WHITE FANG
Part III: The Gods of
the Wild
Chapter 2
THE BONDAGE
The
days were thronged with experience for White Fang. During the time that Kiche
was tied by the stick, he ran about over all the camp, inquiring,
investigating, learning. He quickly came to know much
of the ways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed contempt. The
more he came to know them, the more they vindicated their superiority, the more
they displayed their mysterious powers, the greater loomed their god-likeness.
To
man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrown and his
altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to crouch
at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whose gods are of the
unseen and the overguessed, vapors and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of
reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible
outcroppings of self into the realm of spirit -- unlike man, the wolf and the
wild dog that have come in to the fire find their gods in the living flesh,
solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the
accomplishment of their ends and their existence. No effort of faith is
necessary to believe in such a god; no effort of will can possibly induce
disbelief in such a god. There is no getting away from it. There it stands, on
its two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful
and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that
bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh.
And
so it was with White Fang. The man-animals were gods unmistakable and
unescapable. As his mother, Kiche, had rendered her
allegiance to them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning to render
his allegiance. He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitably theirs. When
they walked, he got out of their way. When they called, he came. When they
threatened, he cowered down. When they commanded him to go, he went away
hurriedly. For behind any wish of theirs was power to enforce that wish, power
that hurt, power that expressed itself in clouts and clubs, in flying stones
and stinging lashes of whips.
He belonged to them as
all dogs belonged to them. His actions were theirs to command. His body was
theirs to maul, to stamp upon, to tolerate. Such was the lesson that was
quickly borne in upon him. It came hard, going as it did, counter to much that was strong and dominant in his own nature; and,
while he disliked it in the learning of it, unknown to himself he was learning
to like it. It was a placing of his destiny in another's hands, a shifting of
the responsibilities of existence. This in itself was compensation, for it is
always easier to lean upon another than to stand alone.
But
it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself,
body and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild
heritage and his memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept to the
edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and
away. And always he returned, restless and uncomfortable, to whimper softly and
wistfully at Kiche's side and to lick her face with eager, questioning tongue.
White
Fang learned rapidly the ways of the camp. He knew the injustice and greediness
of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be eaten. He came to know
that men were more just, children more cruel, and women more kindly and more
likely to toss him a bit of meat or bone. And after two or three painful
adventures with the mothers of part-grown puppies, he came into the knowledge that
it was always good policy to let such mothers alone, to keep away from them as
far as possible, and to avoid them when he saw them coming.
But
the bane of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger, Lip-lip had
selected White Fang for his special object of persecution. White Fang fought
willingly enough, but he was outclassed. His enemy was too big. Lip-lip became
a nightmare to him. Whenever he ventured away from his mother, the bully was
sure to appear, trailing at his heels, snarling at him, picking upon him, and
watchful of an opportunity, when no man-animal was near, to spring upon him and
force a fight. As Lip-lip invariably won, he enjoyed it hugely. It became his
chief delight in life, as it became White Fang's chief torment.
But
the effect upon White Fang was not to cow him. Though he suffered most of the
damage and was always defeated, his spirit remained unsubdued. Yet a bad effect
was produced. He became malignant and morose. His temper had been savage by
birth, but it became more savage under this unending persecution. The genial,
playful, puppyish side of him found little expression. He never played and
gambolled about with the other puppies of the camp. Lip-lip would not permit
it. The moment White Fang appeared near them, Lip-lip was upon him, bullying
and hectoring him, or fighting with him until he had driven him away.
The effect of all this
was to rob White Fang of much of his puppyhood and to make him in his
comportment older than his age. Denied the outlet, through play, of his
energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed his mental processes. He
became cunning; he had idle time in which to devote himself
to thoughts of trickery. Prevented from obtaining his share of meat and fish
when a general feed was given to the camp-dogs, he became a clever thief. He
had to forage for himself, and he foraged well, though he was ofttimes a plague
to the squaws in consequence. He learned to sneak about camp, to be crafty, to
know what was going on everywhere, to see and to hear everything and to reason
accordingly, and successfully to devise ways and means of avoiding his
implacable persecutor.
