Forest World (21 page)

Debina knew that and was proud of her son.

Should she tell him now who his father was? Now? Debina couldn't make up her mind.

T
HE NIGHT WAS DELICATELY touched by silver moonlight. Deep shadows lay in the bushes under the high trees.

The Persian tomcat had been cured by Babette's nursing through the winter months. And now there arose in him a new desire for adventure, a new craving for revenge.

He had almost forgotten the pain he had endured, though sometimes in his torn ear he thought he felt the fox's bite, sharp enough to make him cry out.

At such times Babette took him tenderly in her
arms, petted him and spoke to him soothingly. Shah purred and pressed against her. Though he did not understand her words, their tone calmed him.

Tonight his old longing to catch a pheasant drove him back to the forest. Quietly, cautiously, he slipped through the dark bush, avoiding the moonlit places as much as possible or else flashing quickly across them.

He pictured himself leaping from a tree onto the neck of the unsuspecting fox and getting his revenge quickly.

He hoped the great gray owl would not be there this time. It was not the fox, but the owl, that Shah feared most. But it was the fox he hated. Only after a knock-out battle, after fully enjoying his vengeance, he promised himself, would he fetch away the pheasant, his reward.

But there were flaws in this sly plan.

For it happened that the fox was accompanied by two young foxes already expert in mouse catching and hare killing. They were young, keen, fierce fellows, eager to kill and with clamoring appetites.

Before he saw them, Shah darted like a black streak across an open moonlit space.

Lightning-fast, the young foxes sprang after him. But they found nothing and turned back, puzzled. The old fox drew his forepaw to his body like a pointing dog and sniffed upward toward where the tomcat crouched half-hidden by the thin foliage of a tree.

Horrified, Shah stared down, hardly daring to believe his eyes.
Three
foxes! All he needed now to be quite lost was for the owl to come!

“So it's you, you dirty intruder?” shouted the fox. And the other two at his side yelped, “Dirty intruder!”

The tomcat spat his answer: “Yes, it's I, you cowardly thief!”

“Are you bringing me your other ear?”

“I've come to fetch your eyes!”

“Come down and try it!” the fox barked mockingly.

A silence fell. The Persian was pondering how to save himself. After all, there were no pheasants to be seen. He heard the fox's yap again.

“You won't learn your lesson, poacher, till you've had your throat slit!”

The cat let this threat too go without retort. Moving
stealthily, he slipped to the other side of the tree to reach the next one without returning to the ground. Up here, at least, it was safe. Not even the great gray owl could get at him if he stayed where the branches were thickest. At any rate, she'd be only one enemy.

The brave mood that had filled Shah before was disappearing. He jumped, and the dry, rotten branch of the next tree, a birch, broke under his weight. He almost plunged into the open jaws of the three foxes. The pulse beat in his ears with fright, making the old bite throb painfully. With a desperate effort he clung to the bark of the tree trunk, then climbed up furiously.

Down below the foxes moved to the foot of the birch. “We'll get you!” gloated the old fox. “We'll soon have you!”

Agilely, Shah sneaked farther, whipping from one tree to another and at last managing to leave the trailing foxes behind. But then he came to a clearing. He stopped in dismay. Should he risk it on the ground, or stick to the trees and make a wide detour of the clearing?

He didn't dare go down to the ground. It would be
his bitter end if those red robbers caught up with him! He chose the detour.

It proved to be long and difficult. But the tomcat was patient, for he hoped to confuse his pursuers.

Suddenly close behind him a cry shrilled.

Rigid with fright, Shah turned to see the little hoot owl measuring him with glowing eyes.

“Did I scare you?” the hoot owl asked.

The sight of an owl—even such a very small owl—broke the cat's proud spirit entirely. Shah didn't want to fight now. Terrified, he wanted only to escape.

Wistfully the hoot owl called, “Hello! I think you're nice!”

But the frantic Persian fled.

The sociable hoot owl floated after him. “Are you in a great hurry? Wait a minute! Let's have a little chat!”

Shah didn't answer. He leaped, scrambling and tumbling through the trees, thumped and scratched by the boughs. Finally he bounded to the ground and went springing like a hare, faster than he had ever run in his life. Behind him floated the little hoot owl, like some
fearful spirit, it seemed to Shah, calling “Wait! Wait!”

But Shah didn't wait. On he bounced and bounded until at last he reached the familiar garden gate. Never had it looked so dear to him! Over it he sailed and—nearly overcome by a sense of safety—staggered on toward the barn.

“Whew, that was a close call!” he gasped, slipping thankfully through the stable door. “I'll never go to that murderous place again!” he vowed, shuddering. “
Really,
never again!”

Beyond the garden, the puzzled and disappointed little hoot owl floated back to the forest.

O
N THE SPLENDID SPRING DAY after Shah's fateful night Martin the hunchback wandered through the forest. He was alone. When a grazing roe fled, or another stayed and looked at him with confidence, he smiled.

A stag leaped across his path. Martin stood without moving.

The stag stopped too, stared at the man calmly, then comfortably departed. Martin heard his steps through the thicket. Pleased, he continued on his way to his
lookout platform. Just before he reached it, something rustled in the grass.

The fox!

Frightened, the red one stood still and stared at Martin.

“What a wise face,” thought Martin, holding himself very still. “It's almost like the head of a good dog . . . but the expression isn't good. He looks as if he had a bad conscience.”

The two were barely five paces apart. The fox seemed hypnotized by the benevolent look of these human eyes.

“Poor fellow,” thought Martin, “you have a hard time in your world of freedom. I don't begrudge you the hare or the pheasant you capture.”

The fox sneaked away, turning his head suspiciously again and again, until finally his watcher could no longer see him.

Martin climbed up to the platform, sat down and looked around. Like a thirsty man drinking, he drew air into his humped chest.

“Nowhere else,” he said to himself, “can I breathe so
easily as up here. Nowhere else does my heart feel free.”

His glance swept across the ocean of green treetops and over the plowed fields in the distance. He put his field glasses to his eyes, and searched the preserve he knew so well.

There were many roes in the meadows grazing, ambling, sometimes fleeing when a stag appeared.

He saw a pheasant stroll along with bobbing head. In three different places he saw festive processions of king pheasants.

“Good,” he murmured and let his field glasses drop. “That's good to see. I thank God for this little world unto itself, this forest world of mine, and all its free and lovely creatures.”

Again his glance slipped tenderly over treetops which were like great soft green pillows, richly prepared as if for the bed of a giant. His eyes lifted toward the sky arching blue and high over the countryside.

“At this moment, the sky too, is mine,” he thought.

For a long time he sat still, his head lifted, his eyes shining. And his heart was full.

Also by Felix Salten

Bambi

Renni the Rescuer

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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This Aladdin hardcover edition October 2013

Text copyright © 1942 by The Bobbs-Merrill Company, copyright renewed © 1970 by Anna Katharina Wyler-Salten and Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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copyright © 2013 by Richard Cowdrey

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Interior designed by Hilary Zarycky

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Jacket illustration by Richard Cowdrey

The text of this book was set in Yana.

Library of Congress Control Number 2013933921

ISBN 978-1-4424-8638-6 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-4424-8637-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4424-8681-2 (eBook)