Copyright © 2016 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.
ISBN 978-1-4847-2898-7
Book design by Shannon Koss & Scott Piehl
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Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
The Chase
Headed Home
The Council
The Dry Season
Water Truce
Shere Khan
Rains of Change
The Journey Home
The High Grass
Lost
The Nightmare Jungle
The Voice of the Snake
The Dream
The Fall of Council Rock
The Bear
Payback
Tricks
The Bargain
Up the Mountain
The Man-Village
Enemy Among Us
Midair Maneuvers
The River
The Confrontation
A Noise in the Night
The Great Elephants
Man-Cub Triumphant
Betrayed
Into the Tiger’s Den
The Monkey
The Lost City
The King
The Climb
The Red Flower and the Pawpaw
The Newcomers
The Escape
The End of an Era
The Ruins
Determined
Flower in the Jungle
Alerting the Pack
The Challenge
Standing Together
The Battle
The Hunt
The Untamed Flower
Help from Above
A New Dawn
For Catie and Zach; of all the stories in the jungle, yours will always be my favorite.
—J.P.
For my parents who always believed I could.
—S.P.
“Like the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the Law runneth over and back.
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.”
THE TIGER COULD already taste the boy.
He burned his way through the Jungle, bright hide lighting the brush with flickers of black and orange as he cut through the night.
There was no real fire, no spark of man’s Red Flower—not yet—but the fury in his belly could have razed the world. Only one thing could sate his hunger.
The tiger ran on, up and over the trees’ great feet that curled their toes into the cold earth. Past the vines that coiled like snakes at his heels, he ran. He thought of his prey with sinister delight. He wanted his prey to be strong, to have fight in it. Easy would be an insult. Easy was not the tiger way.
Tigers have few tales. Some say tigers don’t have time for stories. They move too fast, their paws too burdened, their mouths already too full. There’s no room for tales on their tongues. But every tiger has one tale: the tale of the hunt. The hunt that lasts a lifetime. The kill that writes the hunter’s story in fear and blood.
The tiger was telling his story now. With every leap and bound and stretch of his great shoulders, he told his story. He smiled as he ran, white teeth like shards of moonlight filling his mouth.
Shere Khan hunted the man-cub.
THE MAN-CUB RAN. He scuttled over the Jungle’s back, grabbing branch and boulder and hurling himself forward, moving so quickly he was closer to falling, always just catching himself with his next footfall.
Mowgli picked up his pace, barely breathing, his body like the river—moving, bending, twisting but never breaking, surging between trees and over earth, rushing from one moment into the next. He pushed himself faster and faster, the leaves whipping at his face and arms.
The boy was twelve, or as close to that as anyone could figure, and his body was lean and muscled, brown as the bark of the banyan tree and hairless as the crocodile, save for a tuft of unruly black hair atop his head. He had lived in the Jungle all his life, and it showed as he moved like a native animal through the trees.
He leapt and tucked his body, flipping onto a high branch, then heard sudden movement behind him. Instinctively, he leapt off the edge of a great thick tree branch and vaulted from the Jungle canopy.
Mowgli landed in the midst of a pack of young wolves and moved on all fours as the others did. They snapped at him as they sprinted together, then reorganized themselves around Mowgli and ran in a pack, breathing as one, each footfall beating the earth—the music of the hunt, the song of the Jungle.
For an instant, they were a single beast. From behind, the shadow of their pursuer gained ground, and the wolves rushed forward, pushing ahead of the man-cub. Behind them, the cat never faltered, never slowed, its great muscular body built for the hunt.
Mowgli strengthened his resolve, putting more into every move, every lunge, but the wolves were leaving him behind. They were faster, their shorterlegs more powerful than Mowgli’s.
The creature tracking him was closing the gap. Mowgli couldn’t look back. He knew his only hope was to think differently. He could never outrun such a large cat, but maybe he could outthink it. Or, better yet, outclimb it.
Mowgli reached out and grabbed vines as he ran past a large-bellied tree, his momentum swinging him high enough to scramble into the tree’s head of branches. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in Mowgli’s steps; he moved along the tree as if born to it, narrowly avoiding catastrophe with a simple pivot of his toe or duck of his dark, shaggy-haired head.
Then he was flying again, feet leading, belonging to neither the Earth nor the heavens, before landing on the next outstretched limb, which cried out with a terrible crack! The branch beneath him tore away from the tree, falling. And Mowgli fell with it.
The earth spanked Mowgli, the impact of his landing ringing through his limbs. He could hear the predator crashing through the foliage. He tried to run, but it was too late. The cat pounced and was on the man-cub in an instant, pinning him to the cold, dark earth, face close enough to smell his breath. Then it spoke.
“You must be the very worst wolf I have ever seen.”
Mowgli pushed the panther off, irritated that Bagheera had caught him once again.
“Yeah, but if that branch didn’t break, I woulda made it,” protested Mowgli.
