He watched the dragonflies skimming the surface of the lake, then swooping skyward again, their wings clacking. They were hunters, too; their prey, the droning mosquitoes.
And the redbelly snake gliding out from beneath a rotting log, and the bats crisscrossing the sky. All were hunters.
Runt watched and envied. He knew Raven had said that small could be brave and fierce, but would he ever have a chance to prove himself?
An opportunity came, finally, the day the storm blew in. The hunters were out, and Helper was in charge. He gave a short, sharp bark. "A storm is coming," he called. "Everybody in."
"A storm. A storm," the other pups echoed, tumbling over one another to reach the mouth of the den.
Runt sat at attention, observing Helper, his littermates, the roiling sky, but he didn't leave his spot at the edge of the trees to join the pell-mell rush to safety. After all, the hunters weren't running back to the den for shelter. He wouldn't, either.
When a few fat drops began to fall, Runt took little notice. He had always loved the silvery rain that worked its way through his fur to tickle his skin. He loved the wind, too, and had never entirely given up his first conviction that the trees talked when it blew.
He didn't pay much attention, either, to the odd yellowish tinge the sky had taken on or to the way the air had gone so strangely still.
When the wind rose suddenly, carrying a wall of rain toward him across the clearing, Runt stood and, with studied dignity, moved beneath the close-standing trees. This would be shelter enough ... surely.
Inside the forest an entirely different kind of weather prevailed. While the tops of the trees swayed and bowed in the wind's increasing force, the world at their base was calm. Even the pounding rain had gentled by the time it reached the forest floor.
Runt stood perfectly still, feeling smugly superior to his brothers and sisters huddled inside the den. He was every bit as protected and safe as they. He looked around.
Bunchberries bloomed at his feet, their tiny white flowers snug against their leaves, and the ground pine spreading across the forest floor reached for the rain as the drops trickled through. All was silvery quiet, silvery dim.
"Go home. Go home," a green frog sang from a gathering puddle, though he was clearly happy enough himself to be out in the storm.
A grouse, huddled on the limb of a tree, laughed. "Cac-cac-cacl What are you doing out here by yourself, foolish pup?"
Runt ignored the frog. The bird, too. He was perfectly safe, even nicely protected. He was the king—or at least the prince—of this quiet, storm-free world. And he probably would have stood where he was through the entire storm, happily in charge of it all, if a tall pine nearby hadn't suddenly sprung into dazzling light and split in two with a bang that shook the ground beneath Runt's feet. The tree fell away from itself, crashing into other trees, cracking, crunching, grinding.
With the first sizzling bang, Runt's fur stood on end and his paws left the ground. When he landed, his legs were already moving ... fast. A few seconds later another bolt of lightning struck a spruce, this one directly in his path, and even as he changed direction, his speed doubled.
Runt didn't know where he was headed. He was too frightened to think about going to anything. But every muscle in his body was trying to escape the storm that reached into his quiet world with such surging power.
Thorns caught at his fur. Long-limbed bushes slashed at his eyes. The bed of needles beneath his feet grew slippery so that he began to slip and slide and stumble over his own paws. Still he ran. Having started, he couldn't seem to stop.
The trees hissed and groaned, parting to reveal the fierce light stabbing the sky. And every few seconds the ground itself shook with the cracking thunder.
"Help me! Mother! Father! Helper! Please, help!" Runt cried. Once he even called for Bider. But no one came.
He knew, of course, that his parents and Bider and Hunter were many miles away. He knew, too, that Helper and the other pups were curled together in the dry dark of the den. He would have been glad enough himself for the den now, but he couldn't stop running long enough to sort out which direction to go to get there.
And it was no longer any consolation that the weather on the floor of the forest was quiet. The world above him sizzled and roared, and now he had proof that the sizzle and roar could reach him in an instant. He dodged trunks, slammed through underbrush, scrambled over rotting logs, crying, "Help! Help!" until suddenly, the trees parted and a clearing opened before him. At last!
Runt stopped at the edge of the trees, trembling. He had run a long distance, but he must have come full circle, because here he was, back home again. Beautiful home!
Head down, he picked his way through the slanting rain. When he reached the place where he was certain the mouth of the den should lie, he stopped. But instead of the welcoming hideaway dug into the side of the hill, an enormous structure rose before him. Trunks of trees piled on one another formed a huge enclosure. What kind of creature could live in so large a nest?
Runt knew instantly that he was in the wrong place. He knew, too, that he should return to the safety of the trees. But he couldn't seem to take another step. He stood panting, rooted to the ground, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Even when the racketing storm moved on, taking its fierce light and noise with it, even when the rain began to fall more gently, he remained utterly immobile. His terror flowed out of him like the rivulets of water that coursed over the sweet-smelling earth, only to leave him empty, humiliated. He had proved, once more, that he wasn't brave and fierce at all.
He had run, he had lost himself in confusion and panic. He had cried out for all to hear. His brothers and sisters had gone to the den as they had been told to do, and he alone had run away.
What would his father's golden gaze say when he looked at his son now?
