The Heart of the Ancient Wood :: Chapter XVI Death for a Little Life

Chapter XVI Death for a Little Life

Thenceforward Kirstie twice or thrice a week medicined herself with fresh venison, provided assiduously by Young Dave, and by the time spring was fairly in possession of the clearing, she was her old strong self again. But as for Dave’s hopes, they had been reduced to desolation. Miranda had taken alarm at her sudden carnivorous craving, and in her effort to undo that moment’s weakness she had withdrawn herself to the utmost from Dave’s influence. She had been the further incited to this by an imagined aloofness on the part of her furred and feathered pensioners. A pair of foxes, doubtless vagrants from beyond her sphere, had spread slaughter among the hares as they returned from feeding at the cabin. The hungry raiders had laid an ambush at the edge of the clearing on two successive nights. They had killed recklessly. Then they vanished, doubtless driven away by the steady residents who knew how to kill discreetly and to guard their preserves from poachers. But the hares had taken alarm, and few came now o’ nights for Miranda’s carrots and clover. Miranda, with a little ache at her heart, concluded from this that she had forfeited her ascendency among the kin of the ancient wood. There had been a migration, too, among the squirrels, so that now these red busybodies were perceptibly fewer about the cabin roof. And the birds—they were nearly all gone. An unusually early spring, laying bare the fields in the lower country, and bringing out the insects before their wont, had scattered Miranda’s flocks a fortnight earlier than usual. No crumbs could take the place of swelling seeds and the first fat May-fly. But Miranda thought they were fled through distrust of her. Kroof, old Kroof the constant, was all unchanged when she came from her winter’s sleep; but this spring she brought an unusually fine cub with her, and the cub, of necessity, took a good deal of her time and attention away from Miranda. When Miranda was with her, roaming the still, transparent corridors, all the untroubled past came back, crystalline and flawless as of old. Once more the furtive folk went about their business in the secure peace of her neighbourhood; once more she revelled with a kind of intoxication in the miraculous fineness of her vision; once more she felt assured of the mastery of her look. But this was in the intervals between Dave’s visits. When he was at the clearing, everything was different. She was no longer sure of herself on any point. And the worst of it was that the more indifference to him she feigned, the less she felt. She was quite unconscious, all the while, that her mother was shrewdly watching her struggles. She was not unconscious, however, of Dave’s attitude. She saw that he seemed dull and worried, which gratified her, she knew not why, and confirmed her in her coolness. But at last, with a slow anger beginning to burn at his heart, he adopted the policy of ignoring her altogether, and giving all his thought to Kirstie, whereupon Miranda awoke to the conclusion that it was her plain duty to be civil to her mother’s guest.

This change, not obtrusive, but of great moment to Dave, came over the girl in June, when the dandelions were starring the pasture grass. The sowing and the potato planting were just done. The lilac bushes beside the cabin were a mass of purple enchantment. It was not a time for hard indifference; and Dave was quick to catch the melting mood. His manner was such, however, that Miranda could not take alarm.

“Mirandy,” said he, with the merest good comradeship in tone and air, “would ye take a little trip with me to-morrow, now that the crops can spare ye a bit?”

“Where to, Dave?” interposed Kirstie, fearful lest the girl should refuse out of hand, before she knew what Dave proposed to do.

“Why, I’ve got to go over the divide an’ run down the Big Fork in my canoe to Gabe White’s clearin’, with some medicine I’ve brought from the Settlement for his little boy what’s sick. He’s a leetle mite of a chap, five year old, with long, yaller curls, purty as a picture, but that peaked an’ thin, it goes to yer heart to see him. Gabe came in to the Settlement yesterday to see the doctor about him an’ git medicine; but he’s had to go right on to the city to sell his pelts, an’ git some stuff the doctor says the little feller must hev, what can’t be got in the Settlement at all. So Gabe give me this” (and he pulled a bottle out of the inside pocket of his hunting shirt) “to take to him right now, coz the little feller needs it badly. It’s a right purty trip, Mirandy, an’ the Big Fork’s got some rapids ’at’ll please ye. What ye say?”

Dave was growing subtle under Miranda’s discipline. He knew that the picture of the small boy would draw her; and also that the sight of the ailing child, acting upon her quick sympathies, would awaken a new human interest and work secretly in favour of himself. The beauty of the scenery, the excitement of the rapids,—these were a secondary influence, yet he knew they would not be without appeal to the beauty-worshipping and fearless Miranda.

