Runt

by Marion Dane Bauer

  Each time the pups emerged into the day, Runt was last in line, but his enthusiasm for the world he found there never waned. When swift-footed Rabbit hopped out of her burrow, Runt raced after her. That he never came close to catching her didn't discourage him at all. Daily he chased Squirrel up a tree, then barked at him in a high, excited voice. "Come down, Squirrel. I dare you to come down!" Squirrel scolded and swore and twitched his tail in irritation. They both knew that Runt was about as likely to catch him as he was the wind, but that knowledge didn't stop them from playing the game.

  Runt's zeal was far larger than his small frame and often sent him stumbling over his paws or tripping over an exposed root. Or it let him discover that the mudslide created by Otter in the lake bank was slippery, that the lake itself was cold and wet.

  "Please take care," his mother sighed, licking him dry.

  "Look before you leap," Helper warned, untangling him from a stand of prickly raspberry bushes.

  "Stupid pup," Bider muttered, not helping at all.

  Even Thinker scolded him sometimes. "Think," he warned again and again. "You've got to stop to think."

  And Runt did think, of course, though usually only after he found himself in difficulty. Then he thought that if he were only a little bigger, staying out of trouble would be much easier.

  Being small never kept him out of the fray, though. He and his brothers and sisters leapt at one another, strengthening muscles, improving hunting skills, jockeying for place and position in the pack. Whatever the prize might be, however, it never fell to Runt.

  "Keep trying," Hunter said. "It's good practice."

  "You're growing stronger every day," Helper told him.

  "You're growing bigger, too," his mother often said.

  But Bider, when he was near, sneered at the others' encouragement. "Bigger than what?" he would say. "A mouse? A sparrow?" For there was no question. Runt remained the smallest, the weakest, the least apt in the litter, a fact he didn't need Bider to point out.

  And Runt knew that his father knew it, too. King never said anything, either to criticize or encourage. He only watched. He watched when Runt lost a game of tug of war to Runner over a bone, when Leader slapped Runt to the ground and held him there, when Silver stood to nurse the pups and Runt was the only one who couldn't reach. And always King's golden eyes seemed to ask the same question: Can you do it? Will you survive?

  I can! Runt wanted to cry. I can. I can. And to prove himself, he'd go spinning after his tail until he tumbled into a dizzy heap, or he'd snap at a bumblebee and get his nose stung.

  King would turn away.

  Sometimes the pups took on one another's names. One morning Runner jumped on Leader and knocked him to the ground, rolling him onto his back until he squealed with indignation. For the rest of that day Runner became Leader and the first Leader was without a name. That evening, though, Leader jumped Runner from behind, flipped her over and held her down, sharp baby teeth to her throat, and their first roles were restored.

  Once, when Sniffer was busy investigating a snail, Thinker noticed a stench in the air that none of the pups could name. He reported it to their father.

  "It's them," King said darkly. "Humans." And though none of the pups knew what humans might be, they all crouched low in their skins and shivered.

  Still, Thinker proudly took the name of Sniffer for the rest of the day.

  The next day Sniffer sorted out the rich smell of a deer hidden in the trees on the other side of the lake and sent the hunters off in pursuit. The buck was strong and healthy and escaped easily, but Sniffer had her name back, nonetheless.

  Runt, however, remained Runt. None of the other pups ever tried to steal his name.

  Leader, Runner, Sniffer, Thinker. These were gifts to bring to the pack. But being a runt was no gift.

  Runt refused to worry, though. He would find his gift one day. He knew he would. And with it would come a new name.

  4

  "It's time!" King called to the hunters.

  The pack circled around the black wolf. Silver and Bider and the two yearlings sniffed his face, touched his muzzle, raised their voices in reply. "It's time. It's time," they echoed.

  King tipped his head back and began a howl. The other adults and the yearlings joined in. They sang, their voices lifting and falling, twining around one another and separating again, until five wolves sounded like ten, like twenty.

