Bambi noticed that the world was changed. It was hard for him to get used to this altered world. They had all lived like rich folk and now had fallen upon hard times. For Bambi knew nothing but abundance. He took it for granted that he would always have plenty to eat. He thought he would never need to trouble about food. He believed he would always sleep in the lovely green-leafed glade where no one could see him, and would always go about in his smooth, handsome, glossy red coat.
Now everything was changed without his having noticed the change take place. The process that was ending had seemed only a series of episodes to him. It pleased him to see the milk-white veils of mist steam from the meadow in the morning, or drop suddenly from the gray sky at dawn. They vanished so beautifully in the sunshine. The hoar frost that covered the meadow with such dazzling whiteness delighted him too. Sometimes he liked to listen to his big cousins the elks. The whole forest would tremble with their kingly voices. Bambi used to listen and be very much frightened, but his heart would beat high with admiration when he heard them calling. He remembered that the kings had antlers branching like tall, strong trees. And it seemed to him that their voices were as powerful as their antlers. Whenever he heard the deep tones of those voices he would stand motionless. Their deep voices rolled towards him like the mighty moaning of noble, maddened blood whose primal power was giving utterance to longing, rage and pride. Bambi struggled in vain against his fears. They over-powered him whenever he heard those voices, but he was proud to have such noble relatives. At the same time he felt a strange sense of annoyance because they were so unapproachable. It offended and humiliated him without his knowing exactly how or why, even without his being particularly conscious of it.
It was only after the mating season had passed and the thunder of the stags’ mighty voices had grown still, that Bambi began to notice other things once more. At night when he roamed through the forest or by day as he lay in the glade, he heard the falling leaves whisper among the trees. They fluttered and rustled ceaselessly through the air from all the tree-tops and branches. A delicate silvery sound was falling constantly to earth. It was wonderful to awaken amidst it, wonderful to fall asleep to this mysterious and melancholy whispering. Soon the leaves lay thick and loose on the ground and when you walked through them they flew about, softly rustling. It was jolly to push them aside with every step, they were piled so high. It made a sound like “Sh! sh!”—soft and very clear and silvery. Besides, it was very useful, for Bambi had to be particularly careful these days to hear and smell everything. And with the leaves you could hear everything far off. They rustled at the slightest touch and cried, “Sh! sh!” Nobody could steal through them.
But then the rain came. It poured down from early morning till late at night. Sometimes it rained all night long and into the following day. It would stop for a while and begin again with fresh strength. The air was damp and cold, the whole world seemed full of rain. If you tried to nibble a little meadow grass you got your mouth full of water, or if you tugged the least little bit at a bough a whole torrent of water poured into your eyes and nose. The leaves no longer rustled. They lay pale and soggy on the ground, flattened by the rain and made no sounds. Bambi discovered for the first time how unpleasant it is to be rained on all day and all night until you are soaked to the skin. There had not even been a frost yet, but he longed for the warm weather and felt it was a sad business to have to run around soaked through.
But when the north wind blew, Bambi found out what cold is. It wasn’t much help to nestle close to his mother. Of course at first he thought it was wonderful to lie there and keep one side warm at least. But the north wind raged through the forest all day and all night long. It seemed to be driven to madness by some incomprehensible ice-cold fury, as though it wanted to tear up the forest by its roots or annihilate it somehow. The trees groaned in stubborn resistance, they struggled mightily against the wind’s fierce onslaught. You could hear their long-drawn moans, their sigh-like creakings, the loud snap when their strong limbs split, the angry cracking when now and again a trunk broke and the vanquished tree seemed to shriek from every wound in its rent and dying body. Nothing else could be heard, for the storm swooped down still more fiercely on the forest, and its roaring drowned all lesser noises.
Then Bambi knew that want and hardship had come. He saw how much the rain and wind had changed the world. There was no longer a leaf on tree or shrub. But all stood there as though violated, their bodies naked for all to see. And they lifted their bare brown limbs to the sky for pity. The grass on the meadow was withered and shortened, as if it had sunk into the earth. Even the glade seemed wretched and bare. Since the leaves had fallen it was no longer possible to lie so well hidden as before. The glade was open on all sides.
One day, as a young magpie flew over the meadow, something cold and white fell in her eye. Then it fell again and again. She felt as if a little veil were drawn across her eye while the small, pale, blinding white flakes danced around her. The magpie hesitated in her flight, fluttered a little, and then soared straight up into the air. In vain. The cold white flakes were everywhere and got into her eyes again. She kept flying straight up, soaring higher.
