"O Bethlehem, you will go down in history as a city with no room for its King."
Casting Crowns, While You Were Sleeping
Cold, cold, unbearable cold. It was all-consuming, surrounding the pup like a fog and gnawing at his little body like a hungry animal. He shivered and hunched himself more and more tightly, struggling to hide from the deadly chill, but it was no use. His strength was fading.
He remembered that his mother had once found his father like this. That was her tale: found him, rescued him, brought him home, and saw that all was well. He longed for the same salvation as his father had found. Everything in him ached to call out, sure that as soon as he did his mother would come. Yet he knew he must not. She had told him, and his sister before him, not to call out for any reason or leave the burrow until she came back for him. She would come. She must come. She was his Mother. But as cold and darkness closed upon him, he cocked his ears and strained his eyes, only to hear and see no one. No mother. No rescue.
Yet he who saw no one was seen, and the one who saw him was stirred. Why that might have been, none can say. Perhaps it was pity for the cub slowly dying of cold. It might have been to honor the desperate, unveiled pleas of the mother wolf, fighting her last great battle in what might as well have been another world altogether, or for the sake of the father, more distant still. If any could have watched the watcher, they might have even guessed some deeper plan at work; deeper than son or mother could have fathomed in a thousand years. Whatever the reason, the watcher reached out and chilled the winds blowing overhead. The sudden cold caught an unwary flyer and drove him, true as an arrow but blind as a falling leaf, to the ground near the frigid little den.
Balto heard the thump outside and whined with hope and fear. Was it his mother, come at last, or one of her pursuers?
Outside, his whimpering was heard, and a feathered head bowed low to peer inside. "Bwah!" cried the goose when he saw those golden eyes gazing back. He tumbled backwards as Balto, who had unknowingly inched toward the entrance, hastily backed up again.
"Who are you?!" the pup yelped in fear.
"Erm, Boris. Boris Goosinov," the bird answered. "What are you doing here? If this is wolf den, I'm a moose."
Balto shivered involuntarily. "My mother told me to wait here. She… she said not to come out for anyone but her."
The bird hesitated when he heard that. If the cub's mother was coming back, it would be pretty bad news for anyone foolish enough to get caught hovering by that hole. He almost turned tail and flew for his life, but something held him back. It looked as though the cub had been there longer than any sensible mother would leave him in such a place. If he stayed much longer, his mother would have no cub to which to return; only a grave waiting to be filled in.
"Well, if you don't want to freeze to death, you'd better come with me," he advised. "We can see about finding your mother after we get you warm."
Balto shivered again, but came no closer – and Boris was starting to feel his own knees knocking from the cold.
"Come on," he urged, laying down and reaching a wing into the hole. "I'm sure your mother would- AAH!" He quickly yanked his wings back, now sporting some crooked feathers and one or two which had been bitten completely in two.
Glad that the cub had only gotten feathers, the bird reconsidered his options. The little one was clearly pretty serious about staying put – and if his demeanor was any reflection on his mother, then the goose could see great wisdom in not staying put. He actually started to flap away that time, hindered though he was by the damaged feathers, but he had only gone a short distance when his conscience stopped him. To try to rescue the cub was madness, but to just go on his way… well, all things accounted for, that would be as close to murder as any animal could come. Besides, though it had always grieved him to think about it, he knew a bit about this sort of thing.
"Something tells me this won't go well," he muttered under his breath, flapping back to the hole with a heavy weight in his stomach.
He perched outside the burrow for several minutes, wondering how long he should wait – and how long he dared. If he made his move too soon, the whole plan would be for nothing and could make matters worse if that were possible. Too late, and he might not only seal the cub's fate but his own as well. It certainly wasn't getting warmer.
After a silence he could not measure, he decided to chance it. "Helloooo?" he called, as if he had been searching through the forest.
A soft whine issued from the hole, confirming his hopes that at least the cub was still alive – and awake. Boris brought his head down to the opening. "Hello?"
Wearily, Balto lifted his head and stared. The goose outside looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. "Do I know you?"
Boris sighed with relief. He had heard of animals dying from cold, and he'd been told that often before they died they would get confused and forgetful. It looked as if that was the case, and if he was careful he might be able to convince the cub to come with him. He hesitated, though. He hated to lie and knew that his ruse would probably not sit well with the missing mother wolf – or, for that matter, with the cub if and when he figured things out. Then he spoke on. "Don't you know? It's me, Boris. I'm a friend of your parents." At least I hope they'll see it that way, he silently added to himself.
Boris. Boris... Balto tried to think, but he couldn't place the name.
"Come, come," pressed the goose. "No time now. You are cold, and... and your mother asked me to find you."
"She did?" asked Balto, lifting his head. "W... where is she?"
Nowhere in earshot, I hope, thought Boris, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. "She had to go, but she asked me to come get you and bring you somewhere safe. She will come for you when she can." Hopefully while I'm not around.
Balto tried to get up, but his limbs were stiff. "I... I can't move," he groaned.
Boris knew that couldn't be good news. If all he'd heard was true, the cub had little time left – and safety was a long way off. "Yes you can, boychick. Come on, just a few steps. You are wolf. Wolf can do it."
Balto struggled to concentrate. Was he a wolf? He knew his mother was.
"Come on, boy. Come on."
At last, Balto managed to force himself up. He took one step, then another... and then he fell on his face.
Boris' heart sank, but he did his best to sound optimistic. "Close enough... I hope." He craned his neck in, and finally had to lay down on his stomach, stretching as far as he could into the hole. He did his best not to think how profoundly undignified his death would be if Mama Wolf found him in that position.
At last, with a desperate stretch, he managed to catch the scruff of the cub's neck in his beak and drag him free of the hole. Spitting out fur and dusting snow from his chest, he looked down at the cub, who seemed to barely be conscious and was shivering worse than ever.
Suddenly, Boris no longer even cared about the mother wolf – wherever she might be – as he gathered the cub up in his wings. Wrapping his small charge as best he could to shut out the winds, he turned and walked toward the nearest warm place he knew.
"It's okay, boychick," he whispered, waddling through the snow. "Everything is okay. Uncle Boris is here." As an afterthought, he added to himself, I really hope I'm not lying this time.
Neither of them could have known that he was bringing the cub toward the very town which had stolen his father and persecuted his mother.
Nor could they, or the sleeping denizens of that quiet town, know that the son coming to them that night would one day save them all.
And that, dear readers, is where we part ways with the unlikely pair. Aniu, of course, did not come to reclaim her son, and her fate remains as mysterious as her beginning. Boris, who of course had to own up at some point that he had tricked Balto to save his life, raised the pup as best he could just outside of a town which hated and feared him... right up until one cold winter in 1925.
It is with some pride and a heavy heart that I conclude this tale. It has been many years in the writing, and I dare say I have put some of my finest efforts into the process. I actually ended up modifying this ending from what I had planned to more closely match the real symptoms of hypothermia.
I sincerely hope to write more adventures like this one day, but at present I am engaged in another story while I work on finding what I need to do the sequel justice. And so, until that day should come, I leave you with these parting words:
Never The End.
