The Luminaries

by Eleanor Catton

  ‘That, in fact, is a rather good idea.’ She saw the boy coming back from the kitchens with the pie wrapped in paper, and rose from the table. ‘I must be getting back now. I shall call on you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ Carver said.

  ‘Thank you, Edward,’ said Mrs. Wells to the boy, taking the pie. ‘And goodbye. I could wish good fortune upon you, but that would be a waste of a wish, would it not?’

  The boy laughed.

  Carver was smiling too. ‘Did you tell his fortune, then?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘He is to become excessively rich.’

  ‘Is he, now? Like all the rest?’

  ‘Not like all the rest,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Exceptionally rich. Goodbye, Francis.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ said Carver.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs. Wells,’ said the boy.

  She swept from the room, and the two men gazed after her. When she was gone Carver tilted his head at the boy. ‘Your name’s Edward?’

  ‘Actually—no, it isn’t,’ said the boy, looking a little shamefaced. ‘I made the choice to travel incognito, as you might say. My father always told me, when it comes to whores and fortune tellers, never give your real name.’

  Carver nodded. ‘That’s sense.’

  ‘I don’t know about the whores part,’ the boy went on. ‘It grieves me to think of my father using them—I feel a kind of repugnance about it, out of loyalty to my mother, I suppose. But I like the telling fortunes part. It was rather a thrill, to use another man’s name. It made me feel invisible, somehow. Or doubled—as though I had split myself in two.’

  Carver glanced at him, and then, after a moment, put out his hand. ‘Francis Carver’s my name.’

  ‘Emery Staines,’ said the boy.

  MERCURY SETS

  In which a stranger arrives upon the beach at Hokitika; the bonanza is apportioned; and Walter Moody quits the Crown Hotel at last.

  Even in his best suit, with his hair combed and oiled, his boots blackened, and his handkerchief scented, Mr. Adrian Moody was a great deal less handsome than his younger son. His countenance bore the symptoms of a lifetime’s dependence upon hard drink—his eyes were pouched, his nose swollen, and his complexion permanently flushed—and when he moved, it was without grace or fluidity. He walked in a stiff-hipped, lumbering fashion; his gaze was restless and wary; his hands, stained yellow with tobacco smoke, were always stealing into his pockets, or picking in an anxious way at his lapels.

  Upon clambering out of the skiff that had conveyed him from the steamer to the beach, Moody senior took a moment to stretch his back, shake out his aches and cramps, and pat his body down. He directed his luggage to a hotel on Camp-street, shook hands with the customs officer, who was standing by, thanked the oarsmen gruffly for their service, and finally set off down Revell-street with his hands locked behind his back. He walked the length of the street, up one side, and down the other, frowning into each window box he passed, scanning the faces in the street very closely, and smiling at no one. By now the crowd that had gathered outside the Courthouse had dispersed, and the armoured carriage containing Francis Carver’s body had returned to Seaview; the double doors were shut and locked. Moody senior barely glanced at the building as he passed.

  At length he mounted the steps to the Hokitika Post Office, where, inside the building, he joined the queue to the postmaster’s window. As he waited, he retrieved a piece of paper from his wallet, and unfolded it, one-handed, against his breast.

  ‘I want this to find a Mr. Walter Moody,’ he said, when he reached the front of the queue.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the postmaster. ‘Know where he’s staying?’

  As he spoke the bells in the Wesleyan chapel rang out five o’clock.

  ‘All I know is that he’s been in Hokitika these months past,’ said Moody senior.

  ‘In town? Or in the gorge?’

  ‘In town.’

  ‘At a hotel? Or is he tenting?’

  ‘I’d guess a hotel, but I couldn’t tell you. Walter Moody is the name.’

  ‘Mate of yours, is he?’

  ‘He’s my son.’

  ‘I’ll have a boy look into it, and charge you collect once we find him,’ said the postmaster, making a note of the name. ‘You’ll have to put a shilling down as surety, but if we find him to-morrow we’ll likely reimburse you sixpence.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Would you prefer an envelope, or a seal?’

