At long last, the door of the land agency office opened, and two men walked out: Crosbie Wells, and a second man, presumably a land agent, who was putting his arms into his coat. They stood talking on the porch for several minutes; presently a small two-horse cab came clopping around the side of the building, and stopped to let Wells and the land agent climb aboard. Once they were seated, and the doors closed, the driver spoke to the horses, and the small vehicle clattered off to the north.
ACCIDENTAL DIGNITY
In which two chance acquaintances are reunited, and Edgar Clinch is less than pleased.
Mr. Edgar Clinch proved a guide both solicitous and thorough. During the short walk from Gibson Quay he maintained a constant and richly detailed commentary upon everything they passed: every shopfront, every warehouse, every vendor, every horse, every trap, every pasted bill. Anna’s responses were few, and barely uttered; as they approached the Reserve Bank, however, she interrupted his chatter with a sudden exclamation of surprise.
‘What is it?’ said Clinch, alarmed.
Leaning against the porch railing was the golden-haired boy from the Fortunate Wind—who was gazing at her with an expression likewise incredulous.
‘It’s you!’ he cried.
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘Yes.’
‘The albatrosses!’
‘I remember.’
They regarded one another shyly.
‘How good to see you again,’ Anna said after a moment.
‘It is perfectly serendipitous,’ said the boy, descending the steps to the street. ‘Fancy that—us meeting a second time! Of course I have wished for it, very much—but they were vain wishes; the kind one makes in twilight states, you know, idly. I remember just what you said, as we rounded the heads of the harbour—in the dawn light. “I should like to see him in a storm”, you said. I have thought of it many times, since; it was the most delightfully original of speeches.’
Anna blushed at this: not only had she never heard herself described as an original before, she had certainly never supposed that her utterances qualified as ‘speeches’. ‘It was only a fancy,’ she said.
Clinch was waiting to be introduced; he cleared his throat.
‘Have you been in Hokitika long?’ said the boy.
‘I arrived this morning. Just now, in fact—we dropped anchor not an hour ago.’
‘So recently!’ The boy seemed even more astonished, as though her recent arrival meant that their chance reunion was even more remarkable to him.
‘And you?’ Anna said. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘I’ve been here over a month,’ said the boy. He beamed suddenly. ‘How good it is to see you—how very wonderful. It has been a great age since I have seen a familiar face.’
‘Are you a—a member of the camp?’ said Anna, blushing again.
‘Yes; here to make my fortune, or at least, to chance upon it: I confess I do not quite understand the difference. Oh!’ He snatched off his hat. ‘How outrageously rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. Staines is my name. Emery Staines.’
Clinch used this opportunity to interject. ‘And how do you like Hokitika, Mr. Staines?’
‘I like it very well indeed,’ replied the boy. ‘It’s a perfect hive of contradictions! There is a newspaper, and no coffee house in which to read it; there is a druggist for prescriptions, but one can never find a doctor, and the hospital barely deserves its name. The store is always running out of either boots or socks, but never both at once, and all the hotels along Revell-street only serve breakfast, though they do so at all hours of the day!’
Anna was smiling. She opened her mouth to reply, but Clinch cut across her.
‘Gridiron does a hot dinner,’ he said. ‘We’ve a threepenny plate and a sixpenny plate—and the sixpenny comes with beer.’
‘Which one is the Gridiron?’ said Staines.
‘Revell-street,’ said Clinch, as if this destination were address enough.
Staines turned back to Anna. ‘What has brought you to the Coast?’ he said. ‘Have you come at somebody’s request? Are you to make your living here? Will you stay?’
Anna did not want to use Mannering’s name. ‘I mean to stay,’ she said cautiously. ‘I am to take my lodging at the Gridiron Hotel—at the kind request of Mr. Clinch.’
‘That’s me,’ said Clinch, putting out his hand. ‘Clinch. Edgar is my Christian name.’
‘I am delighted to meet you,’ said Staines, shaking his hand briefly; then, turning back to Anna, he said, ‘I still don’t know your name … but perhaps I won’t ask for it, just yet. Shall you keep it a secret—so that I have to make inquiries, and find you out?’
‘Her name is Anna Wetherell,’ said Clinch.
‘Oh,’ said the boy. His expression had suddenly given way to astonishment; he was looking at Anna very curiously, as though her name bore a significance that he could not, for some reason, articulate aloud.
‘We’d best be getting on,’ said Clinch.
He leaped aside. ‘Oh—yes, of course. You’d best be getting on. A very good morning to you both.’
‘It was very nice to see you again,’ said Anna.
‘May I call upon you?’ said Staines. ‘Once you’re settled?’
Anna was surprised, and thanked him; she might have said more, but Clinch was already leading her away, seizing her hand where it was tucked beneath his elbow and drawing it, firmly, closer to his chest.
ARIES, RULED BY MARS
In which Francis Carver asks Te Rau Tauwhare for information; but Tauwhare, having not yet made the acquaintance of a Mr. Crosbie Wells, cannot help him.
The Maori man carried a greenstone club upon his hip, thrust through his belt in the way that one might wear a crop or a pistol. The club had been carved into the shape of a paddle, and polished to a shine: the stone was a rippled olive green, shot through with bursts of yellow, as if tiny garlands of kowhai had been melted and then pressed into glass.
Carver, having delivered his message, was about to bid the other man goodbye when the stone caught the light, and seemed suddenly to brighten; curious, he pointed at it, saying, ‘What’s that—a paddle?’
‘Patu pounamu,’ said Tauwhare.
‘Let me see,’ said Carver, holding out his hand. ‘Let me hold it.’
Tauwhare took the club off his belt, but he did not hand it to the other man. He stood very still, staring at Carver, the club loose in his hand, and then suddenly, he leaped forward, and mimed jabbing Carver in the throat, and then in the chest; finally he raised the club up high above his shoulder, and brought it down, very slowly, stopping just before the weapon made contact with Carver’s temple. ‘Harder than steel,’ he said.
‘Is it?’ said Carver. He had not flinched. ‘Harder than steel?’
Tauwhare shrugged. He stepped back and thrust the club back into his belt; he appraised Carver for a long moment, his chin lifted, his jaw set, and then he smiled coldly, and turned away.
SUN IN GEMINI
In which Benjamin Löwenthal perceives an error, and Staines acts upon a whim.
‘Bother,’ said Löwenthal. He was scowling at his forme—reading the text both right-to-left and backwards, for the type was both mirrored and reversed. ‘I’ve got a widow.’
‘A what?’ said Staines, who had just entered the shop.
‘It’s called a widow. A typographical term. I have one too many words to fit into the column; when there’s a word hanging over, that’s a widow. Bother, bother, bother. I was in such a rush, this morning—I let a man pay for a two-inch advertisement without tallying his letters, and his notice won’t fit into a two-inch square. Ah! I must put it aside, and come back with fresh eyes later: that is the only thing to do, when one is in a muddle. What can I do for you, Mr. Staines?’ Löwenthal pushed the forme aside and, smiling, reached for a rag to wipe the ink from his fingers.