Bagheera clawed the belly of the tree, stretching his back, then sat on his hind legs and patted down his fur in places that had been ruffled during their exercise. The great cat was all muscle and reflex, black as night and agile as any creature in the Jungle. If he was tracking you after dusk, you’d see only the glow of his yellow eyes…if you saw anything at all.
“Wolves do not hide in trees,” said Bagheera. “If you want to live with the wolves, you must live the wolf way.”
Suddenly, the Jungle cried out. Yips and calls headed toward them as the young wolves finally circled back to Mowgli and Bagheera. Mowgli lit up as he joined his family, batting and pawing at one another, mouthing one another with safe open jaws.
“How’d we do, Bagheera?” asked one of the youngest.
“Well…” Bagheera began, but already the cubs had lost interest.
“Let’s go!” barked another. Then they all abruptly broke into a run,
Mowgli following them as fast as he was able. He could keep up, but for how long?
The big panther sighed, watching the man-cub trail away into the Jungle.
Such a tale, thought Bagheera. The strange tale of the man-cub called Mowgli.
Bagheera took his worries with him as he padded after his charge, his responsibility, his man-cub, speaking aloud to the forest around him.
“If only the wolf pack needed that man-cub as much as he needed them.”
BAGHEERA FOLLOWED the wolves.
He kept a leisurely pace while remaining mindful of the Jungle. (Cats can be vigilant with very little effort; it is in their blood and their eyes and their twitching whiskers). Bagheera’s ears stretched back, then swiveled forward again, listening, always listening.
There was rustling in some bushes about three banyan tree lengths away, but from the titter accompanying the movement, he knew it was only muskrats. Behind him rhinos grazed, their signature sniffles and snuffs and sneezes rising in the midday air. To his left, he heard birds building nests, another positive sign. Birds knew trouble on the wind even before big cats, and the sounds of their normal routine gave Bagheera comfort.
Several paces ahead, Mowgli, full of youthful energy and vigor, bounced his way home through the Jungle. The man-cub loved the Jungle and always had. Bagheera had fond memories of Mowgli’s toddler days, when the bold young man-cub’s fearless romps often forced the panther to tackle and hold down the wild child to protect him from himself. But it was much harder for Bagheera to get his paws around him these days. They grow up so fast, the panther thought.
“Wolves do not hide in trees,” repeated Bagheera, noticing the boy’s ever-growing legs and quick-moving knees. Even his stride was growing. A voice inside reminded the cat that the man-cub would need speed one day. For an instant, they were a single beast.
“I wasn’t hiding,” said Mowgli. “I was evading.”
Bagheera laughed.
“You ran up a tree to get away from a panther.” He bumped up against Mowgli’s waist, almost knocking him over. Even on all fours, the panther stood nearly as tall as the boy, and outweighed him several times over.
“It almost worked, Bagheera!”
“It was a dead tree.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Mowgli picked up a seed and threw it.
Bagheera stopped.
“It had a fig vine. Any tree girdled by a creeper is either dead or close to it.”
Mowgli stopped and turned back toward the panther, putting his hands on his hips.
“You just can’t say anything nice, can you, old cat?” huffed the boy.
Bagheera shook his head and walked past Mowgli, patience worn leaf-thin. “We have had this conversation so many times I fear I am talking to myself, Man-cub! You must realize that until you can prove yourself, they are never going to let you join their council.”
“Yeah, but if that branch didn’t break, I woulda been in,” Mowgli said, smiling.
Bagheera turned and leapt at Mowgli, putting the man-cub’s head in his mouth.
“I think this might make it easier on both of us,” said Bagheera. His mouth full, his words were muffled. “It will put both of us out of our misery, and at least one of us will have a full stomach. ‘Law of the Jungle,’ and all that.”
“Stop it!” Mowgli giggled despite himself. “You’re messing up my hair.”
Bagheera let go, and Mowgli trotted away.
“You can’t do that anymore,” Mowgli called over his shoulder. “I’m not a cub anymore.”
Bagheera watched him leave. He knew he was being hard on the man-cub, but it was a tough Jungle out there, and it was just going to get tougher. The only thing that hadn’t changed since Mowgli had first fallen under Bagheera’s care was his basic need of survival. And for that, Mowgli needed a people. A people to protect him.
MOWGLI DIDN’T THINK he needed anybody.
He could handle things on his own. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. But to Mowgli, it seemed everyone was hard on him and never let him do what he wanted to do. Everybody always worried about him, especially Bagheera—Mowgli’s shadow.
For as long as Mowgli could remember, Bagheera had been there, always watching, corralling and pushing him like a mother bird picking at her little chick. And he was still doing it.
Mowgli climbed over the hill, making his way to the Wolf Den. He was home! He felt the warmth of the place wash over him, inhaled the familiar smells, took in the sounds of the wolves. Home was like a coat he could slip on, unseen but always there, comforting him. Mowgli made his way toward the wolves on the lower level. Dens for the individual families were made from caves and crevices, all clustered around a large flat area that was a playground for the young pups. To Mowgli’s left, the adult wolves climbed the hill to Council Rock, a great stone dais that tore its way out of the earth and was the center of all wolf business. At the top of the rock sat Akela, leader of the wolf pack.
