“And under the bright arctic moon, there on the very top of the continent, she told him the story.”
VI
Under the Arctic Moon
If you wish to know where White Sox was sleeping, you must get your geography and turn to the map of Alaska. Now find the seventy-first parallel. North of that you will notice a little point of land jutting out into the Arctic Ocean, called Point Barrow. Just southwest of that point is Barrow, the village to which the big herd belonged.
The little knoll where White Sox was sleeping was on the seventy-first parallel, away up at the top of the North American continent. The freshly fallen snow stretched eastward and westward, northward and southward, from this little knoll; in fact, it covered all the land from the seventieth parallel to the Arctic Ocean. But White Sox knew nothing about parallels and such things. To him that arctic land was the whole world.
Mother Reindeer knew a lot more than that. She was seventeen years old. She had seen and heard so much that she was very wise.
When White Sox waked from his nap, he thought it was daylight. The brightness dazzled him. He winked his eyes and looked about him. A great big arctic moon was shining down upon him. What a beautiful moon it was! And how the snow glistened and shone! He winked his eyes several times; then he looked for his mother.
She was pawing through the snow near him to get moss for her midnight lunch.
“Mother, this is the whitest world I’ve ever seen,” he said. Then he sprang up and began to dig moss for himself, for he was hungry again.
A light breeze was blowing from the northwest, and the air was much colder. White Sox rubbed his face against his mother’s shoulder to brush the frost from his eyes and nose. Then he took a mouthful of moss and looked about him.
There was not a living thing to be seen. Yes, there was! A great arctic owl was perched on a little mound not very far away.
“Mother, are owls as wise as they look?” White Sox asked. He took another bite of moss.
“‘He swoops down to catch his own supper and meets his finish in the sharp claws and teeth of the lynx.’”
“No, not always,” Mother Reindeer answered, “but sometimes they are cunning enough to outwit sleepy reindeer mothers and kill their newborn fawns.”
“Do the owls ever get caught by our other enemies?”
“Sometimes. Among our lesser enemies the lynx is said to be wiser than the wisest owl. The lynx eats rabbits, mice, and birds. He studies the habits of these creatures. He knows that the owl is always watching to swoop down on some helpless field mouse. My own mother told me that when a lynx is hungry for owl meat, he will burrow in well-packed snow, leaving a small opening in the crust about the size of your tail. He then lies on his back in his snow cave and pokes his short bobtail through the roof and wags it to and fro. When the owl sees it, he thinks it is a field mouse. He swoops down to catch his own supper and meets his finish in the sharp claws and teeth of the lynx.”
“The lynx are more cunning than the wolves. Do you fear them as much, mother?”
“No, my son. When they attack our kind, it is usually a weak fawn or an injured reindeer.”
“Mother, that little caribou cousin of mine—the fawn with the big antlers—couldn’t run very fast. Do you think the wolves would catch him?” White Sox now asked.
“It’s quite likely they would,” said Mother Reindeer. “The weaklings always go first to feed our enemies, and their going helps to save the strong ones. A wild caribou can never hope to die a natural death. Our wild cousins know that at some time or other they must be caught and eaten by their enemies. Their freedom, which appeared so attractive to you, is dangerous and deprives them of protection. Even when some of their number are always on watch, prowling enemies will take them by surprise, as they did yesterday.”
“Mother,” said White Sox, thoughtfully, “knowing this, why didn’t one of us stand watch while the other slept?”
“One of us did,” she answered. “I slept the ‘caribou sleep,’ half a minute on and half a minute off, while you slept the reindeer sleep.”
White Sox was greatly surprised when he heard this. He felt that he had been very thoughtless and selfish. “You should have let me do my share of watching,” he said.
“You were too tired, my son,” his mother told him. “Besides, you knew nothing about the ways of caribou and wolves before we came on this visit to our cousins. In the big herd the reindeer sleep long and sound; they have no fear of enemies. The Eskimo herders and the collies watch over them. Cowbells frighten the wolves and scare them away.”
“Yes, mother, I understand that now. Reindeer life is much safer than caribou life, but—”
“But what?”
White Sox seemed to be puzzled about something. He thought about it for a minute, and then he said, “Mother, you never said a word when the herders killed my two big brothers. Did you think it right?”
Mother Reindeer did not speak, but she nodded her head upward and downward, very slowly.
“They killed two of my uncles also,” continued White Sox, “but they never touched my sisters or my aunts. And now I come to think of it, mother, it is always the brothers and uncles that are killed. Are we born to be eaten?”
Mother Reindeer looked very serious. “It is time I told you the big story,” she said. “After you have heard it you will understand many things that seem strange to you now. Come, if you’ve finished your meal. Lie here by my side. No wolves can surprise us on this knoll. The beautiful moon is our friend. I am going to tell you how the first wild caribou was tamed and became a reindeer.”
After they had made themselves comfortable, Mother Reindeer said, “First I must tell you that it will be a white world for seven moons. From now until we shed our coats next summer, you may be known in the big herd as ‘Black Sox’!”
Poor White Sox! He looked sadly at his dark stockings, which were almost as black as the feathers of a raven; but he answered thoughtfully: “I am thankful my nose is still white. But I am not worrying about my name and color. I want to hear the story of how the first caribou was tamed, mother.”
This pleased Mother Reindeer very much. “Good, my son!” she said. “Now for the story!”
And under the bright arctic moon, on the very top of the great American continent, she told him the story.