“Don’t put yourself out so much, dearie,” a crow who was flying above her in the same direction called down, “don’t put yourself out so much. You can’t fly high enough to get outside these flakes. This is snow.”
“Snow!” cried the magpie in surprise, struggling against the drizzle.
“That’s about the size of it,” said the crow, “it’s winter, and this is snow.”
“Excuse me,” the magpie replied, “but I only left the nest in May. I don’t know anything about winter.”
“There are plenty in the same boat,” the crow remarked, “but you’ll soon find out.”
“Well,” said the magpie, “if this is snow I guess I’ll sit down for a while.” She perched on an elder and shook herself. The crow flew awkwardly away.
At first Bambi was delighted with the snow. The air was calm and mild while the white snow-stars whirled down and the world looked completely different. It had grown lighter, gayer, Bambi thought, and whenever the sun came out for a little while everything shone and the white covering flashed and sparkled so brightly that it blinded you.
But Bambi soon stopped being pleased with the snow. For it grew harder and harder to find food. He had to paw the snow away with endless labor before he could find one withered little blade of grass. The snow crust cut his legs and he was afraid of cutting his feet. Gobo had already cut his. Of course Gobo was the kind who couldn’t stand anything and was a constant source of trouble to his mother.
The deer were always together now and were much more friendly than before. Ena brought her children constantly. Lately Marena, a half-grown doe, had joined the circle. But old Nettla really contributed most to their entertainment. She was quite a self-sufficient person and had her own ideas about everything. “No,” she would say, “I don’t bother with children any more. I’ve had enough of that particular joke.”
Faline asked, “What difference does it make, if they’re a joke?” And Nettla would act as if she were angry, and say, “They’re a bad joke, though, and I’ve had enough of them.”
They got along perfectly together. They would sit side by side gossiping. The young ones had never had a chance to hear so much.
Even one or another of the Princes would join them now. At first things went somewhat stiffly, especially since the children were a little shy. But that soon changed, and they got along very well together. Bambi admired Prince Ronno, who was a stately lord, and he passionately loved the handsome young Karus. They had dropped their horns and Bambi often looked at the two slate-gray round spots that showed smooth and shimmering with many delicate points on the Princes’ heads. They looked very noble.
It was terribly interesting whenever one of the Princes talked about Him. Ronno had a thick hide-covered swelling on his left fore-foot. He limped on that foot and used to ask sometimes, “Can you really see that I limp?” Everyone would hasten to assure him that there was not the trace of a limp. That was what Ronno wanted. And it really was hardly noticeable.
“Yes,” he would go on. “I saved myself from a tight corner that time.” And then Ronno would tell how He had surprised him and hurled His fire at him. But it had only struck his leg. It had driven him nearly mad with pain, and no wonder, since the bone was shattered. But Ronno did not lose his head. He was up and away on three legs. He pressed on in spite of his weakness for he saw that he was being pursued. He ran without stopping until night came. Then he gave himself a rest. But he went on the next morning until he felt he was in safety. Then he took care of himself, living alone in hiding, waiting for his wound to heal. At last he came out again and was a hero. He limped, but he thought no one noticed it.
They were often together now for long periods and told many stories. Bambi heard more about Him than ever before. They told how terrible He was to look at. No one could bear to look at His pale face. Bambi knew that already from his own experience. They spoke too about His smell, and again Bambi could have spoken if he had not been too well brought up to mix in his elders’ conversation. They said that His smell differed each time in a hundred subtle ways and yet you could tell it in an instant, for it was always exciting, unfathomable, mysterious and terrible.
They told how He used only two legs to walk with and they spoke of the amazing strength of His two hands. Some of them did not know what hands were. But when it was explained, old Nettla said, “I don’t see anything so surprising in that. A squirrel can do everything you tell about just as well, and every little mouse can perform the same wonders.” She turned away her head disdainfully.
“O no,” cried the others, and they gave her to understand that those were not the same things at all. But old Nettla was not to be cowed. “What about the falcon?” she exclaimed. “And the buzzard? And the owl? They’ve got only two legs and when they want to catch something they simply stand on one leg and grab with the other. That’s much harder and He certainly can’t do that.”