The girl’s deep eyes lightened at the prospect. She would see something a little different, yet not alien or hostile,—a new river, other hills and woods, a deeper valley, a ruder cabin in a remoter clearing, a lonely woman,—above all, a little sick boy with long, yellow hair.

“But it must be a long way off, Dave,” she protested, in a tone that invited contradiction.

“Not so far as to the Settlement,” answered Dave; “an’ it don’t take half so long to go because o’ the quick run down river. I reckon, though, we’d best stay over night at White’s clearin’ and come back easy nex’ day—if you don’t mind, Kirstie! Sary Ann White’s a powerful fine woman, an’ Mirandy’s sure to like her. It’ll do her a sight of good, poor thing, to hev Mirandy to talk to a bit.”

He wanted to say that just a look at Miranda’s wild loveliness would do Mrs. White a lot of good; but he had not quite the courage for such a bold compliment.

“No, I don’t mind, if Miranda likes to go,” said Kirstie; “I shan’t be lonesome, as Kroof’ll be round most of the time.”

It had come to be understood, and accepted without comment, that when Dave went anywhere with Miranda the jealous old bear remained at home.

Until they were fairly off, Dave was in a fever of anxiety lest Miranda should change her mind. But this venture had genuinely caught her interest, and no whim tempted her to withdraw. After a breakfast eaten so early that the early June dawn was still throwing its streaks of cool red through the cabin window and discouraging the fire upon the hearth, Dave and Miranda set out. They followed the path to the spring among the alders, and then plunged direct into the woods, aiming a little to the east of north. The dew was thick in silver globules on the chips of the yard and on the plantain leaves. It beaded the slender grasses about the spring, and the young foliage of the alders, and the dazzling veils of the gossamer spiders. This time Dave took his rifle with him, and Miranda paid no heed to it.

The woods were drenching wet, but unusually pervaded with light. The new risen sun sent its fresh rays far up the soundless vistas, and every damp leaf or shining facet of bark diffused its little dole of lustre to thin the gloom. As the sun got higher and the dew exhaled away, the twilight slightly deepened, the inexpressible clarity of the shadowed air returned, and the heart of the ancient wood resumed its magic. The awe, as of an enchantment working unseen, the meaning and expectant stillness, the confusion of near and far, the unreality of the familiar,—all this gripped the imagination of the two travellers just as sharply as if they had not been all their lives accustomed to it. The mystery of the ancient wood was not to be staled by use. These two, sensitive to its spell as a surface of glass to a breath, lay open to it in every nerve, and a tense silence fell upon their lips. In the silence was understanding of each other. It was Dave’s most potent wooing, against which Miranda had no warning, no defence.

As they walked thus noiselessly, light-footed as the furtive folk themselves, suddenly from a bit of open just ahead of them there came the slender, belling cry of a young deer. They had arrived now, after three hours’ rapid walking, at a part of the forest unknown to Miranda. The open space was rock thinly covered with mosses and vines, an upthrust of the granite foundations of a hill which towered near by.

It was an unheard-of thing for a young deer to give cry so heedlessly amid the perilous coverts of the wood. Both the travellers instinctively paused, and then stole forward with greater caution, peering through the branches. To the forest dwellers, beast or human, the unusual is always the suspicious, and therefore to be investigated. A few paces carried them both to a point where Miranda caught sight of the imprudent youngling.

“Hush!” she whispered, laying her hand on Dave’s arm, “Look! the poor little thing’s lost. Don’t frighten it!”

“There’ll be something else’ll frighten it afore long,” muttered Dave, “if it don’t quit its bla’tin’.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the little animal jumped, trembled, started to run, and then looked piteously from side to side, as if uncertain which way to flee and from what peril. An instant more and the greyish-brown form of a lynx shot like lightning from the underbrush. It caught the young deer by the throat, dragged it down, tore it savagely, and began drinking its blood.

“Kill it! kill it!” panted Miranda, starting forward. But Dave’s hand checked her.

