Short Story: Perched On The Edge of Sanity
Two wolves perched on a ledge, high above the undulating landscape. The wind howled and screeched around them, but their fine pelts of fur kept the winter cold at bay. The tundra was a harsh, unforgiving place, where mistakes were costly and life was a tapestry of freezing snow and steaming blood.
These two huge canines were no ordinary wolves - they were the leaders of their packs, the patrician masters of their respective tribes. They were gathered here today, rivals side by side, to contest for the leadership of the united families of the Dozen Families, masters of all the lands from here to the edge of the taiga. They awaited the gathering of their families in a silence that neither could stand for long. The two were eager for widely divergent reasons.
"Harumph," snorted the first, his breath sending a fine white spray of steam into the air, "this jostling is beneath me." He was a huge, regal wolf; the second ranked pair in the silverback tribe, he was old but still powerful. His restless paws tore at the thin foliage underfoot, eager to dispatch with the impudent youngster who would challenge him.
The youngster was cautious. Against the much larger, privileged wolf, his lowly status as a mid-ranked male of the mottled rust-black family counted heavily against him. This he knew - but there was much he had to offer the packs, power and privilege aside. Wisely, he chose not to answer.
The silver back paced restlessly. He was impatient, hungry, tense; and he began talking, beginning the battle that would be fought between them. "I deserve this leadership, pupling. You know that we silverbacks belong in leadership - it is the birthright of the alpha males of our tribe. Now that the old one is sick, this privilege falls to me."
"Perhaps you do, Fearfang," said the mottled rust-black wolf, "But times have changed, and the old one's leadership was always a faltering one, even when he was of good health - the others question the continuing ability of the silverbacks to lead us out of this winter."
Fearfang threw back his head and howled, a terrifying sound that rung clearly through the lands of the packs. One, two, then ten and then a score of howls returned. The packs were nearly here - they would arrive, before long.
"We have not been led by one of your kind in generations, pupling. The silverbacks have proven resolute, steadfast and aggressive in expanding our territory. We defended the pride of the tundra when so many of our brothers were slaughtered by the white wolves of the taiga."
"The defence you refer to involved us attacking the two-legs instead. How does that defend our pride? Now, the two-legs scream at us, because we attack their sheep. The wolves of the taiga continue to attack us, because we boldly enter their territory, ignoring all their markings."
"It is not us that instigated this struggle for territory. You have never been in the thick of such a struggle yourself - how could you possibly imagine it, youngling? The irony! No wonder they call you Hopeless."
"What's in a name, Fearfang? You of all wolves should know. But what of my point? The fact remains - we do nothing but anger the other tribes around us. For now, they are disorganised, weaker, and we think that the minor dominion we hold over them will last. The two-legs merely scream, having no claws or fangs to fight for their territory. Our rule is a rule of fear - the leadership of the silverbacks is nothing but an appeal to our most base emotions. Why should we not enlist other wolves in fighting our common enemy, the two-legs?"
“No wonder they call you Hopeless.”
"They all are a pack of gibbering pups, perched on the edge of sanity!" the silver back bristled, his teeth showing, his haunches arched. He growled, deep and angrily. "How presumptuous of you to know what our people want! Our people are under siege, being pressed and harassed on all sides by our enemies. They are afraid, and so the silverbacks will provide them with protection. Step down, pupling. Under my leadership, we shall forever cement our place as rulers of the tundra - one day, the taiga too - without the need for allies!"
The youngling sat still, his ears upright, not even reacting to the silverback's provocation. Their pack-mates were near - the angry silverback would not attack him. The distant barking came nearer and nearer, until the grey, brown and black pelts of their fellows emerged from the shadowed landscape.
The mottled youngster resisted the urge to bound playfully at the sight of the others - he was excited and he had never seen the might of the Dozen Families in full. One by one, in pairs and in family units, the wolves gathered. There was an electric tension in the sub-zero air; the tang of canine scents intermingled at the base of the cliff. The day was wearing on, and weak sun began to hoard its miserly light. It was not long before all of the tribe had gathered but for one pack.
Fearfang paced restlessly, his eagerness to continue clearly visible in his body language. Hopeless held his ground, though he was careful to keep a wary eye on Fearfang's position at all times. Their leader was coming, and all awaited respectfully. Before long, the wind shifted northward and the Dozen Families scented their incumbent leader. As one, the wolves quieted.
A huge, hulking wolf moved up behind the contesting rivals. His paws raked the ground with each step ponderously, so all would know that he had passed. His muzzle was criss-crossed with a multitude of scars where he had been struck by prey or rivals in battles long past. His guard hairs were spotlessly clean, gleaming a regal silver in the dying sunlight, bleached white with extreme age. The elderly wolf was the alpha male of the first family, the greatest of the silverbacks. The two rivals turned and made room on the cliff top, backing away on lowered haunches, with their tails slightly tucked between their legs in the proper gesture of respect.
