The one who had lifted him carried him to a place near the human nest, then put him down, but continued to hold him. Runt didn't struggle. He had no strength to run even if he had been let free. The other produced a hard object and began pulling the quills, twisting and turning to get past the cruel barbs. Runt cried out once, a high, sharp yip, then let himself slip into an even deeper stillness. The pain and the relief from pain were so mixed that he hardly knew whether to tear at his captors or to lick them in gratitude. And so he did neither. He just waited for all to be over. Waited, still, to die.
When the humans had pulled the last of the barbed quills from his muzzle, they released him. Runt didn't move. He kept his eyes down, careful not to look at them directly. They were a great deal larger than he. Larger, even, than his father. Who knew what they might do if they were challenged?
He had never encountered more ungainly creatures, though. As Bider had said, they were clumsy and weak. How could they possibly make their way in the world? They didn't even have any feathers or fur to cover their ugly bodies.
The humans stroked him and set water before him. They put down some strange kind of meat, too. Then they went away. Runt watched them go, then slowly, cautiously, looked around the clearing. He was close inside the shadow of the enormous nest, but nothing stood between him and the forest. Apparently, he was free to go.
Nonetheless, he remained where he was, perfectly still. Where would he go if he returned to the forest? Back to suffering Thinker, whose warnings he had ignored? Back to his father with this new tale?
At last, he dragged himself to his feet, examined the meat and the water the humans had left, then, without sampling either, found a dark corner behind a heavy object and curled into a tight ball.
His father was wrong about one thing, for certain. Humans did not mean death for wolves. These creatures had helped him.
Maybe, after all, this human place was where he belonged.
10
Runt woke to moonlight and to a rough tongue scouring his face.
"Mother!" He leapt to his feet.
But the beast licking him was not his mother. She was about the same size as Silver. Heavier in the body, perhaps. Not as long in the legs. Her coat was reddish gold, her eyes mild in a way Runt found disconcerting.
Everything about the creature reeked of humans.
"Who ... who are you?" Runt stammered.
"I am Dog." She spoke softly. "They call me Goldie."
He studied Goldie's face. It was pleasant, even kindly, but somehow not especially intelligent.
"Do you know the humans who live here?" he asked, feeling strangely as though he should be the one taking care of her. "Did they help you, too?"
Her brow furrowed. "Know the humans? Of course. They are my masters."
Masters? It was a new word for Runt. A strange one.
"I belong to them," Goldie added, as though the word belong would help him to understand.
It didn't. Goldie wasn't a puppy. She was even well past being a yearling. Adult wolves honored their leaders. They honored them because the leaders were strong, skillful hunters, wise in the ways of the world, but they never belonged to them. They belonged only to themselves.
"But why?" Runt asked. "Why would you let them own you?"
"They feed me," Goldie replied cheerfully. "They scratch me behind the ears. They get out my leash and take me for walks."
Runt could understand the importance of being fed. The adults in his pack fed him, after all. And he loved being groomed. But being taken for a walk? "What is a leash?" he asked.
"It's a kind of rope," Goldie answered. "They tie it to my collar ... here. See?" Goldie scratched at a tight band around her neck that Runt hadn't noticed before. "And then they take me with them when they go out."
Runt shook his head. He couldn't seem to understand, though Goldie spoke clearly enough.
"The humans are so clumsy," he said, "so slow moving! Surely, you don't let them tie you to them!"
But Goldie seemed offended by his question. "Of course I do! They take care of me. Don't you understand?"
Runt shivered. This dog was little better than a prisoner! No animal he knew kept another captive in this way. Still, when Goldie bent to lick Runt's sore face once more, he closed his eyes, enjoying the touch of her gentle tongue.
"Where did you come from?" she asked between licks. "Who took care of you before my humans found you?"
And so Runt told about his kindly mother, his proud father, the cozy den he had been born in, his brothers and sisters there. He even told her about Bider, though he didn't mention that Bider had once called his father a coward.
"Goodness," Goldie said at last. "So many of you. Who sees that all of you are fed?"
"The hunters. They go out and find food for all the rest."
"Every day?"
"Well, no ... they don't bring food every day. When they can make a kill, they do. When they can't..." The intensity of Goldie's stare stopped Runt's explanation.
"When they can't?" Goldie prompted.
"Why, of course, we wait." It seemed an odd question. When the pack had food, everyone ate. That was all. When they didn't, what else was there to do but wait for the next hunt? The hunters missed far more frequently than they scored—about three attempts out of four ended in failure. That was the way of hunting. Still, they brought food home often enough to keep the pack healthy.
"My owners give me food every day," Goldie said, and there was a note of finality in her voice, as though eating every day were very important. Perhaps the most important thing of all.
Runt glanced over at the bowl the humans had put meat in for him and saw that it was empty. Apparently Goldie had enjoyed the food her humans had left for him, too.
But who needed to eat every day except for a nursing baby? Was this why Goldie seemed so soft, so like a pup despite her mature years? Because she sat around waiting for someone to feed her, day after day?
