The Strength of the Wolf is the Pack

by Scott Peterson

  The structures were lifted off the ground a little higher than the man-cub’s waist, held up by wooden posts the size of small tree trunks or thick, sturdy branches. But for what purpose? They were not high enough to keep out predators. And they were too high to serve as dens for their young. Were they, like Louie’s throne, merely to raise men above those around them? To make them appear more powerful? He did not know.

  Hanging from the structures were unusual items Mowgli could not identify. They appeared to be animal skins but of every color under the sun and cut into unusual patterns. They hung on a vine—actually, a series of vines, wrapped the way he had wrapped vines to increase their strength when he had scaled the cliffs to get Baloo’s honey. On the ground beside the structures were containers, made from what looked like dried mud, full of water. But why? The river was so close.

  Each structure had an opening like the mouth of a cave but with straight edges like the monkeys’ temple. Wooden structures led up to each opening, branches lashed to each other to create what looked like a series of artificial steps. But surely these men can leap up such a short distance without this device, can’t they?

  Mowgli felt torn and confused. In some ways, Bagheera was right. The man-cub did have things in common with the village people. They created tools, just like Mowgli. But in many other ways, the place seemed utterly strange to him. He could never see himself living there. Could he?

  There was something special about it, so unlike the foreboding village of King Louie, but Mowgli felt like he was hunting something he couldn’t see. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around it, like a pangolin trying to reach the center of a nut it couldn’t break.

  A shout from inside the nearest hut brought the man-cub back to his senses. Instantly, he dropped and rolled into the shadows beneath the structure. Mowgli held his breath, his body motionless but tensed to run or to fight, whatever was required. He held still for several minutes, but no one came running to find him.

  Mowgli rose on noiseless feet under the hut, putting his ear to the wooden boards above him. He listened carefully and could hear several voices at once, though it was no language Mowgli could understand. The Man-village was as strange to him as the sky is to the fish or the river is to the bird. It was nothing like the Jungle. What made Bagheera or anyone think this was where he belonged? The sooner he left, the better.

  He slowly slipped out from under the structure, careful not to be spotted. In fact, the village appeared to be empty, at least outside. There was nothing moving but the undulating orange licks of the Red Flower.

  The bright blossoms, mesmerizing in their beauty, burned at the top of tall wooden stalks. The flames danced in the reflection of the man-cub’s dark eyes.

  Without hesitation, he leapt up and plucked the nearest Red Flower from its garden.

  Moments later, he was running back into the Jungle, his dark path lit by the writhing flame held high above his head.

  THE SCREAMS ECHOED through the trees.

  A Jungle babbler, a simple-looking brown bird with an unmistakable shrill cry, was shrieking in terror as he launched into the sky. Immediately, his warning was picked up by his seven sisters and the white-headed babblers nearby. From high in their treetop perches, they had been the first to see the spot of light moving through the forest where no light should be.

  Someone had brought the Red Flower into the Jungle, and the Red Flower meant death.

  The terrified cries of kites soon joined in as multitudes of frightened birds took to the sky, trying to escape the inescapable.

  High atop a precipice, Baloo and Bagheera searched the valleys, hoping to spot the man-cub.

  “Bagheera,” Baloo called. “Look.”

  Bagheera turned and glimpsed the tiny speck of orange moving swiftly through the trees far below. His eyes widened in horror. What Shere Khan had predicted was coming to pass.

  Down below, where the man-cub ran, animals caught sight of the burning branch in the distance and scrambled in the opposite direction. They didn’t see who or what was carrying it and they didn’t care. Every nilgai, every bison, every buck had been raised since birth to fear the Red Flower and to flee as soon as they saw it. So flee they did.

  Even Kaa, her serpentine body wrapped around the limbs of multiple trees high above the dark Jungle floor, was not immune. Her normally languid pace was gone as she unwound her endless coils and slithered quickly away from the orange death.

