I've been tinkering with the still-unpublished manuscript for THE CLAN, the sequel to THE FLOCK.
When the Little People had come to the Land, one of
the first things they’d learned was to talk to the dogs who’d come with them.
Mostly, the dogs listened to what they had to say, which were pretty simple
concepts. But occasionally there was the odd stubborn or just hateful dog that
had to be dealt with. Of course in those early times, when humans had initially
entered the territories of the Clans, there hadn’t been that many dogs; and
there hadn’t been very many people. But even in those first days it had been
found that talking and negotiating with the dogs was imperative.
There were, of course, rules that
had to be followed. Everyone knew this, and the continued survival of the Clans
made it absolutely clear that these traditions were good and right. This is
what had seen them all through countless seasons. Their voices still carried on
the mountain winds and could be heard mixing with the cascades that tumbled
down from the glaciers. This was proof that the old ways were the good ways and
should continue to be honored.
Now the human beings were numbered
so that it was impossible to conceive of their mass. And the dogs, too, were on
the land like fleas. Dogs were not like their cousins the wolves and coyotes
and foxes. They were almost as easy to deal with, but there was something
chaotic and frustrating with the way they saw the world. This was, it was
known, because they had become adhered to the ones who had become their
masters. Some dogs freed themselves of that. They were sometimes heard barking
from ridges or banding together in poorly organized packs that tried to howl
and make themselves heard in something that approximated sanity. But these dogs
were rare. Most of them were swallowed up by the coyote and wolf packs; as
meals or as members, but swallowed they generally were.
Now the land of plenty was
shrinking. The humans had squeezed it down and down until there was not much of
it left that was free of their stinking crowds and free of their noise and
their mischief. Some clan members had advocated a changing of the old ways, in
some attempt to deal with the flood of human flesh that moved across the
mountains and into the valleys like foul water. So far, though, those voices
had been silenced and forced into thoughts that were not given vent. This was
good.
In time, it was hoped and thought
by most of the Clans, that the humans would fade. The land could not possibly
support so many of them. Stories had come to them all of the earth made dead by
the constant squatting of so many of them on the face of the world. And most of
the members of the clans had traveled safely to see how the humans who lived
nearby could foul and poison everything that they touched. Rivers were killed.
Fish stocks were depleted. The air around their encampments, where they resided
in permanent lodges, stank so that it was painful to endure it for very long.
These things were evident. The humans, it was believed, could not last forever.
Eventually, they would have to either change their ways or go away.
It was proven that things could go away.
The lions with great fangs—fearful
creatures that lived now only in the collective memories of the Clans—had been
cleared from the land by the humans. There had once been creatures so large
that they were like hills of hair and ivory. These, too, had been hunted and
consumed until there were none remaining. The humans seemed not even to
remember them. They knew this because there had been attempts to communicate
with the humans. But the small, puny, hateful things could not speak. They couldn’t
even truly speak to the dogs with whom they incessantly traveled. Strangely,
dogs and humans could not talk to one another. Not in the way that was right
and natural. This was another puzzle to the Clans, and something to be pondered
as time progressed.
Big Hand of the Elk Clan thought of
these things as he struggled with the communications he’d attempted with the
dogs who had recently appeared. These dogs had proven exceedingly stubborn.
They would not speak directly to him, and he could only detect their intentions
obliquely, by listening to the negative commentary that passed from one to the
other. They were in a small pack, led by a human who, as usual, lay back and
waited for results that Big Hand could only guess. This was the way many humans
hunted. He’d seen them doing this for years, and the clans all knew that this
was how they stalked many of the same animals that sustained the clans
themselves.
Generally, these dogs could be reasoned with. Or they
could be dissuaded from getting too close to clan families. Sometimes they
could be frightened away, or warned off through violence. But there was always
another path to take whenever the unfortunate occurred and the dogs would not
leave the clans in peace.
