The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [61]
Thonolan was as serious as his brother by the time the weather was mentioned. “Let’s get moving then. The tent is fixed.”
“I’m going to look over those alders first. We still need a couple of sturdy spears. We should have made them last night.”
“Are you still worried about that rhino? He’s well behind us now. We need to get started so we can find a place to cross.”
“I’m going to cut a shaft, at least.”
“You might as well cut one for me then. I’ll start packing.”
Jondalar picked up his axe and examined the edge, then nodded to himself and started up the hill toward the alder grove. He looked over the trees carefully and selected a tall straight sapling. He had chopped it down, stripped the branches, and was looking for one for Thonolan when he heard a commotion. There was snuffling, grunting. He heard his brother shout, and then a sound more terrifying than anything he had ever heard: a scream of pain in his brother’s voice. The silence as his scream was cut short was even worse.
“Thonolan! Thonolan!”
Jondalar raced back down the hill, still clutching the alder shaft and clutched by cold fear. His heart pounded in his ears when he saw a huge woolly rhinoceros, as tall at the shoulders as he, pushing the limp form of a man along the ground. The animal didn’t seem to know what to do with his victim now that he was down. From the depths of his fear and anger, Jondalar didn’t think, he reacted.
Swinging the alder staff like a club, the older brother rushed the beast, careless of his own safety. One hard blow landed on the rhino’s snout, just below the large curving horn, and then another. The rhino backed off, undecided in the face of a berserk man charging him and causing him pain. Jondalar prepared to swing again, pulled back the long shaft—but the animal turned. The powerful whack on his rump didn’t hurt much, but it urged him on, with the tall man chasing after him.
When a swing of the alder shaft whistled through the air as the animal raced ahead, Jondalar stopped and watched the rhino go, catching his breath. Then he dropped the shaft and ran back to Thonolan. His brother was lying face down where the rhino had left him.
“Thonolan? Thonolan!” Jondalar rolled him over. There was a rip in Thonolan’s leather trousers near the groin, and a bloodstain growing larger.
“Thonolan! Oh, Doni!” He put his ear to his brother’s chest, listening for a heartbeat, and was afraid he only imagined hearing it until he saw him breathing.
“Oh, Doni, he’s alive! But what am I going to do?” With a grunt of effort, Jondalar picked up the unconscious man and stood for a moment, cradling him in his arms.
“Doni, O Great Earth Mother! Don’t take him yet. Let him live, O please …” His voice cracked and a huge sob welled up in his breast, “Mother … please … let him live …”
Jondalar bowed his head, sobbed into his brother’s limp shoulder a moment, then carried him back to the tent. He laid him down gently on his sleeping roll, and, with his bone-handled knife, cut away the clothing. The only obvious wound was a raw, jagged rip of skin and muscle at the top of his left leg, but his chest was an angry red, the left side swelling and discoloring. A close examination by touch convinced Jondalar that several ribs were broken; probably there were internal injuries.
Blood was pumping out of the gash in Thonolan’s leg, collecting on the sleeping roll. Jondalar rummaged through his pack, trying to find something to sop it up with. He grabbed his sleeveless summer tunic, wadded it up, and tried to wipe up the blood on the fur, but only succeeded in smearing it around. Then he laid the soft leather on the wound.
“Doni, Doni! I don’t know what to do. I’m not a zelandoni.” Jondalar sat back on his heels, pulled his hand through his hair, and left bloodstains on his face. “Willowbark! I’d better make willowbark