It
was early in the days of his persecution that he played his first really big
crafty game and got therefrom his first taste of revenge. As
Kiche, when with the wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs from the camps
of men, so White Fang, in manner somewhat similar, lured Lip-lip into Kiche's
avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip-lip, White Fang made an indirect
flight that led in and out and around the various tepees of the camp. He was a
good runner, swifter than any other puppy of his size, and swifter than
Lip-lip. But he did not run his best in this chase. He barely held his own, one
leap ahead of his pursuer.
Lip-lip, excited by the
chase and by the persistent nearness of his victim, forgot caution and
locality. When he remembered locality, it was too late. Dashing at top speed
around a tepee, he ran full tilt into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. He
gave one yelp of consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him.
She was tied, but he could not get away from her easily. She rolled him off his
legs so that he could not run, while she repeatedly ripped and slashed him with
her fangs.
When
at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his feet, badly
dishevelled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was standing out all
over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood where he had arisen,
opened his mouth, and broke out the long, heart-broken puppy wail. But even
this he was not allowed to complete. In the middle of it, White Fang, rushing
in, sank his teeth into Lip-lip's hind leg. There was no fight left in Lip-lip,
and he ran away shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and worrying him all
the way back to his own tepee. Here the squaws came to his aid, and White Fang,
transformed into a raging demon, was finally driven off only by a fusillade of
stones.
Came the day when Gray
Beaver, deciding that the liability of her running away was past, released Kiche.
White Fang was delighted with his mother's freedom. He accompanied her joyfully
about the camp; and, so long as he remained close by her side, Lip-lip kept a
respectful distance. White Fang even bristled up to him and walked
stiff-legged, but Lip-lip ignored the challenge. He was no fool himself, and
whatever vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait until he caught White
Fang alone.
Later
on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed into the edge of the woods next to
the camp. He had led his mother there, step by step, and now, when she stopped,
he tried to inveigle her farther. The stream, the lair, and the quiet woods
were calling to him, and he wanted her to come. He ran on a few steps, stopped,
and looked back. She had not moved. He whined pleadingly, and scurried
playfully in and out of the underbrush. He ran back to her, licked her face,
and ran on again. And still she did not move. He stopped and regarded her, all
of an intentness and eagerness, physically expressed, that slowly faded out of
him as she turned her head and gazed back at the camp. [Stop reading here: 1,582 words =
94,920/tot. sec. = words per minute]
There
was something calling to him out there in the open. His mother heard it, too.
But she heard also that other and louder call, the call of the fire and of man
-- the call which it has been given alone of all animals to the wolf to answer,
to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are brothers.
Kiche
turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the physical
restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her. Unseen and
occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would not let her go.
White Fang sat down in the shadow of a birch and whimpered softly. There was a
strong smell of pine, and subtle woods fragrances filled the air, reminding him
of his old life of freedom before the days of his bondage. But he was still
only a part-grown puppy, and stronger than the call either of man or of the
Wild was the call of his mother. All the hours of his short life he had depended
upon her. The time was yet to come for independence. So he arose and trotted
forlornly back to camp, pausing once, and twice, to sit down and whimper and to
listen to the call that still sounded in the depths of the forest.
In the Wild the time of
a mother with her young is short; but under the dominion of man it is sometimes
even shorter. Thus it was with White Fang. Gray Beaver was in the debt of Three
Eagles. Three Eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the
But
gods are accustomed to being obeyed, and Gray Beaver wrathfully launched a
canoe in pursuit. When he overtook White Fang, he reached down and by the nape
of the neck lifted him clear of the water. He did not deposit him at once in
the bottom of the canoe. Holding him suspended with one hand, with the other
hand he proceeded to give him a beating. And it was a beating. His hand
was heavy. Every blow was shrewd to hurt; and he delivered a multitude of
blows.
Impelled
by the blows that rained upon him, now from this side, now from that, White
Fang swung back and forth like an erratic and jerky pendulum.
