Bambi (16 page)

Gobo leaped into the air at the report. He suddenly turned around and fled back to the thicket, staggering as he came.

They still stood there, petrified with terror, while he came on. They heard him gasping for breath. And as he did not stop but bounded wildly forward, they turned and surrounded him and all took flight.

But poor Gobo dropped to the ground. Marena stopped close to him, Bambi and Faline a little farther off, ready to flee.

Gobo lay with his bloody entrails oozing from his torn flank. He lifted his head with a feeble twisting motion.

“Marena,” he said with an effort, “Marena. . . .” He did not recognize her. His voice failed.

There was a loud careless rustling in the bushes by the meadow. Marena bent her head toward Gobo. “He's coming,” she whispered frantically, “Gobo, He's coming! Can't you get up and come with me?”

Gobo lifted his head again feebly with a writhing motion, beat convulsively with his hoofs and then lay still.

With a crackling, snapping and rustling He parted the bushes and stepped out.

Marena saw Him from quite near. She slunk slowly back, disappearing through the nearest bushes, and hastened to Bambi and Faline.

She looked back once again and saw how He was bending over and seizing the wounded deer.

Then they heard Gobo's wailing death shriek.

Chapter Twenty

B
AMBI WAS ALONE. HE WALKED beside the water that ran swiftly among the reeds and swamp willows.

He went there more and more often now that he was staying by himself. There were few trails there, and he hardly ever met any of his friends. That was just what he wanted. For his thoughts had grown serious and his heart heavy. He did not know what was happening within him. He did not even think about it. He merely recalled things aimlessly, and his whole life seemed to have become darker.

He used to stand for hours on the bank. The current, that flowed round a gentle bend there, occupied his entire thought. The cool air from the ripples brought him strange, refreshing, acrid smells that aroused forgetfulness and a sense of trust in him.

Bambi would stand and watch the ducks paddling companionably together. They talked endlessly to one another in a friendly, serious, capable way.

There were a couple of mother ducks, each with a flock of young ones around her. They were constantly teaching their young ones things. And the little ones were always learning them. Sometimes one or the other of the mothers would give a warning. Then the young ducks would dash off in all directions. They would scatter and glide away perfectly noiselessly. Bambi saw how the smallest ones, who could not fly yet, would paddle among the thicket rushes without moving a stem that might betray them by swaying. He would see the small dark bodies creep here and there among the reeds. Then he could see nothing more.

Later one of the mothers would give a short call and in a flash they would all flock around her again. In an instant they would reassemble their flotilla and go on cruising quietly about as before. Bambi marveled anew at it each time. It was a constant source of wonder to him.

After one such alarm, Bambi asked one of the mothers, “What was it? I was looking closely and I didn't see anything.”

“It was nothing at all,” answered the duck.

Another time one of the children gave the signal, turning like a flash and staring through the reeds. Presently he came out on the bank where Bambi was standing.

“There wasn't anything,” the young one replied, shaking its tail feathers in a grown-up way and carefully putting the tips of its wings in place. Then it ­paddled through the water again.

Nevertheless Bambi had faith in the ducks. He came to the conclusion that they were more watchful than he, that they heard and saw things more quickly. When he stood watching them, that ceaseless tension that he felt within himself at other times relaxed a little.

He liked to talk with the ducks, too. They didn't talk the nonsense that he so often heard from the ­others. They talked about the broad skies and the wind and about distant fields where they feasted on choice ­tidbits.

From time to time Bambi saw something that looked like a fiery streak in the air beside the brook. “Srrrri!” the hummingbird would cry softly, darting past like a tiny whirring speck. There was a gleam of green, a glow of red, as he flashed by and was gone. Bambi was thrilled and wanted to see the bright stranger near to. He called to him.

“Don't bother calling him,” the sedge hen said to Bambi from among the reed clumps, “don't bother calling. He'll never answer you.”

“Where are you?” asked Bambi, peering among the reeds.

But the sedge hen only laughed loudly from an entirely different place, “Here I am. That cranky ­creature you just called to won't talk to anyone. It's useless to call him.”

“He's so handsome,” said Bambi.

“But bad,” the sedge hen retorted from still another place.

“What makes you think him bad?” Bambi inquired.

The sedge hen answered from an altogether different place, “He doesn't care for anything or anybody. Let anything happen that wants to, he won't speak to anybody and never thanked anybody for speaking to him. He never gives anybody warning when there's danger. He's never said a word to a living soul.”

“The poor . . .” said Bambi.

The sedge hen went on talking, and her cheery, piping voice sounded from the far side again. “He probably thinks that people are jealous of his silly markings and doesn't want them to get too good a look at him.”

“Certain other people don't let you get a good look at them either,” said Bambi.

In a twinkling the sedge hen was standing in front of him. “There's nothing to look at in my case,” she said simply. Small and gleaming with water, she stood there in her sleek feathers, her trim figure restless, animated and satisfied. In a flash she was gone again.

“I don't understand how people can stand so long in one spot,” she called from the water. And added from the far side, “It's tiresome and dangerous to stay so long in one spot.” Then from the other side she cried gaily once or twice. “You have to keep moving,” she cried happily, “you've got to keep moving if you want to keep whole and hearty.”