  Mowgli broke free of the dark womb of the Jungle and into the moonlight as he entered the grasslands, still driven after the long distance he had traveled. His anger gave him strength. A desire for vengeance pushed him forward. His heart burned hotter than the fire he carried. He was determined to finish it that night.

  He quickened his pace, oblivious to the bright blooms and tiny embers of fire that leapt from his torch toward the dry brush behind him.

  SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT. The Jungle was too loud.

  Raksha rose from the floor of her cave, ears cocked, nose high in the air. She stepped cautiously out of the den, her tail switching nervously, Gray close at her heels as always. She sniffed the air but smelled no predator. The mad cawing of the vultures, ever present at Council Rock for the past two moons, was louder than usual. But beyond their ceaseless calls, Raksha could hear others. It seemed every bird in the Jungle was raising its voice in warning.

  Soon the wolves of the pack perceived the change in the air and stepped out to investigate. There was something panicking not only the birds but all the animals of the Jungle. Their instincts were confirmed as a wild pig ran into their midst. Several of the wolves snarled, raising their hackles, ready to pounce, but the pig ignored them as it raced for its life.

  “What’s wrong, Ami?” Gray asked. “Why would a wild pig run right through our land? Isn’t he scared of us anymore?”

  “He is more scared of something else,” Raksha said gravely.

  “Check the other caves. Make sure everyone knows. Go.” They hurried off.

  “Everyone!” she barked. “It is not safe here. Get to the river. Now!”

  Suddenly, Raksha sensed exactly what was wrong.

  “The Red Flower,” she said, almost growling to herself.

  Fire was coming. She prayed that it did not mean what she feared it did.

  The Red Flower was eating the Jungle.

  Animals from throughout the Jungle converged on the river, frightened, confused, and alarmed, the flames spreading across the grasslands, moving ever closer.

  Not since the Water Truce had so many varied creatures gathered together, but now it was in fear, the diplomacy of cooperation long forgotten. Snakes and mongooses slammed into one another, both racing to stay out from underfoot the bison, trampling Ikki’s collection.

  “My stick. My rock. My leaf,” Ikki muttered, his pink nose twitching nervously.

  “Is it another Truce?” The pygmy hog yawned as he joined the growing group of creatures.

  “No. It’s the Red Flower,” the pangolin informed him somberly. “It’s coming.”

  “It’s the end for all of us,” the giant squirrel said. This was bad.

  One of the older rhinos turned to a nilgai beside him.

  “What was it? Did you see it?”

  “It’s man,” replied the nervous nilgai mother, looking right and left in fear. “He’s come to the Jungle!”

  Raksha overheard the nilgai’s cry and felt her heart sink. So it was true.

  “Naturally,” said a sly voice, soft as a newborn’s pelt. Shere Khan crept out of the shadows. “As I predicted, the man-cub has returned.”

  “This is your doing,” Raksha snarled at the approaching cat. “You knew he’d come back for us. You set this trap—”

  With an ear-splitting roar, Shere Khan’s tightly coiled muscles released and he leapt, eight hundred pounds of lean muscle and razor-sharp claws pouncing on a creature one-third his size. It all happened too fast for anyone to react. Raksha collapsed under his weight, pinned to t
he dirt.

  “You forget to whom you speak,” Shere Khan said, preparing to finish her.

  “Enough!” boomed a voice from the shadows.

  It was a powerful command, forceful, and every creature at the watering hole turned as Mowgli strode out of the darkness, the Red Flower a blazing bouquet in his hand. His eyes were fierce in the firelight, his breathing heavy and enraged.

  “You want me?” he spat at the mighty tiger. “Here I am.”

  The Jungle held its breath. All eyes were on the man who had brought the Red Flower into their world. They trembled as they looked upon him, terrified.

  Baloo and Bagheera emerged from the tree line at a run but came to a sudden stop when they saw the hundreds of frightened eyes reflecting the flickering light of the fire.

  “Oh, no,” Bagheera said quietly. “Mowgli…”

  FEAR SPREAD from animal to animal.

  Shere Khan slowly, deliberately stepped off Raksha.

