‘Yeah,’ another agreed, ‘we’ll be back to buying water from bastards with deeper wells.’ I walked on out of earshot as the others began bemoaning the extortionate price of well water during a drought. It wasn’t my problem, thank God. With any luck, I’d be off-island before any wells dried up.
I hadn’t gone much further before I saw the two Fellih-worshippers again. Not surprising really, as Gorthan Docks was not that big a town. They’d set up a raised stand, hung up a couple of lanterns, and were haranguing the passers-by from this makeshift stage, exhorting them to change their ways or face eternal damnation. If they thought to make converts that way on Gorthan Spit, they were about as stupid as crayfish trying to find their way out of a craypot. It’s hard to threaten people with hell when they already live there, and it is equally hard to entice them with a vision of paradise when in order to get there you had to abstain from anything even remotely enjoyable along the way. The inhabitants of Gorthan Spit, of course, gave as good as they got, and heckled the speaker unmercifully. I stopped to listen.
‘Eternal life will be yours,’ one of the preachers shouted with impassioned sincerity as he wagged his finger at a drunk who could barely walk straight, ‘if you change your ways! Swillie is the instrument of the Devil, leading you down the whirlpool to eternal drowning in the Great Trench, choking and struggling for air as the demons of the Deep attack from the abyss…’
‘Never mind, old Ike there’ll drown happy as long as he’s got his swillie,’ someone interjected.
‘A nasty sort of fella, Fellih,’ someone else said loudly. ‘Drownin’ people like that.’
The speaker ignored them and turned his attention to me, singling me out with his waggling forefinger. ‘And you, you heathen woman, how dare you flaunt your sex in a man’s clothing! How dare you proclaim your sins to the world by your wanton dressing! Do you not feel shame? You entice men to the sin of fornication that will block their way to paradise! You turn their thoughts away from Fellih towards lust of the basest kind—repent your evil! Cover your body in skirts and go forth with modesty, eyes downcast, to serve only your husband, lest you drown in the waters of hell…’
‘Why, Blaze, I think he fancies you,’ a voice murmured in my ear.
It was Tor Ryder, of all people, standing right behind me. I had not thought to find that he had a sense of humour, and wondered if he was just being sarcastic.
Uncertain of how to take it, I ended up being entirely graceless. ‘Oh shut up.’
‘Sorry,’ he said lightly. ‘They are somewhat repulsive, aren’t they, with their absolute surety that they speak for a higher power.’
‘Not to mention their certainty that anything pleasurable has to be wicked,’ I said with a smile, trying to make up for being needlessly rude. The preacher was even then blasting forth about singing being the Devil’s tool, and dancing the Devil’s trap. ‘I think I’ll be off to do some more sinning. It’s more fun than listening to this.’ I said this loud enough for everyone to hear, and there was a ripple of laughter through the listeners. I nodded to Tor and went on my way.
I dropped by a couple of bars, drank a couple of mugs of watered-down swillie and asked some questions. About an hour later, as a result of the answers, I headed for a rooming house on the other side of the docks, a place that was renowned for the quality of both its whores and its swillie, either of which could be found in its cellar bar. I was looking for the ghemph that Niamor had mentioned—my own business this time, nothing to do with Keeper affairs.
The place was quite pleasant, as far as bars in Gorthan Spit went. It was clean and it was quiet; the woman who presided over the cash desk was as huge as a whale calf—and as intimidating as the calf’s sire when it came to dealing with troublesome customers. I nodded to her and the narrowing of her eyes indicated that she recognised me. She had a good memory; it had been five years since I’d had a drink there. I gave the place a quick survey as I came down the steps. It didn’t seem to have changed much and I couldn’t see anything that looked dangerous: no armed drunks, drugged crazies or rowdies looking for a fight. The bar was the same block of hammered-down coral, the furniture could have been the same unmatched assortment of driftwood tables and chairs, the candles were still of the best spermaceti wax. The whores and the clientele might have changed, but the former were just as blatantly bored as their predecessors and the clientele looked just as harmless. Several Keepers from the ship were there. And Tor Ryder had evidently tired of the Fellih-worshippers, because there he was too, sitting with a man who was wearing a Keeper-style artisan’s tunic that had seen better days, a poorly dressed fellow who certainly wasn’t one of those from the Keeper Fair. I couldn’t see the slightest touch of sylvmagic around him and I would not have been surprised if was talentless: he lacked the air of confidence that Keeper sylvs always had about them.
