The place was simply known as the Trading Post, composed of a general store, mailing center, rustic restaurant, and pub.
It was very young in its existence, as far as such establishments go. It wasn't too unique in stock or services besides what one would expect at such a port. At least, not beyond such services offered to the generic sea traveller.
What gave it its distinction was its proprietor, its location, and its...odd clientèle.
The proprietor was a Frenchman, with a very distinctive knack for business. Renard Dumont might have been one of slightly questionable moral character, but his deals were sound, and his acquirements were quite noteworthy. How else could he have founded such a place?
The port itself was new, and the site practically legendary. It was an academic hotspot, as well as a strategically sound foothold between the ports of England and Morocco, and through that, Africa. It was strange that such a large island hadn't been discovered before, and the fact that it had gorillas, elephants, and an extensive habitat and wildlife almost perfectly unaffected by external influences made it an essential treasure. And that wasn't the only thing unique about it.
That's where the matter of clientèle came in.
There were the sailors, yes, the tradesmen, the University men, the Archivists, as well as those with the more invested interest in 'big game' or that timeless trivial pursuit of gold, diamonds, and other pretty, shiny things. All in all a very mixed crowd. And then there were the 'locals'...
Everyone gave a passing glance as the door opened with a ringing bell, and then that glance turned into a double-take that maintained itself as investigating stares towards the newcomer. To those who had stopped in the Trading Post for more than one trip, this appearance was standard, like clockwork. It was the second Thursday of the month, when one of the less-generic shipping lines took to port. To those who hadn't been so frequent, this was an anomaly.
The first glance labeled him as 'hunter', but this observation was quickly dashed by his physique and manner of dress. What kind of a hunter would go about without a gun, and with such a build? It's not that he wasn't strong, but was very lean, and a smattering of various scars was almost offensively displayed by the man's lack of a shirt. Healthy though he may have been, most hunters had the zeal and professional pride to bulk themselves for their business. But he couldn't have been a foreigner: his skin, and his face, though not as pale, still held that light pigmentation and structure of an Englishman.
But what an Englishman!
Dirty, bare feet, workman's trousers with a crude belt, slightly unshaven, and carrying nothing but a satchel over his shoulder and a small hunting knife at his hip, someone would have certainly noticed if he'd came in at the docks! And then the man walked up to the counter.
"Porter." the Frenchman greeted routinely.
"Dumont." the man, Porter, replied, not so benignly, but they appeared familiar. The man's accent confirmed him as English.
"Usual cup and paper, please," he continued, unslinging his satchel and rummaging inside, laying down some currency along with letters in crude envelopes. And then he put down something small wrapped in cloth, slightly steaming with a delicious fragrance, "One of Mum's newest.
She says hello."
"Merci," Dumont replied, casually slipping it under the counter, exchanging it for a cup of tea and a rolled newspaper, along with a few more letters in kind, "And how is your lovely wife?" This drew interested parties' attentions to the man's hand, where a ring did indeed shine dully.
"My wife is doing quite well, thank you." the strange man answered, with a slightly gritted jaw and smile, before taking his things to a more secluded table, clearly intending to read the newspaper before taking up his letters.
Conversation started up again, but a bit more hushed and with fresher topics, not so much by the sailors as by those from England themselves.
They'd heard, of course, of the original discoverers of this place, and their subsequent...eccentricities...
But to witness it firsthand was something else.
He was contradiction manifest.
His lack of certain clothing articles and of general hygiene bespoke 'savage' or 'boor', yet his posture and demeanor were difficult to criticize. He was quiet, sat properly in his seat, and even wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and so was quite a strange fellow.
The scars were also fascinating. Various scrapes and fresh scabs trail his arms and shoulders, as well as some rather worrisome clawings around his back, and a long-healed gouge near his stomach. But he calmly drank his tea and read his paper and letters as if he were sitting in his own drawing-room at breakfast time, shamelessly half-naked and haggard.
A gentleman savage?
Of course, some persons' inspections weren't nearly this observant. Quite a few simply passed him off as a poor man gone native and continued talking about their own concerns. These persons, in their flippancy, would then not have noticed how the man tilted his head to receive their conversations. Only a few noticed, then, when his body language shifted to alertness when a couple of the men discussed a person of interest, quite loudly.
The conversation was about the phenomena of the 'Missing Link'.
"—can't see what all the fuss is about. 'Missing Link', tuh, simply another advertisement for Darwinism."
"Indeed, it is an interesting concept, sure, but what is so special about a savage? You can find them anywhere from here to India. Abandoned by the parents, no doubt, and 'raised' lower than a primitive Neanderthal by apes. Probably picked up all sorts of disgusting habits."
"Oh, most definitely. No doubt barbaric..."
The man called Porter had set down his newspaper by this time, and was steadily sipping from his teacup, eyes unfocused.
Renard Dumont was paying an equally blasé interest in the mug he was washing, eyes narrowed, a dry smirk on his face.