Akela led with his deeds instead of his mouth. He had fought for his position as head of the pack and would stay leader until he could fight no longer. He was tall for a wolf, his thick gray coat unblemished save for the white tufts at the ends of his paws.
Mowgli knew Akela as a distant father figure, stern of eye and tooth. The man-cub wasn’t sure if that made Akela a good leader, but the wolves listened to him, so Mowgli listened, too—mostly. Akela never approved of Mowgli’s “tricks,” the little things the man-cub fashioned from twigs and leaves and vines, for playing with and for collecting water from the river. Mowgli knew he shouldn’t disobey, but he couldn’t help himself. He thought his tricks were clever, but Akela made it clear they were dangerous and certainly not the wolf way of doing things.
The boy watched Akela and the Council from the lower level, near Raksha—Mowgli’s mother-wolf, his ami—as she nursed a young cub. Just being close to Raksha settled Mowgli’s restless heart. Raksha was home to Mowgli, more than the rock or the Jungle or even the old cat.
Suddenly, Mowgli was covered in swarming wolf cubs. They pounced and played on him with their stubby paws and rough tongues, and Mowgli laughed in spite of himself. Mowgli always wished to be a wolf, to be as strong and as fast as his brothers, but even though he was different, the youngest of the pack never made him feel like anything but family. He didn’t know much about where he’d come from before Raksha and Akela took him into their den, but he couldn’t imagine life without them there in the Jungle. They were his heart.
The smallest wolf, a runt called Gray, leapt up in a quick darting attack and batted at Mowgli’s hair.
“Mowgli, pick us up high!” he said. Mowgli couldn’t resist indulging the tiny pup. Gray’s boundless energy and enthusiasm were infectious, even if he did act impulsively sometimes. The man-cub playfully scratched the pup behind his dark black ears, the only part of him that didn’t sport his namesake gray color.
Mowgli looked at the rock, watching as the older wolves assembled without him. He knew he wasn’t welcome there. Not yet. Gray nipped at his fingers, trying to get his attention again.
“How’d it go?” Raksha asked.
“He caught me again,” Mowgli replied, wanting to get the words out quickly, hanging his head low.
Raksha moved up to Mowgli, the wolf cubs now nipping at her heels. She softly bumped her head into his.
He butted her back, gently, as she spoke.
“If it is meant to be, it will be,” said Raksha, making him feel a bit better.
High above them, Akela stood proud, a giant in the Jungle. He was surrounded by the Council of Wolves. Mowgli didn’t know what council really meant; he knew those older wolves talked a lot and made decisions about things and told the other wolves what to do and where to go. They scowled often, their faces pulled into frowns. Maybe council meant “never smiles.”
“Let me hear the Law,” said Akela.
The wolves spoke as one, repeating the Law:
“This is the Law of the Jungle,
as old and as true as the sky.
The Wolf that keeps it may prosper,
but the Wolf that breaks it will die.”
Mowgli sat, fiddling with dead straw and grass at his feet, mumbling the Law under his breath.
“Like the creeper that girdles the tree trunk,
the Law runneth over and back.
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,
and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.”
Mowgli didn’t understand some parts of the Law and thought maybe he never would. But saying it made him feel closer to the pack that he wanted so desperately to join.
When the recitation of the Law was done, every wolf in the Seeonee valley turned its snout to the sky and howled, long and loud. Mowgli tried a howl of his own, but it came out weak and strained, as it always did, more of a squeak than a roar.
Near him, Raksha sighed with her whole body, then turned and corralled the little cubs back toward the den.
Mowgli looked at Raksha and thought back to his walk with Bagheera.
Everyone always sighs around me, thought Mowgli. Why must I inspire such deep breaths from everyone? The wolf and the panther did their best to raise him, but sometimes he could see in their eyes just how different he was.
Mowgli flexed his toes and lay on his back, looking up at the great arms of the trees above him and the sky beyond those.
He dreamed with his eyes open, thinking about the day when he could be a part of the pack or, better yet, be his own pack. No one would call him man-cub anymore or tell him what to do. He would be his own man, and the Jungle would look up to him. Maybe they would fear him the way they feared Akela.
Mowgli shook that idea out of his head. He didn’t want that. He turned over and played with the ants that marched by, feeling large in their small world. Warmed by the sun on his back and soothed by the ants on his fingertips, Mowgli fell asleep in the arms of the Jungle.
THE RAINS HAD ceased to fall.
Everywhere the Jungle was changing, color and temperature shifting moods like a hot-tempered rhino. Every creature in the Jungle could feel it, the water leaving them behind as it took to the sky and burrowed into the earth.
The Strength of the Wolf is the Pack Page 1