作者：美国迪士尼公司
出版社：华东理工大学出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
迪士尼英文原版·奇幻森林The Jungle Book： The Strength of the Wolf is the Pack试读：
PROLOGUE
THE TIGER COULD already taste the boy.
He burned his way through the Jungle, bright hide lighting the brush with flickers of black and orange as he cut through the night.
There was no real fire, no spark of man’s Red Flower—not yet—but the fury in his belly could have razed the world. Only one thing could sate his hunger.
The tiger ran on, up and over the trees’ great feet that curled their toes into the cold earth. Past the vines that coiled like snakes at his heels, he ran. He thought of his prey with sinister delight. He wanted his prey to be strong, to have fight in it. Easy would be an insult. Easy was not the tiger way.
Tigers have few tales. Some say tigers don’t have time for stories. They move too fast, their paws too burdened, their mouths already too full. There’s no room for tales on their tongues. But every tiger has one tale: the tale of the hunt. The hunt that lasts a lifetime. The kill that writes the hunter’s story in fear and blood.
The tiger was telling his story now. With every leap and bound and stretch of his great shoulders, he told his story. He smiled as he ran, white teeth like shards of moonlight filling his mouth.
Shere Khan hunted the man-cub.
THE CHASE
THE MAN-CUB RAN. He scuttled over the Jungle’s back, grabbing branch and boulder and hurling himself forward, moving so quickly he was closer to falling, always just catching himself with his next footfall.
Mowgli picked up his pace, barely breathing, his body like the river—moving, bending, twisting but never breaking, surging between trees and over earth, rushing from one moment into the next. He pushed himself faster and faster, the leaves whipping at his face and arms.
The boy was twelve, or as close to that as anyone could figure, and his body was lean and muscled, brown as the bark of the banyan tree and hairless as the crocodile, save for a tuft of unruly black hair atop his head. He had lived in the Jungle all his life, and it showed as he moved like a native animal through the trees.
He leapt and tucked his body, flipping onto a high branch, then heard sudden movement behind him. Instinctively, he leapt off the edge of a great thick tree branch and vaulted from the Jungle canopy.
Mowgli landed in the midst of a pack of young wolves and moved on all fours as the others did. They snapped at him as they sprinted together, then reorganized themselves around Mowgli and ran in a pack, breathing as one, each footfall beating the earth—the music of the hunt, the song of the Jungle.
For an instant, they were a single beast. From behind, the shadow of their pursuer gained ground, and the wolves rushed forward, pushing ahead of the man-cub. Behind them, the cat never faltered, never slowed, its great muscular body built for the hunt.
Mowgli strengthened his resolve, putting more into every move, every lunge, but the wolves were leaving him behind. They were faster, their shorterlegs more powerful than Mowgli’s.
The creature tracking him was closing the gap. Mowgli couldn’t look back. He knew his only hope was to think differently. He could never outrun such a large cat, but maybe he could outthink it. Or, better yet, outclimb it.
Mowgli reached out and grabbed vines as he ran past a large-bellied tree, his momentum swinging him high enough to scramble into the tree’s head of branches. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in Mowgli’s steps; he moved along the tree as if born to it, narrowly avoiding catastrophe with a simple pivot of his toe or duck of his dark, shaggy-haired head.
Then he was flying again, feet leading, belonging to neither the Earth nor the heavens, before landing on the next outstretched limb, which cried out with a terrible crack! The branch beneath him tore away from the tree, falling. And Mowgli fell with it.
The earth spanked Mowgli, the impact of his landing ringing through his limbs. He could hear the predator crashing through the foliage. He tried to run, but it was too late. The cat pounced and was on the man-cub in an instant, pinning him to the cold, dark earth, face close enough to smell his breath. Then it spoke.
“You must be the very worst wolf I have ever seen.”
Mowgli pushed the panther off, irritated that Bagheera had caught him once again.
“Yeah, but if that branch didn’t break, I woulda made it,” protested Mowgli.
Bagheera clawed the belly of the tree, stretching his back, then sat on his hind legs and patted down his fur in places that had been ruffled during their exercise. The great cat was all muscle and reflex, black as night and agile as any creature in the Jungle. If he was tracking you after dusk, you’d see only the glow of his yellow eyes . . . if you saw anything at all.
“Wolves do not hide in trees,” said Bagheera. “If you want to live with the wolves, you must live the wolf way.”
Suddenly, the Jungle cried out. Yips and calls headed toward them as the young wolves finally circled back to Mowgli and Bagheera. Mowgli lit up as he joined his family, batting and pawing at one another, mouthing one another with safe open jaws.
“How’d we do, Bagheera?” asked one of the youngest.
“Well . . .” Bagheera began, but already the cubs had lost interest.
