Runt

Clarion Books / New York

Clarion Books
a Houghton Mifflin Company imprint
215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003
Copyright © 2002 by Marion Dane Bauer

The text was set in 11.5-point Zapf Calligraphic.

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce
selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
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Printed in the U.S.A

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bauer, Marion Dane.
Runt / by Marion Dane Bauer
p. cm.
Summary: Runt, the smallest wolf cub in the litter, seeks to prove
himself to his father, King, and the rest of the pack and to earn a new name.
ISBN 0-618-21261-2
1 Wolves—Juvenile fiction. [1. Wolves—Fiction.] I. Title
PZ10 3 B317 Ru 2002
[FicJ—dc21
2002003965

VB 10 9 8

For my dear friends and fellow faculty
at the Vermont College Master of Fine Arts
in Writing for Children and Young Adults
program, and for the students who have
passed through my heart

M
Y APPRECIATION TO
J
AMES
C
ROSS
G
IBLIN
,
MY EDITOR OF NEARLY THIRTY YEARS.
Y
OU HAVE NEVER FAILED ME.

Spring comes late to the forests of northern Minnesota. Geese soar in from the south, only to stand flat-footed on frozen lakes, complaining loudly to one another. Bears, groggy and cross, emerge to a world still cloaked in snow. Deer search in vain for tender shoots. Yet the wolf pups pushing their way into the world found their den warm and dry and welcoming.

Their silver mother greeted them, one by one, drying wet fur with her tongue and massaging breath into each tiny body. And though their eyes were sealed, their ears folded tightly against their heads, she could guess already what place each would take in the pack.

"Leader" she named the first brown pup, a vigorous male. The second, a female, she
called "Sniffer." And she gave Sniffer's twitching nose an extra lick. Another female arrived, with spindly legs already in motion. "Runner," Silver said. "You will be swift and sure-footed, and the pack will need you." Then she drew the pup toward her nurturing body. The fourth emerged with his brow furrowed. "Thinker," his mother said fondly, licking his forehead smooth. "You will always be watching and planning, won't you?"

The den, dug into a hill above a frozen lake, angled downward from the entrance for six feet, then made a ninety-degree turn and rose for another six feet to the birthing room. The pups' father, King, a large black wolf with a white star on his chest, had been lying at the turn of the narrow tunnel, listening, waiting. As each pup emerged, his tail wagged fiercely. When the fourth pup had settled at the mother's side, King backed rapidly toward the surface.

"Four pups," he told the others waiting there. "Four healthy pups. Each one of them big and strong!" Then he danced, leaping and whirling for the joy of the new life that had come to the pack.

Helper, a young tan male born to these same parents the year before, danced, too. His silver sister, Hunter, joined them. "How fine to have pups!" they sang. How fine, too, no longer to be the youngest, the least in the pack!

Bider, a mature male, pure white, came forward. "What good news, King," he said, lowering his body and reaching up to nudge his leader's chin.

A few moments later, however, when King and the two yearlings lifted their heads to sing the new pups' praise, Bider looked on in silence. Once he, too, had been king. He'd had his own pack, his own pups to sing for. But that was before he had been deposed and driven out to hunt alone in the darkest part of winter. Now he waited, biding his time ... and another king's pups were not what he was waiting for. He turned from the celebration.

The howl finished, King crawled once more into the den to check on his new family. Leader, Sniffer, Runner, Thinker. What splendid pups!

This time, though, he stopped, puzzled,
halfway between the entrance and the birthing room. What was that new smell? He strained to see in the deep dark of the den. The eyes of a wolf gather in even the faintest rays of light, so he could just make out the four brown furry bundles lined up along their mother's belly. They were nursing vigorously, intent on their first meal. King's tail went into motion at the very sight of them.

But Silver was busy with something more. A pup? Was she washing another pup? Yes. This one black like his father, black with a minute white star on his chest.

King's own chest swelled at the sight, and he inched forward eagerly. A look-alike son! What name would his mate choose for this son who wore his black fur and white star?

