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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