“Let’s go!” barked another. Then they all abruptly broke into a run, Mowgli following them as fast as he was able. He could keep up, but for how long?
The big panther sighed, watching the man-cub trail away into the Jungle.
Such a tale, thought Bagheera. The strange tale of the man-cub called Mowgli.
Bagheera took his worries with him as he padded after his charge, his responsibility, his man-cub, speaking aloud to the forest around him.
“If only the wolf pack needed that man-cub as much as he needed them.”
HEADED HOME
BAGHEERA FOLLOWED the wolves.
He kept a leisurely pace while remaining mindful of the Jungle. (Cats can be vigilant with very little effort; it is in their blood and their eyes and their twitching whiskers). Bagheera’s ears stretched back, then swiveled forward again, listening, always listening.
There was rustling in some bushes about three banyan tree lengths away, but from the titter accompanying the movement, he knew it was only muskrats. Behind him rhinos grazed, their signature sniffles and snuffs and sneezes rising in the midday air. To his left, he heard birds building nests, another positive sign. Birds knew trouble on the wind even before big cats, and the sounds of their normal routine gave Bagheera comfort.
Several paces ahead, Mowgli, full of youthful energy and vigor, bounced his way home through the Jungle. The man-cub loved the Jungle and always had. Bagheera had fond memories of Mowgli’s toddler days, when the bold young man-cub’s fearless romps often forced the panther to tackle and hold down the wild child to protect him from himself. But it was much harder for Bagheera to get his paws around him these days. They grow up so fast, the panther thought.
“Wolves do not hide in trees,” repeated Bagheera, noticing the boy’s ever-growing legs and quick-moving knees. Even his stride was growing. A voice inside reminded the cat that the man-cub would need speed one day. For an instant, they were a single beast.
“I wasn’t hiding,” said Mowgli. “I was evading.”
Bagheera laughed.
“You ran up a tree to get away from a panther.” He bumped up against Mowgli’s waist, almost knocking him over. Even on all fours, the panther stood nearly as tall as the boy, and outweighed him several times over.
“It almost worked, Bagheera!”
“It was a dead tree.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Mowgli picked up a seed and threw it.
Bagheera stopped.
“It had a fig vine. Any tree girdled by a creeper is either dead or close to it.”
Mowgli stopped and turned back toward the panther, putting his hands on his hips.
“You just can’t say anything nice, can you, old cat?” huffed the boy.
Bagheera shook his head and walked past Mowgli, patience worn leaf-thin. “We have had this conversation so many times I fear I am talking to myself, Man-cub! You must realize that until you can prove yourself, they are never going to let you join their council.”
“Yeah, but if that branch didn’t break, I woulda been in,” Mowgli said, smiling.
Bagheera turned and leapt at Mowgli, putting the man-cub’s head in his mouth.
“I think this might make it easier on both of us,” said Bagheera. His mouth full, his words were muffled. “It will put both of us out of our misery, and at least one of us will have a full stomach. ‘Law of the Jungle,’ and all that.”
“Stop it!” Mowgli giggled despite himself. “You’re messing up my hair.”
Bagheera let go, and Mowgli trotted away.
“You can’t do that anymore,” Mowgli called over his shoulder. “I’m not a cub anymore.”
Bagheera watched him leave. He knew he was being hard on the man-cub, but it was a tough Jungle out there, and it was just going to get tougher. The only thing that hadn’t changed since Mowgli had first fallen under Bagheera’s care was his basic need of survival. And for that, Mowgli needed a people. A people to protect him.
THE COUNCIL
MOWGLI DIDN’T THINK he needed anybody.
He could handle things on his own. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. But to Mowgli, it seemed everyone was hard on him and never let him do what he wanted to do. Everybody always worried about him, especially Bagheera—Mowgli’s shadow.
For as long as Mowgli could remember, Bagheera had been there, always watching, corralling and pushing him like a mother bird picking at her little chick. And he was still doing it.
Mowgli climbed over the hill, making his way to the Wolf Den. He was home! He felt the warmth of the place wash over him, inhaled the familiar smells, took in the sounds of the wolves. Home was like a coat he could slip on, unseen but always there, comforting him. Mowgli made his way toward the wolves on the lower level. Dens for the individual families were made from caves and crevices, all clustered around a large flat area that was a playground for the young pups. To Mowgli’s left, the adult wolves climbed the hill to Council Rock, a great stone dais that tore its way out of the earth and was the center of all wolf business. At the top of the rock sat Akela, leader of the wolf pack.
Akela led with his deeds instead of his mouth. He had fought for his position as head of the pack and would stay leader until he could fight no longer. He was tall for a wolf, his thick gray coat unblemished save for the white tufts at the ends of his paws.