Runt sat on the sodden ground and whimpered. Then, lifting his face to the sky, he began to howl. His howl spoke not of joy and longing, as the songs of wolves often do, but of loneliness and humiliation and sorrow. He sang of the storm that had driven him here. He sang of being the smallest, the least in the pack. He sang of the disappointment he knew would be waiting in his father's eyes when the son who ran from storms found his way back home.
Runt might have gone on singing for a long time, feeling enormously sorry for himself, had a strange creature not appeared suddenly around the corner of the giant nest.
He had never seen such a being before. It moved clumsily, standing erect on its hind legs the way Bear sometimes did. But this stranger wasn't Bear. After it came into view, it stood perfectly still, staring, and all the air grew heavy with a stench that made every hair on Runt's back rise in apprehension.
At first, Runt could do nothing more than breathe in the dark smell. But then he remembered what his father had once said when the same smell had drifted near the den. "It's them. Humans." The word had frizzed in Runt's blood. And every wolf in the pack had shivered.
Runt shivered now. Then he gathered himself together and turned to dash back into the forest. The human creature did not follow.
Already, though, even as Runt ran, a plan was beginning to form.
He had done it, at last. Hadn't he? Something brave and fierce and wonderful! And now he knew exactly what he would say to his father when he stood before him again.
"I walked right up to their nest and sang to the humans," he would tell the great black wolf. Then he would add, "You can call me Brave One now."
7
"Call you what?" King's voice was low, almost a growl.
"Brave One," Runt repeated, though he said it more quietly this time. With his entire family gathered around and his father peering down at him from his great height, he felt even smaller than usual. Like a pup not yet out of the den.
"I walked right up to the nest," he said again, hoping it would sound better in the second telling. "I walked right up to the nest, and I sang to—"
"Have you ever heard o
f such a thing?" Raven interrupted. Runt glared at the interfering bird, but Raven ignored him and went right on. "For a wolf to let himself be seen, almost touched by one of them. Why, I never—"
It was King who stopped the croaking chatter. When he did, Runt almost wished Raven had gone on talking instead. "A son of mine should know better." He said it quietly, but his voice was heavy with disappointment. "You should know better than to run from a storm, too. We wolves are careful. Always we are careful. But we are not afraid. Not of our own good world."
"But we're afraid of humans?" Runt didn't mean to challenge. He simply needed to understand.
"We stay away from humans," King growled. "As far away as we can. Humans mean death for wolves!" Then he turned and stalked off.
The rest of Runt's family drifted away, too, though Helper gave Runt a sympathetic glance and Silver brushed against him softly as she passed. Still, they moved away with the rest. Only Bider, who had stood listening to the whole discussion, his yellow eyes glinting in a way impossible to read, remained near.
Head down, tail tucked, Runt started toward the balsam trees at the top of the clearing again. Apparently, it was the only place he belonged.
"Coward!"
Runt stopped in his tracks. Was someone talking to him? Slowly he turned to look back. Raven had flown to his place in a tree. King lay on his slab of rock above the den. Silver had settled close by to watch over a wrestling game the other pups had begun. Hunter and Helper were down at the lake getting a drink. Only the white wolf was still close.
Bider spoke again. "Your father is a coward," he said. "He has never been near a human himself. Not once."
"Have ... have you?" Runt asked.
Bider lifted his head. His tail came up slightly, too. "I've followed them when they come into our forest. I've watched them from the shadow of the trees. I've walked among the beasts they keep in captivity."
"And?"
"Humans are clumsy, weak creatures. They have no claws. Their teeth are dull. They can barely even run. Your father has no reason to be afraid."
"But they do smell bad," Runt offered, knowing, even as he said it, that King must have better reason than the bad smell for his fear.
Bider tossed his head. "Your father is a coward," he said again. And he walked away.
A coward? King a coward? A cold tingle traveled along Runt's spine. Could anyone say such a thing about his father and live?
But the great black wolf had clearly been paying no attention to Bider's words. He lay placidly on his rock, flipping the tip of his tail for Leader and Sniffer to pounce on.
Runt shook himself. His father a coward? The idea was unthinkable. And yet it would not go away.
He headed for his private place at the edge of the clearing.
Still ... if Bider was right, if it was possible that Bider could be right, did that mean that he, Runt, had been brave?
Runt curled beneath the balsam, tucked his nose beneath his tail, and thought long and hard.
8
Runt promised himself he was never going to run from a storm again. Or from anything else, for that matter. And day after day he worked to prove to his father and to the rest of the pack that he was, indeed, brave.
He was the first to leave the den, the last to return every day. He even began to challenge the other pups for the meat brought home from the hunt. Occasionally, despite his smaller size, he won out of pure determination. Once he snatched a doe's shinbone from under Hunter's nose, and when she stepped back and left the prize to him, he dragged it around all day so the rest could see. But however fearless he tried to be, his father never seemed to notice.
Then one day, wandering restlessly on the perimeter of the clearing, he encountered a brown spiny-looking creature he had never seen before.
"Stay away from me," she muttered. "Don't you dare come near!"
"Why should I stay away?" Runt asked. He wasn't being rude. He really wanted to know. Surely, his father would take no notice of such a warning. Bider wouldn't, either.
