Julie of the Wolves (Julie of the Wolves #1)

by Jean Craighead George

Dear Mrs. Jean Craighead George, More than ten years before I was born, you wrote a story that resonates within me forty years later. Julie of the Wolves is more than a book to me; it is a girl that has broken the trail for me.

I opened your book at a moment in my life when I was struggling to release the grasp my family and community had on my soul. I yearned for more than Barrow, but I needed someone to share the heartache of leaving home behind. I found it in your words and my namesake. Our creator used you to remind me that I am not alone, and I am thankful to you both. Most sincerely, Mayak

This could be done she knew, for her father, an Eskimo hunter, had done so. One year he had camped near a wolf den while on a hunt. When a month had passed and her father had seen no game, he told the leader of the wolves that he was hungry and needed food. The next night the wolf called him from far away and her father went to him and found a freshly killed caribou. Unfortunately, Miyax’s father never explained to her how he had told the wolf of his needs. And not long afterward he paddled his kayak into the Bering Sea to hunt for seal, and he never returned.

Propped on her elbows with her chin in her fists, she stared at the black wolf, trying to catch his eye. She had chosen him because he was much larger than the others, and because he walked like her father, Kapugen, with his head high and his chest out. The black wolf also possessed wisdom, she had observed. The pack looked to him when the wind carried strange scents or the birds cried nervously. If he was alarmed, they were alarmed. If he was calm, they were calm.

“Amaroq, ilaya, wolf, my friend,” she finally called. “Look at me. Look at me.” She spoke half in Eskimo and half in English, as if the instincts of her father and the science of the gussaks, the white-faced, might evoke some magical combination that would help her get her message through to the wolf.

Miyax hunched forward on her elbows, the better to see and learn. She now knew how to be a good puppy, pay tribute to the leader, and even to be a leader by biting others on the top of the nose. She also knew how to tell Jello to baby-sit. If only she had big ears and a tail, she could lecture and talk to them all.

“Kapu,” she whispered. “We Eskimos have joking partners—people to have fun with—and serious partners—people to work and think with. You and I are both. We are joking-serious partners.” He wagged his tail excitedly and blinked. “And that’s the best of all.”

Her hands trembled and she pressed them together to make them stop, for Kapugen had taught her that fear can so cripple a person that he cannot think or act. Already she was too scared to crawl. “Change your ways when fear seizes,” he had said, “for it usually means you are doing something wrong.” She knew what it was—she should not depend upon the wolves for survival.

Amaroq, wolf, my friend, You are my adopted father. My feet shall run because of you. My heart shall beat because of you. And I shall love because of you.

Julie rolled to her stomach and vomited. Slowly she got to her feet. “When fear seizes,” she whispered, “change what you are doing. You are doing something wrong.”

To occupy her mind she sang as she gathered caribou droppings and put them on her drag: Amaroq, wolf, my friend, You are my adopted father. My feet shall run because of you. My heart shall beat because of you. And I shall love because of you.

Then the wolf changed the subject and shifted to a joyous howl. As the others joined in she recognized the hunt song of her pack. Amaroq’s rich tones rose and fell like a violin; then came the flute-like voice of Silver. Nails’s voice arose, less strong than Amaroq’s, bringing variation to the theme. Cupping her hands behind her ears, she listened intently. Yes, the pups were singing, too, sounding very mature and grown-up—until Kapu added his laugh-bark.

“Ayi!” she gasped. On the side of a ground swell lay Jello, his body torn in bloody shreds, his face contorted. Beside him lay her backpack! Instantly she knew what had happened; Amaroq had turned on him. Once Kapugen had told her that some wolves had tolerated a lone wolf until the day he stole meat from the pups. With that, the leader gave a signal and his pack turned, struck, and tore the lone wolf to pieces. “There is no room in the wolf society for an animal who cannot contribute,” he had said. Jello had been so cowed he was useless. And now he was dead.

As she dropped her pack it clanged out a frozen note, reminding her again that autumn was over. The season had been brief; the flash of bird wings, the thunder of migrating herds. That was all. Now it was winter, and the top of the soil was solid.

Presently, the pain in her breast grew lighter and she knew the wolf was with her.

The sun went down on November tenth not to arise again for sixty-six days.

Several sleeps later Kapu ran over the snow without stumbling and Miyax decided it was time to move to the river.

Tornait lay in her hands, his head on her fingers; he peeped softly and closed his eyes.