A soft rustling in the grass startled Bambi. He looked around. There was a reddish flash among the bushes. It disappeared in the reeds. At the same time a sharp warm smell reached his nostrils. The fox had slunk by.

Bambi wanted to cry out and stamp on the ground as a warning. But the sedges rustled as the fox parted them in quick leaps. The water splashed and a duck screamed desperately. Bambi heard her wings flapping and saw her white body flash through the leaves. He saw how her wings beat the fox's face with sharp blows. Then it grew still.

At the same moment the fox came out of the bushes holding the duck in his jaws. Her neck hung down limply, her wings were still moving, but the fox paid no attention to that. He looked sidewise at Bambi with sneering eyes and crept slowly into the thicket.

Bambi stood motionless.

A few of the old ducks had flown up with a rush of wings and were flying around in helpless fright. The sedge hen was crying warnings from all directions. The titmice chirped excitedly in the bushes. And the young orphaned ducks splashed about the sedge, crying with soft voices.

The hummingbird flew along the bank.

“Please tell us,” the young ducks cried, “please tell us, have you seen our mother?”

“Srrri,” cried the hummingbird shrilly, and flew past sparkling, “what has she got to do with me?”

Bambi turned and went away. He wandered through a whole sea of goldenrod, passed through a grove of young beeches, crossed through old hazel thickets until he reached the edge of the deep ditch. He roamed around it, hoping to meet the old stag. He had not seen him for a long while, not since Gobo's death.

Then he caught a glimpse of him from afar and ran to meet him. For a while they walked together in silence; then the old stag asked: “Well, do they still talk about him the way they used to?”

Bambi understood that he referred to Gobo and replied, “I don't know. I'm nearly alone now.” He hesitated. “But I think of him very often.”

“Really,” said the old stag, “are you alone now?”

“Yes,” said Bambi expectantly, but the old stag remained silent.

They went on. Suddenly the old stag stopped. “Don't you hear anything?” he asked.

Bambi listened. He didn't hear anything.

“Come,” cried the old stag and hurried forward. Bambi followed him. The stag stopped again. “Don't you hear anything yet?” he asked.

Then Bambi heard a rustling that he did not understand. It sounded like branches being bent down and repeatedly springing up again. Something was beating the earth dully and irregularly.

Bambi wanted to flee but the old stag cried, “Come with me,” and ran in the direction of the noise. Bambi, at his side, ventured to ask, “Isn't it dangerous?”

“It's terribly dangerous,” the old stag answered mysteriously.

Soon they saw branches being pulled and tugged at from below and shaken violently. They went nearer and saw that a little trail ran through the middle of the bushes.

Friend Hare was lying on the ground. He flung himself from side to side and writhed. Then he lay still and writhed again. Each of his motions pulled at the branches over him.

Bambi noticed a dark threadlike leash. It ran right from the branch to Friend Hare and was twisted around his neck.

Friend Hare must have heard someone coming, for he flung himself wildly into the air and fell to the ground. He tried to escape and rolled, jerking and writhing in the grass.

“Lie still,” the old stag commanded. Then sympathetically, with a gentle voice that went to Bambi's heart, he repeated in his ear, “Be easy, Friend Hare, it's I. Don't move now. Lie perfectly still.”

The Hare lay motionless, flat on the ground. His throttled breath rattled softly in his throat.

The old stag took the branch between his teeth, and twisted it. He bent it down. Then he walked around putting his weight cunningly against it. He held it to the earth with his hoof and snapped it with a single blow of his antlers.

Then he nodded encouragingly to the Hare. “Lie still,” he said, “even if I hurt you.”

Holding his head on one side, he laid one prong of his antlers close to the Hare's neck, and pressed into the fur behind his ear. He made an effort and nodded. The Hare began to writhe.

The old stag immediately drew back. “Lie still,” he commanded, “it's a question of life and death for you.” He began over again. The Hare lay still gasping. Bambi stood close by, speechless with amazement.

One of the old stag's antlers, pressing against the Hare's fur, had slipped under the noose. The old stag was almost kneeling and twisted his head as though he were charging. He drove his antlers deeper and deeper under the noose, which gave at last and began to loosen.

The Hare could breathe again and his terror and pain burst from him instantly. “E-e-eh!” he cried bitterly.

The old stag stopped. “Keep quiet!” he cried, reproaching him gently, “keep quiet!” His mouth was close to the Hare's shoulder, his antlers lay with a prong between the spoonlike ears. It looked as if he had spitted the Hare.

“How can you be so stupid as to cry at this time?” he grumbled gently. “Do you want the fox to come? Do you? I thought not. Keep quiet then.”

He continued to work away, slowly exerting all his strength. Suddenly the noose broke with a loud snap. The Hare slipped out and was free, without realizing it for a moment. He took a step and sat down again dazed. Then he hopped away, slowly and timidly at first, then faster and faster. Presently he was running with wild leaps.

Bambi looked after him. “Without so much as a thank you,” he exclaimed in surprise.

“He's still terrified,” said the old stag.

The noose lay on the ground. Bambi touched it gently. It creaked, terrifying Bambi. That was a sound such as he had never heard in the woods.