Runt thought of the humans he had seen, their clumsy walk, their unprotected skin, their dull teeth. "Where do your humans hunt their food?" he asked. "How do they kill it?"
But clearly Goldie didn't know, because she only looked at him blankly.
"Haven't you ever asked them?" Runt prompted.
"Of course not," Goldie replied. "They wouldn't understand if I did."
Runt was amazed. He had noticed the humans' strange, incomprehensible gabbling, but he had thought ... well, he didn't know what he had thought, exactly. He moved closer to Goldie, speaking distinctly, in case she was the one who might fail to understand. "Any squirrel or rabbit, any chipmunk can carry on a conversation! You can, too."
"Not with them." Goldie rose to check out Runt's bowl again. She licked it thoroughly, though it was quite clean already. "When I want food, I bump my bowl around. When I want to go out, I take them my leash ... or scratch on the door. They understand simple things like that. But there is no point in talking to them."
"You mean"—Runt was amazed—"they can't talk at all!"
"Oh," Goldie paused to scratch at her collar again, "they can say a few words. But not enough to carry on a real conversation."
"What kind of words?"
"Like sit and come. Fetch. Bad dog. A few words like that."
Sit? Come? Fetch? Bad dog! "And what do you do when they say those words?" Runt's question was almost a whisper.
"I do what they tell me, of course. And then they give me treats."
Runt stood suddenly. He began backing away. "I—I've got to go." He was almost panting. "My family is waiting. I've got to go home."
Goldie didn't move. She simply sat there, watching him with her mild brown eyes. Her look said clearly that she thought he was silly to leave but that she was much too polite to say so.
"Come with me," he said. "Come and meet my family. I'll show you life in the forest. It is good."
"Thank you." Goldie rose, and for a moment Runt thought she was going to join him. Then she shook herse
lf and sat back on her haunches once more. "You are very kind," she added. "But I belong here. Don't you understand?"
Runt didn't understand, but even as Goldie spoke, he noticed something he hadn't before. Goldie couldn't have followed him even if she had wanted to. A long chain attached to the collar around her neck was attached also to the corner of the human nest. Runt stared, horrified. Then, not wanting to embarrass the gentle creature, he turned and hurried away.
He crossed the clearing at a trot and, without a glance back toward Goldie or her jailers, slipped into the welcoming arms of the forest.
11
When Runt reached the trees, he began to run. "I'm coming," he called to anyone who cared to listen. "I'm coming home."
A white-throated sparrow answered with its achingly pure song. Owl hooted from the top of a tall pine. Even a friend of Raven's called down in a friendly way, "Hurry, little pup. You'd better hurry."
And Runt answered each voice with his own high, keening cry.
He had a choice. No one was holding him prisoner. And his choice was to go home!
His paws danced past lady's slippers, leapt over wild strawberries, skipped by maidenhair ferns.
Home! And his family would be so glad to see him!
Had anyone else in his family ever made friends with a dog? Had anyone else actually been touched by a human and lived to tell the tale? Even Bider?
Runt loped past a doe chewing her cud. He sent a night-prowling raccoon scurrying for cover.
"Humans touched me," he sang, "and I am still here. They touched me, and I did not die."
His father would probably be glad to know that he had been wrong! Wolves didn't need to fear humans. Humans brought life, not death.
When Runt arrived home at last, he trotted out of the trees, his face lifted, his voice high. "I'm home," he yipped. "I've come home. Look at me. I'm here."
All the pack lay or sat in a tight little group, close by the mouth of the den. Only his mother lifted her head, rose, and started toward him. When she had come half the distance, though, she stopped.
"You've been with them," she said, her voice sharp, even accusing.
"Yes," Runt cried. "I've been with them." And he did a little dance. "Isn't it wonderful? I've been with them, and I survived. They pulled all the quills Porcupine left in my face. And I'm fine now. Can you see?"
Helper approached, too, but he also stopped some distance away, sniffing the air with clear distaste.
The elation that had carried Runt home began to trickle away.
Others in the pack moved toward him, but none came close. Only King remained where he was, standing over something Runt couldn't see.
"They helped me," Runt repeated, more quietly.
Without another word, his mother turned away. The pups who had approached him and the two yearlings did, too. They all followed Silver.
"I met Dog," Runt called after them. "Has anybody else here ever met a dog? Her name was—"
"Hush!"
Runt looked up to see Bider standing over him.
"Hush," the white wolf said again, as though the first command hadn't been enough. "No one here appreciates your adventure. They're too busy worrying about Thinker."
"Thinker?" And suddenly Runt remembered. The humans had helped him, but Thinker had been hit, too. In all his strange and bewildering adventure, he had forgotten about his brother.
Runt approached the group slowly. They were, indeed, gathered around Thinker. Not only did he have quills in his muzzle and the side of his face as Runt had once had, but one long quill had pierced an eye. Thinker whimpered softly. Something about the pup's low whimper was more pitiful even than his screams had been the day before.
Runt leaned over his brother. "Come with me," he whispered. "I know where you can get help."
Thinker opened his good eye, but then let it flicker closed again.
