Perri

  “Oh,” said the black squirrel, “we’re not as stupid as you think. Fire is what He throws from his third hand with a noise like thunder.”

  “But He has another kind of fire,” declared Flame-Red. “He keeps it in a mysterious object, and lights it without his third hand. Nor is there any thunder sound—only a heap of burning black stones which make the whole room as warm as the summer woods.”

  The titmice giggled, and the other birds yelled in a confused chorus: “We don’t believe it!”

  “I said beforehand that you wouldn’t believe me,” replied Flame-Red. “That’s your affair, I’m telling you what I saw. Nor will you believe how many skins He has. He can put them on and take them off as He pleases. Finally a thin naked skin is left. It’s awful to see him peeling off his various skins.”

  “Aren’t you finished yet?” jeered the black squirrel.

  “Oh, I could go on for a long, long time,” replied Flame-Red innocently. “He can do so many remarkable things. He always has beechnuts and hazelnuts and all kinds of good things that you usually can’t find anywhere. I would have had a wonderful life except for longing to be in the woods.” He jumped, bounded, waved his tail, and rejoiced: “What bliss! I’m in the woods!” Then he said, more calmly: “You don’t understand how I feel, but you’ll have to excuse me when my feelings run away with me. Oh, how wonderful not to run and still stay in the same spot!”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” warned the black squirrel. “You ran, and still stayed where you were? That’s the boldest lie—”

  “It’s no lie!” cried Flame-Red. “It’s no nonsense! Keep quiet when you don’t know what you’re talking about! You never suffered that torturing game—and you dare insult me?”

  The titmice suppressed their titters.

  “In my barred prison there was another, round cage,” Flame-Red continued in a somber tone. “This round cage turned when I got into it. It ran away under my feet, and spun and spun until I was dizzy. No matter how fast I ran, I stayed where I was. Only the cage spun and spun.”

  “Why did you get in it at all?” asked Perri.

  “Why indeed? At first I thought that from there I could get free, and I ran with all my might. Then I saw that my efforts were useless. I kept away from the round cage, which turned to fool me. But I had to exercise, or I would have been sick. So I climbed into the round turning cage every day. I would imagine it was the way to freedom after all. As I ran, with my head spinning, I would dream of the woods. I tired myself out. I said before it was torment. And to make it worse He would stand and laugh. It was a thundering, awful noise. My ears rang. After a while He stopped paying attention to my struggles, and then it wasn’t quite so bad.” The red squirrel grew thoughtful. “Even so, it was a good thing, this agonizing running in the turning cage. It was a good thing even so! I dreamed of the trees. And I got free at last!”

  “How?” Perri wanted to know.

  “Why,” said Flame-Red triumphantly, “because He thought I was contented. He used to let me out of the cage into the big room—quite often. I used to run around everywhere, and then I always went back into the cage. But one day, one of the holes was wide open. Outdoors the sun was shining. Suddenly the idea came over me like a storm. I was sitting—I couldn’t tell how it happened myself—by the open hole. Below me I saw a couple of trees—trees! I never knew they were there. They were pitiful trees compared with these here in the woods—probably captives like me. But I hadn’t seen a tree for a long time, and I was dreadfully homesick. It never occurred to me that I could reach them, when He approached and tried to get me back into the cage.”

  He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t I who dared that leap; terror flung me through the air. And suddenly I was sitting in the branches. The feeling of freedom made me wildly happy. Happiness filled me with courage, and courage gave me strength. You can’t imagine what it was like with him and a lot of other Hes after me. I got as dizzy as if I were still running in the spinning cage. I raced along stone paths, and jumped stone walls. A little He stopped me. I bit him, and He yelled aloud. But I was off as fast as I could go. There were meadows, then fields . . . and at last, at last, the woods!”

  Everyone looked at him in silence.

  “Now you know all about it!” cried Flame-Red. “If anyone wants to hear it, I’ll be glad to tell it again.”

  He whisked into the upper branches, and away through the treetops.

  “What a liar!” growled the black one.