Old Nettla was not at all inclined to admire anything connected with Him. She hated Him with all her heart. “He is loathsome!” she said, and she stuck to that. Besides, nobody contradicted her, since nobody liked Him.
But the talk grew more complicated when they told how He had a third hand, not two hands merely, but a third hand.
“That’s an old story,” Nettla said curtly. “I don’t believe it.”
“Is that so?” Ronno broke in. “Then what did He shatter my leg with? Can you tell me that?”
Old Nettla answered carelessly, “That’s your affair, my dear, He’s never shattered any of mine.”
Aunt Ena said, “I’ve seen a good deal in my time, and I think there’s something in the story that He has a third hand.”
“I agree with you,” young Karus said politely. “I have a friend, a crow ...” He paused, embarrassed for a moment, and looked around at them, one after the other, as though he were afraid of being laughed at. But when he saw that they were listening attentively to him he went on. “This crow is unusually well informed, I must say that. Surprisingly well informed. And she says that He really has three hands, but not always. The third hand is the bad one, the crow says. It isn’t attached like the other two, but He carries it hanging over His shoulder. The crow says that she can always tell exactly when He, or anyone like Him, is going to be dangerous. If He comes without the third hand He isn’t dangerous.”
Old Nettla laughed. “Your crow’s a blockhead, my dear Karus,” she said. “Tell her so for me. If she were as clever as she thinks she is, she’d know that He’s always dangerous, always.” But the others had different objections.
Bambi’s mother said, “Some of Them aren’t dangerous; you can see that at a glance.”
“Is that so?” old Nettla asked. “I suppose you stand still till They come up to you and wish you a good day?”
Bambi’s mother answered gently. “Of course I don’t stand still; I run away.”
And Faline broke in with, “You should always run away.” Everybody laughed.
But when they talked about the third hand they became serious and fear grew on them gradually. For whatever it might be, a third hand or something else, it was terrible and they did not understand it. They only knew of it from others’ stories, few of them had ever seen it for themselves. He would stand still, far off, and never move. You couldn’t explain what He did or how it happened, but suddenly there would be a crash like thunder, fire would shoot out and far away from Him you would drop down dying with your breast torn open. They all sat bowed while they talked about Him, as though they felt the presence of some dark, unknown power controlling them.
They listened curiously to the many stories that were always horrible, full of blood and suffering. They listened tirelessly to everything that was said about Him, tales that were certainly invented, all the stories and sayings that had come down from their fathers and great-grandfathers. In each one of them they were unconsciously seeking for some way to propitiate this dark power, or some way to escape it.
“What difference does it make,” young Karus asked quite despondently, “how far away He is when He kills you?”
“Didn’t your clever crow explain that to you?” old Nettla mocked.
“No,” said Karus with a smile. “She says that she’s often seen Him but no one can explain Him.”
“Yes, He knocks the crows out of the trees, too, when He wants to,” Ronno observed.
“And He brings down the pheasant on the wing,” Aunt Ena added.
Bambi’s mother said, “He throws His hand at you, my grandmother told me so.”
“Is that so?” asked old Nettla. “What is it that bangs so terribly then?”
“That’s when He tears His hand off,” Bambi’s mother explained. “Then the fire flashes and the thunder cracks. He’s all fire inside.”
“Excuse me,” said Ronno. “It’s true that He’s all fire inside. But that about His hand is wrong. A hand couldn’t make such wounds. You can see that for yourself. It’s much more likely that it’s a tooth He throws at us. A tooth would explain a great many things, you know. You really die from His bite.”
“Will He never stop hunting us?” young Karus sighed.
Then Marena spoke, the young half-grown doe. “They say that sometime He’ll come to live with us and be as gentle as we are. He’ll play with us then and the whole forest will be happy, and we’ll be friends with Him.”
Old Nettla burst out laughing. “Let Him stay where He is and leave us in peace,” she said.
Aunt Ena said reprovingly, “You shouldn’t talk that way.”
“And why not?” old Nettla replied hotly, “I really don’t see why not. Friends with Him! He’s murdered us ever since we can remember, every one of us, our sisters, our mothers, our brothers! Ever since we came into the world He’s given us no peace, but has killed us wherever we showed our heads. And now we’re going to be friends with Him. What nonsense!”
Marena looked at all of them out of her big, calm, shining eyes. “Love is no nonsense,” she said. “It has to come.”
Old Nettla turned away. “I’m going to look for something to eat,” she said, and trotted off.
