Bambi noticed that the world had changed. It was hard for him to get
by in this altered world. They had all been living like rich people
and now they began to find themselves in poverty. But wealth was all
that Bambi had ever known. He took it as a matter of course to be
surrounded by the greatest excess and the finest luxury on all sides,
to have no worries about finding food, to sleep in a beautiful room
hung with green that no-one could see into, and to walk about in a
majestically smooth, glossy, red coat.
Everything was different now, and he had not really noticed it, not
properly. The change which had taken place had been, for him, just a
sequence of short-lived appearances. He found it entertaining when
milky-white veils of mist drew the morning dampness up from the
meadow, or when they would suddenly sink down from the twilight
sky. They were so beautiful as they dissipated in the sunlight. He
liked the frost too, which surprised him when he saw the ground and
the meadow strewn with white. He spent much time luxuriating in the
sound of his grown-up relatives, the stags, as they shouted. The whole
forest would rumble from the voices of these kings. Bambi would listen
and be very afraid, but his heart would thump in admiration whenever
he heard this thunderous call. He thought about the crowns worn by
these kings, so big and with so many branches, like a majestic oak,
and he would think their voices were just as powerful as their
crowns. Their imperious commands rolled out in the deepest tones, the
monstrous groans of noble blood as it rushed around their bodies and
seethed with the ancient power of yearning, haughtiness and
pride. Whenever Bambi heard these voices he felt overwhelmed by them,
but he was proud to have such distinguished relatives. At the same
time he felt a peculiar, excited irritation at their being so
unapproachable. That hurt him, that humiliated him, although he did
not know exactly why or how, or even how he could come any closer to
knowing.
It was only when the kings’ time for lovemaking was over, and their
thunderous cries went silent, that Bambi started paying attention to
other things once more. When he walked through the woods by night or
lay in his room by day he heard the whisperings of the leaves as they
fell through the trees. The rustling sounds, as they trickled down
through the air from every tree top, every twig, were incessant. The
gentle, silvery light of the moon ran continuously down to the
earth. It was wonderful to wake up to it, and it was delicious to go
to sleep with this mysterious, sad whispering. The leaves at that time
lay deep and loose on the ground, and when you walked through them
they crackled loudly and they rustled quietly. It was fun to have to
push them aside with each step because their layers were so deep. They
made a shhh-shhh noise that was very fine, very light and
silvery. This was also very useful, as during these times there was no
need to make great effort with listening and smelling. Everything
could be heard from a long way off. The leaves rustled from the
slightest movement, they cried out Shhh! Who could possibly sneak up
on you? No-one.
But then came the rain. From early morning to late in the evening it
poured down, it struck and splattered from late in the evening and all
through the night until back to the morning, eased off for a little
while and then began again with new strength. The air seemed full of
cold water, the whole world seemed full of it. Your mouth was filled
with water if you only tried to gather a few blades of grass and if
you pulled at a bush then water would gush down into your eyes and up
your nose. The leaves on the ground no longer rustled. They lay there
soft and heavy, pressed down by the rain, and made no sound at
all. Bambi, for the first time, learned how vexing it was to have
water streaming down on you all through the day and all through the
night and to be soaked to the skin. He was still not very cold, but he
yearned for warmth and he thought it was miserable to have to move
about while soaked through and through.
But then, when the stormy weather came down from the north, Bambi
learnt what it really means to be cold. It was little help to cuddle
up close to his mother. At first, of course, he liked it very much to
lie there and be nice and warm, at least on one side. But the stormy
winds raged all through the night and all through the day and all
through the forest. It seemed to be driven by an incomprehensible,
ice-cold fury, an insane rage that wanted to tear all the trees up by
the roots and carry them away or to destroy them in some other
way. The trees roared as they put up powerful resistance, they fought
bravely against this immense attack. You could hear their long drawn
out groans, the sighs of their creaking, there was a loud bang when
one of their mighty boughs split, the angry crack when, here and
there, the trunk of a tree would break, the cry of pain from all its
wounds as its body was overpowered, split and killed. But then it
became impossible to hear anything more, as the storm fell onto the
forest with even greater violence and its roars drowned out any other
voice.
Bambi now understood that a period of need and poverty had begun. He
saw how much the rain and the storms had changed the world. There were
now no leaves on any of the trees or bushes. They stood there robbed
of all they had, their whole body was naked and could be clearly seen,
they looked pitiful as they stretched their naked, brown arms up to
the sky. The grass on the meadow was limp and dark brown and so short
it seemed to have been burnt to the ground. Even the place where Bambi
and his mother slept seemed pitiful and bare now. Since its green
walls had disappeared it offered no privacy, and the wind blew in from
every side.
One day a young magpie flew over the meadow. Something white and cold
fell into her eye, then another, then another, and laid a light veil
over her sight. Little, soft, dazzling-white flakes were dancing all
around her. The magpie flapped her wings and nearly stopped, but then
directed herself upward and went higher in the sky. In vain! The soft,
cool flakes were there again and again they fell onto her and into her
eyes. Once again she directed herself upward and rose even higher.