  The pups hadn't yet learned how to howl, but they joined the song as they could. They bunched their faces together, lifted their small muzzles to the sky, and yipped and kay-yied fervently.

  "It's time," King said again, and he moved out toward the surrounding forest in an easy lope.

  Helper stayed behind, as usual. Since the pups had arrived, his job in the pack was to baby-sit. But the rest of the hunters fell in behind their leader, single file. Silver, Bider, Hunter—each one stepped in the footprints of the one before, so the tracks they left were nearly those of one wolf. Their big paws splayed as they touched the earth and curled as they lifted. Their entire bodies whipped forward in an easy, bouncing rhythm. They could keep such a pace, about five miles per hour, for half a day without pausing.

  Once the hunters had moved out, Helper picked up a stick in his mouth, held it up in a teasing way, then ran to the middle of the clearing. All the pups except Runt tumbled after him. Runt remained where he was, gazing after the departing hunters.

  To be able to hunt was a gift. It was, perhaps, the most important gift of all. If he was going to learn to be a good hunter, he needed to begin. And without a glance toward Helper and his littermates, Runt set off after the hunters.

  The small black pup followed along the edge of the lake. He followed into the hushed pines. And even when he could no longer glimpse the tip of Hunter's tail ahead, just disappearing among the trees, he continued to follow, nose down, pursuing his family's warm and familiar scent.

  The first time he stopped—or even hesitated—was when a grosbeak called down to him from a tall pine. "You must be King's son," he said. "You look just like him. You're small, though. Very small."

  "I'm part of the hunt," Runt replied, deciding to ignore the rude remark about his size. He studied the bird's smoky red head and breast.

  "I beg to differ," the grosbeak replied. "You aren't part of the hunt at all. The hunters are far ahead."

  "Where have they—" Runt started to ask, but the bird had already spread his wings and risen into undulating flight.

  Runt gave his shoulder a lick to wash away the insult of the bird's sudden departure. He didn't need anyone to tell him how to locate his family, anyway. He put his nose to the pine duff again and set off once more on their trail.

  The scent was growing fainter, though, and as the force that pulled him along grew less strong, Runt began making various stops and detours. First he paused to listen to a chorus of peepers. Then he zigged after a swallowtail butterfly. A stream, dashing along at its own busy pace, called him for a long drink.

  Runt sat back on his haunches, his muzzle dripping. Had the hunters crossed here? Snuffing along the bank, both up and down, he found no trace of their scent. Maybe it would take up again on the other side. But when Runt splashed across to the other bank, he couldn't find his pack's smell there, either. He kept moving, nonetheless. He had come too far to consider turning back.

  Runt trotted, then plodded, then trotted again, though he followed nothing now, no disappearing tail, no diminishing scent. He kept going and going until finally he had no choice but to stop and admit to himself and to the watching forest that he was well and truly lost.

  An enormous pileated woodpecker hammered at a nearby tree, the noise of his assault echoing through the woods. Runt sat listening, but even when the hammering stopped, he didn't attempt to ask for directions. Woodpeckers tended to be crabby fellows. Maybe it was all that pounding.

  A striped chipmunk scurried past. Runt laid a swift paw on his back, holding him fast.

  "
Do you know where the hunters went?" he asked.

  "I know where my family is," Chipmunk chittered nervously. "Nothing more."

  Runt studied the bulging cheeks, the stripes, the tiny fluff of a tail.

  "You're much smaller than I am," he announced finally.

  "So what?" Chipmunk squeaked—rather boldly, Runt thought, for one being held down by the weight of a paw. "Now let me go. I have to carry these seeds to my family."

  Obediently, Runt lifted his paw and let the little fellow scurry away. What difference did it make that Chipmunk was small? He carried seeds to his family.

  Weasel emerged from beneath a tree stump.

  "Have you seen the hunters?" Runt called. But the sleek brown fellow disappeared into a thicket of Juneberries without bothering to answer.

