desperate to go back to the hut and the Shaman, but then I’d just said I would prepare for dinner and Tk-tk might be watching me. What if I wandered
towards the hut and doubled back at the last moment? No, it was all too fraught with potential social ineptitude. Easier to face the madman.
“Hello!” I chirped as I pushed back the door, trying to sound positive.
The Shaman was kneeling with his back to me, trying to get the fire going. “Oh. You’re gack. Great,” he went, even though the dummy was lying on his bed, flattened and
forlorn.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. “Look, can we pretend that last conversation never happened? You know, just forget about it? We’ve been invited to a feast as guests of
honour.”
The fire caught. “Oh yes?”
“Don’t get any ideas. I’m not doing any dirty work for you. And if you try anything, I’ll…”
He turned to face me, the shrunken head hanging from the tip of his silly hat singeing gently in the licking flames. “You’ll oo-ot?” he said.
I ignored it. Let him get out his dead-head trinkets – his joke-shop magic didn’t scare me. The tit was all talk.
In the absence of any clothing options, I did my best to brush myself down and tug out the multiple creases stiffened and salted with dried sweat. When that didn’t take long, I sat on my
bed wondering what to do next.
The hut heated up quickly and smoke began billowing up towards a hole in the apex of the conical roof. The shaman was applying red face-paint: short lines perpendicular to his eyes and two
fang-shapes beneath his mouth. He opened up one side of his feathery cloak and I noticed for the first time that the lining was covered in pockets of all sizes. From one he withdrew something
scrunched up and unfurled it to produce a new headdress, similar in design to the current one, only twice as tall. He swapped the two, rolling the other into a pocket.
The Shaman picked up the wooden boy, inserted his arm and sat him on his knee, jiggling him until he was comfy.
The boy came alive. “You know you’ll need a gift thor the leader?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Really?”
“It is custom for all guests of honour.”
Shit. “But I don’t have anything. I didn’t pack… I mean, I didn’t think we’d be staying.”
He brushed imaginary dust off the boy’s velvet jacket, saying nothing.
“You haven’t got anything I could give him, do you?” Worth a try.
The Shaman stared at me and sniffed. “No,” snapped the dummy.
“I could pay you.”
This piqued his interest. “Hoo nuch?”
“I don’t have any money on me here – but I do have travellers’ cheques back at Gossips. I could pay you back there.”
“Hoo nuch?”
I hoped he didn’t have much of a grasp of the value of Sterling. “Ten pence?”
His eyes lit up. He opened one side of the cloak enough so he could peer in, without me seeing what he was up to. After some deliberation he picked out a cigar and held it out towards me.
“You can hath this,” he said, but snatched it away as I reached out. “For 20 of these klennies!” The Shaman cackled dryly, like a hyena choking on Ryvita.
He held out the stogey again, a thin, long thing and inexpertly wrapped, half whipped it away, then let me take it, leering.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said.
I was surprised to see, beyond the cooking fire, tables, arranged in two rows of three, seating a dozen or so on individual stools. All the furniture was made from natural
materials, bound with twine, but sturdy.
Many of the seats were already taken. Children played around the edges and were regularly shooed away.
I inhaled deeply as the scene sunk in. Here I was, privileged to be among this community so very many miles from home. Birds and monkeys, painted faces, flaming torches dotted about like
fairylights, nature unburdened, freedom. Stresses slipped away. While my previous adventures had all been against the clock, here there was no time
towards the hut and doubled back at the last moment? No, it was all too fraught with potential social ineptitude. Easier to face the madman.
“Hello!” I chirped as I pushed back the door, trying to sound positive.
The Shaman was kneeling with his back to me, trying to get the fire going. “Oh. You’re gack. Great,” he went, even though the dummy was lying on his bed, flattened and
forlorn.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. “Look, can we pretend that last conversation never happened? You know, just forget about it? We’ve been invited to a feast as guests of
honour.”
The fire caught. “Oh yes?”
“Don’t get any ideas. I’m not doing any dirty work for you. And if you try anything, I’ll…”
He turned to face me, the shrunken head hanging from the tip of his silly hat singeing gently in the licking flames. “You’ll oo-ot?” he said.
I ignored it. Let him get out his dead-head trinkets – his joke-shop magic didn’t scare me. The tit was all talk.
In the absence of any clothing options, I did my best to brush myself down and tug out the multiple creases stiffened and salted with dried sweat. When that didn’t take long, I sat on my
bed wondering what to do next.
The hut heated up quickly and smoke began billowing up towards a hole in the apex of the conical roof. The shaman was applying red face-paint: short lines perpendicular to his eyes and two
fang-shapes beneath his mouth. He opened up one side of his feathery cloak and I noticed for the first time that the lining was covered in pockets of all sizes. From one he withdrew something
scrunched up and unfurled it to produce a new headdress, similar in design to the current one, only twice as tall. He swapped the two, rolling the other into a pocket.
The Shaman picked up the wooden boy, inserted his arm and sat him on his knee, jiggling him until he was comfy.
The boy came alive. “You know you’ll need a gift thor the leader?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Really?”
“It is custom for all guests of honour.”
Shit. “But I don’t have anything. I didn’t pack… I mean, I didn’t think we’d be staying.”
He brushed imaginary dust off the boy’s velvet jacket, saying nothing.
“You haven’t got anything I could give him, do you?” Worth a try.
The Shaman stared at me and sniffed. “No,” snapped the dummy.
“I could pay you.”
This piqued his interest. “Hoo nuch?”
“I don’t have any money on me here – but I do have travellers’ cheques back at Gossips. I could pay you back there.”
“Hoo nuch?”
I hoped he didn’t have much of a grasp of the value of Sterling. “Ten pence?”
His eyes lit up. He opened one side of the cloak enough so he could peer in, without me seeing what he was up to. After some deliberation he picked out a cigar and held it out towards me.
“You can hath this,” he said, but snatched it away as I reached out. “For 20 of these klennies!” The Shaman cackled dryly, like a hyena choking on Ryvita.
He held out the stogey again, a thin, long thing and inexpertly wrapped, half whipped it away, then let me take it, leering.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said.
I was surprised to see, beyond the cooking fire, tables, arranged in two rows of three, seating a dozen or so on individual stools. All the furniture was made from natural
materials, bound with twine, but sturdy.
Many of the seats were already taken. Children played around the edges and were regularly shooed away.
I inhaled deeply as the scene sunk in. Here I was, privileged to be among this community so very many miles from home. Birds and monkeys, painted faces, flaming torches dotted about like
fairylights, nature unburdened, freedom. Stresses slipped away. While my previous adventures had all been against the clock, here there was no time
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