Illogically annoyed that Tor had arrived before me, I gave him the faintest of nods and made my way to the customer who really interested me: the ghemph. It was sitting alone with an untouched glass of swillie in front of it. There was a circle of empty tables all around; people tended to give ghemphs a wide berth, although I couldn’t have explained why. I’d never heard of one of them ever hurting a human, nor did they smell so very bad. In fact, if you saw one from a distance, you’d think it was human: tall, gangly, clumsy, ugly, but human. It was only when you approached that you saw the difference. Ghemphs were hairless, for a start. And their skin colour was grey, at least on the face, darkening steadily the lower it went, until their feet were a sort of charcoal black. Their features were rather unattractive, with the nose and the ears flattened and the eyes lacking lashes or brows. Their sex was not obvious from the face or build, and as both sexes dressed alike and sounded alike, it was impossible to say whether a ghemph was male or female.
There were other differences as well. They had four thumbs, one on either side of each palm. The hands differed from one to the other. The left hand had squat fingers with a grip strong enough to shatter a clam shell; the right had long dextrous digits capable of finicky work. Their feet were never shod and their long thin toes were webbed and clawed with retractable talons. I’d always assumed the webbing meant that they were fine swimmers, yet I can’t say that I’d ever actually seen one in the water.
My knowledge of them was really rather superficial; like most people, I’d very little to do with them. In those days, there was usually only one ghemphic family in each town, although in the larger cities there would be a small community. There couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty thousand adults in the whole of the Isles of Glory before the Change. They were long-lived and slow to breed, and they usually had only one or two children.
They kept to themselves and were for the most part ignored by the rest of us, except when one of our newborns was due to receive a citizenship tattoo. Then, once the parents had obtained the prerequisite citizenship papers from a citizenship office, they took papers and baby to the nearest ghemph. For the payment of a fee, the ghemph made the tattoo and inserted that particular islandom’s emblematic jewel—but not before it had made extensive checks that the citizenship papers were authentic. Ghemphs did, in fact, act as a check on any corruption of citizenship officials. They were so thorough that it was considered impossible for a child who wasn’t entitled to a tattoo to receive one. And they never, never, accepted a bribe themselves, even though none of them was rich. As far as I know, their only income was from payments for tattoos. Funnily enough, they didn’t bother with citizenship tattoos for themselves and no authority, not even the Keepers, questioned their right to come and go and live as they pleased.
No one knew when or how or why they became tattooists; it had just always been so. Because of what they did, because no one else knew how to do it so well, because they were incorruptible, they were indispensable. So they were tolerated, even respected, because they were necessary. Yet they were not liked, nor were they understood.
Like most people, I found
them rather ugly. Unlike most, I disliked them for their rigidity in applying citizenship laws. Had ghemphs been more flexible or more corruptible, the whole system might have been bearable or, better still, unworkable, and people like me might not have been regarded as outcasts, as less than human.
It was puzzling to see one of these creatures in Gorthan Docks. There was no such thing as citizenship of Gorthan Spit and therefore no work for a citizenship tattooist, although I suppose there might have been the odd sailor wanting to have a naked lady etched on his forearm.
As I’ve said, the Spit was just the place you went if you had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t even recognised as a nation. There was no government, no law, no order except what came from your own individual strength. So why would a ghemph go there? The only reason I could think of was that it too was an outcast, a renegade. And renegades could be bought…
I walked across to its table and stood there. ‘May I join you?’ I asked, smothering my distaste for its kind.