  Runt was beginning to realize that following the hunters might have been a rather serious mistake. If he had stayed home, he would be napping in a comforting pile with his littermates now ... or pouncing on patient Helper's tail ... or simply waiting for the hunters to return with meat. He sat down in the middle of a patch of jack-in-the-pulpits and looked around. The forest was familiar but entirely strange at the same time. He was clearly far from home, and he no longer had any idea which way to turn to get back.

  So he did the only thing he knew to do. He tipped his head back, drew his lips into a tight O, and began to yip and cry like any other lost pup. But after the first few yips, something unexpected happened. A howl rose on the sweet summer air. The sound startled Runt. Had it come from his own mouth? He stopped, then lifted his head and tried to yip again. Another long howl, as lost and lonely sounding as he felt, floated toward the arching sky beyond the green branches. He liked the sound, so this time he didn't stop. He just howled and howled.

  "What do you want?" The voice was deep, filled with authority.

  Runt looked down. A pair of large paws stood before him, slender legs, silver fur. "Mother!" he cried.

  But the stern gray face towering over him was not his mother's. It was not, in fact, the face of any wolf he had ever seen before.

  "Why are you in my territory?" the great wolf demanded.

  Runt wanted to answer, but no further sound would come from his mouth. It was as though the remains of his voice had sailed away on the word Mother. He could do nothing, in fact, before this stranger but tuck his tail, lower his body to the ground, and tremble.

  "Why are you here?" the wolf repeated. "I am king of this place. And you are not part of my pack."

  "P-p-please," Runt stammered. "I—I'm looking for my family." He didn't dare look again into the face of the great wolf standing over him.

  "Are they here?" the gray king demanded to know, the fur along his spine rising to attention.

  "No," Runt admitted. "I'm the only one. And I—I seem to be lost. Just a bit."

  "Just a bit," the wolf repeated, and Runt detected something in his voice that was almost a smile.

  For a long moment neither of them spoke. Finally, the gray king said, "Follow me." Just that. And he turned and walked away.

  Runt followed meekly. He had no idea where he was being taken, but he kept close behind the gray king, clambering over fallen trees, circling boulders, slogging through marshy patches that the other wolf stepped over or around or through without even seeming to notice. When they reached the stream Runt had crossed earlier, the king stopped and sniffed a rock standing at the edge of the water. Then he lifted his leg and left a message. This is my territory, the message said. If you are a wolf, stay away!

  "I thank you," Runt murmured, stepping into the stream. "I—I'm sure my father thanks you, too."

  The wolf didn't answer, only stood watching Runt cross back to his family's territory. There was, though, something in his intense gaze that reminded Runt very much of another king entirely, one who wore a black coat and carried a white star on his chest.

  I will forgive your trespass, the golden eyes said, but only because you are young and foolish ... and small. Much too small.

  Runt ducked his head and headed away from the stream—and the watching gray king—though he still had no idea how he was going to find his family, or how he was going to find his way back to the den, for that matter.

  5

  Runt couldn't locate his family's scent again, so he tried to pick up his own, to follow the fragrant imprint his paws had left earlier. When he finally got hold of it, he snuffed along eagerly, only to end up at the stream once more. He had retraced his journey away from the gray wolf's realm, not the one he had made from the den.

  He tried again and again, but always he found himself circling, away from the stream and back, away and back.

  Finally, just when Runt was certain he would never see his family again, he picked up another scent, a very familiar one. Bider!

  Runt sniffed deeply—Bider's aroma had never been so welcome—and moved forward at a lope, keeping his nose close to the trail.

  He found the white wolf in a small clearing enclosed by quaking aspen trees. Obviously, the hunt had been successful. Bider's face was bloody, his belly distended. And he was so intent upon digging a hole to cache the deer haunch that lay on the ground beside him that he didn't seem to hear Runt's approach until the black pup burst in upon him, yelping with delight. Bider whirled on him with a snarl.

  Runt stopped in his tracks, backing away from the fiercely exposed teeth. "It's just me, Runt. I—I'm so glad I found you."

  Bider gave the pup a hard stare. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. The fur that had risen on the back of his neck began to settle again, but slowly.

