Bambi (7 page)

“Oh well,” he thought, “I don't have to ask my mother first. The old Prince spoke to me and I didn't tell Mother anything about it. I'll say, ‘Good morning, Prince.' He can't be offended at that. But if he does get angry, I'll run away fast.” Bambi struggled with his resolve, which began to waver again.

Presently the Prince walked out from behind the hazel bush onto the meadow.

“Now,” thought Bambi.

Then there was a crash like thunder.

Bambi shrank together and didn't know what had happened. He saw the Prince leap into the air under his very nose and watched him rush past him into the forest with one great bound.

Bambi looked around in a daze. The thunder still vibrated. He saw how his mother and Aunt Ena, Gobo and Faline fled into the woods. He saw how Friend Hare scurried away like mad. He saw the pheasant running with his neck outstretched. He noticed that the forest grew suddenly still. He started and sprang into the thicket. He had made only a few bounds when he saw the Prince lying on the ground in front of him, motionless. Bambi stopped horrified, not understanding what it meant. The Prince lay bleeding from a great wound in his shoulder. He was dead.

“Don't stop!” a voice beside him commanded. It was his mother, who rushed past him at full gallop. “Run,” she cried. “Run as fast as you can!” She did not slow up, but raced ahead, and her command brought Bambi after her. He ran with all his might.

“What is it, Mother?” he asked. “What is it, Mother?”

His mother answered between gasps, “It—was—He!”

Bambi shuddered and they ran on. At last they stopped for lack of breath.

“What did you say? Tell me, what it was you said,” a soft voice called down from overhead. Bambi looked up. The squirrel came chattering through the branches.

“I ran the whole way with you,” he cried. “It was dreadful.”

“Were you there?” asked the mother.

“Of course I was there,” the squirrel replied. “I am still trembling in every limb.” He sat erect, balancing with his splendid tail, displaying his small white chest, and holding his forepaws protestingly against his body. “I'm beside myself with excitement,” he said.

“I'm quite weak from fright myself,” said the mother. “I don't understand it. Not one of us saw a thing.”

“Is that so?” the squirrel said pettishly. “I saw Him long before.”

“So did I,” another voice cried. It was the magpie. She flew past and settled on a branch.

“So did I,” came a croak from above. It was the jay, who was sitting on an ash.

A couple of crows in the treetops cawed harshly, “We saw Him, too.”

They all sat around talking importantly. They were unusually excited and seemed to be full of anger and fear.

“Whom?” Bambi thought. “Whom did they see?”

“I tried my best,” the squirrel was saying, pressing his forepaws protestingly against his heart. “I tried my best to warn the poor Prince.”

“And I,” the jay rasped. “How often did I scream? But he didn't care to hear me.”

“He didn't hear me either,” the magpie croaked. “I called him at least ten times. I wanted to fly right past him, for, thought I, he hasn't heard me yet; I'll fly to the hazel bush where he's standing. He can't help hearing me there. But at that minute it happened.”

“My voice is probably louder than yours, and I warned him as well as I could,” the crow said in an impudent tone. “But gentlemen of that stamp pay little attention to the likes of us.”

“Much too little, really,” the squirrel agreed.

“Well, we did what we could,” said the magpie. “We're certainly not to blame when an accident happens.”

“Such a handsome Prince,” the squirrel lamented. “And in the very prime of life.”

“Akh!” croaked the jay. “It would have been better for him if he hadn't been so proud and had paid more attention to us.”

“He certainly wasn't proud.”

“No more so than the other Princes of his family,” the magpie put in.

“Just plain stupid,” sneered the jay.

“You're stupid yourself,” the crow cried down from overhead. “Don't you talk about stupidity. The whole forest knows how stupid you are.”

“I!” replied the jay, stiff with astonishment. “Nobody can accuse me of being stupid. I may be forgetful but I'm certainly not stupid.”

“Oh just as you please,” said the crow solemnly. “Forget what I said to you, but remember that the Prince did not die because he was proud or stupid, but because no one can escape Him.”

“Akh!” croaked the jay. “I don't like that kind of talk.” He flew away.

The crow went on. “He has already outwitted many of my family. He kills what He wants. Nothing can help us.”

“You have to be on your guard against Him,” the magpie broke in.

“You certainly do,” said the crow sadly. “Goodbye.” He flew off, his family accompanying him.

Bambi looked around. His mother was no longer there.

