A Novel in Progress

The story so far: Arriving from America to the remote Melanesian island of Ambua Jalaya to sell Tupperware and cosmetics hut-to-hut, enterprising Bailey Hedgecock became separated from her guides during a storm. Lost in the ancient rainforest, she has become the involuntary guest of a tribe of Stone-Age bushmen.

When the blue-faced tribesman had finished touching up Bailey's face, he spoke loudly to the other tribesmen and sat back to admire his work. The natives nodded and mumbled, apparently pleased. Now, she thought, they have accepted me as one of their own. Perhaps they had only made her stay to see her sing and dance. Tweed had said, it gets so bloody boring living like they do, and you'll be their main source of entertainment.
The entire tribe gathered in front of the communal hut. All of the men had brightly painted faces and wore headdresses. Most also wore sticks, bones, or feathers through their nasal septums and ears. Apparently, the choice of object, color, and length was a personal aesthetic decision. Some of the villagers carried shields of tough, dried leather. Like their faces, the shields were painted bright colors.
Except for the one-eyed Beelzebub, who had armed himself with his machete, each tribesmen had in his possession either a spear or a bow. Most of the men wore grass skirts draped from a belt of seashells or bones. Wearing these incredible costumes, the villagers had been transformed from simple food gatherers who behaved badly when drunk into fierce-looking warriors.
The women spread out rice, roots, coconut, and dried fish on the ground. The men ate together, but the women did not join them. It was now clear to Bailey that a ceremony of some kind was about to be conducted. Could it be that a tour group was coming? The possibility filled her with renewed hope of escape. The headman, Mr. Clean, motioned for Bailey to follow.
When the meal was finished, the tribe gathered around a wide carved bowl. Mr. Clean spoke an order, and a tribesman stepped forward to present Bailey with a headdress and a spear. Unlike the headman's brightly colored feather display, Bailey's headdress was made mostly from long black hairs, like a horse's tail, with only two plain, gray feathers dangling from leather straps. The headband was fashioned of seashells strung together with taut strands of dried vines.
All, right, Bailey told herself. I will agree to wear the headdress and the face paint, but I will not put a bone through my nose. She had forgot temporarily that, wearing her bright yellow face, she was no longer merely an impartial observer; she was destined to be a participant in whatever ceremony was about to take place.
She could not help but notice that, whereas her spear had a blunt tip, the villagers' weapons had sharp points, which their bearers were busily dipping into the carved bowl. She edged closer to take a look. The bowl was half-filled with a black liquid. It was poison, she decided. They were not meeting a tour group, after all, but preparing for some kind of hunting ritual.
Bailey wondered if she, too, was supposed to dip her spear in the poison, even though the tip was clearly useless for hunting. But no one encouraged her to do so, and so she decided it was not expected. Besides, if the tribe planned to hunt down some wild animal with their poison-tipped arrows and spears, she would just as soon play the role of observer.
Amid much discussion, the villagers began making their way along the foot trail in the opposite direction from which Bailey had first come. They sauntered casually, chattering in unruly bunches, occasionally stopping for no obvious reason. Except for Bailey, who everyone apparently believed to be a man, the females straggled behind in a group some distance from the males. They wore grass skirts and elaborate necklaces, but had not painted their bodies.
Moses walked beside Bailey jibbering away in his low tone that made only snatches of conversation comprehensible. He seemed to be talking not about the ceremonial hunt, but rather about iwak and how it was made.
They passed several dwellings before heading onto a steep slope covered with low brush. Bailey wondered what it was they were after--crocodile, wild pig, gibbon? Moses would not talk about anything but the cultivation and production of iwak. When they reached the summit, they emerged onto a plateau of tall grass and sparse trees.
Normally, Bailey might have felt ridiculous made up like a Stone Age native, but under the circumstances, she felt perfectly natural. In fact, she felt a kind of comraderie with the tribesmen. When in Rome, she told herself.
After hiking over the plateau for nearly an hour, the tribe came to a deep gorge. Along the edge, the men formed a single row. As Bailey took her place in line, she stared into the gorge and saw a series of footpaths leading to an ovular area of flat sand in a dry riverbed. Similar trails led to the top of the opposite wall. The tribe grew quiet.
"What's going to happen?" Bailey asked Moses.
