Authors: Christopher Golden
The Sea Wolves
THE SECRET JOURNEYS OF JACK LONDON
BOOK II:
THE SEA WOLVES
BY
CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN
& TIM LEBBON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GREG RUTH
For the Booth clan, one and all.
You're our Necon familyâ¦
and we can't imagine a kinder or
more generous tribe
.
One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself
.
âJack London
MAP
I've never been much of a writer, but I've always been able to tell a tale. Got Jack London to thank for that. He made me realize that stories are all about heart and soul, not words and spelling, and he had heart and soul aplenty
.
Jack saved my life many times. Once he did it for real, beating off two evil men who were ready to kidnap me and take me off into slavery. There were other times down through the years, and for most of them he wasn't even there. It was the
thought
of Jack that helped me. The idea of his courage, his outlook, his philosophy that life is for living, not just existing. And his conviction that there are so many unknown things that can never be fully explored in one single life. Some of them are wondrous, some terrible. Jack saw both
.
I became an explorer because of him, of the spiritual as well as the physical. And I like to think I helped him in his own journeys
.
It's well known what became of him. One of the greatest writers we've ever had, he could spin a yarn like no one else, and imbue it with a power that was almost ⦠well, supernatural. But much as some thought that what he wrote about was the life he'd lived, I knew the truth all those years, because he'd told me: He could never, ever tell of his own real adventures. They were too personal for him to put down on paper, and much too terrible. Some of the things he saw just weren't for human eyes
.
But he never told me
I
couldn't tell
.
Jack died far too young, but in his forty years he lived the lives of many men. And he died knowing there's more here in this world than we can know, or could possibly understand
.
That's part of the reasoning behind me writing this down at last. I'm an old man now. Who will it hurt to learn the truth? Will anyone even believe? In these modern technological times when the fantastic doesn't seem quite so fantastic anymore, and the wilds aren't quite so wild, I think these stories, terrifying though they are, need telling
.
They're a warning, and I think we need reminding
.
These, then, are the true stories of Jack London
.
His secret journeys
.
San Francisco
June 1962
I
f it hadn't been for the pelican, Jack London would have been murdered by the wolves.
Even lulled by the gentle motion of the ship, he had been unable to sleep or rest, though in truth that was all his body craved. His mind burned with memories of his adventures in the north, and each ache, pain, and wound recalled those experiences as surely as a smell or sound. Confined in a cramped ship's cabin with his friend Merritt Sloper and three weary men whose eyes were flat with defeat, Jack felt his senses sing with yearning. It had been only days since they had departed Alaska. After so long in the wildernessâand with his own wild nature urging him to run, to climb, to
live
âhe felt stifled by that room, and it was inevitable that the pressure would drive him up here, onto the deck.
And so it had been for the last three nights. The days were easier, filled with casual conversations and hours spent gazing into the hazy distance, wrapped against the cold and yet buffeted by the sun. But the nights were more difficult. It was as if the darkness called him into its embraceânot just the false shade of a room without light, but the darkness of infinity.
Jack breathed in the fresh air and held on to the railing, legs shifting slightly as the ship dipped and rose through the gentle Pacific swell. His hair was ruffled by the breeze, and it felt like the hand of a loved one soothing his brow.
Perhaps I do need soothing
, he thought, because the memory of all he had been throughâthe deadly Chilkoot Trail, his near death in the great white silence, Lesya, and the dreadful Wendigoâwere enough to drive any ordinary person mad. But one thing Jack had learned during his months in the frozen north: he was
far
from ordinary.
“I'm Jack London,” he said, and the name was amazing to him. This was no self-aggrandizement, no hubris; he had begun to learn what a single human being might be capable of, and wanted to explore that potential to its fullest.
There was a light mist settled on the sea, and a heavier bank of it some distance to starboard. He could make out the waxing moon and the stars as vague smudges above and, turning around, he saw the captain and the best of his crew hunkered in the wheelhouse, doing their utmost to ensure that the
Umatilla
sailed true and safe. Two men sat in the crow's nest thirty feet above, their vague shapes and gentle chatter lost to the mist and darkness. Jack walked forward toward the bow, where he knew it was dark and quiet.
He wondered what it would feel like to make a solitary journey across these seas. On his way to Alaska so many months before, he had appreciated the immensity of the ocean, its power, and the respect it required to master it. Now he saw its wildness.
There was movement at the bow. At first he thought it was a clump of impacted snow, or a tangle of material shivering in the breeze. But when he approached, he saw the heavy beak and beady eye, the wings folded in, and the pelican huddled there regarded him with neither trust nor fear.
“Hello, bird,” Jack said softly. He glanced back and up, but no one else seemed to have noticed the creature. Swirls of moisture played across the deck, and the rolling bank of mist to starboard seemed to have moved closer. No one else strolled the deck this late at night. He turned back to the bird, and it had raised its head and half spread its wings.
Jack went to his hands and knees, trying to present no threat to this magnificent creature. He looked it over for signs of injury but could see none. The bird had simply seen the ship as a place to rest, and perhaps it had done so many times before, recognizing the bow as one of the quietest places on board come nighttime.