"Because I'm dangerous," she replied. "I am the most dangerous animal in the forest."
Runt couldn't help but laugh at such a boast. He knew who the most dangerous animal in the forest was. It was the wolf, of course. Dangerous to deer. Dangerous to the enormous moose, despite their heavy antlers and fierce hooves. Even bears gave the pack a wide berth.
"Do you think you can scare me?" Runt danced on his slender legs around the creature, so low to the ground, so slow moving.
Thinker approached, too, though more cautiously. "That's Porcupine," he murmured to Runt. "I think she's best left alone."
But Runt ignored his brother. Their mother must have made a mistake when she'd named him Thinker. He should have been called Worrier instead. He was always fretting about something.
Runt took a step closer to the short-legged animal.
Porcupine turned her back, swishing her tail in a comical fashion. The tail missed Runt's nose by inches, and he laughed again.
"I don't do battle with tails," he said. "If you want to fight, turn around and face me."
Porcupine didn't answer. She didn't turn around, either.
"Come on," Runt taunted the animal with the odd arched back and nose almost touching the ground. "Come on. Are you scared or what?"
But "what" must have been the answer, because instead of replying, she swung her tail again.
Runt jumped back. Not because he was afraid, of course—what was there to be afraid of in a tail?—but only because he wanted to prolong the game. Maybe the next time the tail came by he would grab it, show the silly creature a thing or two.
First he would capture the tail, then the whole beast. He would drag Porcupine back to the den for a small feast. Then his family could call him Provider, conqueror of the "most dangerous animal in the forest"!
"Runt," Thinker scolded, "be care—"
The tail swung once more and Thinker, so busy warning Runt that he was unprepared himself, slipped and lost his footing when he tried to move away. To Runt's surprise, his brother shrieked, a piercing scream Runt had never heard from any pup before.
When the offending tail came back, Runt lunged to grab it. But even as he tried to take hold, pain flashed through the side of his face, pain so fierce that he couldn't even cry out. A dozen stabs below his right eye and all along his jaw took his breath away.
Thinker was still screaming, but Runt could no longer consider him. He was, himself, stumbling, crying ... trying to outrun the searing pain.
Where he was going he had no idea. He barely took note of anything before him. He could tell only that he was moving away from Thinker—or perhaps his brother was moving away from him—because the crying sounds grew more distant.
Discovering himself at the edge of the lake, Runt buried his stinging face in the cold water. But even that gave no relief. Barbs had driven themselves through his skin, into his mouth. He slapped at the long prickers, rising onto his haunches and using both paws to bat and pull at them. But that did no good. The pain, which he had thought could be no greater, only grew worse.
Runt raised his wounded muzzle to the sky he had loved since his first day out of the den and cried, "Help me. Someone please help me!" In the distance, he could hear Thinker uttering the same cry.
Helper and the other pups answered, but from far away, too. Far away and growing farther. The yearling and the other pups must have run to help Thinker.
"Always we are careful," Father had said. "But we are not afraid." But how could a pup anticipate disaster waiting in every creature's tail and not be afraid?
Foolish. King's gaze had said that, too.
Runt wanted to roll on the ground, to smash his muzzle into the earth, to howl. But gradually he went quiet instead. Every movement, even every utterance only made the fire in his face worse, anyway. He crawled from the grassy bank and stumbled toward the wall of trees.
He was going to die. He knew it. The way the little field mouse had died w
hen he had pounced on it, going suddenly limp and soft in his jaws. The way the deer did and the great moose the hunters brought home in their bellies. He would die and be food for maggots and mice, for weasels and skunks, perhaps even for Raven.
Once again, he had done the wrong thing. Done the wrong thing and brought his brother down with him. What right did he have to live? Runt stepped beneath the shelter of a pine tree, and the entire grove reached out to surround him.
He plodded on. Every time he came to a place where he might have collapsed, where he might have waited for death to take him, the pain kept him stumbling forward. He moved past the remains of a bear's winter nest gouged out beneath a boulder, past quaking aspen and whispering spruce. He kept going until the agony in his face had grown beyond endurance. Only when he came to the clearing did he stop at last.
The moment he reached it, he knew it was the clearing, the one where he had encountered the human creature. He started to turn back. Then he stopped.
Humans mean death for wolves. That's what his father had said. His father, who thought he was "foolish," "afraid."
For a time Runt stood perfectly still, trembling in the shadow of the trees. Then he stepped bravely out into the clearing, sat back on his haunches in full view of the humans' strange nest, and tipped his burning face to the sky.
"Come and get me," he sang. "I'm here. I'm ready to die."
9
When the shadow fell across Runt, he sank to the ground. It was, as he had fully expected, one of—them. A human.
He went utterly still. The dark odor enveloped him and the strange furless paws reached down and lifted him. His heartbeat slowed, his muscles went limp. It was the same way he reacted—the way all pups reacted—when being lifted and carried in his mother's mouth.
Even when another human appeared and the two hovered over him, gabbling incomprehensibly, he lay in the creature's arms, perfectly still, waiting. He knew that whatever was going to happen next was beyond his control.
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