The creature looked up, its face expressionless. As far as I knew, ghemphs never showed any emotion that was discernible to humans. It inclined its head in what I took to be a gesture of consent, so I seated myself. In answer to my raised hand, the waiter came across and reluctantly dumped a mug of swillie in front of me.
I couldn’t speak the ghemphic tongue of course; no one could except they themselves. However, it didn’t matter; all ghemphs understood the language of the Isles of Glory and they could speak it too, if they had to. Mind you, most of the time they said nothing. That was their way.
‘I call myself Blaze Halfbreed,’ I said, speaking softly.
It inclined its head again, but didn’t give a name to itself. As far as I knew, ghemphs had no names.
Knowing their dislike of conversation, I went right to the point. I unobtrusively pulled my hair away from my ear and said, ‘As you can see, I am citizenless.’
It knew immediately what I wanted and it didn’t wait for me to frame the question before it gave the answer: ‘No.’ The single word was brutally uncompromising.
I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘Not for any price?’
It shook its head.
‘Ah.’ I made a gesture of surrender with my hands and smiled ruefully. ‘It was worth a try.’ I raised my mug in salute and it did likewise, but it didn’t smile. I was none too sure that ghemphs could smile.
I don’t know why I didn’t get up and walk away right then: there was no reason for me to stay. I think it might have been because I glimpsed something after all on that flat grey face, and it struck a chord within me. I could have sworn that I saw the ache of loneliness…
‘Not much of a place, Gorthan Spit, is it?’ I asked easily.
It regarded me with slate-grey eyes. Then it glanced around as if to test the truth of my remark, looked back at me and shook its head by way of agreement.
‘Been here long?’ I didn’t really expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. The ghemph drained its mug, stood up and bowed deeply, a respectful gesture they made to humans often enough. Then it said, ‘Earlobe tattoos are a symbol. Some people do not require symbols.’
My eyebrows must have disappeared off my forehead in surprise at that; it was undoubtedly the longest and most articulate statement I’d ever heard from a ghemph. It was also somewhat obscure, but I didn’t have time to ask the creature to elucidate. It was already heading for the door with its clumsy, loping walk.
I was still looking wryly after it when Tor Ryder came up, his companion having evidently also abandoned him. ‘May I join you?’ he asked politely.
‘Be my guest.’ I sat up a little straighter. For all his seriousness, Ryder was a very good-looking man and my body was very much aware of him. ‘We seem fated to bump into one another tonight.’
‘I thought you were following me.’
I blinked, completely unable to judge whether he was joking or whether he was genuinely paranoid. It wasn’t often that someone could throw me off-stride the way he did. I finally managed a noncommittal smile that could have meant anything.
‘Tor Ryder,’ he added as he sat. ‘Of the Stragglers.’
‘Blaze Halfbreed. Of nowhere in particular.’
‘And so you remain, I think. I could have told you you’d never get anywhere with a ghemph.’ So he had guessed why I had approached the creature. I suppose the reason was obvious enough.
‘How do you know I didn’t?’ I asked a little belligerently.
‘I was watching the expression on your face.’
‘It was worth a try,’ I said again with a shrug. ‘However, it seems the ghemph was not a renegade after all. Have you any idea why it is here?’
‘None at all. Blaze, did you see that man I was talking to when you came in?’
‘The Keeper?’ I nodded.
‘I’d like you to meet him. He lives in a room upstairs and he’s there now. Would you consider coming up to see him with me?’
A whole string of questions rushed through my head, not the least of which was: is this a trap of some kind? I was none too sure what to make of Ryder; the only reason I might have had some small trust of him was that he was one of the Awarefolk and Awarefolk tended to be slightly more trustworthy than common folk, especially when dealing with their own kind.
In the end I shrugged and said, ‘Why not?’ But as I rose to follow Ryder, I felt uneasy, as if I was going to regret having said yes. And I had no idea why.