  “And so it begins,” the cat snarled, his ears flat against his head.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Mowgli shouted, turning on Shere Khan. “I have the Red Flower! No one has to be afraid of you anymore.”

  He looked at the other animals, wanting to share his moment of triumph. No one spoke, all eyes on the dancing flame. He had their attention. Every creature along the river was focused on the man-cub, but something about the way they were looking at him felt wrong.

  “No,” the cat said slyly. “I think they’re afraid of something else now.”

  Mowgli hesitated, uncertain for a moment. What did the tiger mean?

  Then the man-cub looked around at the animals up and down the riverbed. Every one of them was backing away from Mowgli in fear. The creatures the man-cub had grown up with were distancing themselves, taking shelter, some actually cowering behind the tiger.

  “Wait, it’s okay,” he called to them, but it was no use. He felt hurt, broken, like they had wounded him without making a mark. Even Gray was hiding behind his injured mother.

  “Gray, it’s just me,” he called to his brother. But Gray couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I hate to be the one to say ‘I told you so’…” Shere Khan said with a smile. “But here we are….”

  “Ami?” Mowgli called gently, knowing in his heart that she would understand her son posed no threat. But Raksha could not look at him, turning away from Mowgli, actually fearful of the boy she had raised.

  Tears ran down Mowgli’s face before he even knew what was happening. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. That wasn’t what he had wanted. That wasn’t what he’d gone there for. Did they really think he was someone to be feared? Did they not know him at all?

  “The man-cub is now a man,” Shere Khan said firmly. “And man brings destruction to the Jungle.”

  “That’s not true,” Mowgli protested through his tears. “I came to help!”

  “That’s not how it appears to be,” Shere Khan snorted, turning in the direction from which Mowgli had come. Slowly, the boy followed his gaze.

  Billowing smoke was rising over the trees. The grasslands were ablaze from his carelessly dropping embers on his way to avenge Akela. The Red Flower had blossomed.

  “You came to destroy,” Shere Khan snarled. “Come now, use the Red Flower. Use it on me, like your father did.”

  Mowgli stared at Shere Khan, his tawny hide marked with the poorly healed scars of his past, then looked around desperately for anyone still on his side. But no one would look at him. The Jungle had turned against him. Even Baloo looked away. Mowgli felt an ache inside that he couldn’t describe. He had never felt as alone, as abandoned, as utterly different as he did at that moment.

  “Bagheera?” he pleaded. “Tell them. I don’t want to destroy anything. I brought the Red Flower to save them. Tell them!”

  Bagheera averted his eyes, remaining silent.

  “Even the one who loved you the most, he can’t even see you,” Shere Khan said with a sigh, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “You know what he sees? He sees the Red Flower. No more man-cub. Only man.”

  Mowgli was devastated. He didn’t know what to do. He looked from the tiger to the orange glow in the distance; the fire he had started was spreading.

  “That’s what you are,” Shere Khan growled softly. “That’s all you’ve ever been….”

  “Stop it!” Mowgli shouted, but the strength had gone out of his voice, the torch no longer raised above his head like a weapon. He had to hold it with two hands; it was heavy now and too hot.

  Shere Khan’s fierce eyes narrowed as he stepped silently forward, moving in on the man-cub. Even with the fire, Mowgli was uncertain, his determination unraveled by the twisted words of the approaching cat.

  “Now’s your turn. Become man,” snarled the tiger. “Show everyone what you really are.”

  Mowgli looked down at the flame in his hands, then at the reflection of the flickering fire in the river below. In a small still pool at the river’s edge, he saw a sight that stole his breath from his mouth: the dark shape of man with a burning branch, bringing destruction to the heart of the Jungle.

  Suddenly, his eyes burned, not from the smoke but from anger. That was not what Mowgli wanted. That was not who he was. That was not his story. Enraged, he knew instinctively what to do. It was the decision that would make or break him in the eyes of everyone he knew and, more important, in his own.

  Mowgli howled as he thrust the torch into the river. “That’s not me!”

