The shooters had positioned themselves along the clearing. Behind them stood the spruce thicket with black jagged edges; the branches still touched the ground. Yellowed forest grass was woven into them, holding them firmly in place. This created the impression of dark tents being pitched, shelters against the storm and cold in the deeply snow-covered land. A belt of pale reeds revealed the ditch hidden under the snow.
The forest bordered the princely estate. In summer, it was hot and stifling, with swarms of horseflies moving along the clearings. In autumn, when the spider webs flew, legions of mushrooms covered the mossy ground. The berries shone like coral on the clear-cut areas.
It had just stopped snowing. The air was delightful, as if the snowflakes had filtered it; it was easier to breathe and carried sound far, so one instinctively whispered. The fresh cover seemed to surpass every notion of whiteness; one sensed marvelous yet untouchable secrets.
The best spots were where a young forest adjoined the clearing. Barely did the green tips protrude from the snow. Here, the shooting field was ideal. Richard stood next to the novice Breyer in a crosscut where the branches almost touched, so there was hardly any view. It was a poor spot, a position for beginners. Yet the anticipation had grown so strong that he no longer thought about the details, and even his sorrow seemed to dissolve. He had hoped until the last moment that his father would give him a rifle; it was the fulfillment towards which all his thoughts and aspirations were directed. He knew no hotter or more compelling desire. He dreamed of the blue steel of the weapon, of its walnut stock, of the oak leaves engraved into the metal. How light it was, how handy, and more wonderful than any toy. In the darkness of its barrel, the grooves gleamed in a silver spiral. When you cocked it, it gave a dry click, as if reliability itself spoke to gladden the heart. You could refine the trigger with a set trigger – then it was as if a thought ignited the shot. That this jewel, this miracle, also contained fate, death, was beyond imagination. Richard felt that in possessing it, there lay a fulfillment for him, a complete transformation. Before falling asleep, he sometimes saw himself with it in daydreams in the forest – not to shoot, no, just to walk with it in the greenery as one would with a beloved. A saying came to his mind that he had read on an old tankard from which his father sometimes poured:
You and I, together Are joy enough for each other.
Even when his eyes had closed, the images continued. They sometimes led to fears: he had cocked the weapon and wanted to shoot, but an evil spell prevented it from firing. His entire will focused on it, but strangely, the more intensely he concentrated, the more thoroughly the rifle refused to work. He wanted to scream, but his voice failed him. Then he would wake up from the nightmare. How happy he was when he realized that a dream had fooled him.
On his sixteenth birthday, the miracle was to happen. It was not easy for him to be patient when he saw young hunters or novices like this Breyer, who was just under two years older and hardly taller than Richard. But now it was so quiet and clear in the forest that this consuming and pressing feeling within him faded. The world was solemnly veiled.
A fine chirping permeated the fir thicket and receded. These were the goldcrests, the tiny yellow-topped birds; they felt comfortable in the dark patches where they picked at the cones. Then a horn call echoed through the white world from the edge of the forest. Richard's heart began to beat faster; the hunt was on.
From afar, a commotion arose in the thickets. As it intensified, so did his heartbeat. The beaters, wearing heavy leather aprons, broke through the branches and knocked on the tree trunks with their axes; in between, one could hear their calls: "hurr-hurr, hurr-hurr, hurr-hurr." At first, this driving sounded distant and cheerful, then the voices grew rougher, more dangerous. They smelled of pipe smoke, fruit brandy, tavern brawls, and intruded upon the forest's mystery.
Now the rustling and shouting were very close, followed by a different kind of rustling. A shadow darted through the reeds and moved to the other cover, right between Richard and the novice. Although it flitted across the clearing like a dream image, Richard captured the details in a flash: the beaters had flushed out a large boar from its lair. He saw it leap across the path as if shot from a bowstring. The front part, with its powerful chest, tapered backward. The strong back bristles, which hunters call feathers, were raised like a comb. Richard had the impression that the small eyes glanced at him; in front of them, the strong, curved tusks gleamed. He also saw the bared canines, which gave the head an expression of furious contempt. The creature had something wild and darkly bristly about it, but there was also a redness, like fire. The dark snout was oddly curved, almost twisted; it hinted at the disgust with which this baron felt the proximity of the human pursuers and their scent. At the moment he noticed the two of them, he let out a snort but did not deviate from his path.
