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Meaningful communications among us almost ceased. Tegpa seemed to understand that his little pack was in trouble and did his best to rectify matters. Playing no favourites, he made himself available to each of us on equal terms, providing a conduit between us.
Early in October, after several days of sleet squalls and snow flurries, a clear, bright morning provided an excuse to put some distance between myself and Windy Cabin. Claiming that I needed to examine the inside of the wolf den at Smith House Bay now that they had moved out, I donned my parka, gathered my gear, and launched the canoe. We had no more gas for the kicker but an exhilarating paddle took me to the shore of Smith House Bay, where I landed and walked half a mile to Wolf Knoll, the high sandy esker that held the den. No wolves were about, nor was there any recent evidence of their presence from which I concluded the den had, indeed, been abandoned for the season.
Setting my rifle aside, I shed parka and sweater, got out a measuring tape and a flashlight (whose batteries were almost exhausted), and began wiggling headfirst into a tunnel just large enough to admit me. The flashlight was so dim I could hardly read the numbers on the tape as I squirmed along, descending at a shallow angle. I had gone about eight feet, with sand in my mouth and eyes and feeling increasingly claustrophobic, when the tunnel abruptly bent to the left.
I pointed the failing beam from the torch around the corner and four green-glowing orbs announced that the den was not empty after all. In a millisecond the companionable feeling I had earlier developed for the wolves of Smith House Bay vanished, to be replaced by pure terror inspired by the absolute conviction I was about to be attacked and torn apart.
Angeline, the alpha female of the Wolf Knoll family, and one of her pups of the year were crouched motionless against the back of the nest cavity staring fixedly at what they may well have believed was the approach of death.
They did not move.
They did not so much as growl.
Except for the steadfast glow from their eyes, they might have been figments of my imagination.
But I knew they were not, and panic overwhelmed me. I wriggled backwards up the slanting tunnel as if pursued by devils. My mind seethed with imprecations that I may have yelled aloud. I am not certain about that now, but I remember with total clarity what I did when I scrambled out of the tunnel’s mouth.
I seized my rifle and began firing point-blank into the tunnel. One – two – three – four roaring explosions to accompany my scream:
”I’ll … blow … your … fucking … heads off!”
The magazine was empty, and I stepped back to reload. Though the wind was blowing chill, a witless fury boiled within me. I was determined to force the wolves into the open, where I would almost certainly have killed them.
Slinging the rifle over one shoulder, I set about gathering branches, twigs, and leaves that I stuffed into the den mouth until it was stoppered almost full. Then I set the mass on fire. As yellow flames licked upward, I fanned them with my parka to drive roiling black smoke into the depths of the den.
No movement and no sound came from within.
As the flash fire burned down, sanity began returning to me. I put the rifle aside, lit a cigarette, and began considering what I had done. There was no avoiding recognition that in this encounter with creatures for whom I had earlier professed feelings of admiration, empathy, and even affection, I had behaved execrably – in fact, murderously. As the cigarette burned down, I began to see just how viciously I had denied all that my experiences with the Others in this land of theirs had taught me about them. And about myself.
Disgusted by what I had done, I stamped out what remained of the fire and again began waving my parka over the den mouth as a fan – this time driving fresh air into it.
When no more wisps of smoke emerged, I crawled back in myself.
I wasn’t afraid anymore. I guess I was too ashamed for that. My poor friends were just where I’d left them but had their noses buried in the sand, I suppose to escape the smoke. The flashlight was about gone but I could see enough to convince myself they were still alive.
I backed out then and left them there. There wasn’t anything else I really could have done, though I have to say leaving them made me feel like an absolute shit. A strictly human sort of a shit, because only a human could or would have done what I had done.
As I paddled miserably homeward a wolf howled somewhere to the north – howled lightly, questioningly. I recognized the voice for I had heard it many times before. It was George, the alpha male and pack leader, sounding the Barrens for the absent members of his family.
His was the voice of a lost world. A world and a fellowship that had once been ours.
Until we humans chose the alien role.
COPYRIGHT © 2008 BY FARLEY MOWAT
EMBLEM EDITION PUBLISHED 2009
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Mowat, Farley, 1921-
Otherwise / Farley Mowat.
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1. Mowat, Farley, 1921-. 2. Authors, Canadian (English) – 20th century – Biography. I. Title.
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