The Luminaries

‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘Are they petrels—or ga

‘They’re albatrosses!’ The boy was beaming. ‘They’re real albatrosses! Just wait till this fellow comes back. He will, in a moment; he’s been circling the ship for some time. Good Lord, what a feeling that must be—to fly! Can you imagine it?’

A

‘They’re terrifically good luck, albatrosses,’ the boy was saying. ‘And they’re the most incredible fliers. One hears stories of them following ships for months and months, and through all ma

When it turned on its side it became almost invisible. A needle of white, pale against the sky.

‘So few birds are truly mythical,’ the boy went on, still watching the albatross. ‘I mean, there are ravens, I suppose, and perhaps you might say that doves have a special meaning too … but no more than owls do, or eagles. An albatross is different. It has such a weight to it. Such symbolism. It’s angelic, almost; even saying the name, one feels a kind of thrill. I’m so glad to have seen one. I feel almost touched. And how wonderful, that they guard the mouth of the harbour like they do! How’s that for an omen—for a gold town! I heard them calling—that was what roused me—and I came topside because I couldn’t place the sound. I thought it was pigs at first.’

A

‘Their calling roused me too,’ she said, and then, ‘I suppose I ought to go and wake the others. It’s too perfect a sight to be missed.’

‘Don’t,’ the boy said. ‘Oh, don’t. Would you mind? I couldn’t bear to have a crowd of people jostling about. Not at this hour. Somebody’s bound to say “Instead of the cross, the albatross”, or “he stoppeth one of three”, and then the rest of the journey would be quite lost to argument—everyone trying to piece together the poem, I mean, and quarrelling over which pieces go where, with each man trumping the next, and showing off his memory. Let’s just enjoy it for ourselves. Dawn is such a private hour, don’t you think? Such a solitary hour. One always hears that said of midnight, but I think of midnight as remarkably companionable—everyone together, sleeping in the dark.’

‘I am afraid I am interrupting your solitude,’ A

‘No, no,’ the boy said. ‘Oh, no. Solitude is a condition best enjoyed in company.’ He gri

‘Birds always make me think of ships,’ A

He turned to her, eyes wide. ‘Do they?’ he said.

A

‘It’s just a fancy,’ she said, becoming shy.

‘But you must follow through,’ said the boy. ‘You must! Go on.’

‘Heavy ships are so graceful in the water,’ A

They watched as the albatross circled back to make his pass again. A

‘You’re quite right,’ the boy cried. ‘Yes, indeed! It’s not at all like watching a sparrow, is it? He’s weighted—exactly like a ship, exactly so!’

‘I should like to see him in a storm,’ said A

‘What a peculiar wish,’ said the boy, delighted. ‘But yes, now that you say it, I believe I feel the same way. I should like to see him in a storm as well.’

They lapsed into silence. A

MERCURY IN PISCES; SATURN CONJUNCT MOON

In which Cowell Devlin makes a request; Walter Moody shows his mettle; and George Shepard is unpleasantly surprised.

Since the night of the autumnal equinox both A

Following their reunion, A

To Emery Staines, Dr. Gillies prescribed the very same: five drams of laudanum daily, reducible by one dram a fortnight, until his shoulder had completely healed. The wound was looking much better for having been sewn and dressed, and although the joint was very stiff, and he could not yet raise his arm above his head, his health was likewise very rapidly improving. When Cowell Devlin brought the jar of laudanum into the Police Camp gaol-house each night, he watched eagerly as the chaplain poured the rust-coloured liquid into two tin cups. Staines could not account for his sudden and inconsolable thirst for the drug; A