Others had quieted down, and were watching the characters with curious interest.
The men continued to talk, "Would be more fitting to just put it up in a zoo exhibit, or a madhouse. It's not as if it would have enough intelligence to survive otherwise. This port is going to expand, my friend, and the teams, too, with all of these plant specimens to study!
Such a creature would only understand enough to interfere..."
Porter quietly set down his teacup with a light click, and Dumont paused, watching warily.
So it understandably startled most onlookers when the man broke into a wide smile as he got up.
"Finche?" he exclaimed, striding over to the table.
One of the two men looked up, startled and slightly indignant at the over-familiar approach of this character.
"Edmund Finche?" Porter repeated, smiling, holding out his hand.
"Er, yes?" the man replied hesitantly, briefly shaking the hand and then quickly wiping off his own.
"Botanist for Cambridge, right? James Porter! I read your paper once on the studies of stomata, decent work, decent work," Porter continued, before rounding on the other man, the one who'd made the 'exhibit' comment, and his face was all teeth and smiles, "And you must be his colleague, Earnest Hemp?" "A business associate, really," Hemp said after a moment, frowning, "I don't think we've met...?"
"James Porter!" Porter repeated, still smiling, and shaking the man's hand quite firmly, "And I wouldn't worry too much about that, man, anyone gets seen by anyone around the educated circles. I lay low, myself, but you must have heard of my mother's work?"
"Y-your mother?" Finche repeated, still slightly taken aback.
"Hypatia Porter." Porter supplied helpfully, as Hemp wrestled his hand from the man's surprising grip.
"Ah, yes, the 'jill-of-all-trades'." Finche sniffed, before remembering his present company, and paled.
But Porter's smile remained all the same, which was somehow worse, "Yes, she does love to dabble, doesn't she? Though I do hope you'd recall a few of her papers concerning the social structures of the Hominoidea? It actually wasn't until recently that she'd discovered the, what did you call it? The Missing Link, and she certainly didn't pay homage to Darwinism in doing so. No? Well, it's a fascinating subject all the same."
To the gentlemen's horror Porter sat himself at their table without so much as a 'by your leave'.
Dumont was smiling, but was also carefully putting away a few of the more delicate glasses.
"I understand your interest in the flora," the man continued, "But really, I do think you've pigeonholed the 'Missing Link' phenomena far too quickly, gentlemen. I see an opportunity for discussion, here."
"I hardly think this merits—" Hemp began to protest, before Porter took out his knife.
It wasn't a typical knife of folded steel. Or rather, this was one of flint, as long as his forearm, shaped like a machete.
The blade didn't shine, but its edge looked wicked, and its surface was barely marred by the typical ripples of flaking. The handle was clearly some sort of bone, cleanly wrapped in a dark sort of cloth. It was a fine piece of work.
"Let's start, for instance, on the circumstances surrounding the origin of said phenomena," Porter began, gently laying the knife down on the table in front of him, where it rocked sightly, and he folded his arms on the table, "First, it was evidenced some twenty years ago that a ship en route from England to an unknown destination had an incident of unknown nature, and never made it to port. Bad weather? Corrupted magazine? No one knows. No wreckage or survivors were recovered. But suppose that there were survivors, a small family who managed to get to a lifeboat in time? Let's say a young couple and their baby. And, coincidentally, that not too far off there was an island, uncharted and uninhabited." He knocked on the table, tracing the grain of its wood, smiling, "Wreckage from the ship would harvest decent food and building supplies. So the young couple did their best."
Then he spread his hands, "But, of course, England natives are not used to having a leopard come in their front door..."
His smile was harsher and didn't match his eyes, and the men subtly swallowed.
"Then a gorilla finds the baby," Porter continued, "And, having lost her own child to the leopard, takes the baby for her own."
"Yes, yes, quite a charming sentiment but—" Hemp interrupted with a scoff.
"And the baby survived." Porter said, his smile baring at Hemp with such viciousness that the man shut up again.
The easier smile was quickly back in place, "The baby survived, gentlemen. Human infants can barely do much more than cry or crawl, with nothing to protect them but those who would give that protection. And the gorilla did. And that's not the only amazing thing," and here he leaned in, "What is the strength of a human child compared to that of a gorilla in the same stage of life?"
When he wasn't answered, he nodded, "It doesn't quite compare, does it? The baby obtained the strength and skill to survive in a family much stronger and swifter, and thrived. And surviving wasn't the only thing obtained..."
He turned to Finche, "You're a botanist. How long would it take you to identify an edible plant?"
"Edible?" the man frowned, "Well, not all parts of any given plant are edible, but, if you'd give me a specimen..."
"No, no," Porter smiled, "You'd have to go out, on the run, and pick any plants, fruits, what have you, and identify them on the spot, not name them. She doesn't need names, she just needs to know if they can be eaten."
"I'm sure she's a competent scavenger," Hemp drawled, "But our friend Finche, here, is an educated man, Porter."
