Perri

  “I didn’t see that.”

  “I did, though.” The hunter scratched his head. “I think he’s wounded internally.”

  “Then he’s bound to drop,” said the owner, smiling hopefully.

  “He’s sure to drop,” the hunter reassured him, “only we can’t pick him up right away. We’ll have to wait till he weakens.”

  “Too bad! Really too bad!” The owner grew impatient. “Usually they all drop on the spot or else after a couple of jumps. Remember that fat stag a fortnight ago? This is the first time—”

  “Let’s go to the spot,” the hunter said to change the subject, “we can tell more there.”

  They scrambled down and went over to the spot where the buck had received the bullet. This was about a hundred yards away, close to the edge of the meadow, which cut a slice out of the woods. Both searched the ground, the hunter carefully stooping, the owner upright and casual.

  “Here’s blood,” cried the hunter in a low voice, “blood enough!”

  He pulled up bunches of grass and dandelion leaves, all covered with blood—dark blood, sprinkled with tiny green dots. The owner examined the plants, shook his head and said in annoyance: “Sure enough, wounded through the intestines.”

  “That’s right,” the hunter agreed. “I’ve known you to make better shots.”

  “What can you expect?” the owner defended himself. “The buck was so hot after the doe, and went past at such speed—anyone else would have missed him altogether.”

  “If you’d missed, we wouldn’t have to bother looking for him.”

  “He can’t be far away,” urged the owner. “Let’s wait half an hour, and then go get him.”

  Now the hunter shook his head. “It’s not so simple, sir. If we scare him away from the spot where he’s lying wounded, the buck will go on to the last gasp. We must have patience.”

  The owner had no patience.

  “Oh, all right, then,” said the hunter. They both had a smoke, and then started through the coverts.

  They went cautiously, step by step, the hunter ahead. He pushed the bushes aside, and the owner followed. There was blood, often in clots, on the leaves to right and left—on one side rather little, on the other much more.

  “Shot through and through!” whispered the hunter.

  “Of course!” replied the other peevishly. “He’s bound to drop soon.”

  “He was lying there,” reported the hunter, coming to a standstill. Colt’s-foot was pressed down in the midst of the thicket; a great dark pool of blood was seeping away. “Look, sir, we’ve scared him. Let’s go back.”

  “No!” the owner insisted. “The buck has lost so much blood—we’ll soon find him.”

  But they did not find him. They broke through the thicket, saw red drops in the narrow path, started through the next timber, and nearby in the middle of this found the second resting-place, also empty.

  “It’s getting dark,” said the hunter patiently, but with suppressed annoyance. “Tomorrow morning we’ll set the dog on the track; he’ll soon have him.”

  They went home.

  “By tomorrow morning the buck will be dead,” said the owner.

  “Maybe so,” murmured the hunter, who doubted it. Then, to put himself in better humor, he said, “If I’m not mistaken it’s that devilish old buck—you know, the one with those branchless spikes for horns, a regular bully and assassin.”

  “Do you think so?” The owner cheered up. “That would be a fine trophy.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” replied the hunter. “I really couldn’t say for sure. It all went so fast—”

  “Exactly,” the owner agreed. “That’s why I made such a bad shot.”

  “If it was that trouble-maker,” the hunter consoled, “everything’s all right. He’ll never get up again.”

  That night it rained for an hour or so. The water pouring from the sky washed away all traces of blood. Only in the spots where the buck had lain were there slight traces, and these had lost most of their scent.

  Treff, the dog, was helpless. He sniffed at the spot where the buck was hit, found no help there, and wandered vaguely along the edge of the woods. His master led him to the spot where the buck had broken through on the previous evening. He could not be sure himself whether it was really the right spot. Treff discovered a tiny red fleck on a leaf. He gained confidence, dragged his master after him, eventually found a second drop, smelled it for a long time, and became wildly excited at the spot where the buck had lain. He struggled violently forward. Not until the next covert did the hunter unleash him.