  Porro’s mother said: “A handsome fellow!”

  Perri too was for Flame-Red: “I thought his story very exciting.”

  “Children believe anything!” said the black squirrel contemptuously.

  “Not all children!” said Porro. “That stuff about the turning cage I don’t believe.”

  “And the rest of the nonsense?” jeered the black squirrel.

  The magpie said: “Just the same, it’s possible that he’s telling the truth.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  NOW THERE WERE OFTEN THIN white mists on the meadows, floating like veils in hedges and treetops when the night paled and the new day began to break.

  They soon disappeared. But they gave Porro a good opportunity to get away from Perri. He would act as if he could not find her, and she would lose him.

  Porro was looking for something. For days and days he had been brooding over Flame-Red’s story, which he doubted, but which had a peculiar fascination for him. Then he remembered the human child whom Perri had visited. He wanted to ask questions of this human child about the things Flame-Red had told.

  But fear held him back. He felt a horror of the human dwelling. Days and days went by.

  Porro romped and played with Perri. They ate acorns, hazelnuts, beechnuts and fresh fir cones. Both of them hoarded for the future without exactly knowing why. Their mothers had ordered Perri and Porro to do it. “You will need it,” Mother had said to Perri. And Porro was warned by his mother: “You’ll thank me for it yet.” The two mothers had said nothing more, and Perri and Porro asked no questions.

  Playfully and carelessly they followed instructions, hiding their stores in all sorts of places, many of which they started fresh because they did not immediately remember the earlier ones.

  Porro in particular was absent-minded: his thoughts revolved around the adventures of Flame-Red. Because he was used to being with Perri, and always felt at ease with her, he talked with her about the thing that occupied him. But she could not put his mind at rest, and had no inclination to talk about it.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Perri generally said when Porro began to talk about it, “the matter is disposed of. It was very interesting to hear about, but by now I’ve forgotten most of it.” Once she added impudently, “Why don’t you forget it?”

  After that Porro said no more to Perri about the affair. But he did not forget. He went to the magpie. “You’re so clever—do you believe the new fellow?”

  The magpie replied: “Sometimes I believe him, and sometimes I don’t.”

  “That’s just the way with me,” complained Porro.

  “Yes, my good friend,” said the magpie, “it’s very hard to know what to think.”

  Porro was as wise as before.

  One evening he met Flame-Red, and asked to hear the whole story again. It got so late that the owl almost caught him. Porro was more confused than ever. Because of his fright from the owl, he held a grudge against Flame-Red, and wanted more than ever to prove him a liar.

  This was what gave him the idea of visiting the human child. There he would be sure to learn the truth. Perri had sat close to the human child, and nothing had happened to her.

  He wrestled with this decision. Now he felt very determined, now he gave it up in alarm. Doubt, fear and curiosity whirled through his head when he lay in his nest at night, trying to go to sleep. He dreamed of the human child, and the desire to visit her gradually became so strong that Flame-Red’s story hardly mattered any longer.
r />   This day, as he bounded through the fine veils of mist, he suddenly made up his mind: now for the human child—now!

  He slipped away from his playmate; he wanted to go alone. He was ashamed because he had not dared to go near the human child the time before, although he had shielded his cowardice behind his pride. Now he was ashamed because he was going after all.

  He wandered around trying to find his way. That other time, Perri had run ahead; Porro, hanging back, had not known where she was going, and had paid no attention to the direction.

  He looked a long time. Suddenly the smoke from the gamekeeper’s lodge blew in his face. Porro fled in alarm.

  After a while he stopped, faced about, and ran toward the smoke. He found it sickening and fearful, but he tried to overcome his disgust.

  He kept stopping, sitting on his haunches, raising his tail, and snuffing the air. Twice he was frightened, and turned tail.

  But he was being driven; his curiosity was too strong. The human child must be where this horrid smell came from. No one in the whole forest had such a terrifying smell.

  He saw the lodge through the branches. He raced blindly on to the tree beside it, saw Annerle and started down. Here he got no more of the smoke; he took a deep breath of relief.

