White Fang by Jack London - Part 1, Chapter 1 - The Trail of the Meat

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Part one, Chapter one of White Fang, presented by Dream
Audio Books. White Fang by Jack London, Part one, Chapter one,
The trail of the meat. Dark spruce forest frowned on
either side of the frozen waterway. The trees had been

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stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost,
and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and
ominous in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over
the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless without movement,
so lone and cold that the spirit of it was
not even that of sadness. There was a hint in

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it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than
any sadness, a laughter that was mirthless as the smile
of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost, and
partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful
and incommunitiable wisdom of eternity, laughing at the futility of
life and the effort of life. It was the wild,

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the savage, frozen hearted Northland wild. But there was life
abroad in the land, and defiant Down the frozen waterway
toiled a string of wolfish dogs, their bristly fur was
rhymed with frost. Their breath frozen the air as it
left their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapor that

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settled upon the hair of their bodies and formed into
crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the dogs, and
leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along behind.
The sled was without runners. It was made of stout
birch bark, and its full surface rested on the snow.
The front end of the sled was turned up like

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a scroll in order to force down and under the
bore of soft snow that surged like a wave before it.
On the sledge, securely lashed was a long and narrow
oblong box. There were other things on the sled, blankets,
an axe, and a coffee pot and frying pan, but prominent,
occupying most of the space was the long and narrow

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oblong box. In advance of the dogs on wide snow
shoes toiled a man at the rear of the sled
toiled a second man on the sled. In the box
lay a third man, whose toil was over a man
whom the wild had conquered and beaten down until he
would never move nor struggle again. It is not the

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way of the wild to like movement. Life is an
offense to it. For life is movement, and the wild
aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to
prevent it running to the sea. It drives the sap
out of the trees till they are frozen to their
mighty hearts. And most ferociously and terribly of all does

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the wild hairy and crush into submit man, man, who
is the most restless of life ever in revolt against
the dictum that all movement must in the end come
to the cessation of movement. But at front and rear,
unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men, who were not
yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and soft

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tanned leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated
with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces
were not discernible. This gave them the seeming of ghostly
masks undertakers in a spectral world at the funeral of
some ghost. But under it all they were men penetrating
the land of desolation and mockery and silence. Puny adventurers

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bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of
a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the
abysses of space. They traveled on without speech, saving their
breath for the work of their bodies. On every side
was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible presence.

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It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep
water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them
with the weight of unending, vastness and unalterable decree. It
crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds,
pressing out of them like juices from the grape, all
the false ardors and exultations and undue self values of

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the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and small,
specks and moats, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom
amidst the play and interplay of the great blind elements
and forces. An hour went by, and a second hour.
The pale light of the short sunless day was beginning

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to fade when a faint far cry arose on the
still air. It soared upward with a swift rush till
it reached its topmost note, where it persisted palpitant in tense,
and then slowly died away. It might have been a
lost soul wailing had it not been invested with a
certain sad, fierceness and hungry eagerness. The front man turned

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his head until his eyes met the eyes of the
man behind, and then across the narrow, oblong box. Each
nodded to the other. A second cry arose, piercing the
silence with needle like shrillness. Both men located the sound.
It was to the rear, somewhere in the snow expanse

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they had just traversed. A third and answering cry arose,
also to the rear and to the left of the
second cry. Thereafter, us bill, said the man at the front.
His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken
with apparent effort. Meat is scarce, answered his co I

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ain't seen a rabbit sign. For days. Thereafter, they spoke
no more, though their ears were keen for the hunting
cries that continued to rise behind them. At the fall
of darkness, they swung the dogs into a cluster of
spruce trees on the edge of the waterway and made
a camp. The coffin at the side of the fire

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served for seat and table. The wolf dogs clustered on
the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves,
but evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.
Seems to me, Henry, there's stayin remarkable close to camp,
Bill commented Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the

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pot of coffee with a piece of ice, nodded, nor
did he speak till he had taken his seat on
the coffin and begun to eat. They know where their
hides is safe, he said. They'd sooner eat grub than
be grub. They're pretty wise, them dogs. Bill shook his head. Oh,

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I don't know, His comrade looked at him curiously. First
time I ever heard you say anything about there not
being wise, Henry said, the other, munching with deliberation the
beans he was eating. Did you happen to notice the
way them dogs kicked up when I was a feeding them?

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They dig cut up more than usual? Henry acknowledged, How
many dogs have we got? Henry six? Well? Henry. Bill
stopped for a moment in order that his words might
gain greater significance. As I was saying, Henry we've got
six dogs. I took six fish out of the bag.