  Treff crisscrossed the entire ground. Nothing. He came out into the opening which led to the third covert, and waited for his master. His eyes said, “It’s not my fault.”

  The hunter stooped to pat the dog, and sent him with no great conviction into the third covert: “Go on!”

  Again Treff crisscrossed, leaving not a foot of ground uncovered. Occasionally he made nervous sounds; he worked in vain. He paid no attention to the abuse that descended on him from the trees.

  The magpies chattered: “Traitor! Renegade! You have no business here!”

  The blackbird scolded: “You’re an intruder in the forest! Get out! It’s a scandal!”

  The woodpecker laughed harshly: “Have you no shame?”

  The finches and titmice whispered, “You scum! You scum!”

  And the jay screeched haughtily: “Be off with you!”

  Treff was used to all this. It neither disturbed nor distracted him. He cared for nothing but his master. His master’s praise filled him with pride and joy; blame cut him to the quick.

  The hunter had accompanied Treff into the third covert, encouraging him from time to time.

  The owner walked expectantly up and down outside. He went around each covert, and kept asking, “Didn’t you find anything?” After each negative answer he said, “I can’t understand it.”

  Treff came out of the third covert. His tail-wagging and his face and eyes declared: “I can’t help it!”

  They spent the whole morning in the search. When the dog left the fourth covert, he dropped in the grass, panting, his tongue hanging out, as if to say, I’m done in!

  The men, too, were tired. The owner made no objection when the hunter said, “We’ll have to give up.” They walked toward the lodge in silence, with dragging steps. They were disappointed and disgusted. The hunter, hoping to avoid argument, did not mention that his advice of yesterday had been ignored, and that they had followed the wounded buck too soon. He just said, “The rain—the miserable rain ruined everything.”

  The owner, in full agreement, said, “I’m sorry for the poor buck; he must have suffered dreadfully.”

  The buck was suffering fearful torments even then. He lay in a hollow, far away from the place where they had looked for him. This was the very spot where he had been brought into the world. He had dragged himself thither with his last strength; there was a great bleeding wound in his flank, and approaching death was in his heart.

  Wound-fever shook him when he collapsed in the hollow. He was feeble, yet fearfully agitated. He felt no pain; but his whole body burned, his chest was like roaring fire, his throat was parched, and a triphammer was pounding in his head.

  A drink! Oh, to get a single drop of water on his parched tongue! He lay on his side, too weak to lift his head.

  The rain refreshed him, cooling the uppermost wound, and later the one that was pressed to the ground. The water washed his tongue. But the fever rose higher; still he shivered violently.

  The sky was cloudless when day broke, and the sun ate the damp. The dying buck’s feverish dreams were shot through with raging pains. In his delirium he moaned as he breathed.

  Perri and Porro heard this heavy breathing from afar.

  “Somebody’s sleeping in the forest,” cried Perri. “Could it be He?”

  “Don’t be foolish!” Porro contradicted. “Perhaps one of the big creatures is ill; that breathing sound
s like a sigh.”

  “Let’s see who it is,” Perri suggested.

  “Better not,” Porro warned. “It might be dangerous.”

  But the curiosity of the two squirrels was too strong for caution, though they did stay high up in the treetops as they approached the hollow.

  Before they got there they heard a loud sighing, strangely mixed with groans. They looked down from their treetop to the bed of the spike-horned buck below.

  “It’s the fighter with the tall crown,” said Porro. “Do you remember?”

  Perri pitied him: “Poor fellow—he was so strong—so bold—the poor, poor fellow! Do you think he’ll get well?” She longed for consolation.

  Porro answered gloomily: “He’s done for.”

  Now the buck’s breath began to rattle in his throat. The squirrels were startled by the harsh, snoring tones, but they still sat fascinated.

  The buck was dreaming his last dreams. Confused, kindly images passed before his mind, already wandering. He was a fawn going away with his mother from this hollow where he was born. He saw the meadow glowing in the morning light. Then as a youth he was scouring his first antlers; he saw his love, and defeated one rival after another in quick struggles. Then again he was running beside his mother. And his numbed brain kept saying, “Mother, Mother.”

