“He cares for the cubs,” pleaded Raksha. “He pulls thorns from our paws. He is part of the pack. The strength of the wolf is the pack.”
His ami’s speaking the oath caused the other wolves to grunt and bare their teeth. Mowgli moved closer to their gathering, quiet and unseen.
“Even the strength of the pack is no match for the tiger!” barked a wolf lieutenant, his face scarred by old wars.
The man-cub looked to Raksha, who shook her shoulders and raised her ears. She didn’t back down. Mowgli had never seen her so upset.
“We raised him as one of our own. Why should that change now?”
“Because Shere Khan will kill him,” countered the lieutenant. “And kill all who try to protect him!”
“Enough.” Akela spoke, silencing them both. “This is my decision.”
Everyone turned to Akela, whose voice was serious but not mean. Mowgli saw warmth in his old eyes.
“We always knew that someday he would have to leave us. But we are the only family he has ever known. If he stays, we must be prepared to give our lives.” Mowgli’s heart tore at the inside of his chest. He had to say something; this was his story, not theirs.
Akela moved to speak again, but Mowgli rose from his hiding spot and stood. He planted his feet firmly and spoke up for himself, his voice shaking under the weight of his words.
“Then I’ll leave!” exclaimed Mowgli.
The man-cub strode into the middle of the Council. The circle of wolves parted, surprised. Bagheera sat up on his haunches on the tree branch.
“Mowgli. Go back to the den,” said Raksha. Her tone was tense, sharp.
Mowgli summoned every ounce of courage he could and defied her. He needed to be heard. His hands shook as he spoke, so he closed them into fists at his sides.
“That fixes it, right? I can hide in the Jungle, and the tiger won’t bother you anymore….”
Akela looked into Mowgli’s eyes, firm.
“This is not for you to decide.”
Mowgli stood his ground, staring right back at Akela. Determined. The warmth in the old wolf’s eyes was gone, replaced with a flicker of something else, but Mowgli didn’t care. This was no “trick,” no plaything they were debating. This was Mowgli’s life, and he would have his say, even if it meant disobeying the only family he’d ever known. He would not let them put their lives in jeopardy because of him.
Then Bagheera dropped down and entered the circle.
“Akela,” said the panther, “perhaps I can be of help.”
The other wolves turned, taken aback by his interruption. Mowgli wasn’t sure what the old cat would do or say, but his next words almost knocked the man-cub over.
“The boy is right,” continued Bagheera. “Maybe it is time he found another place.”
Bagheera was actually agreeing with him.
“No,” said Raksha. She stared past Bagheera, catching Akela’s gaze.
Bagheera continued: “I am the one who brought him to you. And now I shall return him to where he belongs….”
That wasn’t exactly what Mowgli had intended, not really, but before he could say anything himself, Raksha turned on Bagheera, her ears back, ferocity in her words.
“I will not let you. He is my cub.”
Akela looked at Mowgli, the warmth back in his eyes.
“It is the only place he’ll be safe,” Akela said. Then he turned to Bagheera. “You have my decision, old cat.”
Raksha gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. Mowgli looked to his mother-wolf.
“It’s okay, Ami,” said Mowgli, his voice soft. “I won’t go far. I’ll come back and visit.”
Raksha walked up to her man-cub and placed her head against his. Mowgli was overcome with emotion and memories. The familiar smell of her coat put pictures in his head, behind his eyes. Mowgli small, very small, grabbing at Raksha, pulling her snout as she licked his face, cleaning him. Sleeping on her warm fur, feeding and listening to the low hum of her wolf song. Running with her, learning to forage. All those past seasons were a jumble in Mowgli’s heart and mind, and they caught in his throat. The only constant in his life was those wolves, his family, and he was choosing to leave them. It felt so wrong, but Mowgli knew he couldn’t stay. Staying meant putting his family, his pack, in danger. He had to go.
“Never forget this,” said Raksha. “You are mine. Mine to me. No matter where you go or what they may call you. You will always be my Mowgli.”
Her words broke something in Mowgli, and his eyes ran wet with water like a warm rain.
The man-cub looked up at Akela and saw that flicker in his eye once more. But now Mowgli realized it was something good. Was it respect? Pride? A combination of the two? Mowgli’s vision blurred, and overwhelmed, he turned his back on the wolf.
Bagheera led Mowgli away, and the pack watched the man-cub leave for the last time. Gray called after Mowgli, barking, howling for his brother, but Mowgli didn’t answer; he couldn’t. Gray howled until exhaustion stole his voice from him. As one, Raksha, Akela, and the others took up the call, some of them howling until the dawn came, howling for their man-cub.
MOWGLI WAS LOOKING for a new family.
“The turtles like me,” mused Mowgli. “I could stay with them. Or the rhinos? They always let me hang around. Of course, the rhinos sleep standing up. I don’t think I’d be very good at that. I don’t know, which do you think is better?”
“Neither,” said Bagheera, never breaking his stride.
“What about bears?” Mowgli suggested. “They live in caves just like the wolf pack. Maybe I could—”
“You do not want to get involved with bears. Trust me.”