“Wait!” he said firmly. “The little critter’s dead; we can’t do it no good. Wait an’ we’ll git both the varmints. There’ll be a pair of ’em.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Miranda would have resented the idea of getting “both the varmints”; but just now she was savage with pity for the young deer, and she chose to remember vindictively that far-off day when Ganner had come to the clearing, and only the valour of Star, the brindled ox, had saved herself and Michael, the calf, from a cruel death. She obeyed Dave’s command, therefore, and waited.

But there was another who would not wait. The mother doe had heard her lost little one’s appeal. In wild haste, but noiseless on the deep carpet of the moss, she came leaping to the cry. She saw what Miranda and Dave saw. But she did not pause to calculate, or weigh the odds against her. With one bound she was out in the open. With the next she was upon the destroyer. The hungry lynx looked up just in time to avoid the fair impact of her descending hooves, which would have broken his back. As it was, he caught a glancing blow on the flank, which ripped his fine fur and hurled him several paces down the slope.

Before he could fully recover, the deer was upon him again; and Miranda, her eyes glowing, her cheeks scarlet with excitement and exultation, clutched her companion’s arm with such a grip that her slim fingers hurt him deliciously. The lynx, alarmed and furious, twisted himself over and fixed both claws and teeth in his adversary’s leg, just below the shoulder. Fierce and strong as he was, he was nevertheless getting badly punished, when his mate appeared bounding down the slope, and with a sharp snarl sprang upon the doe’s neck, bearing her to her knees.

“Shoot! shoot!” cried Miranda, springing away from Dave’s side to give him room. But his rifle was at his shoulder ere she spoke. With the word his shot rang out; and the second assailant dropped to the ground, kicking. Immediately Dave ran forward. The male lynx, disentangling himself, darted for cover; but just as he was disappearing, Dave gave him the second barrel, at short range, and the bullet caught him obliquely across the hind quarters, breaking his spine. Dave was noted as the best shot in all that region; but the marksmanship which he had just displayed was lost on Miranda. She took it for granted that to shoot was to hit, and to hit was to kill, as a matter of course. Dave’s first shot had killed. The animal was already motionless. But the writhings of the other lynx, prone in the bush, tore her heart.

“Oh, how it’s suffering! Kill it, quick!” she panted. Dave ran up, swung his rifle in a short grip, and struck the beast a settling blow at the base of the skull. The deer, meanwhile, limping and bleeding, but not seriously the worse for her dreadful encounter, hobbled back to where the body of her young lay stretched upon the moss. She sniffed at it for a moment with her delicate nose, satisfied herself that it was quite dead, then moved off slowly into the shadows.

Miranda went to each of the three slain animals in turn, and looked at them thoughtfully, while Dave waited in silence, uncertain what to do next. He felt that it behooved him to step warily while Miranda was wrestling with emotions. At last she said, with a sob in her voice, and her eyes very bright and large,—

“Come, let’s get away from this horrid place!”

Dave experienced a certain mild pang at the thought of leaving two good pelts behind him to be gnawed by foxes; but he followed Miranda without a word. It would have been a fatal error to talk of furs at that moment. As soon, however, as they were out of sight of the open slope, he turned aside and headed their course toward a rocky knoll which was visible through the trees.

“What are you going that way for?” asked Miranda.

“Likely the lou’-cerfies had their den in the rocks yonder,” was the reply; “we must find it.”

“What do we want of their den?” queried the girl in surprise.

“There’ll be a couple of lou’-cerfie kittens in it, I reckon,” said Dave, “an’ we must find ’em.”

“What for?” demanded Miranda, suspiciously.

Dave looked at her.

“You’ve had me shoot the father an’ mother, Mirandy,” he said slowly, “for the sake of the deer. An’ now would ye hev the little ones starve to death?”

“I never thought of that, Dave,” answered the girl, smitten with remorse; and she looked at him with a new approval. She thought to herself that he, hunter and blood-stained as he was, showed yet a readier and more reasonable tenderness for the furry kindred than she herself.

For nearly half an hour they searched the hollows of the rocky knoll, and at last came upon a shallow cave overhung darkly by a mat of dwarf cedar. There were bones about the entrance, and inside, upon a bed of dry moss, were two small rusty brown, kitten-like objects curled softly together. Miranda’s discerning vision perceived them at once, but it took Dave’s eyes some seconds to adapt themselves to the gloom. Then the furry ball of “lou’-cerfie” kittens looked to him very pretty—something to be fondled and protected. He knew well how their helplessness would appeal to Miranda’s tender heart. Nevertheless, with a firmness of courage which, under the circumstances, few heroes would have arisen to, he stepped forward, stooped, untangled the soft ball, and with the heavy handle of his hunting-knife struck each kitten just one sharp stroke on the neck, killing it instantly and easily.