  Attracted by the death rattle, a fox slunk into the hollow. For a while he sat thoughtfully watching the dying buck. Five or six crows perched close above the hollow; the rattle had been a signal to them.

  “Scoundrels!” yelled Porro.

  The crows paid no attention; they bickered a little, and walked around the buck’s head.

  A tremor went through the body of the buck. The rattling stopped. His legs stiffened, and his last breath died away.

  The squirrels looked on, tremendously shaken. They sat without stirring for some time. When they left, they moved slowly, stunned with sorrow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  CHILDREN! CHILDREN!” THE BIG black squirrel was shouting through all the treetops.

  Perri and Porro recognized his voice, and wanted to dodge him. They scrambled in haste from one tree to another.

  “We’re not here,” whispered Porro, and Perri asked, “Where are we?”

  “I have no idea,” replied Porro. “He’ll have to look for us.”

  But the black squirrel called: “Children! Come here! You’ve never seen the like of this! Quick!”

  At this they stopped dead still. The blackbird twittered as she flew past, “It’s true.” Wild now with curiosity, they dashed in the direction of the calls, and found themselves in the evergreens.

  Mirro received them with reproaches. “How long does it take you, anyway, you loafers? Now you’ll have to wait. Sit down quietly. Perhaps the fellow will come back.”

  The magpie, the woodpecker, a pair of finches and the cuckoo were sitting in the fir. Farther down a titmouse family was gathered.

  “Listen!” screeched the jay.

  The black squirrel snapped at him: “Be quiet!”

  The branches of the next fir shook violently; the needles rustled as if a dozen squirrels were tumbling about.

  On the outermost, swaying end of a branch there suddenly appeared a single, powerful squirrel, flame-red. He vanished like a flash, was up in the treetop in a twinkling, and down again in the same moment. He cried, “Joy! Joy!”

  The titmice giggled. All the others were silent. Only the black squirrel said, “The stranger is fast on his feet.”

  The stranger appeared again, and called out: “None of you has gone through what I have! None of you can understand me!” He disappeared again.

  Perri yelled after him: “Tell us about it! Sit still a moment, for a change. Tell us about it.”

  “He’ll talk, all right,” said Mirro. “He’ll fill you full of lies! Don’t believe a word he says.”

  “Why do you think he’s lying?” asked Porro.

  “I don’t know why he does,” replied the black squirrel. “Perhaps he just wants an excuse because he’s bursting in here as a stranger.”

  The stranger popped up again.

  “Do tell us about it!” Perri urged. “Stay and tell us all about it.”

  Flame-Red sat on his haunches for a moment; he had a tremendous banner of a tail. He pressed his forepaws to his white chest, and looked at Perri with glowing eyes. “I’ve told it all before, but I’m glad to tell it again and again. I was a prisoner, and I’m free! I was miserable, and now I’m happy!” He vanished. The fir shook with his high spirits.

  When he came in sight again, Perri cried, “What do you mean, a prisoner? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Porro said, “Who caught you? The marten? The owl? Tell us!”

  The titmice tittered.

  Flame-Red spoke with solemn gravity. “He caught me.” He continued proudly: “I got away!”

  “Haw!” screeched the jay. For a wonder, the magpie said nothing.

  Mirro blocked Flame-Red’s path when the latter started to charge off. “Stop! Anyone knows that He never hurts us. Tell us again exactly—”

  At this, Flame-Red bounded over him with a great leap. Turning around, he jeered, “You can’t order me to stop! Nobody can stop me any more! I’m free! I’m free!”

  He was gone.

  More and more onlookers collected. There were magpies, blackbirds, woodpeckers, finches and jays, all squabbling among themselves. Even the two mothers suddenly appeared, and greeted their children: “How are you?”

  Perri and Porro replied: “Oh, all right.”

  Perri’s mother inquired: “What’s going on here?”

  Before Perri could answer, the black squirrel said, “Quiet! There he is again!”