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I gave one fish to each dog, and Henry, I
was one fish short. You counted wrong. We've got six dogs,
the other reiterated dispassionately. I took out six fish. One
ear didn't get no fish. I'll come back to the

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bag afterward and got him as fish. We've only got
six dogs, Henry said. Henry. Bill went on, I won't
say they was all dogs, but there was seven of
them that got fish. Henry stopped eating to glance across
the fire and count the dogs. There's only six now,

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he said. I saw the other one run off across
the snow. Bill announced, with cool positiveness, I saw seven.
Henry looked at him commiseratingly and said, I'll be almighty
glad when this chip's over. What do you mean by that,

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Bill demanded. I mean that this load of iron is
getting on you nerves, and that you're beginning to see things.
I thought of that, Bill answered gravely. And so when
I saw it run off across the snow, I looked
in the snow and saw its tracks. Then I counted

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the dogs and there was still six of them. The
tracks is there in the snow. Now do you want
to look at him? I'll show them to you. Henry
did not reply, but bunched on in silence until the
meal finished. He topped it with a final cup of coffee.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand
and said, then you're thinking as it was, A long

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wailing cry, fiercely sad from somewhere in the darkness had
interrupted him. He stopped to listen to it. Then he
finished his sentence with a wave of his hand toward
the sound of the cry one of them. Bill nodded,
I'd a blame sight sooner think that than anything else.

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You noticed yourself the row. The dogs made cry after cry,
and answering cries were turning the silence into a bedlam.
From every side, the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed
their fear by huddling together and so close to the
fire that their hair was scorched by the heat. Bill
threw on more wood before lighting his pipe. I'm thinking

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you're down in the mouth some, Henry said Henry. He
sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time before he
went on, Henry, I was a thinking, what a blame sight? Luckier?
He is than you and me'll ever be. He indicated
the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb

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to the box on which they sat. You and me, Henry,
when we die, we'll be lucky if we get enough
stones over our carcasses to keep the dogs off of us.
But we ain't got people in money and all the
rest Like him, Henry rejoined, long distance funerals is something
you and me can't exactly afford. What gets me, Henry,

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is what a chap like this, that's a lord or
something in his own country, and that never had to
bother about grub nor blankets. Why he comes a button
round the god forsaken ends of the earth. That's what
I can't exactly see. He might have lived to a
ripe old age if he'd stayed at home. Henry agreed.

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Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead,
he pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about
them from every side. There was no suggestion of form
in the utter blackness. Only could be seen a pair
of eyes, gleaming like live coals. Henry indicated with his
head a second pair and a third A circle of

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the gleaming eyes had drawn about their camp now and
again a pair of eyes moved or disappeared, to appear
again a moment later. The unrest of the dogs had
been increasing, and they stampeded in a surge of sudden
fear to the near side of the fire, cringing and
crawling about the legs of the men. In the scramble.

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One of the dogs had been overturned on the edge
of the fire, and it had yelped with pain in
fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air.
The commotion caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly
for a moment, and even to withdraw a bit, but
it settled down again as the dogs became quiet. Henry,
it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition. Bill

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had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to
spread the bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce
boughs which he had laid over the snow before supper.
Henry grunted and began unlacing his moccasins. How many cartridges
did you say you had left, he asked, Three came
the end, sir, and I wish twas three hundred. Then

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I'd show him what for damn him. He shook his
fist angrily at the gleaming eyes and began securely to
prop his moccasins before the fire. And I wish this
cold snap had break, he went on. It's been fifty
below for two weeks now, and I wished I never
started on this trip, Henry. I don't like the looks

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of it. I don't feel right somehow. And while I'm wishing,
I wished the trip were over and done with. And
you and me sitting by the fire in Fort mc
gurry just about now and playing cribbage, That's what I
wished Hery grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off,
he was aroused by his comrade's voice. Say, Henry, that

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other one that come in and got a fish? Why
didn't the dogs pitch into it? That's what's bothering me.
You're botherin too much, Bill, the sleepy response. You was
never like this before. You jest, shut up now and
go to sleep, and you'll be all hunky dory in
the mornin'. Your stomach's sour, that's what's botherin you. The

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men slept breathing heavily, side by side under the one
covering the fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew
closer the circle they had flung about the camp. The
dogs clustered together in fear now and again, snarling menacingly
as a pair of eyes drew close. Once their uproar
became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out

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of bed, carefully so as not to disturb the sleep
of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire.
As it began to flame up, the circle of eyes
drew farther back. He glanced casually at the huddling dogs.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at them more sharply.
Then he crawled back into the blankets. Henry, he said, Oh, Henry.

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Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking and demanded,
what's wrong now? Nothin came the answer. Only there's seven
of em again, I just counted. Henry acknowledged receipt of
the information with the grunt that slid into a snore
as he drifted back into sleep. In the morning, it

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was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out
of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it
was already six o'clock, and in the darkness, Henry went
about preparing breakfast, while Bill rolled the blankets and made
the sledge ready for lashing, Say Henry, He asked, suddenly,
how many dogs did you say? We had? Six? Wrong?

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Bill proclaimed triumphantly seven. Again, Henry queried, no, five, one's gone.
The hell, Henry cried in wrath, leave the cooking to
come and count the dogs. You're right, Bill, he concluded,
Fatty's gone, and he went like grease lightning once he

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got started. Couldn't have seen him for smoke, No chance
at all, Henry concluded. They just swallowed him alive. I
bet he was yelpin as he went down. Their throats
dam him. He always was a fool dog, said Bill.
But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to
go out and commit suicide that way. He looked over

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the remainder of the team with a speculative eye that
summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. I
bet none of the others would do it. Couldn't drive
him away from the fire with a club. Bill agreed,
I always did think there was something wrong with Fatty anyway.
And this was the epiitaph of a dead dog on

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the Northland trail less scant than the epitaph of many,
Another dog of many, a man, end of Chapter one,