“Just don’t bother, love,” called a crow from above her who was flying
in the same direction, “just give it up. You can’t fly high enough to
get out of these flakes. That’s snow, i’n’it.”
“Snow?” said the magpie in amazement as she struggled against each new
flurry that came at her.
“Well, yeah!” said the crow. “Winter’s here. That’s snow, that is!”
“Forgive me,” answered the magpie, “I only left the nest in May. I
don’t know what winter’s like.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot like that,” the crow observed. “You’ll soon find
out though.”
“Well, if that’s what snow is,” thought the magpie, “I’d like to sit
down for a little while.” She went down and sat on a twig on an alder
tree and shook herself.
The crow flew lazily on.
At first, Bambi was pleased to see the snow. The air was still and
mild, the white stars floated in the sky and everything in the world
looked entirely new. It had become lighter, even gayer, thought Bambi,
and for the brief periods when the sun came out everything lit up, the
white covering sparkled and shone with such power that it was quite
dazzling.
But Bambi soon stopped being pleased about the snow, as it was
becoming harder and harder to find food. You had to scrape the snow
aside and that took a lot of effort before a small patch of limp grass
was exposed. And the snow cut into your legs too, so that you had to
be careful not to get your feet injured. Gobo already had done. But,
of course, that is what Gobo was like, he was never able to endure
very much, and he caused his mother a lot of worry.
They were together now for almost all of the time, and they also had
more company than previously. Ena would often call by with her
children. Marena, a girl who was nearly grown up, had also begun to
mix in their circle. But it was probably old Mrs. Nettla who came by
for a chat most often. She was quite alone and had an opinion about
everything. “No,” she said, “I want to have nothing more to do with
children. That’s a pleasure that I’ve really had enough of.”
Then Faline would always say, “Why’s that then, when it’s a pleasure?”
And Mrs. Nettla would pretend to be cross and say, “It’s a bad sort of
pleasure, and I’ve had enough of it. Everyone enjoyed chatting very
much. They sat next to each other and talked. The children had never
had as much to listen to.
Even one or two of the princes came and kept company with them now. At
first it felt a little awkward, especially as the children were still
somewhat shy with them. But that passed quite quickly and then there
was a pleasant atmosphere. Bambi admired Prince Ronno, who was an
impressive gentleman, and he felt a tempestuous love for the young,
beautiful Karus. They had cast off their crowns and Bambi would often
stare at the two round, slate-grey discs on their heads where glamour,
splendour and many tender points could be seen. Karus seemed very
elegant and distinguished.
It was tremendously exciting when one of the princes would tell him
about what had happened to him. On Ronno’s left foreleg there was a
big lump which was now overgrown with fur. He would often ask, “Have
you ever noticed how I limp on this leg?” Everyone was prompt to
assure him that no-one had ever noticed any limp at all. That was what
Ronno wanted to hear. And it really was true to say that it was barely
noticeable. “Yes,” he would then continue, “I escaped from something
very dangerous that day.” And so Ronno would go on to recount how he
had been taken by surprise by Him and hurled fire at him. But he was
only hit here on his leg. It hurt so much it could drive you mad. But
it was only here, on his leg, that he had been hit. It hurt nearly
enough to drive him crazy. No wonder. The bone had been shattered. But
Ronno did not panic. He got up and went, on just three legs. He kept
going despite the pain, as he was well aware that he was being
chased. He ran and ran until night fell. Then he allowed himself some
rest. But the following morning he moved on again until he felt he was
in safety. Then he groomed himself, hidden and alone, and waited for
the wound to close up. Eventually he came out of his place of safety
and he was a hero. He had a limp, but that was barely noticeable.
Now, when they were all together in one place so often and for so
long, when so many stories were told, Bambi heard more about Him than
he ever had before. They talked about how horrible he was to look
at. Nobody could bear looking into this pale face. This was something
that Bambi already knew from his own experience. They even talked
about the smell of him that spread all around, and here, too, Bambi
would have been able to contribute to the discussion if he had not
been too well brought up to join in with the conversations of grown
ups. They said this scent was of a rather puzzling sort, always
changing but instantly recognizable as it was always remarkably
stimulating, unidentifiable, mysterious, but in itself rather
disgusting. They talked about Him only needing two legs to walk on and
about the wonderful strength of both his hands. Some of them did not
exactly know what hands are. But Mrs. Nettla explained it to them. “I
don’t see anything surprising about it. The squirrel can do everything
you’ve just mentioned and does it in just the way he wants to, and
every little mouse can do the same.” She turned her head
disrespectfully away from them. “Oh!” the others exclaimed and they
made her understand that it’s far from being the same thing. But
Mrs. Nettla was not to be intimidated. “And what about the falcon?”
she declared, “what about the buzzard? And the owl? They’ve only got
two legs, and when they want to take hold of something, as you call
it, they just stand on one leg and hold it with the other. That’s a
lot harder to do, and I’m sure He can’t do it. “Mrs. Nettla was not in
any way inclined to admire anything about Him. She hated him with all
her heart. “He’s disgusting,” she said, and nothing would change her
mind. And there was nobody who contradicted her, as there was nobody
who found Him very lovable. But the matter became even more confusing
as they talked about it, saying He had a third hand, not just two
hands but a third hand as well. Mrs. Nettla’s reply was curt. “That’s
just an old wives’ tale,” she concluded. “I just don’t believe it.”