The leader rubbed his scent over both of them, marking the two as candidates in the succession. He spent especially long on the other silverback, making it clear to all that he preferred his succession to pass to those of his own tribe.
The old leader walked stiffly to the rise, his ears erect and forward in the whipping afternoon breeze. In a cascade of motion, the wolves below fell into positions of respect. The older ones arched their backs and tucked their tails between their legs; the younger ones rolled onto the ground outright, paws indrawn. The whimpers of the lesser dogs mingled into a chorus - their cries were the music of power; a sound that all ambitious wolves craved. Bushtail, master of the tundra and lord of wolves, waited for the ritual to conclude. When the whimpers of submission had died down, he spoke. "My fellow dogs," he began, as the wolves arose to restful positions, ready to hear their leader.
“My fellow dogs. We are gathered here today to decide the fate of the tribe. The pack must choose its leader.”
"My fellow dogs," the old silverback repeated, as the tribe regained their footing, "winter's fangs will not tarry. As I slept, I had a vision come to me. I am here to reveal to you that by the deepest snowfall of this winter, I shall no longer be leader of the Dozen Families. My vision was of the bountiful fields beyond this life; it is there that I shall journey in the depths of this winter." The old silverback's speech and movement were slurred, the message behind his glands faint and indistinct. He was not universally loved, and indeed, much of his leadership had been as indistinct and muddled as his communication was now. There were even questions about his ability as a hunter, unknown to the tribe until after he had been chosen as the leader. But he had been a strong wolf of outstanding ability and sired many young; and his silverback father had been the leader before him, so his character and breeding had catapulted him to the highest rank of leadership. Now, in response to this revelation, the wolves began howling. Their cries filled the air, long, ages-old territorial marking instinct. This tundra is ours, said the howl, and may our enemies who attempt to enter perish! The old leader patiently waited or their howling to die down, and when it did, he spoke again, "My fellow dogs. We are gathered here today to decide the fate of the tribe. The pack must choose its leader."
With that, the old leader backed away from the ridge, for the two potential successors to advance and put their case to their fellows. By right of status, Fearfang spoke first.
"My fellow dogs," Fearfang began, self assured and experienced, "I nominate myself as successor to the old one. Through the great famines of winter past, when hunger thinned our number like so many saplings trodden underfoot, I did my part for the Families. You all know how I have fought for you, how my blood stained the white snow upon which your paws tread today. At the breaking of every winter, I have been in the front of the hunting pack, attacking our enemies and bringing home our prey. I am a capable leader, as those who have followed my hunting pack know. I am committed to staying the course that the old one has set - we shall continue to war with the wolves of the taiga, a fight that we can and will win!"
He stood stiff legged and erect; and many of the wolves below signalled their support. A cascade of bared bellies submitted to the leadership of the silverback and Fearfang lifted his ears in triumph.
The mottled youngling was afraid. He had kept himself in control this whole time, feeling out of his depth amongst the regal silverbacks, feeling out of place with his coloured guard hairs. But he steeled his reserve and set his course. He assumed the central position on the bluff as Fearfang backed away from the edge, giving his rival room to speak.
“We shall continue to war with the wolves of the taiga, a fight that we can and will win!”
"My fellow dogs," the youngling began, unsure and unsteady, "I... I come to you, at a critical time in our history." He was inexperienced, but his youthful glands and well-defined musculature communicated his message strongly, the wind at his back encouraging him to speak loudly. "I invite you to ask, as I do, whether our previous course has been steady. Fearfang and the silverbacks offer us a promise to 'stay the course', and speak of their character and values. I ask you then - what is the course that we walk? Our hunting has degenerated from the noble culling of the past. Today, wolves jockey for position, seeking to kill as many caribou as possible, rather than enough to feed the tribe. We hunt the sheep of the two-legs, targeting the easy prey instead of those we catch ourselves."
Loud barks came from some of the hunting males of the Families, who saw this as an attack on their pride and masculinity. It was true - the tribe spent a lot of time and energy in useless overkill, thinning the numbers of their prey for sport. The mottled one saw some of the youngest males abstain from joining in - they were young, but had lived their lives chasing ever-thinning numbers of prey. This caused many of the wolves to start hunting the caribou and other livestock in the pens of the two-legs, whose scent always smelled like danger.
"If we continue on this course, there will be fewer and fewer in the herds - even now, we see their number dwindle before our very eyes, and deny that we are causing it - until there are none. And then we will be forced to hunt only the animals of the two-legs - and perhaps they have claws and fangs we do not know about. If I was your leader," the youngling had to speak above the din that the males were making, "I would kill only those that the Families need to survive, respecting the right of our prey to grow old and sire pups. We would stop hunting the animals of the two-legs. This policy helps our prey grow more numerous and only makes our lives easier."