  Flame-Red dropped like a plummet. He saw that the circle of spectators had increased. He squatted down, surveyed his public, and began: “Good. I’ll tell it all again. Listen carefully. It’s the absolute truth.”

  “Haw! Haw!” squawked the jays.

  Paying no attention, Flame-Red went on, “This is not my forest. My home is elsewhere. I don’t know yet where it is from here, or how far. And I don’t know whether I shall look for my forest or stay here with you.”

  “Interloper,” growled Mirro in a low voice.

  The other did not hear him. “It was nice in my forest,” he said. “It seemed nicer there than here. Perhaps that’s because I was born there, spent my childhood there and had a mate. But perhaps it’s just as nice here.”

  “Our forest is the nicest there is,” said Perri indignantly.

  Flame-Red nodded. “Maybe so. But that’s not the point. . . . I shall tell you about the most terrible thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t interrupt me. In my forest there are only trees like these—only evergreens. The ground there is soft and covered with moss. Probably that’s why I didn’t hear anything. I was hungry, and was trying to eat a lot in a hurry. All at once it’s night around me! Pitch black. I try to rush up a tree, but I can’t. I keep bumping into this night. It wraps me up, it closes tighter and tighter around me. And then the awful smell. That’s He, I think suddenly, and I’m paralyzed with horror. Then I feel him grabbing for me, picking me up—I go wild with terror, and bite and scratch, but it’s no use. Finally I can’t move. I’m blind in that stinking darkness. A long, long time—” He rejoiced suddenly: “Now I’m free!” He swung into the branches.

  The black squirrel growled, “What lies! What impudent lies! They’re as tall as his tail!”

  “Taller!” screeched the jay. The titmice tittered.

  Flame-Red came back, and went on: “At last, at last I was unwrapped from the darkness. At first I couldn’t really see where I was, the light blinded me so. And the awful smell stunned me. I was in a barred house. Do you know what barred means?”

  “No,” cried Perri.

  “They’re sticks. Heaven knows what they’re made of. Impossible to bite through them—they’re harder than the hardest nut. They’re like stone.
Perhaps they are a kind of stone that we don’t know about. They’re quite close together. You can see through between them; you keep imagining you’ll be outside in a minute, at liberty, and yet you can’t get out. That’s captivity! The torture of captivity!” He sighed.

  Perri said: “Go on.”

  “My barred prison was in a big, bright room. That’s where He lives. In one side of the wall there were two big holes. Through these the daylight got into the room. He pulled something over these holes, and still the light came in just as if there was nothing there.”

  “Haw!” said the jay.

  “Wall?” laughed the woodpecker. “What’s a wall ?”

  The black squirrel explained, “When the trees and bushes along the edge of the meadow are close together, that’s a wall, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” said the woodpecker, a little ashamed, “but there are no such holes in that wall, and you can slip through wherever you like.”

  “This wall,” Flame-Red interrupted, “was stone. You can’t slip through that. That’s how He lives.”

  “And how does He get in?” inquired Perri. “Through the holes?”

  “No. There’s a big hole that reaches to the ground. He swings it open and shut.”

  Perri remembered Annerle’s gamekeeper’s lodge, but she said nothing.

  “I was bewildered by his thundering voice. My ears rang, my heart pounded as though it would burst, and the smell made me sick. I trembled like a leaf. I was miserable. In the barred prison there was a nest. I crawled wretchedly into it to escape the fearful eyes which He and another He turned upon me. In the nest I noticed a delightful smell—not strong, but plain enough. It clung to the wood and the soft stuff that the nest was lined with. Some squirrel must have lived there. I went to sleep all tired out.”

  He scrambled about the fir for a moment, then squatted again, saying, “I only do that to enjoy my freedom.”

  “Go on,” urged Perri.

  “Right away,” said Flame-Red. “You’ll never believe all the things He can do. I never would have believed it myself. At night He can make his room as light as day. When it’s cold He makes his room as warm as sunshine. How? With fire. You know what fire is?”