"Thinker!" Runt leaned closer. "You've got—
King stepped up. "Where do you want to take my son?" he demanded to know.
Runt glanced up at his father, then quickly lowered his gaze. Now was his chance to tell King everything, all he had learned about humans.
"You've been with them again," Hunter interrupted before Runt could gather his thoughts. "You positively stink of them!"
"Yes," Runt admitted, "but—"
And before he could explain, before he could tell them that it was humans who had removed his quills, the circle of his family closed around his brother again, shutting him out.
"He was with them!" one pup murmured to another. "He was with the humans!" And they all shuddered.
Runt stood for a moment, motionless, frozen. Then he turned and plodded away.
He found Raven by the lake getting a drink of water. "Is it such a terrible thing," he asked the glossy bird, "to be helped by humans?"
Raven, the usually talkative Raven, only spread his wings and flew away.
Runt plunged into the water. He knew washing would do little to remove the stench he had carried back with him. He must stink of Dog, too. But at least bathing was something to do.
He almost wished Raven had scolded him in his usual bossy way. Or even his father. Anything would be better than this silence, the silence of his family gathered around his wounded brother.
"I should have stayed," he said, mostly to himself. "I should have stayed with Dog and with them."
Though when he thought of the chain that held Goldie prisoner, he couldn't help but shudder, just as the others had when they realized where he had been.
12
Thinker died slowly. Each day his whimpers grew more faint. Each day the pack grew more silent.
Bider went off by himself and came home with a fat beaver, but Thinker could not eat. He couldn't even rouse himself to go down to the lake for water.
"My son," King said, again and again. "My son. My son." But Thinker no longer responded to the sound of his father's voice.
Runt heard, though. The words went through him like another quill. When had he last heard King speak to him in such a way?
When Thinker finally took his last breath, when his chest rose and fell once, twice, three times, and then no more, the entire family gathered for a long, mournful howl.
Only Runt remained silent, though no one seemed to notice. These days no one noticed much of anything about him except that he had been touched—contaminated—by humans.
His mother held him down with a firm paw and washed him every time she came near. Sometimes Helper did the same. But neither of them said much to him.
His father didn't speak, either, though at least his silence was familiar. What was not familiar was that King had quit watching Runt, quit taking note of his every foolish act, his every mistake. It was as though two of King's sons had died from the porcupine's blow, not one.
I am alive, Runt reminded himself. The humans helped me, and I am alive.
If existing on the edge of the pack could be considered living.
13
A few days after Thinker's death, the wolf family set off for a new home. It was past time for the move. Thinker's prolonged dying had kept them close to the den long after they ordinarily would have left.
The pups were old enough now that they didn't need the warmth and protection of the den, and the family required a new hunting range. They set out at a gentle lope in their usual single file, carrying nothing with them but their warm fur, their powerful, graceful bodies. King, Silver, Bider, Hunter, Helper. Followed by the pups. Leader, Runner, Sniffer ... Runt.
No one told Runt to follow at a slight distance, but he did. No one called him to close the gap, either.
King chose a new site on a brushy hillside. Nearby a gurgling stream dropped to another placid lake. They're here, the stream murmured to Runt's ears. The wolf pups are here!
But where is Thinker? the rippling lake asked.
"Gone," Runt answered mournfully. "Thinker is gone."
The other pups discovered a grassy indentation w
here they could curl together for warmth when the nights were cool. King chose the rise that gave the best overview of the surrounding area. Silver found a place near her mate. Bider settled to one side and just below them both. The two yearlings stayed close, too. Runt sought out the shade of a solitary maple at the far edge of the clearing and turned and turned, trampling the grass to make himself a solitary bed.
And so the summer progressed. The hunters went out and came back again. When they were successful, they brought food for the entire family, mostly deer, occasionally moose. When they weren't successful, everyone waited for the next hunt and hoped it would be better.
Something important had changed since Runt's last adventure, however. The other pups played among themselves, seldom inviting Runt to join them. He couldn't tell whether they were afraid of him or disdainful. He knew only that while the humans had saved his life, they had also left their mark.
His mother, of course, remained his mother, though she continued to show her affection by giving him a good wash. Runt wondered, sometimes, if he would ever smell right to her again.
And his father? King seemed sad, abstracted. Sometimes he went off into the forest alone. What he did there, Runt couldn't guess. He never returned with food.
Helper, apparently feeling sorry for the outcast, began to spend more time with Runt. He singled him out for play, teaching him new skills. Runt accepted his brother's attentions gratefully.
A large family of Canada geese lived on the lake. When the adults molted, leaving them as flightless as their gangly young, Helper often signaled Runt to join him. Together they crept through the long grass until they were close enough to leap, sending the startled geese flapping their useless wings and braying into the lake. Helper and Runt always ended by splashing their paws in the shallows, rejoicing in their joke.
Helper taught Runt to run in step behind him, to move fluidly and silently through the grass. He even taught Runt to scent a cow moose with twin calves as much as four miles away. Still, Runt never again tried to follow when the hunters left on their search for food.
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