His elegant explanation did not sway the fighting males, though he was encouraged by the sight of some of the she-wolves abstaining from joining in the barking din. He continued, forging ahead with his ideas. "We are not the sole owners of the herds that move through our lands - we are the caretakers of our cousins, the hoofed creatures. Ensuring that they live, while feeding off their sick and old will ensure that our children will have a future. Not angering the two-legs more than we have to is only prudent - they are masters of so many other animals, it would be folly to assume that they are powerless."
“Not angering the two-legs more than we have to is only prudent - they are masters of so many other animals, it would be folly to assume that they are powerless.”
The male wolves, especially those of the silverbacks, were trying to drown him out with their barking; but he saw his chance and howled powerfully, a resonant, strong sound that rung off the distant hills and echoed throughout the land. The wolves grew silent. In the silence, broken only by the whispering wind and the racing cold, the mottled rust-black delivered his message. "I promise you change, I promise you hope, I promise a path for our tribe that leads not to war or to wastage, but to peace and plenty."
There was a silent moment as the pack heard him. Fearfang saw the power of the mottled wolf's ideas; and moved to act quickly - he shouldered the youngling from the bluff, and resumed the speaking position.
"How little these pups know of the world!" Fearfang said scornfully, his voice full of malice. "This is my promise - the promise of priorities! The important priority is to keep our fighting males strong - what better way than allow them to hone their skills on our prey? Every member of our hoofed 'cousins' belongs to this tribe - they live in our lands, thus any one of their number is ours for the taking - the two-legs and their animals included. I do not pretend to know very much about how these lower creatures breed," and at his, he growled disdain at the very idea, "but I see no evidence it is our blood sport that keeps their number low; nor do I see any evidence that the two-legs can ever hurt us!" The silverback barked once, and then again, twice emphasising the point. He did not bother to ascertain the feeling of the watching wolves, and continued his diatribe. "The young one is untried and untested. Look at the company he keeps! Mottled, black brown dogs in all. Not one a hunter, not one a father, not a worthy wolf among them!"
A chorus of barks, supportive and angry, greeted Fearfang's dangerous words. There were far less mottles than the silverbacks - lower ranked than all other families; they kept to themselves and did not attempt to seek much power nor glory. The other families, amongst them the numerous blackpelts and the brownmanes, usually placed their support behind the silverback leader thoughtlessly, looking outside their own families for leadership. They were families that were totally dominated by the larger silverbacks - they had little hope of their own for anything different. Compared to his direct family, the mottled challenger was unique. Fearfang was seeking to marginalise the mottles - their opinions rarely mattered; thus silverback leaders had never seen the need to court their support. The mottle wondered if Fearfang's tactics would prevail. There was still very strong support amongst hunting males for the silverback, and that support alone could bestow upon him the leadership. Fearfang knew this as much as the mottle did.
"You all know," Fearfang continued in his populist tone, "if I were to ascend to the leadership of the tribe that I would take with me my mate, Silvara, mother of two dozen pups and a hunter unmatched amongst the she-wolves." There was a cautious ground swell of barks from the assembled wolves at this - Silvara was popular amongst the she-wolves who joined in the hunting; and her ability to breed was impressive, but most knew that she was far from a wise and cautious hunter, often endangering the rest of her hunting group with her rash actions. The mottled black brown saw an opportunity here - he could point out the unpopularity of Silvara to the tribe - but then he stopped himself as he considered. Fearfang was a born leader and he knew the intricacies of canine power plays inside out. The reference to his mate was a trap - Fearfang expected the mottled challenger to attack her reputation, showing great disrespect for her actions, which would enrage the more hierarchal-minded dogs.
The mottled back shook himself free of his reverie and listened to the rest of Fearfang's speech. "... I do admit that the old chief has led us somewhat astray. He led us into the fight against the taiga scum without committing enough of our fighting males to the cause. I have always been for expanding our territory - and if you too, love the tundra and wish to keeps us safe - the only option is to choose me as your leader. I will drag our tribe through times of bloodied fang and rotting enemy corpses - I will drag as by the necks, as a she-wolf does her pups, leading you to the glorious teat of absolute dominance! If I become your leader, then we will rule both the tundra and taiga unopposed."
“I will drag our tribe through times of bloodied fang and rotting enemy corpses - I will drag as by the necks, as a she-wolf does her pups, leading you to the glorious teat of absolute dominance!”
The assembled wolves cheered at this, yelps and cries filling the air. The old one was more unpopular than either of the contenders had imagined. Fearfang's attack against his policy of winning the fight against the taiga wolves easily was popular; as the second ranked silverback, he was taking a maverick step by distancing himself from the most senior silverback in the tribe. It was now the mottled wolf's turn to speak again, likely his final chance at winning them over.
