The Valley of Horses (Earth's Children 2)

“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 tea.”

He went out to heat some water. He didn’t have to be a zelandoni to know about the painkilling properties of willowbark; everyone made willowbark if they had a headache, or some other minor pain. He didn’t know if it was used for serious wounds, but he didn’t know what else to do. He paced nervously around the fire, looking inside the tent with each circuit, waiting for the cold water to boil. He piled more wood on the fire and singed an edge of the wooden frame that supported the cooking hide full of water.

Why is it taking so long! Wait, I don’t have the willowbark. I’d better get it before the water boils. He put his head inside the tent and stared at his brother for a long moment, then ran to the edge of the river. After peeling bark from a bare-leafed tree whose long thin branches trailed the water, he raced back.

He looked first to see if Thonolan had roused, and saw that his summer tunic was soaked with blood. Then he noticed the overfull cooking skin boiling over and putting out the fire. He didn’t know what to do first—tend to the tea, or to his brother—and he looked back and forth from the fire to the tent to the fire. Finally he grabbed a drinking cup and scooped out some water, scalding his hand, then dropped the willowbark in the hide pot. He put a few more sticks on the fire, hoping they would catch. He searched through Thonolan’s backframe, dumped it out in frustration, and picked up his brother’s summer tunic to replace his bloody one.

As he started into the tent, Thonolan moaned. It was the first sound he had heard from his brother. He scrambled out to scoop up a bowl of the tea, noticed there was hardly any liquid left, and wondered if it was too strong. He ducked back into the tent with a cup of the hot liquid, looked frantically for a place to set it, and saw that more was soaked with blood than his summer tunic. It was pooling under Thonolan, discoloring the sleeping roll.

He’s losing too much blood! O Mother! He needs a zelandoni. What am I going to do? He was becoming more agitated and fearful for his brother. He felt so helpless. I need to go for help. Where? Where can I find a zelandoni? I can’t even get across the Sister, and I can’t leave him. Some wolf or hyena will smell the blood and come after him.

Great Mother! Look at all the blood on that tunic! Some animal will smell it. Jondalar snatched the blood-soaked shirt and threw it out of the tent. No, that’s not any better! He dove out of the tent, picked it up again, and looked wildly for some place to put it, away from the camp, away from his brother.

He was in shock, overcome with grief, and, in the depths of his heart, he knew there was no hope. His brother needed help that he could not give, and he could not go for help. Even if he knew where to go, he couldn’t leave. It was senseless to think any bloody tunic would draw carnivorous animals any more than Thonolan himself would, with his open wound. But he didn’t want to face the truth in his heart. He turned away from sense and gave in to panic.

He spied the stand of alder and, in an irrational moment, raced up the hill and stuffed the leather shirt high up in a crook of one of the trees. Then he ran back. He went into the tent and stared at Thonolan, as if by sheer effort of will he could make his brother sound and whole again, and smiling.

Almost as though Thonolan sensed the plea, he moaned, tossed his head, and opened his eyes. Jondalar kneeled closer and saw pain in his eyes, in spite of a weak smile.

“You were right, Big Brother. You usually are. We didn’t leave that rhino behind.”

“I don’t want to be right, Thonolan. How do you feel?”

“Do you want an honest answer? I hurt. How bad is it?” he asked, trying to sit up. The halfhearted grin turned to a grimace of pai

n.

“Don’t try to move. Here, I made some willowbark.” Jondalar supported his brother’s head and held the cup to his lips. Thonolan took a few sips, then lay back down with relief. A look of fear joined the pain in his eyes.

“Tell me straight, Jondalar. How bad is it?”

The tall man closed his eyes and drew a breath. “It’s not good.”

“I didn’t think so, but how bad?” Thonolan’s eyes fell on his brother’s hands and opened wider with alarm. “There’s blood all over your hands! Is it mine? I think you’d better tell me.”

“I don’t really know. You’re gored in the groin, and you’ve lost a lot of blood. The rhino must have tossed you, too, or trampled you. I think you have a couple of broken ribs. I don’t know what else. I’m not a zelandoni…”

“But I need one, and the only chance of finding help is across that river we can’t cross.”

“That’s about it.”

“Help me up, Jondalar. I want to see how bad it is.”

Jondalar started to object, then reluctantly gave in and was immediately sorry. The moment Thonolan tried to sit, he cried out in pain and lost consciousness again.

“Thonolan!” Jondalar cried. The bleeding had slowed, but his effort caused it to flow again. Jondalar folded his brother’s summer tunic and put it over the wound, then left the tent. The fire was nearly out. Jondalar added fuel more carefully and built it up again, set more water to heat, and cut more wood.

He went back to check on his brother again. Thonolan’s tunic was soaked with blood. He moved it aside to look at the wound, and he grimaced remembering how he had run up the hill to get rid of the other tunic. His initial panic was gone, and it seemed so foolish. The bleeding had stopped. He found another piece of clothing, a cold-weather undergarment, laid it over the wound, and covered Thonolan, then picked up the second bloody tunic and walked to the river. He threw it in, then bent to wash the blood off his hands, still feeling ridiculous over his panic.