Mowgli knew Akela as a distant father figure, stern of eye and tooth. The man-cub wasn’t sure if that made Akela a good leader, but the wolves listened to him, so Mowgli listened, too—mostly. Akela never approved of Mowgli’s “tricks,” the little things the man-cub fashioned from twigs and leaves and vines, for playing with and for collecting water from the river. Mowgli knew he shouldn’t disobey, but he couldn’t help himself. He thought his tricks were clever, but Akela made it clear they were dangerous and certainly not the wolf way of doing things.
The boy watched Akela and the Council from the lower level, near Raksha—Mowgli’s motherwolf, his ami—as she nursed a young cub. Just being close to Raksha settled Mowgli’s restless heart. Raksha was home to Mowgli, more than the rock or the Jungle or even the old cat.
Suddenly, Mowgli was covered in swarming wolf cubs. They pounced and played on him with their stubby paws and rough tongues, and Mowgli laughed in spite of himself. Mowgli always wished to be a wolf, to be as strong and as fast as his brothers, but even though he was different, the youngest of the pack never made him feel like anything but family. He didn’t know much about where he’d come from before Raksha and Akela took him into their den, but he couldn’t imagine life without them there in the Jungle. They were his heart.
The smallest wolf, a runt called Gray, leapt up in a quick darting attack and batted at Mowgli’s hair.
“Mowgli, pick us up high!” he said. Mowgli couldn’t resist indulging the tiny pup. Gray’s boundless energy and enthusiasm were infectious, even if he did act impulsively sometimes. The mancub playfully scratched the pup behind his dark black ears, the only part of him that didn’t sport his namesake gray color.
Mowgli looked at the rock, watching as the older wolves assembled without him. He knew he wasn’t welcome there. Not yet. Gray nipped at his fingers, trying to get his attention again.
“How’d it go?” Raksha asked.
“He caught me again,” Mowgli replied, wanting to get the words out quickly, hanging his head low.
Raksha moved up to Mowgli, the wolf cubs now nipping at her heels. She softly bumped her head into his.
He butted her back, gently, as she spoke.
“If it is meant to be, it will be,” said Raksha, making him feel a bit better.
High above them, Akela stood proud, a giant in the Jungle. He was surrounded by the Council of Wolves. Mowgli didn’t know what council really meant; he knew those older wolves talked a lot and made decisions about things and told the other wolves what to do and where to go. They scowled often, their faces pulled into frowns. Maybe council meant “never smiles.”
“Let me hear the Law,” said Akela. The wolves spoke as one, repeating the Law:
“This is the Law of the Jungle,
as old and as true as the sky.
The Wolf that keeps it may prosper,
but the Wolf that breaks it will die.”
Mowgli sat, fiddling with dead straw and grass at his feet, mumbling the Law under his breath.
“Like the creeper that girdles the tree trunk,
the Law runneth over and back.
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and
the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.”
Mowgli didn’t understand some parts of the Law and thought maybe he never would. But saying it made him feel closer to the pack that he wanted so desperately to join.
When the recitation of the Law was done, every wolf in the Seeonee valley turned its snout to the sky and howled, long and loud. Mowgli tried a howl of his own, but it came out weak and strained, as it always did, more of a squeak than a roar.
Near him, Raksha sighed with her whole body, then turned and corralled the little cubs back toward the den.
Mowgli looked at Raksha and thought back to his walk with Bagheera.
Everyone always sighs around me, thought Mowgli. Why must I inspire such deep breaths from everyone? The wolf and the panther did their best to raise him, but sometimes he could see in their eyes just how different he was.
Mowgli flexed his toes and lay on his back, looking up at the great arms of the trees above him and the sky beyond those.
He dreamed with his eyes open, thinking about the day when he could be a part of the pack or, better yet, be his own pack. No one would call him man-cub anymore or tell him what to do. He would be his own man, and the Jungle would look up to him. Maybe they would fear him the way they feared Akela.
Mowgli shook that idea out of his head. He didn’t want that. He turned over and played with the ants that marched by, feeling large in their small world. Warmed by the sun on his back and soothed by the ants on his fingertips, Mowgli fell asleep in the arms of the Jungle.
THE DRY SEASON
THE RAINS HAD ceased to fall.
Everywhere the Jungle was changing, color and temperature shifting moods like a hot-tempered rhino. Every creature in the Jungle could feel it, the water leaving them behind as it took to the sky and burrowed into the earth.
The Jungle’s usual multicolored hide and vibrant frock turned yellow, then brown and finally black. Along the mighty river, the waters ran to a trickle as all around blossoms shut and withered, the manypetaled eyes of the Jungle closing for a season’s sleep, most never to awaken.