“Poor little critters!” he muttered; “it was the only thing to do with ’em,” and he turned to Miranda.

The girl had backed out of the cave and now stood, with flushed face, staring at him fiercely.

“You brute!” she exclaimed.

Dave had been prepared for some discussion of his action. But he was not prepared for just this. He drew himself up.

“I did think ye was a woman grown; an’ for all yer idees were kind of far-fetched, I’ve respected ’em a heap; an’ I won’t say but what they’ve influenced me, too. But now I see ye’re but a silly child an’ don’t reason. Did ye think, maybe, these here leetle mites o’ things could live an’ take keer o’ themselves?”

He spoke coldly, scornfully; and there was a kind of mastery in his voice that quelled her. She was astonished, too. The colour in her face deepened, but she dropped her eyes.

“I wanted to take them home, and tame them,” she explained, quite humbly.

Dave’s stern face softened.

“Ye’d never ’a’ been able to raise ’em. They’re too young, a sight too young. See, their eyes ain’t open. They’d have jest died on yer hands, Mirandy, sure an’ sartain!”

“But—how could you!” she protested, with no more anger left, but a sob of pity in her throat.

“It was jest what you do to the fish ye ketch, Mirandy, to stop their sufferin’.”

Miranda looked up quickly, and her eyes grew large.

“Do you know, I never thought of that before, Dave,” she replied. “I’ll never catch a fish again, long as I live! Let’s get away from here.”

“Ye see,” began Dave, making up his mind to sow a few seeds of doubt in Miranda’s mind as to the correctness of her theories, “ye see, Mirandy, ’tain’t possible to be consistent right through in this life; but what ye’ll find, life’ll make a fool o’ ye at one point or another. I ain’t a-goin’ to say I think ye’re all wrong, not by no means. Sence I’ve seen the way ye understand the live critters of the woods, an’ how they understand you, I’ve come to feel some different about killin’ ’em myself. But, Mirandy, Nature’s nature, an’ ye can’t do much by buckin’ up agin her. Look now, ye told me to shoot the lou’-cerfie coz he killed the deer kid. But he didn’t go to kill it for ugliness, nor jest for himself to make a dinner off of—you know that. He killed it for his mate, too. Lou’-cerfie ain’t built so’s they can eat grass. If the she lou’-cerfie didn’t git the meat she needed, her kittens’d starve. She’s jest got to kill. Nature’s put that law onto her, an’ onto the painters, an’ the foxes an’ wolves, the ’coons an’ the weasels. An’ she’s put the same law, only not so heavy, onto the bears, an’ also onto humans, what’s all built to live on all kinds of food, meat among the rest. An’ to live right, and be their proper selves, they’ve all got to eat meat sometimes, for Nature don’t stand much foolin’ with her laws!”

“I’m well,” interrupted Miranda, eagerly, with the obvious retort.

“Maybe ye won’t be always!” suggested Dave.

“Then I’ll be sick—then I’ll die before I’ll eat meat!” she protested passionately. “What’s the good of living, anyway, if it’s nothing but kill, kill, kill, and for one that lives a lot have got to die!”

Dave shook his head soberly.

“That’s what nobody, fur’s I can see, Mirandy, has ever been able to make out yet. I’ve thought about it a heap, an’ read about it a heap, alone in camp, an’ I can’t noways see through it. Oftentimes it’s seemed to me all life was jest like a few butterflies flitterin’ over a graveyard. But all the same, if we don’t go to too much foolish worryin’ ’bout what we can’t understand, we do feel it’s good to be alive; an’ I do think, Mirandy, this life might be somethin’ finer than the finest kind of a dream.”

Something in his voice, at these last words, thrilled Miranda, and at the same time put her on her guard.

“Well,” she exclaimed positively, if not relevantly, “I’m never going to catch another fish.”

The answer not being just what Dave needed for the support of his advance, he lost courage, and let the conversation drop.

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