  "I—I," Runt stammered. "I wanted to help with the hunt. I tried to follow and got lost."

  Bider snorted disdainfully and turned back to his digging.

  From a respectful distance, Runt examined the deer haunch that lay on the ground. It was large and very meaty. Why was Bider burying food so far from the den? He should be taking it home to the pups, as the rest of the pack did.

  Runt knew better than to ask, though. When the pack had more than they could consume in a single long feast, King cached meat, too. However, he buried it near the site of the kill, where all the hunters knew how to find it, not in some hidden place like this. King buried it and then dug it up later when food was needed at the den. Runt had a feeling, though, that this treasure would never make its way back home, except in Bider's belly.

  Runt's own belly rumbled, but Bider ignored him entirely and finished digging the hole. Then he pushed the haunch into it and set to covering it. As the meat disappeared, saliva dripped from Runt's tongue.

  The haunch safely buried, the white wolf finally turned and leveled a hard stare at the pup. "So you're lost," he growled.

  Runt crouched, his head low, his tail tucked, and said nothing.

  Bider took a step toward Runt and repeated the growl without any words this time.

  Runt rolled over, exposing his throat and tender belly. Help me, his entire body said. I'm only a pup. You must help me.

  Bider moved closer, straddling the black pup now. He stared down at him, his ears pricked and hackles raised.

  Runt lay perfectly still, his tail tucked, his legs splayed, waiting. Was Bider going to hurt him? It wasn't possible. No wolf ever attacked another who surrendered so completely, especially a pup.

  In a single swift movement, Bider lunged, his teeth grazing Runt's throat. Then as swiftly as he had started the attack, he pulled away again. Pulled away and trotted briskly out of the clearing.

  Runt scrambled to his feet and hurried after Bider, assuming—hoping—that the white wolf was heading home to the den. Once Bider started moving, though, he never looked back to see if Runt was following, let alone to see if he could keep pace. The pup, already exhausted from his long trek, had to use all his strength to avoid being left behind and lost once more. As he stumbled after the disappearing flag of Bider's tail, he found himself remembering something Raven had told him.

  When a king was deposed,
as Bider had once been, he was usually permitted to take a lower place in the pack. But if he'd been the kind of leader who bullied the rest of the pack, they might use the moment of his fall to drive him away. Bider must have been driven away because he was a bully.

  Runt picked up his pace. Bully or not, right now Bider was the one who knew the way home, and there was little Runt could do but follow.

  Only when the white wolf had almost reached the home clearing did he slow his steps, and Runt, seeing the familiar opening before him, put on a sudden spurt and caught up. The two of them entered the clearing side by side.

  The rest of the pups and Helper were feasting on the meat the hunters had brought back to the den. The hunters themselves were resting, watching with pride while the others fed. When Bider and Runt came into view, King lifted his head and looked past Bider, directly to Runt. Where have you been? the golden eyes said. What foolish thing have you been doing now?

  Runt cringed, knowing that he had disgraced himself. Following the hunters, getting lost, wandering into another pack's territory ... he should have known better. But before he could even attempt an explanation, Bider spoke.

  "Here is your foolish son," he said. "He ran away, but I rescued him for you."

  Runt lowered his head, keeping his eyes carefully averted. Still, his father's stern gaze was like a pressure against his skin. King said nothing, but as the black pup made his way across the clearing to join his littermates at their meal, he had only one thought.

  Bider had lied about his running away. That's not what he had done, and Bider knew it. He had lied about rescuing him, too. The white wolf had taken himself home, nothing more, and Runt had managed to follow.

  Until this moment Runt hadn't known it was possible for a wolf to lie. What else might there be about the world that he didn't know?

  Nothing that he wanted Bider to teach him, that was sure.

  6

  Runt didn't try to follow the hunters again. But he didn't move back into his familiar place at the bottom of the pack, either. He found a spot at the edge of the clearing beneath some fragrant balsam trees and often lay there, watching.