An unexpected package

Day 3

     Just what I need, more driftwood!  That now unmistakably erroneous memory of being alone when I crashed was lifted from me like the weight of a stack of books comfortably resting upon the top of my head.  I awoke this morning to the soft mewing of a bit of my forgotten cargo, thought to be washed away by the tide.  I was foolish enough to believe my involvement in that affair was lost along with that padded crate.

     It appears that the spiteful Neptune saw fit to deposit the oversized mahogany cat-kennel a short distance from my camp, with its contents relatively unharmed, royal command included.  If only I had taken to the skys as soon as I discovered that I had been misled to the nature of the cargo on the docks in Howling Valley.  If only I had turned a blind eye to the parchment baring Her Majesty’s seal…

The good Miss-Friday

Gwendoline Footman

     I previously met Miss Footman the night of our… I mean my arrival.  (I’m not sure why I can’t shake the feeling that there was another presence aboard The Brubu’s Servant.  Without a doubt, I was alone when the ship crashed.)  I met her again the other night during an informal social gathering in the Bordello.  I had arrived rather late to the gala to find only a few drunken lingerers discussing the location of a mislaid orange and myriad strategies for separating the rind from the flesh. 

PS Day 2

Post Scriptum for Day 2 entry

     I do try to hold to my usual diligence in faithfully recording the events of my travels, but on this day I have allowed an important turn of events slip my mind while writing.  Likely, it was the result of an excess of humorous fluid building pressure on my brain from dangling inverted for so long, or the lingering effects of the intoxicating vapors of exotic flora.  Some portion of my mind must have clearly recalled the event, or at least left dubious thoughts sufficient to cause me to label the date as “unknown”.

The Second Day

Day 2, Year Unknown

     Yesterday I was able to take a reasonably thorough stock of all the necessary repairs I would have to make to The Brubu’s Servant.  By no means is it a short task, as much of the ship lay in near ruin.  Top of the list was a clear demand for some properly shaped timbers to replace the planks that either were pounded by the cannon balls rolling around on deck, or were splintered on the uncontrolled landing.

     With that in mind, I headed out in the pre-twilight hours of the morning to take stock of the trees on the island.  While trekking through the deep deciduous forest, which seems to be slightly out of place somehow, I came across a most pleasant, and yet disturbing site.  Off in the distance, in the predawn light I could just make out what appeared to be an illuminated clearing with a sole individual of some height standing perfectly still.

Spring, 189*

So what is this anyway?

This is going to be my personal record of my travels, my thoughts, feelings and outlooks on the strange and wonderful things that I encounter.  This is simply for my own recollection and personal history, as I have not the coin to take into my employ a professional scribe, or even a cabin boy (oh, wouldn't the hoity-toitys in their stiff collars and outlandish hats be in such an uproar if I had).  So, if this volume should ever find its way into the hands of a good reader someday, let me just say that everything written here are all lies.  Figments of my imagination, and nothing more.  And if you're willing to indulge the ravings of a woman that is quite probably mad, such as myself, then you might just be willing to accept that only the sentences that start with 'F' or 'S' are  falsehood, and the rest was quite genuine... or perhaps it was 'A's, I forget.

First an introduction

Here is my bio/story thus far:
Born in the later portion of the 19^th Century—it is not polite to ask a woman’s age —Vibia Mystiere was born of an affluent British merchant family in the East Indies city of Bombay.  She was raised to become a good wife of an aristocrat, hopefully one of a higher station.  She spent her younger years learning the finer arts of high society from her nanny and her private tutors behind the high walls of her family’s estate.  Only later did she venture out into the quagmire that British ruled India had become, seeing for the first time the poor and exploited workers locked eternally in the bonds of the caste system strictly imposed under the Crown.  She became as involved as she could, trying to improve the plight of the Indian people, but her position kept her socially occupied after her coming out party, and the hum of civilized life caused her to forget her “childish” idealism, as other people saw it.