"My fellow dogs," he began, sensing the importance of addressing the very question of who he was, "I recognise that I am not your ideal patrician candidate. I recognise that my fur is not the colour that you expect. But I urge you - listen to the truths that I am speaking today - if you will not, then realise the facts that you see before your eyes. The tribe's strength wanes because we are fighting this war - and as a leader, I will end it. Our tribe's future should be one of hope; of change, of a breaking with the old ways that have not worked and finding new ways that can." The young wolves barked madly at this, voicing their support more loudly than before. The mottle continued, "our new leader should be one who leads with reality firmly in mind, a leader who does not lead by birthright but by ability. I am a wolf of mottled pelage. What of it? The Dozen Families consist of wolves of all colours, blackpelts, brownmanes and silverbacks. But we are not a tribe of wolves made up of individual colours; at odds with each other and at constant war with our neighbours - we are the Dozen Families, the greatest pack of the tundra, united by bonds of family and shared struggle, surviving the winters of this harsh place by conserving our strength and helping each other." At that, many mid ranked males from the other families joined in, sensing an opportunity for rebellion against the silverbacks. An aroma hung in the air - a building anticipation from the assembled wolves. "The silverbacks are our leaders, but they are not the only ones whose efforts deserve to be recognised. Males of all colours join in the hunt to bring down prey; no single wolf can do it alone. She-wolves of all colours give birth to puplings that we might grow ever stronger. Fearfang offers you an old, well-trodden path - the pursuit of greatness and glory through violence and destruction. In return, I have naught to offer you but the truth; hard, inglorious times - but a leadership that will help us survive and prosper." The masses of multi-coloured pelts below cascaded into a wave of activity; wolves barked and scampered about, excited; the taste of the air was pregnant with expectation.
The cold wind howled.
“I recognise that I am not your ideal patrician candidate. I recognise that my fur is not the colour that you expect. But I urge you - listen to the truths that I am speaking today”
Two bright, gleaming fangs burst into the vision of the young wolf. Fearfang growled a primal curse, a challenge to a battle for succession as ancient as the race of wolves itself. The huge silver-furred alpha wolf launched himself at the mottle-coloured wolf named Hopeless.
Desperate claws lashed out as the two wolves crashed bodily into each other, fang and claw and grunt and growl. Hopeless fought furiously, his youthful body singing with the exhilaration of the fight. But old Fearfang was still strong, and far more battle hardened - he struck Hopeless easily from many directions, his sharp claws tearing at flesh and staining the ground with a dark, gory red. Hopeless felt his heart pumping furiously, and his vision began to blur. Fearfang struck again and again, the cunning patrician finding holes on the youngster's defensive crouch. Hopeless dropped to his forepaws, staggering backwards, away from Fearfang's furious mauling. Fearfang paced at an easy distance, confident that the end was nigh. The regal silverback howled, lifting his head in triumph, emitting a sound that was amplified by his supporters - numbering roughly half the assembled mass of wolves. Hopeless stared at his enemy through pain-rimmed eyes.
A gun coughed, a bullet spun through the air.
A fountain of red blood erupted from the side of the silverback's neck in his moment of triumph, cutting the howl short. Fearfang, second ranked hunter in the Dozen Families, fell to the ground, stunned by the shot. There was no time to see if he had survived. The mottled wolf saw the danger - there, downwind, hidden behind scant cover. Though he bled from a dozen wounds, he leapt into action, running at a punishing sprint toward the two-legs with the gun. He caught the two legs, still fumbling with his weapon, clamping down on the jugular and crushing the windpipe.
Then it was over. Hopeless collapsed in a heap, staining the white snow red. Fearfang too, bled from the gunshot wound - and the colour was the same.
The wind howled, long, wailing, marking out its territory - from shaded forest to tundra plain; sea to shining sea - nature, and not the wolf, was master of all.
“Nature, and not the wolf, was master of all”
A tongue. A warm, wet tongue, soothing, calming, healing. Then two, then three, and then there were dozens, the entire tribe having climbed the hill and now licking the wounds of their new leader clean. Mottle, brownmane, blackpelt, silverback - all helped to bring their leaders back to life.
Both Fearfang and Hopeless survived. Fearfang was forever weakened by the gunshot wound, robbed of his final strength in his last days. The younger wolf recuperated quickly, the saliva's antiseptic properties ensuring that his wounds would not be infected. And by fate, or chance, or the will of nature, so it came to be that the mottled black-brown wolf won the leadership of his tribe and carried them forth in the world. We know not what happens next, save to say that the old leader Bushtail passed from the world that winter, just as he predicted. And the young, intelligent, reasoned wolf discarded his puppy name `Hopeless', and his tribe gave him a new one: Hope.
- Written before the first election of Barack Obama, eventual two-term President of the United States (at the time of this post.)