  ‘An envelope,’ said the other, ‘but hang a moment: I want to read it through one more time.’

  ‘Step aside, then, and come back when you’re ready. I’m shutting the window in half an hour.’

  Adrian Moody did as he was bid. He smoothed the letter flat on the countertop, and then pushed it, with his finger, closer to the light.

  Hokitika. 27.Apr.66

  Walter—I beg you to read this letter to its very end, and to reserve your judgment upon me until you have done so. From my postmark you will have perceived that I am in Hokitika, as you are. I am to take my lodging at the TEMPERANCE HOTEL on Camp-street, an address which will no doubt cause you some surprise. You have long known that I have the Epicurean temperament. Now I am also of a Stoical cast. I have sworn that I will never take another drop of liquor in this life, and since this oath was made it has not been broken. It is in the spirit of repentance that I set down a brief account of those true intentions that my enslavement to the drink has occluded, even perverted, in recent years.

  I left the British Isles on account of debt, and debt alone. Frederick your brother had an acquaintance upon the field at Lawrence in Otago, and by his report the prospects there seemed very good; Frederick had determined to join him. You were in Rome, and meant to winter on the continent. I decided to make the journey in secret, in the hope that I would return as a rich man before the year was out. I confess this was a decision made with shameful provocation, for there were several men in London and also in Liverpool whom I desired very much to escape. Before I left I portioned a sum of £20 for my wife—the very last of my savings. Much later I learned that this provision never reached its destination: it was stolen, and by the very man who was to be its bearer (the blackguard PIERS HOWLAND, may he live in shame and die in squalor). By the time I discovered this I was in Otago, half a world away; furthermore, I could not make contact without risking pursuit, even conviction, on account of crimes unpunished and debts unpaid. I did nothing. I counted my wife as abandoned, prayed that God would forgive me, and continued with Frederick on the fields.

  We made only pay dirt during our first year in Otago. I have heard it said that the men of the comfortable classes have the worst of luck upon the diggings, for they cannot bear privation as the lower orders can. This was certainly true in our case. We struggled mightily and despaired often. But we persevered, and seven months ago your brother struck upon a nugget the size of a snuffbox, caught between two boulders in the elbow of a stream. It was upon this nugget that we were able to begin to build our fortunes at long last.

  You might ask why we did not send this nugget home with our apologies and blessings; that question would be a good one. Frederick your brother had long been in favour of writing to you. He had urged me to make contact with my abandoned wife, and even to invite her to join us here, but I resisted. I resisted also his intimations that I should quit the devil drink and mend my ways. We had many arguments along this theme and finally parted on less than civil terms. I am sorry to say that I do not know where Frederick is now.

  You have always been the scholar of the family, Walter. I am ashamed of a great many aspects of my life; but I have never been ashamed of you. In taking my oath of temperance I have confronted my true soul. I have seen myself truly as a man of weakness and of cowardice, easy prey to vice and sin of all description. But if I am proud of one thing it is that my sons are not like me in these degenerate respects. It is a painful joy for a father to say of his son: ‘That man is a be
tter man than I’. I assure you I have felt this painful joy twice over.

  I can do no more than to beg for your forgiveness, as I must also beg for Frederick’s, and to promise that our next reunion, should you grant me one, will be conducted ‘dry’. Good fortune, Walter. Know that I have confronted my true soul, and that I write this as a sober man. Know also that even the briefest reply would greatly cheer the heart of

  Your father

  ADRIAN MOODY

  He read the letter twice over, then folded it into the envelope, and wrote his son’s name in large letters upon the front. His hand trembled as he capped his pen.

  ‘A Mr. Frost for Mr. Staines.’

  ‘Send him in,’ said Devlin.

  Charlie Frost had a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Expenses,’ he said, looking apologetic.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Devlin.

  ‘What’s the damage, Mr. Frost?’ said Staines. He was looking very tired.

  ‘Extensive, I’m afraid,’ said Frost, drawing up a chair. ‘Justice Kemp has ruled that Francis Carver’s dividend of two thousand and forty-eight pounds must be honoured. There’s a catch—the Garrity Group is to be repaid in full for the claim taken out against Godspeed—but the rest will go to Mrs. Carver, as Carver’s widow.’

