Page 63 of No Questions Asked

Several minutes later several men approached us. The one leading the group was an older, heavily tattooed man wearing a colorful, feathered headdress and a chest plate adorned with brightly colored bird feathers. He held a long staff that was as tall as he was. Behind him, another older man about the chief’s age and several younger men who looked like they were in their late teens were following. When the group reached us, the feathered man with the staff made a complex gesture to the chief. The chief acknowledged him by beating his chest twice with his fist.

The man with the staff then moved to the center of the area alone. My best guess was the guy with the staff was some sort of shaman or medicine man, because he had numerous vials and pouches around his neck. Everyone seemed afraid of him, and he seemed to be on an equal footing with the chief. He made a solemn and brief speech to those assembled, and then dramatically pointed at our group. I tried to shrink back into the shadows, but the men from the latter procession circled us until we were trapped inside.

The shaman finished his speech and immediately about half the young men stepped forward and started inspecting us. And by inspect, I meant looking at us like we were cattle or animals.

Oh, heck no. Absolutely not.

Everything became clear in that moment. I didn’t have to understand the village language to figure out what was going on. These men were looking for wives or mates and I’d somehow been roped into a binding or wedding ceremony. But why me?

OMG! Slash, where are you?

I was at the very end of the line of women, but my brain began racing through scenario after scenario to provide me with the right time and opportunity to voice my objections, or, as a last resort, make a freaking run for it. Before I could come up with a good plan, one of the young men stood directly in front of me, his nose so close to my shoulder I could feel his breath. If he got any closer, I was going to deck him.

He stepped back and made some comment that caused the other men to snicker. The chief spoke curtly and they stopped snickering. One by one, the men continued to look us over.

Another of the young men coming down the line appeared to be particularly lecherous, and he kept touching the girls, unlike the other men. My anger bubbled furiously at his treatment of the girls. No way was he going to touch me like that.

Oddly, the tall girl, who’d moved to the back of the line and now stood next to me, wasn’t watching the guy, but me. We exchanged a glance, and I saw the disgust in her eyes at his behavior. In that moment, we shared a moment of feminine unity that crossed all cultures. I clenched my fists by my sides, readying myself to deck him if he touched me.

I didn’t have the chance.

When the guy stood in front of the chief’s daughter and reached out to touch her, she took a swing at him. Her fist landed squarely against his jaw with a significant amount of force, especially since he was unprepared for it. He spun around once, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the ground.

For a second, it seemed that every noise in the rainforest silenced. I looked at her in surprise and then admiration.

You go, girl. What a freaking awesome hit.

The other girls looked at her with shocked expressions, while the rest of the young men stepped back in fear. The villagers were craning their necks to see what was going on. The tall girl turned to me and smiled, before giving the guys a fierce scowl. Crossing her arms against her chest, she said something to them sternly. I don’t know exactly what she said, but they definitely got the message.

I looked over my shoulder, but neither the chief nor the shaman said or did anything to rebuke her. They just stood watching quietly. Maybe the girls decked the guys all the time. How would I know?

After another nervous minute, during which a couple of the young men dragged away the unconscious guy, the shaman barked another command. The next group of men stepped forward to complete a similar inspection of us.

This time the men were completely respectful. Not one girl got touched inappropriately, and not one of them came anywhere near me or the tall girl.

Good.

I needed to think. One part of me was panicking horribly, but the other part stayed calm and rational—analyzing and processing the situation. That was the part I needed. A quick count around the circle indicated there were eleven potential suitors and only seven women, including me. The mathematical part of me wondered how that would be resolved. By lots or a fight? I didn’t see any weapons, which was a relief, but that didn’t make sense as a long-term solution to managing a village’s population anyway. My vote was for a fight of some kind, which would not be a bad thing because it could offer me cover to slip away.

The shaman spoke again. Whatever he said involved repeatedly pointing at us. When he finished his speech, he walked into the circle ringed by stones and started chanting. As soon as he was done, the rest of the villagers, who’d been quietly sitting on the logs, began to yell and bang sticks on the logs in a rhythmic thumping.

Oh, jeez. Things are about to get real. At least I’m not fodder for the bonfire, but that might actually be a better alternative to what’s actually happening.

The shaman pointed at one of the girls in our group and she came to stand at the top of the circle, just outside it. He then pointed to the group of young men. Without hesitation, one of them stepped forward into the ring. The shaman pointed to the other men, but after a brief wait, no one stepped forward. The chief took the young woman by the hand, brought her inside the stone circle and put her hand inside that of the young man. She seemed pleased and the young man had a broad smile. As the crowd cheered, the shaman turned to the young man, who reached into a small pouch hanging from his loincloth and pulled out what appeared to be a small rock. The shaman took the rock using a pair of wooden tongs and placed the object into the edge of the fire. After a couple of minutes during which the crowd had started a rhythmic chant, the rock was removed. The shaman presented the tongs to the young man. The girl, who looked extremely nervous, turned her face away from the tongs, as if she was afraid to look at them. The young man put his hand at the back of her head and pressed the hot stone into the cheek she provided for him.

Though it must have hurt horribly, the girl made no sound. After a second, he released her and dropped the rock and the tongs. The girl’s eyes were watering from the pain, but she leaned forward and kissed her new mate.

What in the heck? Maybe this tradition was acceptable and okay for them, but it wasnotokay for me.

By all that is holy, if a man comes anywhere near my face with a hot stone, he’d better be prepared to fight for his life.

Still in shock, I watched the couple walk off and stand among a crowd of people who surrounded them, hugging them. Family, I presumed. Perversely, I wondered what my mother would think of my snail shell loincloth, fishnet bra, and hiking boots as wedding attire. I imagined her fainting.

Gah!

I snapped back to reality when the shaman summoned a second woman from our group. She’d been led to the top of the circle and the process was repeated. This time, however, there were two suitors who expressed interest. The shaman set them in the middle of the circle facing each other and gave what I presumed were a few simple instructions. Then he stepped out of the ring and thumped down his staff.

The men immediately charged at each other and began wrestling. To my surprise, it wasn’t what I expected. No one punched or boxed, it was more like a pushing and wrestling match. Also, the villagers were quietly watching, instead of cheering.

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