Friday, March 30, 2012

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. 

     As the nocturnal oil burned down, the revelers departed to find some dark corner in with to collapse, the embrace of a comfortable bush or otherwise similarly undignified location to sleep off their libations.  It is not that I have some inhibition or moral code against medicinal palliatives or even the occasional polite vintage with every meal, but it seems the island causes otherwise seemingly stoic individuals to behave like seamen on shore leave.  The good Miss-Friday, Gwendoline, seems to be an exception to that rule.





     Although she does partake of the offerings of the bar, she seems more interested in conversation and almost intellectual pursuits.  Why, she even has on her shoulders an inquisitive mind, for a savage, drinking up the local vernacular, even if it is little more than poppycock, as quickly as others seem to be clearing their glasses.  I’m sure among her own people, she was viewed as quite sagely.
     As she spun her yarn, it became clear that the two of us have several points in common.  It seems that she, like me, found her way to the island quite by accident, by way of a remarkable storm in the tides of time.  While traversing by sea her own “plane” as she called it, she was caught in a squall most horrendous.  In the resulting tussle of prow and waves, she was washed overboard with but a scrap of wood to cling to. 
     So began the previous month of her internment on Glint.  It would appear that it has been rather eventful.  She has already uncovered several mysteries of the island, and run afoul of the local Peelers.
     As she related, shortly after her arrival she discovered a set of extraordinary boxes, which hold sway upon the baser emotions of those that gaze too deeply.  In the resulting amorous stupor, she made a mutual acquaintance of mine, the lovely Miss Jinx Gumbo.  The inhabitants here are remarkably keen on inducting all new arrivals in their welcoming ceremony, even going to the point of leaving such dangerous items on public display to ease the minds of the more inhibited.
     She went on to recount her misstep with the police.  While on unspecified business in their headquarters, she incidentally ignited one of the agent’s desks, but much to her chagrin, she had incinerated the wrong desk!  Oh how I would have loved to see the look on the faces of the officers when they realized that one of their own desks was aflame!  Not that I have anything in particular against these fine men, but my previous experiences have left me wary of the detective skills of most small town officers of the peace.
     The resulting confrontation left Miss Footman weaponless until such time as she could find a suitable replacement for the property she damaged; quite reasonable, if you ask me.  I have seen lower caste men dealt with much more cruelly for far less an infraction.  Still, my heart goes out to the poor lass, as she now must confine herself to the relative safety of the Bordello until the local chattel brokers can procure such an item and she has the capital to pay their fees.  Nonetheless, she seems quite resolute in her desire to remain as self-sufficient as possible in such hardships; a virtue without a doubt.
     The last mystery she related to me was that of the natives to the island.  She tells that they are a tribe of primitives living somewhere concealed upon the island and that they raid the local townsmen and take captives of the unwary.  Of most interest to me was that they might have been the builders of the altar I encountered. 
     On that point, I am not sure, for the altar I saw was ornately carved in a fashion which would indicate a fair cultural experience working stone.  In most cases, island dwelling savages rarely have call to develop such sophistication.  Perhaps it is all myths and legends generated from a causal association between the sporadic appearance of the primitives and their use of potentially pre-existing mason work.  Either way, I must begin working on some kind of concealment so that I might observe their behaviors unseen.

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