“What are they talking about now?” thought Bambi. “I can't understand what they are talking about. Who is this ‘He' they talk about? That was He, too, that I saw in the bushes, but He didn't kill me.”

Bambi thought of the Prince lying in front of him with his bloody, mangled shoulder. He was dead now. Bambi walked along. The forest sang again with a thousand voices, the sun pierced the treetops with its broad rays. There was light everywhere. The leaves began to smell. Far above the falcons called, close at hand a woodpecker hammered as if nothing had happened. Bambi was not happy. He felt himself threatened by something dark. He did not understand how the ­others could be so carefree and happy while life was so difficult and dangerous. Then the desire seized him to go deeper and deeper into the woods. They lured him into their depths. He wanted to find some hiding place where, shielded on all sides by impenetrable thickets, he could never be seen. He never wanted to go to the meadow again.

Something moved very softly in the bushes. Bambi drew back violently. The old stag was standing in front of him.

Bambi trembled. He wanted to run away, but he controlled himself and remained. The old stag looked at him with his great deep eyes and asked, “Were you out there before?”

“Yes,” Bambi said softly. His heart was pounding in his throat.

“Where is your mother?” asked the stag.

Bambi answered still very softly, “I don't know.”

The old stag kept gazing at him. “And still you're not calling for her?” he said.

Bambi looked into the noble, iron-gray face, looked at the stag's antlers and suddenly felt full of courage. “I can stay by myself, too,” he said.

The old stag considered him for a while; then he asked gently, “Aren't you the little one that was crying for his mother not long ago?”

Bambi was somewhat embarrassed, but his courage held. “Yes, I am,” he confessed.

The old stag looked at him in silence and it seemed to Bambi as if those deep eyes gazed still more mildly. “You scolded me then, Prince,” he cried excitedly, “because I was afraid of being left alone. Since then I haven't been.”

The stag looked at Bambi appraisingly and smiled a very slight, hardly noticeable smile. Bambi noticed it however. “Noble Prince,” he asked confidently, “what has happened? I don't understand it. Who is this ‘He' they are all talking about?” He stopped, terrified by the dark glance that bade him be silent.

Another pause ensued. The old stag was gazing past Bambi into the distance. Then he said slowly, “Listen, smell and see for yourself. Find out for yourself.” He lifted his antlered head still higher. “Farewell,” he said; nothing else. Then he vanished.

Bambi stood transfixed and wanted to cry. But that farewell still rang in his ears and sustained him. Farewell, the old stag had said, so he couldn't have been angry.

Bambi felt himself thrill with pride, felt inspired with a deep earnestness. Yes, life was difficult and full of danger. But come what might he would learn to bear it all.

He walked slowly deeper into the forest.

Chapter Eight

T
HE LEAVES WERE FALLING FROM the great oak at the meadow's edge. They were falling from all the trees.

One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.

“It isn't the way it used to be,” said one leaf to the other.

“No,” the other left answered. “So many of us have fallen off tonight we're almost the only ones left on our branch.”

“You never know who's going to go next,” said the first leaf. “Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who's going to go next.”

“The sun seldom shines now,” sighed the second leaf, “and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again.”

“Can it be true,” said the first leaf, “can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?”

“It is really true,” whispered the second leaf. “We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers.”

“It makes me very sad,” added the first leaf.

They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, “Why must we fall? . . .”

The second leaf asked, “What happens to us when we have fallen?”

“We sink down. . . .”

“What is under us?”

The first leaf answered, “I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows.”

The second leaf asked, “Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?”

The first leaf answered, “Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it.”

They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, “Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling.”

“That's nothing,” the second leaf answered. “I ­tremble at the least thing now. I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to.”

“Let's not talk any more about such things,” said the first leaf.

The other replied, “No, we'll let be. But—what else shall we talk about?” She was silent, but went on after a little while. “Which of us will go first?”

“There's still plenty of time to worry about that,” the other leaf assured her. “Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid nights . . .”

“Now the nights are dreadful,” the second leaf complained, “and there is no end to them.”

“We shouldn't complain,” said the first leaf gently. “We've outlived many, many others.”

“Have I changed much?” asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.

“Not in the least,” the first leaf assured her. “You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly. But it's different in your case.”

“You're fooling me,” the second leaf said.

“No, really,” the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, “believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me.”

“Thanks,” whispered the second leaf, quite touched. “I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me. I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are.”

“Hush,” said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more.

Then they were both silent. Hours passed.

A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops.

“Ah, now,” said the second leaf, “I . . .” Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.