  Then he cast prudence and timidity to the winds. A leap, and he was sitting before Annerle.

  “Here I am!” he stammered.

  Annerle laughed: “Fine!” She looked him over. “Do I know you?”

  He could not get out an answer. He stared speechlessly at the human child—he was speechless at his own boldness, and speechless at Annerle.

  “Have you ever visited me before?” she asked.

  As he looked at her, his heart grew lighter. “Porro,” he gave his name softly.

  She repeated, “Porro.” Her voice was warm and reassuring.

  “May I come all the way over to you?” he asked.

  Annerle laughed again: “This is the first time you’ve been here, Porro, I can see that. Why shouldn’t you come all the way over? Come on—there”—she pointed to her lap—“or on my shoulder. Anywhere you like. They all do.”

  Porro sat in her lap, between her knees. He sat up, pressing his forepaws to his little white breast, enormously surprised at himself.

  “Here I am,” he repeated.

  “So I see,” said Annerle. Then even Porro had to smile.

  “I’ve known you for a long while,” he began.

  “Impossible,” she shook her head. “I never saw you.”

  “But I saw you!”

  “How could you have?”

  “From up there,” Porro pointed to the tree, “while Perri was with you.”

  “Perri!” cried Annerle. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” He confessed, “I came to see you all alone.”

  “But that time with Perri you stayed up there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you want to come down?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He was ashamed, and said nothing.

  Annerle did not insist on an answer; she was too much of a child herself to pursue a conversation. She bent happily over him: “I’m glad you’re here, Porro.”

  He began to talk merrily, like an old and intimate friend. “You know, there’s a new fellow in the woods. Big and handsome, and all red. Has he been to see you?” He went on without waiting for an answer: “He talked a lot. He said he was once a captive. He talked about a turning cage, but nobody believes him.” Suddenly Porro confessed. “I was afraid of you before.” He looked at her expectantly.

  Annerle said, “A turning cage? Who was it that was asking me about that?”

  “I,” said the magpie, flying from a tree to perch on Annerle’s shoulder. “I asked you.”

  “Turning cage?” Annerle reflected. “I’ve never seen one.”

  “Did He ever catch one of us?” asked Porro.

  “Who? My father?” Annerle stared. “He’d never catch one of you!”

  “But,” persisted the magpie, “are there such things as bars and a turning cage?”

  Annerle shrugged. “There might be.”

  “See?” said the magpie to Porro. “I told you he was telling the truth.”

  Before Porro could think, he went wild with excitement; a doe approached daintily, with a fawn bounding beside her.

  “Hello!” cried Annerle.

  “Hello!” replied the mother deer in a soft voice.

  Her stride was proud and graceful. Porro thought her face was wonderfully gentle; her eyes were innocent and disarming.

  The young one’s skin was covered with white spots. Her legs clumsily supported her thin, angular body; they never moved with regularity, but would suddenly dance, stalk slowly, or hop for no reason at all. She put her head on Annerle’s knee.

  Porro was surprised into immobility; he could only blink at the sweet young deer, who was so close to him that he could feel her breath. His momentary shiver of fear soon left him. He began to feel more and more that he was enjoying a great honor.

  These creatures were so terrifyingly huge that he would never have dared to go near them. But he was near now, and their gentleness astounded him.

  “Are you together again?” he heard Annerle ask.

  “We’re always together,” replied the mother deer. She snuggled close to Annerle.

  “No!” The young one raised her head impishly. “You’ve often been away a long time.”

  The mother kissed her head with a warm tongue. “I’ve never been away long—only for a few minutes at a time, and only when Father called.” She turned to Annerle: “This child is always afraid without me; she won’t stay alone.”

  “No,” cried the fawn, “I don’t like to be alone; I’m afraid; I don’t know what to do—so I look for you.”

  “Don’t you remember what Bambi told you?” The doe was gentle, but serious. “ ‘Can’t you get along alone?’ he said. Everyone has to obey Bambi.”

