all to himself.
“Get out, old thing!” he demanded of Witch. “That place is for me.”
“You’re mistaken, little one,” Witch answered politely. “I’ve always lived here.”
“I never make a mistake,” snorted the donkey. “So, you’ve always lived here, eh? Bah! You’re bragging.”
“No,” Devil mixed in. “She has always lived here.”
“Did I ask you, old dopey-head? Speak when you’re spoken to!”
The stallion was too surprised to answer.
Lisa, however, grumbled threateningly, “You’d better behave yourself, infant.”
“Since when did I get to be your infant?” the donkey mocked.
“Not mine, Heaven forbid!” mooed Lisa. “But I advise you, don’t get so fresh, infant.”
The donkey went on sarcastically: “There’s nothing I need more than your advice, you old milk-idiot!”
“Don’t yap so,” the stallion broke out. “We dislike such vulgarity.”
“I don’t give a hang what you like or dislike.”
“If you’re going to live with us, you must do as we do. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise?” the donkey threw in challengingly.
“We’ll attend to you, infant!” The stallion showed a trace of his old fire.
“Well, you won’t be done with me till you tell me where my predecessor used to live.”
“Your predecessor,” the stallion told him reverently, “was modest. He didn’t ask a place for himself. He slept wherever he happened to be.”
“Then he was plain dumb,” laughed the donkey, “a moron.”
“Not a word against Gray!” stamped the stallion.
“Yes, it’s an outrage to criticize Gray!” Witch cried.
And Lisa mooed, “Just you dare, little one—just you dare criticize Gray. We’ll throw you out!”
“Listen,” said the stallion solemnly. “Gray, who was here before you, was wiser than all the rest of us put together.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” the donkey threw in.
“Anyway,” the stallion went on, “he had far more sense than you.”
“And was more agreeable,” said Witch.
“And much, much kinder,” Lisa added.
“We all loved him,” Witch explained softly.
The stallion sighed, “I wish he were still alive.”
“You’re all making yourselves ridiculous, raving over the dead.”
“Out with you!” Lisa roared.
“You’re old and silly—the whol
e kit and boodle of you,” the donkey mocked.
The calf leaped forward. “Am I old?”
“No, not old,” laughed the donkey, “but idiotic.”
With lowered head the young calf attacked him. Raggo turned quickly and kicked out his hind legs.
But Lisa was already between them. “Aha, you fresh brat! There . . .!” She pushed her massive head into the donkey’s flank. He staggered. “Get out!”
Witch gave the young donkey another push. “Yes, get out, you miserable little wretch!”
“Now! Now, Fiery One!” the cow urged the stallion. “Now let yourself go!”
“We’ve had enough of this asinine oaf!” cried Witch.
The donkey could not defend himself against the joint attack. He was hemmed in so that he could not kick and was soon weak from the buffeting they gave him. His punishers stood aside and he fled through the swinging door into the open.
Only slightly subdued, he stood outside and brayed at the top of his lungs.
Martin and Peter ran out of the house. The donkey brayed again pitifully. Martin stroked his head while Peter patted his flank.
“Go back into the stable,” Martin urged him, and led him inside. Emboldened by his bodyguard, he stepped like a conqueror straight into the mare’s stall.
“Get away from me!” growled Witch.
“I won’t!” replied the donkey, impudent again. “You get away!”
“I’ll show you!” Witch threatened.
Martin and Peter left the stable, and the donkey did not wait for the mare’s flailing hoof. Discreetly he slipped out of the stall and kept quiet.
Things were somewhat better after that day, but Raggo could never control his loose tongue. There was always quarreling in the stable, and he always had the worst of it. Sometimes he was driven out through the swinging door. His braying availed him little now, for Martin and Peter didn’t come to his aid again. They knew the others’ peaceable natures, knew the donkey was chiefly to blame, and hoped he’d be educated.
One thing they did not know was that the diversion of the new donkey’s wrangling slowly freed the stallion from his brooding over Manni. None of the human beings had an inkling of how much the impudent young newcomer disturbed the stable inmates by the rows he was constantly provoking. Nor did they dream how much he refreshed them at the same time. Nor, in fact, did the stallion, the cow and the mare themselves realize it.