Steam rose from the river, the water receded completely, and the breath of the Jungle became stale. The song of the carrion bugs grew louder as the music died in the throats of the birds, who no longer had the voice to croon. Tongues dried and the animals who visited the basin found it diminished to a thin shallow pond.
And standing in the center of the basin was something most had never seen in their lifetimes: the Peace Rock—a long lean ridge of blue stone revealed by the receding waters. For the animals, it was a sign.
At the shore of the basin, the porcupine Ikki was the first to see the Peace Rock, though he was too preoccupied with his property to notice right away.
The porcupine hobbled along, the striped blackand-white quills along his back twinkling in the light as he meticulously attended to the collection of odds and ends the dry season had uncovered as the water had pulled back and away. One by one, Ikki listed each object as he came to it.
“My pebble. My leaf,” said Ikki, his pink nose twitching intensely. “No one touches, no one touches. My rock. Two rocks. Three rocks . . .”
Ikki followed the trail of rocks, counting each, until something stopped him in his tiny tracks. He hollered out.
“The Peace Rock! It’s the Truce!”
From the other side of the basin, scavengers gathered to watch, their bellies empty but their mouths full of opinions.
A giant squirrel picked idly at his bright red coat, chewing at the inside of his cheeks. He pointed at the Peace Rock. A pangolin, a pygmy hog, and a hornbill followed his gaze to the stone protruding from the waning river.
“We’re all gonna die,” said the giant squirrel.
The pangolin licked his plate-armored back with a long dry tongue and then scratched his thin chin, squinting his tiny eyes.
“It’s just a rock,” said the pangolin. “You see them all day every day. You’re standing on one now. I live under one. I look like one. It’s just a rock.”
“It’s a pretty rock,” grunted the pygmy hog. He was half-asleep and kept dozing off, leaning against the pangolin to stay upright, his stiff brown bristles poking the few areas of the pangolin that weren’t fully armored.
“Squawk,” squawked the hornbill.
“The dry season brings the Peace Rock. Peace Rock brings the Truce,” said the giant squirrel, who couldn’t believe they didn’t know this. “Truce brings . . . tourists.”
“What are you talking about?” The pangolin asked. “You’re telling tales again.”
“No, it’s true,” the giant squirrel said. “Truce means hunting at the riverbank is forbidden. By the Law of the Jungle, drinking comes before eating, so Peace Rock means . . . we aren’t gonna die after all. But it is going to get crowded. Which could be worse.”
The pangolin moved away and the pygmy hog toppled over, snoring, and stayed asleep.
The hornbill squawked again, the colorful casque over his beak trumpeting his call, then hopped his way across the basin to where the porcupine was collecting his rocks. The hornbill picked at one with a dull yellow claw, and Ikki smacked his beak.
“My rock,” said Ikki. “No one touches. The Peace Rock! It’s the Truce!”
The hornbill squawked and then lifted into the air on dark black wings as all around him word of the Truce began to spread.
It had been many years since a Water Truce had been called, but the announcement flew from the mouths of deer and wild pig and bison alike, their excitement filling the skies with feathers and calls, wings and words blanketing the Jungle with the news.
WATER TRUCE
MOWGLI HAD NEVER seen so many animals.
Never at once and never all in one place. Predators and prey, all drinking from the same small watering hole at the same time.
Raksha led Mowgli, Gray, and the other wolf cubs past the riverbank.
“Wow,” Mowgli breathed, amazed. Animals piled almost on top of one another, all vying for a spot, for a chance at what little water was left. In spite of the desperation Mowgli saw in their eyes, and felt in his own stomach, there was something beautiful about it.
Mowgli moved to join the others at the riverside, but Raksha stopped him.
“Do not forget . . .” she said.
“No hunting,” said Mowgli, eyes still focused on the animals.
“Playing only,” said Raksha.
“Playing only,” repeated Mowgli. “I got it, Ami.”
Raksha moved herself in front of Mowgli, where she could be sure he was paying attention.
“And remember. Not everyone here has seen a man-cub in the Jungle before. So behave yourself.”
Then she smiled and said, “Take the pups with you.”
They scampered at Mowgli’s heels, biting and laughing as he led them to the riverside. They were thrilled.
“Look,” whispered Gray. “Nilgai.”
“And pygmy hog, and mongoose,” added another cub.
Mowgli couldn’t believe what he was looking at. A herd of bison bathed in the shallows while brightly colored egrets landed on their backs, using them as perches. A flying squirrel tried to blend in among them, but the bison shrugged it off. Snakes of all shapes and sizes cooled their bodies underwater while turtles stacked atop one another like a rock pile, only inches away. No one seemed to mind or even take notice of how exceptional it all was; they didn’t really care. To
试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]