"Educated enough to feed himself without being poisoned?" Porter inquired, "Educated enough to find food while being pursued by creatures just as hungry as you are and not inclined to share, or, in fact, having more of an interest in eating you? Can he find food that quickly?"
Porter looked to Finche, "Really, can you?"
Finche was wisely not speaking at this point.
"And..." James continued, "Can you fend off things inclined to eat you? Guns run out of ammo, my friends," his finger gently fingered the blade handle, "And they need much care and coddling to work right in the first place. And could you find your way out of a jungle when lost?"
He smiled, "Can you eat without fire? Sleep without walls? Run without falling? Survive teeth and thorns and poisons with little more clothing than what you were born with?" he gestured shamelessly to his own partial lack of clothing, "I had to learn how. Still am. And she has done these things all her life. She makes tools, identifies plants, hunts for resources, she creates many things that no one else knows about..."
He grinned at Hemp, "And you say she lacks the intelligence to survive."
Hemp, now furious at the implications from this bumpkin that a savage woman was more educated than he, stood up.
"This port is going to expand," he hissed, "Civilization is going to correct and catalogue this rock, and your precious Missing Link is either going to fall out of the way or submit herself to being the dregs of society. And what can you do about it?"
Porter looked up at him idly, "I could exact the rights of my status as a local and honest civilian and condemn your 'business' in the opium trade." As Hemp gaped Porter stood, holding the knife, still smiling, "Or I could drag you outside and break your face for insulting my wife."
Murmuring uprose at the mention of 'opium', and even more at the mention of 'wife'.
Finche was spluttering, "Opium? Opium?! The—the very idea!"
"Do be quiet, Finche." Hemp said quietly, blank-faced, "You can't prove anything, Porter. Life with a savage has deluded you."
"What's this, then?" the man asked, holding up a tobacco pouch with a very distinct scent of incense. "A sample?"
With a light shake, a treacherous off-white-beige powder scattered on to the tabletop.
Betraying himself, Hemp quickly patted his coat, "You—how dare—?!"
"You shook my hand and judged me," Porter said, handing the pouch back, and still smiling, "So I did the same."
He looked around as a few men here and there tensed. There were rewards for turning in opium sellers.
"How fast can you run, gentlemen?" Porter asked. The answer was quite quickly, as the pair rushed for the door, followed by a few opportunistic bystanders, and James sighed, sheathing the knife, wiping off the table, and going back to rescue his tea.
A few people clapped politely for the show.
"You've cost me a few customers, Monsieur Porter." Dumont commented dryly, putting the glasses back out.
"My apologies. Someone will pay in bounty money." Porter replied briskly, sorting through his letters.
He began to write a few to England, a couple for the banks, a few friends, and one for Law Enforcement concerning Finche and Hemp, should they show their ratting faces again. He would have liked to have been violent, honestly, but he was better than that.
"James?"
The entire room's occupants, and none more quickly than James, looked to the door.
She stood in the doorway, a slightly tense hunching to her shoulders, holding a package.
Her hair was dark and long, almost ropy in its matting, and part of it tied back in a warrior's knot, showing her angular face and cool, sharp, liquid green eyes. Her skin was dark and taut over her musculature, lightened here and there by scars. And she was almost naked and barefoot, with nothing but a loincloth and a rough tunic on her body. And there was a ring on her hand. Many if not all the crowd gaped.
"Tarzan!" he said, smiling, moving quickly to his wife, "Are you alright?"
She nodded, eyes scanning over the patrons, and Renard Dumont leaned on his counter, smiling warmly, "Bon après-midi, Tarzan!"
She smiled a little, eyes slightly wary, "Hello, Renard."
James scowled, and looked at the package as they moved to his table. The crowd was still watching, "Tarzan, darling, what's this?"
"Porter-Mum forgot to give this." the wild woman said, indicating the postage marks, "And...you were taking long."
She looked at the door, "There're people hunting people out there. What does that mean?"
"Nothing you need be concerned about, dear." he told her, giving a warning glare to everyone else, "Just good sports."
She blinked, and then smiled, and went to give the package to Dumont, who made her promise to come by for a drink on the house.
Her movements were quiet, controlled, almost overly so, and strangely graceful, as if she'd run at any time.
She quietly moved back towards James on her way out, leaning in.
"James was defending his place today," she told him softly, grinning, "James was an Alpha. I'm proud."
She kissed him on the cheek, and then moved much more quickly through the door, where straining onlookers watched her vault up on to roof, and heard her move back towards the forest from there. Porter wasn't blinking, and looked much more flushed, and Dumont sniffed, grinning.
"You are a lucky man, Porter..." the Frenchman commented drily.
Porter nodded stiffly, getting a round of laughter from the patrons.
He went to hurry through his letters, eager to get back home to his wonderful, beautiful, most perceptive wife.
That day had been a very entertaining one for the customers of the Trading Post.