Later . . . sometime . . .”

*  *  *

Martin could see barely more than three paces ahead, for darkness still shrouded the trees. But it was no longer night and not yet day.

He liked this in-between time best. He sensed a wonderful mystery in this hour of vanishing night and wakening day. At such a time the turning of the globe seemed to him like the turning of fate, like a delivery from darkness and anxiety to happiness and courage.

He crossed a small clearing. Giant oaks rustled, the shadow of their tops spreading wide. In the gloaming four slender birches stood out silvery and clear.

Martin re-entered the forest on a narrow trail that snaked its way through the underbrush.

Nearby stood a doe, her newborn kid beside her. She stiffened to attention, ears quivering. Her sharp hearing had caught Martin’s almost inaudible step. The kid listened too, its legs braced ready to leap away. The mother roe calmed her child. “Don’t be afraid. There’s no need to run away. It’s He! He never hurts us.”

The oak trees began to talk among themselves in soft whispers.

“Oh, times have been good since He has ruled here and while His father ruled before him. You young birches, you don’t remember how it was before father and son protected the forest.”

A young birch lisped, “Protected the forest? How?”

“What was there before?” another young one asked.

The old oak answered, “Never a day passed that the thunder-stick did not resound. At times the Hes came in crowds. Roes, stags, hares fell over and died. Even squirrels were knocked off our branches. What madness and what horrible shouting! All the forest residents were terrified. The thunder-sticks roared. And there were not only the thunder-sticks. The Hes carried great teeth also and in winter bit into stalwart trees with them so that the trees fell over. We ourselves were afraid of being bitten and losing our lives.”

The third birch inquired, “This He who’s here now—He does nothing harmful? Nothing at all?”

“No!” the oaks chorused. “Neither His father who used to be here, nor He. Nothing—nothing bad!”

“But He throws the thunder-stick,” a birch called out.

“Only the older two-legged one does, the one with gray fur on his head,” whispered the ancient oak. “And then but rarely. Very rarely. Really only to help us.”

The strongest oak made himself heard. “When a stag or a doe falls by that thunder-stick, it is because he is past his time, ill and rotten as a tree which must fall soon. It is kindness then.”

Martin could hear only the soft morning rustle of the forest.