Now Ronno joined in. “So what?” he asked, “and what do you think it
was that He used to shatter my leg? Just tell me that, will you!”
Mrs. Nettla gave a glib retort. “That’s your affair, my love! He’s
never shattered anything of mine.”
Auntie Ena said, “I’ve seen lots of different things in my life, and I
think there must be something in it if he insists He’s got a third
hand.”
Young Karus observed politely, “I can only agree with you there.
There’s a crow who’s a friend of mine ...” He stopped in embarrassment
for a short while and looked at all the people there as if he were
afraid of being laughed at. But when he saw that they were listening
to him and giving him all their attention, he continued. “The crow is
exceptionally talented, I can’t deny that, she’s astonishingly
talented. She told me that He really does have three hands, but not
all the time. It’s that third hand, the crow told me, that’s the nasty
one. It doesn’t grow out of Him like the other two; He carries it
hanging on his shoulder. The crow says she can always tell whether He
or any of his kind is dangerous or not. If He comes along without that
third hand then He isn’t dangerous.”
Mrs. Nettla laughed. “This crow of yours is just stupid, Karus, take
it from me, my love. If she was as clever as she thinks she is she’d
know that He’s always dangerous –always!”
But the others had something to say too. “But there are some of them
who are not dangerous at all,” Bambi’s mother thought. “You can see it
straight away.”
“So what?” asked Mrs. Nettla. “Do you just stand there till they come
up to you and say hello to them?”
Bambi’s mother answered softly, “Of course I don’t just stand there, I
run away.”
And Faline burst out with, “You should always run away!” Everyone
laughed. They continued talking about this third hand, and as they did
so they became more serious and the sense of the horror of it came
among them. Whatever it was, a third hand or something different, it
was something terrible, something they could not understand. Most of
them knew about it only from what they had been told by others, but
some of them had seen it with their own eyes. He would stand there, a
long way off, without moving, there was no way of explaining what He
did or how it happened, but there would suddenly be a bang like
thunder, fire sprayed out, and even at that distance from Him you
would collapse with your breast torn open, and you would die. They all
lowered their heads while she told them this as if they were pressed
down by some dark force that had some inexplicable power over
them. They listened eagerly to the many different accounts of seeing
Him, and every story was full of horror, full of blood and
suffering. They took all this in and still wanted to hear more of what
was being said. Stories that must have been made up, all the fairy
tales and legends they had heard from their grandfathers and
great-grandfathers, and as they listened they unconsciously learned,
while still afraid, about how to make peace with this dark world or,
at least, to run away from it.
“How does that happen, asked young Karus, quite dispirited, “that He
can be so far away and still knock you down?”
“Didn’t your clever crow explain that to you?” sneered Mrs. Nettla.
“No,” said Karus with a smile, “she says she’s often seen it, but
no-one knows how to explain it.”
“Well, He can even knock the crows down from the tree when He feels
like it,” observed Ronno.
“And He knocks the pheasants down from the sky,” Auntie Ena added.
Bambi’s mother said, “He throws His hand out there. That’s what my
grandmother told me.”
“Does He really?” Mrs. Nettla asked. “And what is it that makes that
horrible thunderous noise then?”
“When His hand tears itself away from His body,” Bambi’s mother
explained, “there’s a flash of fire and it makes a bang like thunder.
On the inside that’s all He is, just fire.”
“Excuse me,” said Ronno. “There is some truth in saying He’s nothing
but fire on the inside, but it’s wrong to say it’s His hand He uses. A
strike from a hand could never cause injuries like that. You can see
it for yourselves. It’s much more likely to be a tooth that He throws
at us. Think about it, that would explain a lot. And so you die
because He bites you.”
Young Karus breathed a deep sigh. “Will He never stop chasing us
down?”
Then Marena spoke, the girl was now nearly an adult. “That means that
one day He’ll come and join us and be as gentle as we are. He’ll play
games with us, everyone in the forest will be happy and we’ll make
peace together.”
Mrs. Nettla shrieked with laughter. “It’s best if He just stays where
he is and leaves us alone!”
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Auntie Ena admonished her.”
“And why not then?” retorted Mrs. Nettla as she became more heated.
“That’s really not something I could imagine. Make peace with Him!
He’s been murdering us for as long as we’ve been able to think, and
our sisters and our mothers and our brothers! For all the time we’ve
been in the world He never leaves us in peace, He kills us whenever he
sees us ... and you want to make peace with him? That’s just so
stupid!”
Marena looked at everyone with her gently sparkling eyes wide open.
“There’s nothing stupid about making peace,” she said. “We’ve got to
make peace.”
“I’m going to get something to eat,” said Mrs. Nettla as she turned
round and ran off.