But Silver offered no name. She only went on licking.

King scooted forward further to check his son himself. He sniffed the new pup from nose to tail, tail to nose again, then drew back slowly.

Something was wrong. The black pup was small. Much too small. And he was not yet breathing.

"Runt!" The name exploded from King. "This one's a runt."

The world beyond the den was a good one, but it was hard. Only the strongest, the best, the most intelligent and competent survived in it. And sometimes not even they. Two of the pups in the last litter had died before they ever emerged from the den. Their mother had taken them, one at a time, off into the forest to bury them. Would she be doing the same again?

At last, under Silver's persistent tongue, the black pup took a breath. Then another. Air filled his tiny lungs, just as it did his brothers' and sisters', and his mother drew him gently toward her belly to begin to nurse.

Only then did Silver acknowledge her mate and the name that had sprung unbidden from his lips. "He may be Runt for now," she said, laying her chin across this latest arrival, "but who knows what gift he may bring to the pack?"

"Who knows?" King repeated softly, though wasn't the pup's mother supposed to know? She always had before. "Maybe," he added, "you have a better name."

Silver was silent for a long time. "No," she said at last, "I know no other. Not yet."

Which only confirmed King's fears. His son was marked for death.

The pups' father looked long and hard at his five offspring, especially at this last, the one whose black fur and white star filled him with such love. Then, tail wagging more slowly this time, he backed toward the surface to carry this further news to the pack.

Leader, Sniffer, Runner, Thinker. Four fine pups.

And Runt. Now there was Runt.

For the next few weeks Runt and his brothers and sisters emerged slowly into a world of scent and sight and sound. Their eyes opened. Stiletto teeth popped through pink gums. They drank their mother's warm milk and snuggled against her side to sleep, then woke to nurse and drifted into sleep again. Silver rarely left them except to get water, and when she did, she was always back almost before the befuddled pups had recognized her absence.

Gradually, they came to be aware of the great black wolf who came often into the den. He brought with him the rich scent of the meat he carried in his mouth for their mother or coughed up for her from his belly. But the pups had no interest in meat yet.

Gradually, too, as they crawled over the
pile of fuzzy bodies to reach milk and warmth and the comforting caress of their mother's tongue, they began to notice one another. They went from crawling to wobbling along on uncertain legs. To pouncing. To clumsy tussles.

And they grew. Their bellies constantly round and tight with milk, they doubled or tripled their weight in a week, tripled it again in three weeks. Runt grew, too, of course, but he remained the smallest, much smaller even than his two sisters. When the game was wrestling, he ended up on the bottom of the heap. When two competed for the same teat, he was the one pushed aside.

Still, he accepted his inferior size without question, as infants will. He accepted his name, too. His mother spoke it so softly, with such musical tones. "Runt. Sweet Runt. My dear little Runt." So when the day finally came for Silver to call the pups from the familiar darkness of the den, he followed without the slightest concern about what the world might hold for such a pup as he.

The last to stumble into the dazzle of a
spring morning, he paused in the mouth of the den, blinking. All around him, his brothers and sisters tumbled, emitting small, inarticulate yelps of pleasure. Only Runt stood silent, overwhelmed by the wonders spread before him.

"What is that, Mother?" he asked at last. "And that, and that?"

"That is the sky," she told him of the soft-looking blue roof above their heads. And the radiant ball that floated in it, so brilliant he had to turn his face away, was the sun. The sweet-smelling stuff riffling in the breeze in every direction was called grass, and that other sky, stretched out at the bottom of the hill below the den, was a lake.

Beyond the lake and at the edges of the grassy clearing spreading away from their den on every side, a wall of darker green rose. "Trees," Silver explained. The trees held up the sky, floated upside down in the sky lake, and whispered to one another as the wind stirred among them.
The pups are here,
Runt thought he heard them say.
See! The new wolf pups are here.

