Euuuugh! Eyeball Stew! by Alan MacDonald

Chapter 1
    Never Look a Rhino in the Eye
    S omething was definitely happening. All over the hill the Urks were emerging from their caves and hurrying down the slope towards the forest. Iggy caught sight of his best friend, Hubba, among the crowd.
    â€˜What’s going on?’ he called.
    â€˜Rhino!’ shouted Hubba excitedly. ‘Snark’s seen tracks in the forest!’
    Iggy didn’t need to hear any more; he plunged back into the cave to collect his weapons. If there was going to be a rhino hunt, he didn’t want to miss it. He had never actually seen a woolly rhinoceros, though of course he knew all about them. He knew they were fearsome beasts with sharp horns and tempers shorter than Hubba’s legs. He knew too that if an angry rhino charged you had better not get in its way.
    It was typical that it was Snark who’d spotted the tracks. Snark never tired of telling Iggy that (in his opinion) he was the best hunter in the tribe. But this was Iggy’s chance to prove him wrong. He had something that Snark didn’t. Slung over his shoulder, he carried the long curved stick that was his latest invention. So far there hadn’t been a real chance to try it out, but he was pretty certain it would prove deadly.
    When he caught up with the rest of the hunting party they were moving swiftly and silently through the forest. All the best hunters in the tribe were there including Iggy’s dad, Snark, Borg and even Hammerhead himself. The grizzled old chief rarely hunted these days but even he couldn’t resist the prospect of tracking a woolly rhino.
    â€˜Where’s your spear?’ whispered Dad.
    â€˜Oh, I left it at home. I’ve got this,’ said Iggy, unhooking the stick from his shoulder.
    â€˜What the Urk’s that?’
    â€˜A boo, I made it. It makes a kind of boo! noise when you shoot these arrow things.’
    He handed his dad one of the flint-tipped arrows he’d spent hours making. Dad grunted.
    â€˜What’s wrong with a spear?’
    â€˜Nothing, but these are better,’ said Iggy. ‘I’ve been practising. I can hit a tree nine times out of ten.’
    â€˜We’re not hunting trees, boy.’
    â€˜I know, but this will work. I know it will.’
    â€˜Humph!’ said Dad. ‘Just don’t go pointing her at anyone.’ He walked away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
    Iggy sighed. His last idea had been the jawbone clatterpult – which even he had to admit was not a total success.

    It was brilliant if you were hunting, say, a toad or a lizard, but not much use if you were faced with a stampeding mammoth. Nevertheless it had given him the idea for something better. If you could shoot stones, he reasoned, then why not other things like little spears? It had taken weeks of work and patience but finally he had perfected the boo and arrow. He tested the boo string for the hundredth time. It was made from animal gut and made a satisfying twang when you let it go. He imagined taking aim at a huge woolly rhino as it came bursting through the trees. Maybe today would be the day?
    Hammerhead and the others were squatting down, studying something in the mud.
    â€˜Fresh tracks. It come this way,’ said Dad, tracing the outline of some large footprints.
    â€˜Rhino?’ asked Hammerhead.
    â€˜Well, it’s not a rabbit. What you want us to do, Chief?’
    Hammerhead scratched his beard. The truth was he didn’t really have any kind of plan. He was hoping they would run into the rhino and kill it, preferably without having to get too close.
    â€˜We’re wasting us time, we should drive her to the Crags,’ said Borg impatiently.
    Hammerhead stood up and gave him an icy stare.
    â€˜Where’s your whalebone necklace?’ he asked.
    â€˜Uh? I doesn’t have one,’ replied Borg.
    â€˜But I has; that’s why I’m Chief,’ said Hammerhead. ‘We do as I say,