  Instantly, the flames on the torch disappeared with a hiss, white smoke rising into the air. Up and down the river, all the animals looked on in disbelief. Even Shere Khan was surprised, but for him it was a pleasant surprise.

  “Oh, that was the stupidest thing you could do.” The tiger grinned, digging his talons into the soft dirt as he moved inexorably toward his prey. “The one thing you had and you gave it up. Now you have nothing. No claws, no teeth, and no friends…”

  Shere Khan moved in, thick ropes of muscle sliding smoothly under his scorched hide as, step by step, he drew closer to the man-cub.

  There was no way Mowgli could outrun him. There was no way he could outfight him. There was nothing Mowgli could do.

  DEATH HAD COME for Mowgli.

  The man-cub dropped down on all fours, crouching like a wolf. He felt a jolt of fear race through his body, tensing up his muscles, priming his reflexes. He was scared, but he was not going to back down. Not now, not ever.

  Shere Khan twitched noticeably. He hadn’t expected a fight, but the puny man could offer only token resistance, if that. He could already taste the boy’s flesh as he prepared to strike.

  Mowgli planted his feet in the earth, digging deep for strength like a great tree. If he was destined to fall to Shere Khan, then so be it. He was ready. He would give the tiger his fight.

  “This is the Law of the Jungle,” came a voice from the sidelines. It was Baloo, confidently stepping forward. “As old and as true as the sky.”

  “What is this?” Shere Khan growled, taking a cautious step back as Baloo moved toward the boy. Mowgli stared at the great bear in disbelief. What is he doing?

  “The Wolf that keeps it may prosper, but the Wolf that breaks it will die.” Bagheera’s voice joined Baloo’s as the panther stepped up beside the man-cub.

  “You fools,” spat Shere Khan, ready to take on all three of them.

  Mowgli felt a surge of hope as his friends stepped forward for him. A fire ignited within Mowgli, a new light burning where there had been only pain, a Red Flower, unseen, but planted by his friends.

  “Like the creeper that girdles the tree trunk,” growled Raksha, lending her voice to the growing chorus, “the Law runneth over and back.” She stood proudly beside those who were standing up for her son.

  “Fine, rise up, all of you,” Shere Khan hissed. “You want to put yourself between me and the man-cub? You want to throw your lives away for a human?”

  In answer, the rest of th
e pack moved swiftly into place beside their brother, every Seeonee wolf joining the chant.

  “For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,” they said as one, “and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.”

  Shere Khan’s blood boiled as he looked around and saw the animals behind him moving away, switching sides, joining the opposition. The whole Jungle was ready to stand against him.

  “I will have you all in my teeth!” he roared. The tiger ran at Mowgli.

  Instantly, Baloo rushed forward to meet the attack, flanked by snarling wolves.

  Mowgli leapt forward but was suddenly knocked to the side and landed hard on his back, away from the fight. It was Bagheera, holding him down, his face inches from the boy’s.

  “You are not a wolf. Fight him your way,” Bagheera said.

  “I can use the trees?” Mowgli asked, quickly understanding what Bagheera meant.

  “Tigers do not fight in trees.” Bagheera nodded with a knowing grin.

  Mowgli hugged Bagheera around his huge neck, then charged back into the Jungle.

  As the man-cub raced through the foliage, his eyes searching the trees, his mind tried desperately to come up with a plan. What advantage did he have over Shere Khan?

  He racked his brain as he sprinted deeper into the Jungle. What could he use to defeat a creature so much more powerful, so much more ferocious? The honey cliffs? Baloo’s cave? Kaa? Nothing seemed to fit, but he had to come up with something quickly.

  The man-cub was not as fast as the tiger, not as imposing as the bear, not as agile as the panther. He had lived with the wolves all his life, but he was not a wolf. Shere Khan called him a man, but he was not a man, either, not entirely. He was both. He was a man-cub. He was a man and an animal. He was different. And maybe that was his advantage.

  Moving deeper into the dark, warm heart of the Jungle, Mowgli felt the air growing thicker, clouded with rising smoke. He was out of time.