“I guess I could live with the birds. I do like it in the trees, but all that chirping and tweeting and squawking and on and on and on…I think it would drive me nuts. All that racket. They never stop.”
“I cannot imagine what that would be like,” Bagheera said dryly. “But I am not taking you to join any of those packs.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am bringing you to the Man-village, Man-cub.”
“What? Bagheera, I don’t know man.”
“You will,” said the cat. He walked with his tail low. Mowgli pawed at it as they traveled.
“But, Bagheera, you always said: ‘You’re not supposed to go near a Man-village.’” Mowgli changed the timbre of his voice and mimicked Bagheera, drawing out his vowels and turning up his nose.
Bagheera pulled his tail out of Mowgli’s hands as they crossed a restless stream into an even denser part of the Jungle, great trees reaching high into the mists.
“That was different.” Then he thought a moment and added, “I do not sound like that.”
“Why is it different? You always said, ‘Stay away ’cause you might fall in a trap or get eaten or get hurt by flying rocks or other things that could get you killed.’”
“I know what I said,” snapped the old cat, but then, suddenly, he stopped short.
At their feet, pebbles trembled, then rolled, then leapt off the ground. Deep rumbling rocked the Jungle floor like an earthquake.
Giant forms, almost too large to be real, emerged from the mists. Like moving granite walls, they passed—regal, self-possessed, and fearful of nothing. Their powerful trunks, bigger than the man-cub, swayed gently between jutting ivory tusks.
Elephants.
Mowgli’s mouth dropped open as the majestic giants moved in somber procession. It was beautiful.
“Whoa,” said Mowgli.
Bagheera, his head lowered, whispered at Mowgli through clenched teeth.
“Bow your head!”
“Why?”
“Show them respect.”
Mowgli took a knee beside the old cat, keeping his head down and stealing glimpses as the elephants marched on without acknowledging the man-cub or his panther escort.
Once they were gone, Bagheera lifted his head and continued his lecture.
“The elephants created a
ll that belongs in the Jungle. The rivers, the trees, the birds in the trees. But they did not create you, so that is why you must go.”
Bagheera strode ahead, Mowgli trailing behind.
“What if I lived with the big cats?” asked Mowgli.
The odd pair moved farther into the Jungle, the old cat leaving a trail of sighs behind them.
THE PANTHER grew impatient.
Mowgli and Bagheera had finally reached an embankment at the edge of the Jungle, where the high grasses began. Bison grazed here and there, a chorus of lowing and chewing rising on the afternoon breeze.
“What if I lived with the nilgai?” Mowgli asked.
“No.”
“Or the mongoose.”
“This is not a discussion.”
They dropped into the field, the tall grass brushing their bodies.
“Bagheera, this is my home. I don’t even know what man’s like.”
“You’ll learn.”
“But I want to stay in the Jungle. Why do I have to be somewhere else?”
Bagheera stopped and turned.
“Because the Jungle is no longer safe for you, Mowgli.”
Mowgli put his hands on his hips.
“Was it ever?”
Bagheera was done. He looked Mowgli in the eye, speaking slowly and emphatically.
“You are being hunted. By a tiger!”
Bagheera turned back to the trail and led the way.
“Only man can protect you now.”
The man-cub noticed a hint of disappointment in the old cat’s voice, and it hurt. Back at the Council, the old cat had actually said Mowgli was right, something he’d never done before. It had made Mowgli feel good, made him feel older, responsible, big. But now, out here, it was back to the same old cat, the cat who always knew better no matter what. Mowgli’s shadow. Mowgli was done living in the panther’s shade.
“Bagheera, this isn’t fair.”
Bagheera didn’t respond. He was far more focused on their environment, eyes scanning for danger, ears moving, listening. Always listening. A porcupine burrowed into his den at the edge of the tall grass, and a kite flitted from tree to tree above them. Quiet—almost too quiet.
Bagheera forged on cautiously.
Mowgli continued to plead his case. “You’re not even giving me a choice. And there’s a lot of stuff you’re not telling me, too. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
Bagheera slowed to a stop. Something was wrong. The bison fell silent, and the wind died down. The only sound in the Jungle was Mowgli.
“You say you’re taking me where I came from, but you found me in the Jungle. Are you bringing me back to the Jungle? No. Why are you bringing me to the Man-village if you found me in the Jungle? And why does the tiger hate me so much, anyway? Does he even know me? It sure seems like he knows me….”
“Down,” said Bagheera.
“What? Now we have to bow to the bison, too?”
Bagheera’s tone changed, and his jaw tensed.
“Listen to me. This is not a game. When my ears go back, you are going to run to that ravine.”
Mowgli looked ahead, seeing the spot past the grass.
“What are you talking about?” asked Mowgli.
“Go to the north,” said Bagheera, “where the sky glows at night. I will find you on that path.”
Mowgli grew impatient.
“Bagheera, I’m not taking one more step until you tell me what—”
The man-cub never finished his sentence.
In a blur of fur and fury, a figure leapt out of the tall grass.
Mowgli froze.
Bagheera snarled and met Shere Khan in midair.