And overlooking it all reigned the great
black wolf whom Runt had come to know as his father. King lay on a slab of rock above the mouth of the den. His golden gaze took in each of his pups in turn.
You are mine,
those eyes said.
Never forget that you are mine.

Runt's entire body warmed with pleasure. How could he ever forget? How could he be anything but grateful for the gift of his father's world?

He had long understood that his father came and went from a place beyond the warm den he and his littermates shared with their mother. But he had never imagined King's world to be anything more than another den, perhaps deeper and darker than the one he knew. He hadn't guessed that it contained other wolves, either.

Two yearlings, a tan male and a silver female, approached the pups.

"I am your brother, Helper," said the male, bowing with front legs outstretched.

"Your sister, Hunter," the female announced.

Then they danced around the pups. "Leader, Runner, Sniffer, Thinker, Runt," they sang. "Welcome. Welcome to our world."

"Leader, Runner, Sniffer, Thinker, Runt!" called a low voice from the surrounding forest.

"The trees!" Runt cried. "They welcome us, too!"

Hunter laughed.

"That welcome comes from our friend Owl," Helper explained gently. "He often answers our songs."

"Friend Owl," Runt repeated, looking fondly at his clever brother.

A glossy black creature came floating down from the sky and landed in the midst of the pups.

"Are you Owl?" Runt asked, suddenly shy beneath the bird's bright-eyed gaze.

"Of course not," the creature replied, fluffing his feathers. "I am Raven. And who might you be?" He side-hopped a step or two, moving closer.

There wasn't much Runt knew in this unfamiliar world, but he was certain of his name. Nonetheless, his tongue seemed to freeze under this stranger's intense scrutiny.

Raven strutted around the speechless pup, examining him from every side. "You are small, aren't you?" he said at last. "Smaller
than all the rest. But still"—he tipped his head to one side, considering—"small can be brave ... fierce. Why, I've seen a pair of wrens chase a marauding crow the length of the sly. And the small red squirrel often puts the larger gray to shame."

Brave? Fierce?
Runt hardly knew the meaning of the words. He liked their sound, though.

Raven stopped directly in front of Runt. "Surely, though, even a scrap of a pup like you has a name."

Runt ducked his head shyly. Perhaps Mother would answer this inquisitive bird ... or his father, who watched them all with such observing eyes. But neither of them did.

Finally, growing impatient, Raven spread his wings, lifted off the ground, and landed on the slab of rock next to King. "You seem to have sired a pup who doesn't know his own name," he announced, cocking his head toward Runt.

King lay with his chin on his paws. He gazed at Runt but still made no reply.

"The good-looking black fellow," Raven prompted, as though King might not know
which pup he meant. "The one who takes after me."

The great wolf's head came up sharply. "After
me,
Raven."

"After you?" Raven acted surprised. "How could that be? He has such intelligent eyes. And his feathers ... they're so black and glossy."

"Fur!" King growled. "My son has fur!"

My son.
Runt liked those words, too ... even better than
brave
and
fierce.

"Perhaps you call him Star," Raven persisted. "Since he bears your white star. Or Prince? That would be a good name for a pup who wears the king's black coat."

The silence that greeted each of Raven's suggestions seemed to give weight to the surrounding air. Even the two yearlings stared off across the lake as though there were suddenly something of great interest passing on the opposite shore.

At last, since it was clear no one else was going to answer, Runt found his own voice. "My name is Runt," he called to Raven. "They call me Runt."

"Runt?" Raven repeated. "
Runt?
" He
shook his head as though to rid himself of the sound of the name.

"Ruuuuuunnnt?" came an echo from the lake, rising and falling in laughter, though Runt had no idea who had spoken.

"That's right." A large white wolf Runt hadn't noticed before stepped into the discussion. "His name is Runt, and Loon is right to laugh." He gave Silver a bump with his shoulder. "Too bad you didn't have these pups with me," he said low, under his breath, though not so low as to keep the rest from hearing. "Then there would be no runts."