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As he climbed down his tree, a great tremor shook the land, and he fell the rest of the way, landing in a
prickly bush with a thump and a gasp of pain. Thorns studded the side and hip where he landed, and he
pulled them out of his flesh as he waited for the sun.
He would not lose enough blood to weaken him, though he knew he must poultice the wounds or risk
having them go rotten and begin to stink. Many deaths among his people were caused by untended
wounds, and the grandmothers had found plants whose leaves and roots helped to heal such injuries.
Do-na-ti knew that he must go home again quickly, once he dealt with what lay below, or he might die
out here alone, without anyone to sing the Ritual. But first he must do the thing his oath demanded.
When the light penetrated to the depths of the chasm, he lay on his belly and stared down at the tumble
of broken stone that slanted down from the other side. Tops of bushes and trees stuck out at strange
angles, and soil still trickled down from time to time, when the land trembled. He could see, at the edge
of the rubble, something dusty that moved.
It was the old bull, he was sure. He checked his spear, making certain that the heavier point, like those
used by the ancient grandfathers against the ancestors of this kind, was securely fastened, the bindings
tight and well secured. He fastened his pouch to fresh thongs, pitched his bundled robe down into the
ravine, and began climbing down.
He clung fast as a lizard when the land quaked, and it did not succeed in shaking him off. When he
reached the bottom of the cleft, he laid his pouch beside his bundle and turned to move toward the
trapped animal.
As he drew near, he saw one great sad eye regarding him patiently, without fear or surprise. The head
and one shoulder of the tusker were free of the tumbled rocks, but the rest of his great body was
covered with layers too thick for even an entire clan or village to move. That was a pity, for the huge
carcass would have fed many of the People for a very long time.
The creature uncurled his trunk and extended the tip questioningly toward this intruder into his death.
Again Do-na-ti had a flash of insight into the animal's spirit, as he had felt when he faced the lion.
This Great Tusked One was dying a most agonizing death, but he did not struggle against his fate. Time
would end his misery& or Do-na-ti would.
Suddenly excited, Do-na-ti looked into that long, tragic face and saw there the same knowledge of death
that he had seen people show, when their time had come. There was no fear, no resistance. This one
would not object if Do-na-ti, son of Ash-pah, small and weak as he was, should end his suffering.
The young man felt strange. He had thought he would feel triumph at avenging his dead mother, his dead
Elder, upon the body of one of those who had killed them. Instead he was filled with sadness.
A breeze wandered down the ravine, bringing the scents of bruised greenery, broken rock, and suddenly
bared earth to his nostrils. Life was sweet, running hot in his veins, throbbing in his heart. He felt sudden
pity for this great animal, who had led his kind for so very long, that must come to his end at the hands of
one so unworthy.
But the beast groaned deeply as the great weight of the cliff side pressed into his trapped flesh, and the
eye blinked shut, opened, shut again. Blood trickled from the corner of a drooping lip.
It was time. Instead of taking vengeance, he would give a merciful death to this suffering beast. Perhaps
that was the thing the Spirit Ones had intended from the first, when he made that rash promise over the
bodies of his dead.
He raised his spear, heavier now with its larger point, and looked for a place where a thrust might be
instantly fatal. But the body he could see was so thick that he could never hope to penetrate to the heart
that still beat inside that living mountain.
The hide was too tough to cut to the jugular vein. Only that great sad eye offered any hope of killing this
giant of his kind.
Do-na-ti stepped forward to brace himself for the thrust. The dusty trunk snaked out and touched his
knee, gently, almost caressingly. It moved to finger his hair, touch an ear, drop to his shoulder. Then it
curled back into the huge face.
"Go forth, Great One, to the Other Place," Do-na-ti murmured, putting every bit of strength into his back
and arm as he pushed the spear tip into the eye; he leaned into his thrust as the point dug through into the
creature's brain.
The bull gave a huge, shuddering sigh, and the trunk dropped, limp, onto the rocky soil.
The pile of rubble over the body quivered, seeming to sink as the life left the creature. Blood bubbled up
around Do-na-ti's hand and arm, which were almost flush with the eye socket. When he tried to retrieve
his weapon, one tug told him that he would never draw it out of the lifeless hulk.
The spear and the beast would remain together, here at the bottom of the ravine, and the falling rock [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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