Forest World (2 page)

The donkey crossed over to her. “Now how did you get that idea? All by yourself?”

Tearfully Lisa looked at Manni. “No, I didn't get it by myself at all. My sisters and my other relatives told me. They all had it happen to them. When one of us bears a calf, she can't be happy with it. The Hes steal the beloved little one away from the mother. Nothing does any good. No use pleading or resisting. They drag the poor baby off. ‘That's the way it will be with you,' they told me, ‘so be prepared.' But I'm not prepared. I'm afraid. I can't bear to think of it.”

“And what do the Hes do with your calves?” Manni wanted to know.

“They kill them.”

“Kill
them!” exclaimed Manni. “Why?”

Shaken with horror, Lisa choked out, “The Hes gobble up our murdered little ones.”

“
Eat
them? Impossible!” Manni insisted, but he shuddered.

Witch, too, was trembling. She stamped, to hide her emotion. “Impossible!”

The donkey found words again. “
Our
two-legged friends here certainly don't do that. Perhaps such gruesome things do occur somewhere. Perhaps. Though I doubt even that. Maybe other Hes . . . but
ours
couldn't do such a thing.” He shook his head emphatically. “You've got to believe that ours are not that sort.”

The stallion whispered in Manni's ear, “And do you really know them so well?”

Manni retorted quickly, “Yes, I know them through and through,” and turned back to Lisa. “I'll
prove
to you that they would never do such a thing.”

“All right, prove it,” Devil challenged. “Show me.”

“Then don't interrupt,” the donkey snorted. “Listen. You all know—don't you?—that our younger He never kills and the older He only kills in the forest out of mercy—to protect the innocent and to end suffering. And I've seen the dead creatures brought here, and
never
has there been a young one killed. Never! Not a single time have I seen a young one brought back. Isn't that proof? It shows they spare the young—even the wild ones. And they spare the mothers too.” He faced Lisa. “You can trust me. And you can trust them too!”

Only half-reassured, the cow sighed, “If only you're right . . . if only my baby
does
stay with me. . . .” She turned and lumbered into the barn. “I must lie down now.”

They could hear her slip carefully to the floor and then sigh deeply.

“You're really dumb, my friend,” the donkey told the stallion.

Devil shook himself. “Dumb! You think you're the only one that's smart around here, I suppose. You're fresh—that's all.”

“I don't know whether I'm smart or not,” Manni declared, “but I know it was mighty dumb of you to pretend to be so wise and then air your doubts and get the poor girl more upset than ever.”

The stallion galloped away rudely instead of answering.

Witch whispered to the donkey: “He doesn't mean any harm. But it was good you told him. He certainly needs a lesson.” And, as if ashamed of her moment's disloyalty, she cantered off after the stallion.

T
HE MOON HUNG HIGH IN the clear heaven. Gradually the stars grew fainter and by and by went out. Only the evening star still sparkled like a fiery jewel, competing with the moonlight well into the first hours of the new morning.

Yet even when day was still far off, a sweet song sounded from aloft. Tirelessly the charming voice exulted, telling the end of darkness and welcoming the approach of light.

It was the voice of the lark.

Of all creatures the humble lark awakens first. Long before the rooster crows, even before the blackbird begins his morning tune, the lark sings of her happy life. She rises from her nest in the fields, swings high into the air, a tiny, almost invisible dot—a pinpoint of melody, pouring her song richly, zestfully, down toward the earth.

Under a tightly woven shelter of fir branches, Martin sat without moving. Enchanted, he listened to the lark and patiently awaited the coming of the heath cocks.

“Shioo—sheed!”

There one came, swishing down to the edge of the field.

“Shioo—sheed!”

A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth—Martin could not count all that gathered. He heard only their wings beating the air as they landed on their mating ground.

At once they began their courtship dance, turning and bowing, uttering their monotonous
“lu-lu-lu-lu—lu-lu-lu-lu.”

As the sky slowly grew brighter, they leaped at each
other, pair by pair, breast to breast, forward and back. Their threatening beaks were wide open and hissing. Their wings hung loose as they danced, and they lifted them just a little off the ground in short, quick, violent movements. Finally they fell back to the forest floor and resumed their peaceful but hurried rivalry and their
“lu-lu-lu-lu!”
They twisted and turned like whirling dervishes. The feathers covering their tails on either side now spread out. They faced each other with bodies arched like scythes while the protruding red glands over their eyes swelled brighter and brighter.

Martin had brought no gun to shoot them with. He had come as spectator, and had no idea of cutting short the delightful performance. He held a pair of field glasses to his eyes to bring the company of birds closer to him. Through the magic lenses he watched the hens parade before the milling ranks of dancers and fighters, the excited cocks. The hens behaved like ladies who watch eagerly for attention, pretending indifference but thrilled at heart.

Martin was amazed by the performance of one of
the dozen cocks—the smallest, who acted as if he were charged with high explosive. He called much louder than the others and leaped about more violently. Foolhardily he chased the others away from him until finally none dared approach. The glands shone from his forehead as if ready to burst. His eyes glittered like dark burning balls and his black tail feathers were as bright as metal.

