Big Tom could not stand the pudgy jailer's whine, nor his urinelike odor, so he hoped this could be dispensed with quickly. His nose still twitched with his first-thing-in-the-morning knife-load of powder. While the tradesman doubted that there was any better standpoint from which to greet a new day, the drawback was that the powder seemed to heighten each unpleasant sensory experience. Wind chimes became annoying gongs in his ears; Bishop's ratty visage became a painful, surrealistic painting to his eyes; a sour-smelling body became rancid mountains of meat under his nose.
In this nerve-jangled mood, he followed the bouncing mass of flesh named Jay-Jay down the lockup hall, with Bishop and Moori trailing behind. As if a merchant's everyday life did not present enough problems, a madman showed up on his porch last night howling to the stars, and it took four musclers to cuff him and drag him into the red-legger holds.
"Right 'ere in number three," the fat jailer shrilled as he clanked open the window to check the whereabouts of his prisoner—procedure before opening the cell door. "Lucky this was to happen soon after the lass ship-off, else I don' know where we'd a had room for him." He fit a key into the lock, and heaved the slab of metal back.
Big Tom hesitated at the door and turned to Moori. She was still squinting with sleep, whisking along barefooted in one of the long cotton dresses she wore about the mainhouse most mornings. "Why don't you stay here, 'til we see what he's about?" Big Tom said.
"Oh gawd." It was Moori's plaintive tone, the one that usually persuaded her husband to do her bidding. She stabbed a finger toward the cell. "Lookit. He's just sitting, head down, probably just brain-burned from too much powder last night—something like that. Made him gullybonkers. What'll I tell the others? That a blond banshee rattled my house like the island's never seen—but Big Tom chopped his throat afore I ever got ta see him? Haw! I'll tell ya, I can not go back without a full look at this tattoo they're talkin' about."
Big Tom scowled, glanced at the silent prisoner, then back at his number one wife, this frowning red-haired lady with the freckled face. He shrugged and motioned for her and Bishop to follow him into the cell.
Bishop was swinging a truncheon, almost scraping the tile with it, he was so short. He put a boot against the prisoner's shoulder and pressed the guy's back to the wall. The young man was awake, his eyes so bloodshot that it reminded Big Tom of a long bout with the ale bottles. The stranger had been so maniacal the night before that they left him cuffed, ankles and wrists. During the night he had shed a set of skin wraps. The matted fur skirt lay to his side, and the vest dangled by its armholes from his wrist chains. A wild picture whirled across his chest.
"What's your name? Where'er you from?" Big Tom was using his interrogation voice. Authoritative, with underlying menace.
The prisoner's dry lips parted, quivering. "Greggie," he said.
"Greggie?" The merchant's tone was mocking.
"The long way," the prisoner stammered, "you. . .ah, you say it 'Gregory.'" He showed a faint smile. "You. . .do you all here speak English?"
The three islanders glanced to each other wide-eyed, and broke into laughter. Gregory looked bewildered, but then ventured a small laugh himself.
Bishop let his foot fall away from the prisoner's shoulder, leaving a smudge on his skin. "Boss, he's a retard, all right," Bishop said. "Like Jay-Jay said, he's a retard—look." Big Tom's assistant pointed with his truncheon to the round scar on Gregory's forehead. "An' it looks to be, from that skin picture, that the Rafers had hold of him. Gawd knows what they did to 'im."
Big Tom grunted and wiped at his nose. "Stand up, lad."
Gregory pushed himself up weakly, his back scraping up the rock wall. "Where. . .where is Tym?" he asked. "The water woman, the dark lady?"
Moori answered quickly, "Greggie, you're on Thomas Island now, and we don't know where you came from." As she spoke his name, the prisoner's face fell into a gawk of complete trust. Their eyes met, and Moori knew that she would not allow the man to be killed. She leaned her face forward to inspect the detailing of his tattoo, and the prisoner took that to be some gesture of kindness.
"From?" Gregory's face brightened even more, happily oblivious to his iron-laden wrists. "I am from Blue Ridge, on the mainland of Merqua. I come from under a mountain."
Bishop haw-hawed, and Gregory looked hurt.
"True," the prisoner said. "True, true, ya, true. Grew up there."
Moori was starting to say, "We could let him. . ." when Big Tom broke in: "Thass a long way, son. The Blue Ridge, thass up north even of Chautown and inland. A long wander, I'd say, to end up on my porch."
"It was the Government sent me," Gregory replied. He stared at the ceiling, hoping the fog would clear from his mind. "Government, Mr. Webb, said to come."
Bishop was sitting on the floor mattress, chuckling, assured that there was no physical threat. He tapped his club onto the dingy tile. "You wouldn't be the Monitor, would ya—run the Government yerself?" he asked, toying with Gregory. "Monitor, I thought he was 'sposed to have three heads or something."
The sarcasm did not escape Gregory. He arched his shoulders defiantly and replied, "The Monitor—he's a dead pig poker. Dead. An' I'm sent by the new Government, ta find a builder what can make a ship ta cross the Big Ocean."
Bishop and Moori giggled, but Big Tom's brow furrowed into four erratic, worried rows.