  The young one shook her head: “I’ll learn in time, and I won’t mind being alone—when I’m big.”

  Porro suddenly had a feeling that it was improper to sit so close. He jumped from Annerle’s lap to the ground.

  At this the mother deer said to him, “Don’t be put out, little fellow; we won’t disturb you. Stay where you are.”

  He sat there stupidly. The fawn bent over him, looked at him from all sides, sniffed at him, and laughed, “I like you. I’d like to play with you, little one. How funny that you’re so little!”

  In sheer desperation, Porro leaped upon Annerle’s shoulder, driving the magpie away.

  “He’s very shy,” Annerle explained.

  The mother deer sniffed the wind. The young one stood at her side, trying to copy her.

  “We’d better go,” she decided. Slowly, stepping high, she moved toward the sheltering bushes. The fawn danced around her, then came back, looked at Porro, and cried, “Good-bye, little one!” Then she hopped after her mother.

  Porro had followed the deer with admiring looks, and he tried to force out a “Good-bye,” but the words stuck in his throat. He scrambled down onto Annerle’s lap.

  “Are you going so soon too?” she asked.

  Porro only nodded.

  “Come again,” Annerle invited him.

  He whisked up along a tree trunk, and hurtled through the treetops. Now he cared nothing for the flame-red squirrel; the turning cage was forgotten. The whole story no longer made any difference.

  When he met the magpie, and she started to talk about how clever she had been to believe the story at once, he had only an absent-minded, “What are you talking about?” He added hastily, “Oh, to be sure,” and rushed on. Gaily he waved his tail; gaily he flashed through the leaves.

  The jay fluttered away indignantly.

  “Hello!” cried Porro cheerfully. He had paid the human child a visit; he had enjoyed the kind condescension of the deer princesses, mother and daughter.
Porro was happy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE AUTUMN MISTS LAY HEAVIER now on the meadows, and clung longer to tree and bush. They were like thick, milk-white clouds, and one hardly knew whether they had sunk from the night sky or oozed from the earth. When at last they disappeared, after long hesitation, a clear sun glittered over the woods; the golden morning began late, and the meadows, covered with hoarfrost, glittered like snow.

  Perri and Porro shivered. It was cold, and they could never get warm until almost noon. All the creatures of the forest shivered in the early hours. The deer no longer wore their red coats; they were growing thick, tawny hair. Even the leaves froze, and turned brown and red, or paled to a dull yellow.

  The sun set ever earlier. As the days grew shorter, Perri and Porro slept longer than before, and sought their nests sooner.

  They had to be more careful than ever. The marauders were hot on their trail. The marten hounded them greedily. The crows, in flocks of five or six, made murderous attacks. It was easier now for the hawk to pierce the sparse foliage. And often, just before twilight, the owl was on the watch.

  One night Perri was awakened by deep groans. She listened in alarm. Silence. Only the plaintive, mocking song of the owl could be heard. Perri cuddled up, and tried to go to sleep again.

  There was the groaning once more—quite near, deep, mysterious, menacing, yet sluggish.

  Perri’s heart pounded; she trembled, not so much from fear as from a strange excitement.

  Everything remained quiet, so she dozed off. The accustomed call of the owl did not disturb her; she had a delightfully cozy feeling in her safe nest.

  Now and then, before she fell asleep, she would think of her mother, who had moved elsewhere.

  The following day she intended to tell Porro about the sound which had awakened her, but she forgot to.

  The air was metallic in its brilliance. When it was still, it was warm and gentle; but the faintest breath brought a sharp chill. These changes of temperature made the two squirrels fresh and lively; their high spirits were overflowing. But there was no longer the old abundance of food. They did not worry yet; they did not even know what worry meant. They found acorns, beechnuts, hazelnuts and fir cones enough. But they had a premonition of coming scarcity: the treetops were growing thinner and more dangerous, and thus subdued their gaiety a little. They stayed closer than usual to the tree trunks, keeping to the strongest limbs; they were not quite so careless in their jumps from one tree to another. Why they acted like this they could not have told.