They collided, titans of the Jungle, and fell struggling and thrashing into the grass. The bison, spooked, scattered in every direction.
And for once in his life, Mowgli did what he was told.
He ran.
As the snarling adversaries landed, Shere Khan rounded and launched another fierce attack, but Bagheera dodged, rebounded, and struck back. His talons tore across the tiger’s flank, opening a large gash that would have given a lesser opponent reason to flee, but Shere Khan was not about to back down.
The menacing demon sprang forward, throwing his full weight at the smaller cat and knocking him off his feet to tumble across the ground, locked in a deadly embrace. They carved into the grass around them, kicking up mud and snapping reeds as they battled.
Bagheera fought valiantly against the much larger opponent, but Shere Khan was relentless, striking again and again until, finally, the tiger caught Bagheera with a sharp claw across the face and threw him down. Shere Khan turned and sprinted after his man-cub.
Bagheera lifted his head, trying to stand, but he was too weak and collapsed.
There was a clap of thunder, and a bolt of lightning illuminated the Jungle as a long-awaited storm broke, the sky rupturing and spilling forth rain like blood from a wound.
At the edge of the tall grass, Mowgli ran for his very life, the tiger on his heels. Mowgli knew he’d never outrun Shere Khan, but he couldn’t give up, not now, not ever. The hulking beast raced toward Mowgli and closed what little space there was between them, the wet grass parting in his wake. It was over.
Then the bison stampede slammed into Shere Khan, knocking the tiger sprawling into the reeds. Mowgli kept moving, narrowly avoiding the thrashing river of panicked bison himself, dropping, slipping, and sliding down the muddy hillside and into the wet ravine.
Mowgli had barely a moment to catch his breath before the bison piled into the ravine after him, covering him with mud. He was running with the herd, trying to keep up, when he noticed, just behind, the dirty orange-and-black flash of Shere Khan on the ridge above. They locked eyes for a moment through the downpour, Mowgli finally seeing the heat in the tiger’s predatory glare. The hatred.
And just as quickly, the stampeding creatures came between them, blocking their view, and Mowgli lost sight of Shere Khan.
The tiger sprinted this way and that, hunting, leaping, chasing bison in every direction, but found nothing. His man-cub had disappeared. He roared, splitting the sky with his fury, his cry competing with the thunder for supremacy.
This was far from over.
THE JUNGLE swallowed Mowgli.
The rains had returned with a vengeance, turning the strong earth into shifting mud, and the family of bison Mowgli huddled against slipped and slid along the slowly sinking ridge. He hid among their hairy bodies, clinging to their backs, wet and exhausted.
The trees shouted at him as he passed, their cracking trunks rattling the air around them like snapping jaws. Mowgli looked up in time to see the mighty banyans falling down in great patches and clumps, as if something almost impossibly huge was pushing its way through the Jungle toward them. More and more towering trees fell as the unseen animal moved closer and closer.
Then the monster felling the trees revealed itself as the Jungle belched a monumental wave of mud; there was no great animal, only a moving mountain of wet earth racing their way. It exploded through the tree line, leaving the Jungle broken in its wake. It was what the elders called a mud slide. Mowgli had never seen one with his own eyes, had only heard the stories. It was worse than he could have imagined and it was headed his way.
One sweeping arm of the mud slide blocked their path going forward, scattering the frightened bison. The creature Mowgli rode backed away in terror, struggling hopelessly to find sure footing as the mud rose to cover its legs. Then, from behind, another stream of mud, like a tail, whipped the fleeing bison off their feet entirely.
Before he could react, Mowgli and the bison were pushed down the mountain by the angry brown river of choking mud and broken trees. Its eyeless face smothered Mowgli. Splinters and rocks, like the teeth of a giant, bit at his back and arms as he tumbled. Over and over again, he tried to plant his feet, but the ground was moving too quickly beneath him. Mowgli was carried faster than he had ever moved in his life, at the mercy of the t
wisting, churning mud flow.
Suddenly, the canopy of trees overhead was gone and there was gray sky in front of Mowgli. The Jungle had opened to reveal a cliff, and the man-cub, the bison, and the shattered trees were swept over the edge and into the swollen river.
Animal and brush and rock rolled in the current and under the water, Mowgli with them. The river roared in his ears and in his nose and mouth, trying to bury him with its fury. Mowgli reached out, scrambling, eyes wide and desperate. He grabbed wildly and felt the wet hair of a bison, and then it was ripped away from him by the water. The man-cub struggled to keep his head above the surface, a losing battle, until miraculously his hands found the splintered body of a tree branch. He hugged it close, even as the churning, roiling current dragged them both under the water and into the darkness.
After what seemed like an eternity, Mowgli and the log broke the face of the river.
Mowgli gasped as the large branch he clutched nearly lurched out of his hands, careening down the spine of the river, bucking Mowgli up and down as the rocks below churned the water this way and that, hurling the man-cub farther and farther downriver. Mowgli held on for his life with what little strength he had left.
The gray sky towered angrily over the Jungle, spilling water from the clouds, bearing down on Mowgli as he was pushed deeper into the Jungle than he had ever been before.
The Strength of the Wolf is the Pack Page 3