  ‘How is she?’ Devlin said.

  ‘Sedated,’ said Frost. ‘Dr. Gillies and Mr. Pritchard are waiting on her, I believe; last I saw her, she was being escorted back to the Wayfarer’s Fortune.’ He turned back to Staines, flattening his paper on the desk. ‘May I itemise the expenses, briefly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As the party found guilty, you are responsible for all legal fees, including those incurred by Mr. Fellowes these months past, and including, also, Mr. Nilssen’s commission, since invested in the Seaview gaol-house—as you might remember, the Magistrate ruled that because it had been charitably donated, it would not be revoked. In total all of this amounts to a little over five hundred pounds.’

  ‘Halved, and halved again,’ said Staines.

  ‘Yes; I’m afraid you will find that a common theme with legal expenses. There’s more. You have also been sued for damages by a great many diggers, in both Kaniere and the Hokitika Gorge. I don’t have the exact sum for you yet; but I’m afraid it’s likely to be dozens of pounds, perhaps hundreds.’

  ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘In terms of official expenses, yes,’ said Frost. ‘There are several unofficial matters to discuss, however. Do we have time?’

  ‘Do we have time?’ said Staines to Devlin.

  ‘We have until the carriage gets here,’ said Devlin.

  ‘I will be quick,’ said Frost. ‘As you may be aware, the gold extracted from Anna’s orange gown is still stowed beneath Mr. Gascoigne’s bed. Anna owes a debt of some hundred and twenty pounds to Mr. Mannering, and she had thought to repay this amount with the pure colour extracted from the orange gown. I had the idea, however, that you might like to take on her debt to Mr. Mannering, and arrange for Mr. Mannering to be repaid out of your share of the bonanza, as an itemised expense. That way Anna will have something to live on, you see, during the months where you’re in gaol.’

  ‘Good,’ said Staines. ‘Yes—do that. Just as you say.’

  Frost made a note of this. ‘The second matter,’ he said, ‘is the bonus owing to Mr. Quee. We must keep up the sham that the fortune originated on the Aurora, you see, and every man who comes upon a bonanza deserves a reward.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Staines. ‘A bonus.’

  ‘I am given to understand,’ Frost continued, ‘that Mr. Quee is desirous to return to China once his Company indenture expires; furthermore, he wishes to return with exactly seven hundred and sixty-eight shillings in his pocket. According to Mr. Mannering, he has long set his mind upon this precise figure. I believe it is of some personal or spiritual significance to him.’

  Ordinarily this curiosity would have tickled Emery Staines extremely, but he did not smile. It was Devlin who exclaimed, ‘Seven hundred and sixty-eight shillings?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frost.

  ‘What a fastidious thing,’ said Devlin. ‘What does it augur—do you know?’

  ‘I am afraid I do not,’ said Frost. ‘But if I might make a suggestion’—turning back to Staines—‘perhaps your bonus payment to Mr. Quee ought to be enough to realise this ambition.’

  ‘What does it come to, in pounds?’

  ‘Thirty-eight pounds, eight shillings,’ said Frost. ‘Roughly one percent of four thousand, and one percent is a reasonable rate for a goldfields bonus, especially given that Mr. Quee is Chinese. As a gesture of good faith, you also might wish to consider buying him out of his indenture, and facilitating his passage home.’

  Staines shook his head. ‘I never thought of him, did I?’

  ‘Who?’ said Frost.

  ‘Mr. Quee,’ said Staines. ‘I simply never thought of him.’

  ‘Well, he did us all a very great favour this afternoon, in keeping our secret, and now we have a chance to do him one, in return. I have spoken to Mr. Mannering already. He is content to accept an early termination of Mr. Quee’s contract, and has costed it at my request. If you pay Mr. Quee a bonus of sixty-four pounds, then all expenses should be adequately covered.’

  Staines brought his shoulder up to his cheek, and sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right.’