The bushman frowned, apparently not understanding the question. Just then, a silhouette appeared on the opposite ridge. Shielding her eyes in the low morning sun, she saw more figures appear. Within seconds, an identical wall of costumed men had assembled across the gorge.
Were they from another tribe? Or had half the village come ahead and crossed the gorge before them?
Suddenly, the men on both sides let out a high-pitched shriek and, with arms held high, frenetically shook their weapons. Startled, Bailey nearly lost her footing.
Righting herself to avoid falling into the gorge, she stole a glance at Moses. The normally placid bushman was screaming at the top of his lungs and bobbing his spear at the sky. His yellow-painted lips were parted in a savage grimace, baring his jagged black teeth.
She looked down the row of tribesmen on her side of the gorge and, with fascination, watched their horrifying display. Turning her attention across the ravine, she saw what her own group must have looked like from the opposite side. The warriors grimaced and shouted, leaping into the air and shaking their weapons frantically.
The hopping and shaking continued for several minutes, rising and falling in ferocity with the pitch of their shrieks. Feeling obliged to participate, Bailey let out a few tentative whoops of her own and bobbed her blunt spear in the air. Adrenaline raced through her veins, transforming her tentative whoops into piercing shrieks.
All at once, she lost control. With a savage scream, she began jumping up and down spasmodically, shaking her head like a lunatic and waving her useless spear over her head. She was nearly frothing at the mouth.
Suddenly, a flurry of arrows and spears came soaring through the air in a high arc across the gorge. Almost simultaneously, Bailey's tribe unleashed a similar fusilade. Bailey stopped screaming and let out a gasp.
It was only a ritual, wasn't it?
The missiles crossed each other in mid flight. Most of the incoming sticks glanced harmlessly off the side of the precipice, but some actually made it to the ridge. Warriors on both sides moved away from the gorge out of harm's way. Those that had shields crouched down to hide behind them.
Seeing Moses dash back from the edge, Bailey staggered after him, stunned. As she knelt down on one knee to catch her breath, an arrow struck the dirt near the spot where she had been standing. She felt dizzy, and her heart pounded hard and rapid against her ribcage. This can't be happening, she thought--not in this century.
She suddenly resented the fact that they had given her only a headdress and a spear--and a useless ceremonial spear, at that. Why didn't I get a goddamn shield? she thought.
As soon as the last arrow had fallen to earth, the warriors rushed back to the precipice and resumed shrieking and hopping. Bailey, however, continued kneeling at a safe distance from the action, not particularly anxious to retake her position in the line of fire. The threatening behavior persisted for several minutes, and then, as before, some of the bushmen scrambled out of the trajectory of incoming arrows and then dashed quickly back to the column.
When she had caught her breath, she decided to rejoin the column after all. Paying close attention to each fusilade, she saw that the arrows did not have feathers and traveled in a high, wobbly arc. Many of them fell harmlessly on their sides. As it turned out, none of the remaining arrows came close to striking her. Each fusilade was interrupted by a prolonged period of frenetic threatening.
The most important part of the battle seemed to be the screaming. The spears and arrows almost seemed to have only symbolic meaning, although, it would certainly be no picnic getting hit by one.
At one point, a tribesman broke from the column on the opposite side of the gorge and dashed up to the edge, waving his spear tauntingly. Someone touched Bailey's forearm. Turning, she saw Moses motioning her away from the precipice.
She took a step back. Just then, she lost her footing in the loose dirt. As she contorted her body trying to keep her balance, both feet flew into the air. Landing on her haunches, she let out a loud yelp. Trailed by a billowing cloud of dust, she slid all the way down the embankment on her posterior, finally coming to a stop in the bottom of the gorge.
A profound silence fell over both tribes. Bailey was entirely engulfed by a gray dust cloud which concealed her from view. The opposing warrior stared down at the cloud with wide eyes, seemingly horror-struck.
Waving her hand and coughing, she adjusted her headdress, which had slid down over her face. Feeling faint, she gazed up meekly at the painted black face staring down at her from the edge of the precipice. She felt like a party crasher.
"Sorry," she said.
Suddenly, the warrior turned and fled. As Bailey made it to her feet, she could see his entire tribe scattering in panic.
From Bailey's side of the gorge, an enthusiastic roar went up.