Varying were the emotions that surged through him. At first, he had known
surprise. Then came a momentary fear, when he yelped
several times to the impact of the hand. But this was quickly followed by
anger. His free nature asserted itself, and he showed his teeth and snarled
fearlessly in the face of the wrathful god. This but served to make the god
more wrathful. The blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd
to hurt.
Gray
Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this could not
last forever. One or the other must give over, and that one was White Fang.
Fear surged through him again. For the first time he was being really
man-handled. The occasional blows of sticks and stones he had previously
experienced were as caresses compared with this. He broke down and began to cry
and yelp. For a time each blow brought a yelp from him; but fear passed into
terror, until finally his yelps were voiced in unbroken succession, unconnected
with the rhythm of the punishment.
At
last Gray Beaver withheld his hand. White Fang, hanging limply, continued to
cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who flung him down roughly in the
bottom of the canoe. In the meantime the canoe had drifted down the stream.
Gray Beaver picked up the paddle. White Fang was in his way. He spurned him
savagely with his foot. In that moment White Fang's free nature flashed forth
again, and he sank his teeth into the moccasined foot.
The beating that had
gone before was as nothing compared with the beating he now received. Gray
Beaver's wrath was terrible; likewise was White Fang's fright. Not only the
hand, but the hard wooden paddle was used upon him; and he was bruised and sore
in all his small body when he was again flung down in the canoe. Again, and
this time with purpose, did Gray Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his
attack on the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no
matter what the circumstance, must he dare to bite the god who was lord and
master over him; the body of the lord and master was sacred, not to be defiled
by the teeth of such as he. That was evidently the crime of crimes, the one
offence there was no condoning nor overlooking.
When
the canoe touched the shore, White Fang lay whimpering and motionless, waiting
the will of Gray Beaver. It was Gray Beaver's will that he should go ashore,
for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on his side and hurting his bruises
afresh. He crawled tremblingly to his feet and stood whimpering. Lip-lip, who
had watched the whole proceeding from the bank, now rushed upon him, knocking
him over and sinking his teeth into him. White Fang was too helpless to defend
himself, and it would have gone hard with him had not Gray Beaver's foot shot
out, lifting Lip-lip into the air with its violence so that he smashed down to
earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animal's justice; and even then, in
his own pitiable plight, White Fang experienced a little grateful thrill. At
Gray Beaver's heels he limped obediently through the village to the tepee. And
so it came that White Fang learned that the right to
punish was something the gods reserved for themselves and denied to the lesser
creatures under them.
That
night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother and sorrowed for
her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Gray Beaver, who beat him. After that
he mourned gently when the gods were around. But sometimes, straying off to the
edge of the woods by himself, he gave vent to his grief, and cried it out with
loud whimperings and wailings.
It was during this
period that he might have hearkened to the memories of the lair and the stream
and run back to the Wild. But the memory of his mother held him. As the hunting
man-animals went out and came back, so she would come back to the village
sometime. So he remained in his bondage waiting for her.
But
it was not altogether an unhappy bondage. There was much to interest him.
Something was always happening. There was no end to the strange things these
gods did, and he was always curious to see. Besides, he was learning how to get
along with Gray Beaver. Obedience, rigid, undeviating obedience, was what was
exacted of him; and in return he escaped beatings and his existence was
tolerated.
Nay,
Gray Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a piece of meat, and defended him
against the other dogs in the eating of it. And such a piece of meat was of
value. It was worth more, in some strange way, than a dozen pieces of meat from
the hand of a squaw. Gray Beaver never petted nor caressed. Perhaps it was the
weight of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the sheer power of him, and
perhaps it was all these things that influenced White Fang; for a certain tie
of attachment was forming between him and his surly lord.
Insidiously, and by
remote ways, as well as by the power of stick and stone and clout of hand, were
the shackles of White Fang's bondage being riveted upon him.
The qualities in his kind that in the beginning made it possible for them to
come in to the fires of men, were qualities capable of
development. They were developing in him, and the camp-life, replete with
misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself to him all the time. But White
Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Kiche, hope for her
return, and a hungry yearning for the free life that had been his. [Stop
reading here: 1,454 words = 87,240/tot. sec. = words per minute]