Runt (2 page)

There would be no runts?
Runt could barely breathe. What did the white wolf mean? That the pack would be better off without him? Runt looked once more to King to defend him. Surely, his father would stand and say it again.... "My son!"

And, in fact, King was rising. He stepped down off his rock and moved toward the group gathered around Runt. He walked tall on his legs, his head high, his ears pricked. But when he came close, he didn't so much as glance at Runt. He didn't defend him, either. He only lifted his tail a little higher and
growled low, under his breath, "Leave her alone, Bider."

For an instant the entire forest seemed to stop breathing. Then, as suddenly as the challenge had begun, it was over. Bider lowered his head, folded his ears back, smiled ingratiatingly. "Of course, King," he whined. "I meant no harm. You know I live to please you."

"Live to please me!" King scoffed. "Don't think I don't know. You are biding your time. That's all. You live to take over my pack."

Everyone watched, waited to see what Bider would do next, but the white wolf only dropped his head lower and slunk away, his tail curved under to tuck tightly against his belly. King stood for a long moment, the fur along his spine bristling, then turned and stalked back to his place on the rock.

Silver broke the heavy silence that followed. "Come," she said softly. "We'll go inside. You've all had enough excitement for today." And nudging each pup with her muzzle, she herded them back toward the warmth and safety of the den.

Runt followed his brothers and sisters, but he kept looking over his shoulder. What had happened out there? He wasn't sure.

"Who is he, Mother?" he asked when Silver had stretched herself out in the nest at the end of the tunnel. "Who is the white wolf?"

"He is a good hunter," she said. "We've all eaten better since Bider joined us. That's all that matters."

Was it all that mattered? Runt wasn't sure. But he let the subject drop. Instead, he asked, "Is it true, what Raven said about my eyes, my feathers?"

"Fur," his mother corrected patiently. "You have fur. And Raven always has too much to say. Gossip. An opinion on every subject."

"But he said my eyes are intelligent," Runt persisted. "My feathers—my
fur
—is glossy."

Silver didn't answer. The other pups had all settled to nurse, and she began washing Leader's face.

"Mother?" Runt pleaded.

She sighed. "Raven loves nothing better than to tease and annoy your father. The two of them make a game of it. Still ... he has been known to be wise."

Runt wanted more, but his mother was clearly not entertaining further questions. So he sighed, too, and found a place among his brothers and sisters to take his meal.

The others filled their bellies quickly and, exhausted by their excursion, soon drifted into sleep. Only Runt lay awake, reliving it all. It wasn't just Raven's praise that filled him with such awe. It was everything he had seen, smelled, touched. He could hardly bear to let the memory of it slip away, even for the length of a nap.

Would they leave the den again? Would all he had just seen be waiting for them once more if they did?

The world was so much larger, brighter, more colorful and exciting than he had dreamed! Before this morning's excursion he hadn't even known he had an older brother and sister. Or that a white wolf called Bider was part of their pack.

He hadn't known the soft blue sky or the scent of sunshine on the warming earth or that there were other creatures in the world besides wolves, either.

Or that his father was in charge of it all.

King had called him
son
. "My son," he had said.

Could anything else matter?

The small black pup closed his eyes and slept.

The pups made the excursion to the mouth of the den the next day and the day after that. Soon they spent most of their time out of doors, retreating to the den only at night or if their mother gave warning.

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.

"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.