In an instant, this image was gone, but it imprinted itself with dreamlike clarity. The impression remained with Richard forever: the scent of power and terror, but also of magnificence. He felt his knees wobble and his mouth open, but he could not produce a sound.
The novice seemed equally disturbed; he had turned quite pale and stared after the boar with wide-open eyes. The beast had almost brushed against him. It had already disappeared into the greenery when he raised his rifle and fired a shot where the branches were still shaking.
In the dense thicket, the shot echoed deafeningly like a drumbeat. The two young men stared at each other wordlessly. Between the spruces lingered the pungent, musky scent of the boar, mingling with the smell of resin and the gunpowder smoke that spread. A second horn call sounded; it signaled the end of the drive. Only this one shot had been heard.
Then Moosbrugger, the forester, came running from the clearing, his hunting horn fluttering on a green band. His nose glowed like a carbuncle, and he had to catch his breath before he began to curse. He examined the tracks and saw, to his annoyance, that the boar had not fled across the clearing as expected but had ended up here in this remote spot. Now the count and his guests had missed out. This personally offended Moosbrugger, and Richard had the impression that it was difficult for him not to slap the young shooter. If it had been one of his hunting lads, he probably would have. Instead, he bared his teeth and asked the novice:
"Do you know what you've just done?"
And when the novice shrugged awkwardly:
"I'll tell you: you've made a blank shot."
With that, he let out a devilish laugh and turned back to the trail. Richard now felt quite satisfied with the role of spectator he had played. The unfortunate novice had turned red in the face and seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. He grumbled to himself.
"No one ever does it right for him. If I hadn't shot, he would have grumbled anyway."
He was, however, feeling guilty. First, he had been frightened by the wild boar, and then he had shot into the air. With the same fervor that he had hoped the boar would pass him by, he now cursed its appearance. He already saw the forest lord and the hunting party approaching from the clearing. His confusion was so strong that it affected Richard as well. It was fortunate that the formidable Moosbrugger had disappeared into the bushes.
At the moment the hunting lord reached them, the powerful voice of the forester rang out from the thicket:
"Boar dead! Boar dead!"
Then he blew the end of the hunt, the sound echoing through the forest. The entire group, along with the beaters, followed the horn call and stepped onto a clearing behind the belt of fir trees. There stood Moosbrugger next to the boar, which had died in the fresh snow. He was now in full triumph, declaring once more to the count, his face splitting into a terrible grin from ear to ear. He had known it all along – just two or three cut hairs and lung blood – damn it, the young ones had learned from him.
Everyone now stood in an oval around the prize, the shooters with their rifles slung over their shoulders, the beaters with their axes. The boar lay on the white bed as if sleeping, its small eyes half mockingly looking at its conquerors. The men admired the mighty head, resting as if on a pillow. The sharp tusks gleamed in grim curvature like old ivory. Where the broad neck began, the legs, which Moosbrugger called the front hammers, stuck stiffly into the air. The dark bristly hide was streaked with rust, with only a pure black band running down the back. A large bloodstain was still spreading, fading at the edges.
At this sight, Richard felt a pang of unease; it almost seemed improper that their eyes feasted on the slain animal. Never had a hand touched it. Now, after the initial astonishment, they grabbed it by the ears and legs, turning it this way and that. The boy struggled against the feeling that arose in him: that in this moment, the boar was closer, more akin to him than his pursuers and hunters.
After they had admired and touched the prey, they turned their attention to the fortunate shooter who had brought it down. The count broke a spruce branch, dipped it in the wound, and then presented the blood-stained twig on the butt of his rifle, while Moosbrugger blew the Halali. The young man stood with modest pride in their midst and pinned the sprig to his hat. Their eyes rested on him with approval. At court, in war, and among hunters, lucky chance is valued and credited to the man. It marks a favorable start to a career.
