Chapter X- The First Hunters
By two hours after sunrise on day six, Jack was guiding most of the boys, Ralph included, on an armed expedition into the jungle. There was at least the one pig out there- if it could be caught and killed, who knew how long the meat it provided would last.
Jack clutched the spear with both hands, his sharp eyes scanning the jungle in a Z pattern. His bare feet made no noise as he advanced downhill across the moist earth. If that swine was out there this morning, it would be Jack's dinner by nightfall.
A grunting, panicked squeal- the pig! Shouts of excitement came from all directions, and Jack sprinted forward as he prepared to ram home the killing blow. But it was Roger, standing above the pig's chosen path of retreat, who made the most daring move. He jumped for the swine as it fled, meaning to plunge his hunting knife into its back or better yet, its heart.
Jack caught up to him as the others did, his disappointment at the pig's escape somewhat ignored out of concern for his friend. Roger was still crouched where he'd landed, clutching his head with one hand.
Jack knelt and stood him up, visibly worried. "Roge, you okay, man? That was some jump."
Roger grimaced, holding his forehead. "Got him… right up his ass."
A pause; suddenly the twins turned to each other and yelled joyously, "Up the ass!"
Suddenly Will dropped on all fours and began scampering back up the hill, grunting and oinking as he went. Liam, Andy, and the twins chased after him, poking at the buzz-cut blonde's rear with their hunting spears. The twins got a little too aggressive about it, though, so suddenly Will yelled, "Hey, come on, cut it out!"
He stood up, and as he walked back down to Jack and the others, glared at the twins. "You dorks. That hurt!"
Sam and Eric just laughed. "I know it hurt!"
Will stopped short, though, frowning as he looked down to where Jack and Roger were. Seeing him frowning, Ralph turned and frowned too. What was going on here?
Roger was sitting on his knees, hands folded in front of him, looking for all the world like an unquestioningly obedient- albeit very out-of-place- Sunday School child. He was gazing quietly at Jack, who knelt before Roger, the hunting knife that had wounded the pig in hand. Running his finger along the blade, Jack held out his hand.
The others watched in silence as he traced a line of blood, in the shape of a downward V, down Roger's face, then his own. They all caught the meaning immediately; war paint. Roger and Jack were hunters now, in form as well as in spirit.
That night, Jack sat quietly with the others around the fire. For once, he seemed deep in thought, having little to say. Roger said nothing, busily sharpening his hunting spear, taking a quiet pride in the honour bestowed on him by Jack that day. In his own mind, Roger was turning away from calling Jack "boss". Today, the new term was a much more fitting one: Chief.