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Wells opened his door. There upon the threshold, doubled over, was Emery Staines.
‘The baby’s gone,’ he sobbed. ‘Your baby’s gone.’
Wells helped him inside, and listened to the story. Then he fetched a bottle of brandy, poured them each a glassful, downed it, poured them each another, downed it, poured them a third.
When the bottle was empty Staines said, ‘I’ll give her half. I’ll share it with her. I’ve a fortune—secret—buried in the ground. I’ll dig it up.’
Wells stared at him. After a time he said, ‘How much is half?’
‘Why,’ mumbled Staines, ‘I’d guess perhaps two thousand.’ He put his head down upon the table, and closed his eyes.
Wells fetched down a tin box from his shelf, opened it, and withdrew a clean sheet of paper and a reservoir pen. He wrote:
On this 11th day of October 1865 a sum of two thousand pounds is to be given to MISS ANNA WETHERELL, formerly of New South Wales, by MR. EMERY STAINES, formerly of New South Wales, as witnessed by MR. CROSBIE WELLS, presiding.
‘There,’ said Wells. He signed his name, and pushed the sheet to Staines. ‘Sign.’
But the boy was asleep.
MOON IN TAURUS (ORION’S REACH)
In which A
A
SUN IN SCORPIO
In which Emery Staines, lost to meditation, doubts his own intentions, his natural frankness having accepted very readily the fact of his desire, and the fact of his delight, and the ease with which his pleasure might be got, expressions that cause him no shame, but that nevertheless give him pause, for he feels, whatever the difference in their respective stations, a certain bond with A
Perhaps he could buy her for the night. In the morning, he could take her to the Arahura, where he would show her the fortune he had buried there. He could explain that he meant to give exactly half of it to her. Would it defeat the purpose of the gift, if he had already paid for the pleasure of her company? Perhaps. But could he endure it, that other men knew her in a way that he, Staines, did not? He did not know. He crushed a leaf against his palm, and then lifted his palm to his nose, to smell the juices.
THE LUMINARIES
In which A
‘Tonight shall be the very begi
‘Was it?’
‘It shall be. For me.’
‘My begi
‘That is a good begi
‘Ought we to have different ones?’
‘Different begi
‘Will there be more of them?’
‘A great many more. Are your eyes closed?’
‘Yes. Are yours?’
‘Yes. Though it’s so dark it hardly makes a difference.’
‘I feel—more than myself.’
‘I feel—as though a new chamber of my heart has opened.’
‘Listen.’
‘What is it?’
‘The rain.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am very grateful for the support and encouragement of the New Zealand Arts Foundation, the estate of Louis Johnson, Creative New Zealand, the New Zealand Society of Authors, the Taylor-Chehak family, the Schultz family, the Iowa Arts Foundation, the University of Canterbury English Department, the Michael King Writers’ Centre, the University of Auckland English Department, the Manukau Institute of Technology Faculty of Creative Arts, and my colleagues and teachers at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. I feel very fortunate in having found a home at Granta in the UK, at Little, Brown in the USA, and at Victoria University Press in New Zealand.