As the sun appeared and sent out its first gentle rays, a heath hen flew up toward the forest. Instantly the smallest cock fluttered after her and then the entire band scattered, vanishing among the high trees singly or in pairs.

Now again Martin the hunchback heard the jubilant song of the lark sounding from the skies.

After a few more days of spring, the birds of passage returned from the south. First of all came the wild geese, in orderly wedgelike squadrons, one above the other. They flew in the evenings and in the dawns toward their home in the north. By day they generally rested on the banks of streams, sentries providing security by
constant watchfulness. But here in the rolling country they hardly ever stopped. They only floated by, wedge after wedge in the clear sky. The freedom song of these wanderers rang down inspiringly from high above.

Martin loved the wild geese, loved to gaze at their wide, open formations that always etched the same three-cornered line in the moonlit or early-morning air. Thrilled, he listened to their triumphant call.

Sometime later the swallows arrived. It was their chirping and rustling that gave definite promise spring was really coming. Their darting and dipping was like a mischievous game filling the world above the trees with gaiety.

The trees of the forest and those in Martin's garden now put out tender green foliage. Bushes were decorated with buds. The grass of the fields and meadows grew faster. The blooms of violet, dandelion, crocus and hepatica strewed the green turf with rich color and fragrance. The sloe flowered and in the garden the forsythia showed yellow petals motionless in the still air.

Bumblebees, wasps, soft-winged beetles, countless shining flies buzzed around.

Through the forest the cuckoo sent his quiet throaty giggle. Restlessly the golden oriole swung from tree to tree singing his poem of joy without pause. “I am he-ere!”

In vain the jay bade him with loud screeches to be quiet: “Oh, shut up!” But the oriole paid no heed. The jay imitated his singing as he had already mimicked the blackbird's, the finch's, the dove's. Annoyed and confused, the oriole kept quiet for a few moments. Immediately the blackbird made friends with him. She whispered, “Tell me about those countries where there's always summer. Tell me about the great water you crossed.”

But the oriole's answer was only, “Oh, yes, I am he-ere!” He hurled himself into the air and flew to the next tree.

The blackbird sat alone. Then she searched the nearby branches until she found the nightingale. She asked her the same questions.

The nightingale replied softly, “The water doesn't frighten me. I cross it quickly, and find sunny lands with wonderful food.”

“Then why does none of you stay there—not a single one—if it's so beautiful?”

“Stay there?” The nightingale was amazed. “How would that be possible? We have to come back here. This is our homeland. There we're just visitors.”

“My ancient ancestors,” explained the blackbird, “once upon a time also took these journeys. But their descendants, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, loved their homeland so much they didn't want to wander any more. We became unused to travel. Now we stay here even when it's very cold. I think it's a pity.”

Soon all began eagerly to build their nests. The lark, always first to awaken, was also first to return home and fashion her simple nest on the ground. The others, singing and twittering happily, built new homes or freshened up those they had left in the fall. Artfully the swallows attached their nests to the eaves of Martin's house, so close under that they could barely slip into them.

Manni the donkey spoke to the little birds. “Welcome, gallant fliers!”

“Greetings! Greetings!” the swallows chirped and
swished hastily away to fetch new building material.

“Why do you make your doors so tight?” the donkey wanted to know when they came back.

“No time to talk now!” the swallows shouted and were off again.

“Don't disturb them in their work,” Lisa the cow reproved him gently.

Devil the stallion muttered, “Now don't you mix into this. Who are you to give orders to the Gray One?”

“Are you dictating to me?” Lisa asked him calmly. “You know I'm not afraid of you. After all, I can give Gray a piece of advice without asking your permission.”

“What kind of advice?” Manni inquired.

“I mean,” said Lisa, “it's better to wait till the little flycatchers are on the way to hatching. Then the parents sit quietly and are glad to talk to you.”

“You're right,” Manni admitted good-naturedly. “That's sensible.”

Placidly the stallion said, “Yes, this time she's right. But it's an exception. Usually the milk-giver is really stupid, as dumb as the oats we eat. And
I'm
right about that.”

The donkey turned to go.

“You needn't run away,” neighed the stallion.

“I'm not running away,” answered Manni. “I just want to take a look at the forest.”

“The forest! You're crazy!” Devil exclaimed.

“But I've never been in the forest,” the donkey brayed stubbornly. “I want to see what it's like.”

“But suppose He needs you!” Witch the mare called after him.

Manni hesitated only a second. For a long time he had wanted to see the forest. Now he was determined to go. “Let Him—” What he was going to say trailed off into nothing as he pushed through the stable door.

“Gray has declared his independence,” muttered the stallion.

“Only for this once,” Witch said as if to apologize for Manni.

Lisa kept wagging her head in amazement. “None of us barn creatures belongs in the forest! How can he dare do such a thing?”

M
ANNI AVOIDED HIS USUAL path to the Lodge. Softly he stole around the stable to where the ground rose and only the picket fence separated the garden from the hill. He had often stood there to glance longingly upward, only to do a timid about-face and stay home after all.