The old Indian was sitting in the snow. It was Koskoosh, former chiefof his tribe. Now all he could do was sit and listen to the others.
His eyes were old, he could not see. But his ears were wide open toevery sound. Aha, that was the sound of his daughter Sit-cum-to-ha,she was beating the dogs, trying to make them stand in front of thesnow sleds. He was forgotten by her and by the others too. They had tolook for new hunting grounds, the long snowy wide waited. The days ofthe northlands were growing short. The tribe could not wait for death.
Koskoosh was dying.
The stiff crackling noises of frozen animal skins told him that thechief’s tent was being torn down. The chief was a mighty hunter. Hewas his son, the son of Koskoosh. Koskoosh was being left to die. Asthe women worked, old Koskoosh could hear his son’s voice drive themto work faster. He listened harder; it was the last time he would hearthat voice. A child cried and a woman sang softly to quiet it. Thechild was Koo-tee, the old man thought. A sickly child, it would diesoon. And they would burn a hole in the frozen ground to bury it. Theywould cover its small body with stones to keep the wolves away. Well,what of it, a few years and in the end--death. Death waited, neverhungry. Death had the hungriest stomach of all. Koskoosh listened toother sounds he would hear no more. The man tying strong leather ropearound the sleds to hold their belongings. The sharp sounds of leatherwhips ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds. Listened to thedogs' cry, how they hated the work. They were off, sled after sledmoved slowly away into the silence. They had passed out of his life.
He must meet his last hour alone.
But what was that? The snow packed down hard under someone’s shoes. Aman stood beside him and placed a hand gently on his old head. His sonwas good to do this. He remembered other old men whose sons had notdone this who had left without a goodbye. His mind traveled into thepast until his son’s voice brought him back.
“It is well with you?” his son asked. The old man answered, “It iswell.” “There’s wood next to you and a fire burns bright.” The sonsaid. “The morning is great and the cold this year. It will snow sooneven now, it is snowing. The tribesmen hurry. Their loads are heavyand their stomachs flat from little food. The way is long and theytravel fast.”
“I go now, all is well?” “It is well. I am as last year’s leafthat sticks to the tree. The first breath that blows will knock me tothe ground. My voice is like an old woman’s. My eyes no longer showme the way my feet go. I am tired and all is well.” He lowered hishead to his chest and listened to the snow as his son rode away. Hefelt the sticks of wood next to him again. One by one the fire wouldeat them and step by step death would cover him. When the last stickwas gone the cold would come. First, his feet would freeze then hishands. The cold would travel slowly from the outside to the inside ofhim and he would rest. It was easy, all men must die. He felt sorrowbut he did not think of his sorrow. It was the way of life. He hadlived close to the earth and the law was not new to him. It was thelaw of the body. Nature was not kind to the body. She was notthoughtful of the person alone. She was interested only in the group,the race, the species.
This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh. He had seen examples of itin all his life. The trees sap in early spring, the newborn greenleaves soft and fresh as skin. The fall of the yellowed dry leaf. Inthis alone was all history.
He placed another stick on the fire and began to remember his past. Hehad been a great chief too. He had seen days of much food andlaughter. Fat stomachs when food was left to rot and spoil. Times whenthey left animals alone, unkilled; days when women had many children.
And he had seen days of no food and empty stomachs. Days when the fishdid not come and the animals were hard to find. For seven years, theanimals did not come. Then he remembered when as a small boy how hewatched the wolves killed a moose. He was with his friend Zing-ha whowas killed later in the Yukon River. Aha, but the moose. Zing-ha andhe had gone out to play that day. Down by the river they saw freshsteps of a big heavy moose. “He is an old one,” Zing-ha had said. “He cannot run like the others. He has fallen behind. The wolves haveseparated him from the others. They will never leave him.” And so itwas. By day and night, never stopping, biting at his nose, biting athis feet, the wolves stayed with him until the end. Zing-ha and he hadfelt the blood quicken in their bodies, the end would be a sight tosee.
They had followed the steps of the moose and the wolves. Each steptold a different story. They could see the tragedy as it happened.
Here was the place the moose stopped to fight. The snow was packeddown for many feet. One wolf had been caught by the heavy feet of themoose and kicked to death. Further on, they saw how the moose hadstruggled to escape up a hill. But the wolves had attacked frombehind. The moose had fallen down and crashed to wolves. Yet, it wasclear the end was near.
The snow was red ahead of them, then they heard the sounds of battle.
He and Zing-ha moved closer on their stomachs so the wolves would notsee them. They saw the end. The picture was so strong it had stayedwith him all his life. His dull blind eyes saw the end again as theyhad in the far off past. For long, his mind saw his past.
The fire began to die out and the cold entered his body, he placed twomore sticks on it, just two more left. This would be how long he wouldlive. It was very lonely. He placed one of the last pieces of wood onthe fire, listen, what a strange noise for a wood to make in the fire.
“No, it wasn’t a wood.” His body shook as he recognized the sound.
Wolves! The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old moose back tohim again. He saw the body torn to pieces with fresh blood running onthe snow. He saw the clean bones lying grey against the frozen blood.
He saw the rushing forms of the grey wolves, their shining eyes, theirlong wet tongues and sharp teeth. And he saw them form a circle andmoved ever slowly closer and closer.
A cold wet nose touched his face. At the touch, his soul jumpedforward to awaken him. His hand went to the fire and he pulled aburning stick from it. The wolf saw the fire but was not afraid. Itturned and howled into the air to his brother wolves. They answeredwith hunger in their throats and came running. The old Indian listenedto the hungry wolves. He heard them form a circle around him and hissmall fire. He waved his burning stick at them, but they did not moveaway, now one of them moved closer slowly as if to test the old man’sstrength. Another and another followed. The circle grew smaller andsmaller. Not one wolf stayed behind. Why should he fight? Why cling tolife? And he dropped his stick with the fire on the end of it, it fellin the snow and the light went out. The circle of wolves moved closer,once again, the old Indian saw the picture of the moose as it'sstruggled before the end came. He dropped his head to his knees. Whatdid it matter after all? Isn’t this the law of life?
You have just heard the American story "The Law of Life". It waswritten by Jack London. Your storyteller was Shep O’Neal. Listenagain next week for another American story in VOA Special English |