Letter from Researcher (Special Class) S. iso Fabold, National Department of Exploration, to Masterman M. iso Kipswon, President of the National Society for the Scientific, Anthropological and Ethnographical Study of non-Kellish peoples.
Dated this day 6/1st Single/1793.
Dear Uncle,
Thank you for your inquiry as to my condition. It is a relief to be able to tell you that the fever contracted in the Isles of Glory has vanished, and I am now in excellent health. I hope you will apprise Aunt Rosris of this and tell her to stop worrying! Doubtless she will be convinced of the efficacy of the posset ingredients she sent so regularly. I shall come and see you both soon.
Who is this Anyara isi Teron that Aunt is so determined I should meet? Her last letter was full of it! I suspect she is trying to match-make for me again. I keep telling her that no young lady in her right mind would want to look at a man who is forever sailing away for years at a time, but I suppose an aunt’s hope for her only nephew dies hard, even when it concerns incorrigible bachelors such as myself.
To return to less personal matters: I do not perceive any problem with my lecture to our august National Society next month and I look forward to presenting the findings of my research. Of course, I am a little nervous as well, as my methodology may be considered unorthodox—based as it is on interviews, rather than observation of behaviour and the study of artefacts, which has been the preferred scientific method for most of my predecessors.
In answer to your question concerning the ghemphs: no, we personally saw none of the creatures, nor anything like them. However, the mythology about ghemphs seemed remarkably consistent on all the Islandoms we visited. Everyone questioned agreed that there had been such an alien species once, living throughout the Glory Isles, and that they had been responsible for the insertion of citizenship tattoos until they had all mysteriously disappeared, within recent memory. As far as we could ascertain, this supposed ‘Exodus of Ghemphs’ occurred at different times on different islands, throughout the period known as ‘the Change’. The Change started some time around 1742 (which is the time frame for the events recounted by Blaze) and continued for a number of years. It was over, and all ghemphs had vanished, by the time our first Kellish explorers and traders discovered the Isles in 1780.
Most people we saw who were more than ten or twelve years old had citizenship tattoos, apparently given to them shortly after birth, and they all agreed that these had been made by ghemphs. No children under this age had such tattoos—none.
We did not, however, find a
ny pictorial representations of ghemphs, neither in any artwork nor in texts. We were hampered in our research of written records by (with exception of Nathan) our inability to read the language of the Glory Isles, but we employed some of our own Kellish traders as translators and it seems that there are no records of ghemphs in tax archives, property ownership files, court files for both litigation and criminal matters, or in legal agreements filed with the registrar of records. In short, if they ever existed, ghemphs were never taxed, never legally owned property, never owed anyone money, never committed a crime, never signed an agreement, never registered a birth or death—and, more intriguingly, were virtually never mentioned in other people’s records. If they were real people, then they were almost invisible!
Glorians usually kept extensive written records of daily transactions throughout the Islandoms, especially where these concerned citizenship, so we were led to the conclusion that ghemphs must have been more mythological than real. Moreover, when we tried to trace ghemphic skeletal remains, we were told they consigned their dead to the sea. When we investigated areas where they were said to have lived, we found no artefacts.
This discrepancy between oral history and tangible evidence is one of the most intriguing mysteries we encountered on the Glory Isles and is worthy of further research. It will be difficult work, as there is a marked reluctance on the part of many people in the Isles to even mention ghemphs. Why there was a necessity to invent mythological creatures in the first place is unknown. I suspect that it has something to do with the shame people feel over the old citizenship laws, which were apparently draconian. It may have been a socially acceptable device that allowed Keeper officials to enforce these laws, while maintaining a myth that it was an alien race who was really responsible for them. I might add that when we did find citizens ready to talk, such as the elderly woman Blaze Halfbreed, their belief in ghemphs was so deep-rooted as to be ineradicable. Perhaps for such people, memory and time has blurred the line between myth and reality.
The Aware (The Isles of Glory Book 1) Page 8