White Fang by Jack London - Part 3, Chapter 2 - The Bondage

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Part three, Chapter two of White Fang, presented by Dream
Audio Books. White Fang by Jack London, Part three, Chapter two,
The Bondage. The days were thronged with experience for White Fang.
During the time that Kiche was tied by the stick,

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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 loom their godlikeness. To man has been given the

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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 over guest, vapors and mists of fancy, eluding
the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power,

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intangible outcroppings of self into the realm of spirit. Unlike Man,
the wolf and the wild dog that have come into
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

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of faith is necessary to believe in such a God.
No effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in such
a God. There's no getting away from it. There it
stands on its two hind legs, club in hand, immensely potential,
passionate and wrathful and loving God in mystery and power,

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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 God's unmistakable and unescapable. As his mother Kee
Chey had rendered her allegiance to them at the first
cry of her name, so he was beginning to render

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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

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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

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lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It came
hard going, as it did counter too 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

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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

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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. Whitefang

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learned rapidly 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 them a bit of
meat or bone. After two or three painful adventures with

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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

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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

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of an opportunity when no man animal was near, to
spring upon him in 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.

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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.

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He never played and gambled 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 Whitefang of much of his puppyhood, and to

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make him, in his comportment, older than his age. Denied
the outlet through play of his energies, he recoiled upon
himself and developed his metal 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.

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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

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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 there his first taste of revenge. As Kei Cha,
when with the wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs
from the camps of men, so White Fang, in manner

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somewhat similar, lured lip Lip into Keichay's avenging jaws. Retreating
before lip Lip, White Fang made an indirect flight that
led in and out and around the various teepees of
the camp. He was a good runner, swifter than any
puppy of his size, and swifter than lip Lip, but
he did not run his best in this chase. He

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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 teepee, he ran full tilt into Kiche, lying
at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp

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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 disheveled,

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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

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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 whirrying him all the
way back to his own teepee. 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.

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Came the day when Gray Beaver, deciding that the liability
of her running away was past, released Keechey. 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,

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But lip Lip ignored the challenge. He was no fool himself,
and whatever vengeance he desired to reak, he could wait
until he caught White Fang alone. Later on that day,
Keechey 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

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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, pleading,
and scurried playfully in and out of the underbrush. He
ran back to her, licked her face, and ran on again,

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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. There was something calling to
him out there in the open. His mother heard it too,

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But she heard also that other and louder call, the
call of the fire and of man, the call which
has been given alone of all animals to the wolf.
To answer to the wolf and the wild dog, who
are brothers. Kicha turned and slowly trotted back toward camp.
Stronger than the physical restraint of the stick was the

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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 wood fragrances filled the air, reminding
him of his old life of freedom, before the days

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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

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once and twice to sit down in 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

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three eagles. Three eagles was going away on a trip
up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A strip
of scarlet cloth, a bear skin, twenty cartridges and kiche
went to pay the debt. White Fang saw his mother
taken aboard three eagles canoe, and tried to follow her.
A blow from three eagles knocked him backward to the land.

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The canoe shoved off. He sprang into the water and
swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Gray
Beaver to return. Even a man animal a god, White
Fang ignored such was the terror he was in of
losing his mother. But gods are accustomed to being obeyed,
and Gray Beaver wrathfully launched a canoe in pursuit. When

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he overtook White Fang, he reached down him 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

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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

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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 would served to make
the god more wrathful. The blows came faster, heavier, more
shrewd to hurt. Gray Beaver continued to beat White Fang

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continued to snarl. But this could not last forever. One
of the other must give over, and that one was
White Fang. Fear surged through him again. For the first time,
he was really being men 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

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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

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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

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moccasined foot. The beating that had gone before was as
nothing compared with a 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.

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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

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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 offense. 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

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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

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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

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village to the teepee. And so it came that White
Fang learned that the right to punish was something the
God's 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

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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.

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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

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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

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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 is justice, perhaps the sheer power of him. And

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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

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in the beginning made it possible for them to come
into 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 Whitfang was unaware of it.

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He knew only grief for the loss of quiet Chae,
hoped for her return, and a hungry yearning for the
free life that had been his end of Chapter two,