  ‘Now: the third financial matter.’ Frost coughed slightly. ‘When we first—ah—came upon the fortune, back in January, Mr. Clinch made me a present of thirty pounds, as a gift. I’m afraid I spent it, and I have not the means to repay even a penny of it. I wonder if I might impose upon your generosity, and list those thirty pounds as bank expenses.’ He said all this very fast, and then added, ‘As a loan, of course: I’d repay it by the time of your release.’

  ‘Here’s the carriage,’ Devlin said, rising.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Staines to Frost. ‘Pay it out—just as you say. It doesn’t matter.’

  Frost exhaled, full of relief. ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Staines.’ He watched as Devlin escorted Staines from the cell. When they reached the doorway he said, raising his voice a little, ‘First thing to-morrow, I’ll send you up an itemised receipt.’

  The chapel bells were ringing out seven o’clock as Walter Moody folded the last of his fine clothes into his trunk, closed the lid, and secured the hasp. Rising, he checked the flies of his yellow moleskin trousers, tightened his belt, touched the red kerchief that was knotted about his neck, and finally, reached for his coat and hat—the former a plain woollen garment, cut almost to his knees, and the latter, a heavy soft-crowned thing with a wide waxed brim. He donned both, slung his swag onto his back, and left the room, removing the key from the lock as he did so.

  During his absence his trunk was to be kept at Clark’s Warehouse on Gibson Quay, to which place his private mail, if he received any, would also be directed. To finance this relocation, he left three silver shillings at the Crown front desk, along with his key. He slipped a fourth shilling into the hand of the Crown maid, folding her small yellow hand in both his own, and thanked her very warmly for the three months’ service and hospitality she had provided him. Quitting the Crown, he turned down the narrow path that led to the beachfront and at once began walking north, his swag clanking on his back, his tent roll bumping the backs of his legs with each step.

  He was no more than two miles out of Hokitika when he perceived that he was walking some ten paces ahead of another man, similarly clad in the digger’s habitual costume; Moody glanced back, and they acknowledged one another with a nod.

  ‘Hi there,’ said the other. ‘You walking north?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Heading for the beaches, are you? Charleston way?’

  ‘So I hope. Do we share a destination?’

  ‘Seems we do,’ the other said. ‘Mind if I fall into step?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Moody. ‘I shall be glad of the company. Walter Moody is my na
me. Walter.’

  ‘Paddy Ryan,’ said the other. ‘You got a Scottish tongue on you, Walter Moody.’

  ‘I cannot deny it,’ said Moody.

  ‘Never had any trouble with a Scot.’

  ‘And I have never quarrelled with an Irishman.’

  ‘That makes one of you,’ said Paddy Ryan, with a grin. ‘But it’s the truth: I never had any trouble with a Scot.’

  ‘I’m very glad of it.’

  They walked on in silence for a time.

  ‘I guess we’re both a long way away from home,’ said Paddy Ryan presently.

  ‘I’m a long way from where I was born,’ said Moody, squinting across the breakers to the open sea.

  ‘Well,’ said Paddy Ryan, ‘if home can’t be where you come from, then home is what you make of where you go.’

  ‘That is a good motto,’ Moody said.

  Paddy Ryan nodded, seeming pleased. ‘Are you fixing to stay in this country, then, Walter? After you’ve dug yourself a patch, and made yourself a pile?’

  ‘I expect my luck will decide that question for me.’

  ‘Would you call it lucky to stay, or lucky to go?’

  ‘I’d call it lucky to choose,’ said Moody—surprising himself, for that was not the answer he would have given, three months prior.

  Paddy Ryan looked at him sidelong. ‘How about we share our stories? Make the road a little shorter that way.’

  ‘Our stories? Do you mean our histories?’

  ‘Ay—or the stories you’ve heard, or whatever you like.’

  ‘All right,’ said Moody, a little stiffly. ‘Do you want to go first, or shall I?’

  ‘You go first,’ said Paddy Ryan. ‘Give us a tale, and spin it out, so we forget about our feet, and we don’t notice that we’re walking.’

  Moody was silent for a time, wondering how to begin. ‘I am trying to decide between the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ he said presently. ‘I am afraid my history is such that I can’t manage both at once.’