They now passed around a round bottle filled with fruit brandy, from which the count took the first sip. After shaking himself, he handed it to the novice next. They all sought to exchange a few words with him, and he had to recount, without tiring, how he had encountered the boar. It was indeed a perfect shot, as envy had to admit. He described how he had noticed the boar and how it had charged at him. Although he hadn't hit it full in the chest but slightly behind, as it had disappeared into the pines at a sharp angle, he had seen the boar clearly react to the shot. Moosbrugger praised him highly.
Only Richard felt uncomfortable, believing he was the only one who hadn't been up to the task. He listened with astonishment as Breyer recounted the event differently, and he had to believe it, for the boar lying before them was proof. For the first time, he learned that facts could change the circumstances that led to them – this shook his ideal world. The hunters' loud shouts oppressed him, and again it seemed to him that the boar was far superior to them.
Moosbrugger carefully drew his knife from its sheath and tested the blade's sharpness by running it over his thumb. Even in severe frost, the boar couldn't be left in its hide because its blood ran too hot. The hunter's expression became quite archaic, illuminated by a kind of solemn grin that drew the deeply ingrained wrinkles vertically. He knelt on one of the boar's hind legs and grasped the other with his left hand. Then he nicked the taut hide with the blade and slit it open to the breastbone. First, he removed two structures resembling shiny blue goose eggs and tossed them behind him while the beaters laughed approvingly:
"The fox will fetch those for dinner."
He then carefully followed a cord. The sharp odor surrounding the animal became acrid, and the men stepped back, cursing. Moosbrugger dug both hands into the abdominal cavity, reached into the chest, and pulled out red and blue entrails, separating the noble organs. The heart had been shattered by the bullet; the boar had managed to run ninety paces with this wound. A hunting boy cut open the stomach to wash it in the snow; it was filled with chewed beechnuts. Soon, the desecrated body had turned into a red basin, from which blood still steamed into the frosty air.
Moosbrugger looped a rope around the upper jaw behind the tusks; the beaters harnessed themselves to it and dragged the bristly carcass away. The hunters lit their pipes and, chatting comfortably, joined the procession. The hunt was over.
They now passed around a round bottle filled with fruit brandy. The count took the first sip and, after shaking himself, handed it to the novice. They all sought to exchange a few words with him, and he had to recount, without tiring, how he had encountered the boar. It was indeed a perfect shot, as envy had to admit. He described how he had heard the boar and how it had charged at him. Although he hadn't hit it squarely but slightly behind, as it had disappeared into the pines at a sharp angle, he had seen the boar clearly react to the shot. Moosbrugger praised him highly.
Only Richard felt uncomfortable, believing he was the only one who hadn't been up to the task. He listened with astonishment as Breyer recounted the event differently, and he had to believe it, for the boar lying before them was proof. For the first time, he learned that facts could change the circumstances that led to them – this shook his ideal world. The rough shouts of the hunters oppressed him, and again it seemed to him that the boar was far superior to them.
Moosbrugger carefully drew his knife from its sheath and tested the blade's sharpness by running it over his thumb. Even in severe frost, the boar couldn't be left in its hide because its blood ran too hot. The hunter's expression became quite archaic, illuminated by a kind of solemn grin that drew the deeply ingrained wrinkles vertically. He knelt on one of the boar's hind legs and grasped the other with his left hand. Then he nicked the taut hide with the blade and slit it open to the breastbone. First, he removed two structures resembling shiny blue goose eggs and tossed them behind him while the beaters laughed approvingly:
"The fox will fetch those for dinner."
He then carefully followed a cord. The sharp odor surrounding the animal became acrid, and the men stepped back, cursing. Moosbrugger dug both hands into the abdominal cavity, reached into the chest, and pulled out red and blue entrails, separating the noble organs. The heart had been shattered by the bullet; the boar had managed to run ninety paces with this wound. A hunting boy cut open the stomach to wash it in the snow; it was filled with chewed beechnuts. Soon, the desecrated body had turned into a red basin, from which blood still steamed into the frosty air.
Moosbrugger looped a rope around the upper jaw behind the tusks; the beaters harnessed themselves to it and dragged the bristly carcass away. The hunters lit their pipes and, chatting comfortably, joined the procession. The hunt was over.
That was the first evening Richard fell asleep without thinking of the rifle; instead, the boar entered his dreams.