Mitchell David - cloud atlas.pdf

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David Mitchell

Cloud Atlas

First published in 2004

FOR HANA AND HER GRANDPARENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Manuel Berri, Susan M. S. Brown, Amber Burlinson, Angeles Mar

�½

n Cabello, David

Ebershoff Late Junction, Rodney King, David Koerner, Sabine Lacaze, Jenny

Mitchell, Jan Montefiore, Scott Moyers, David De Neef, John Pearce, Jonathan Pegg,

Steve Powell, Mike Shaw, Douglas Stewart, Marnix Verplancke, Carole Welch.

The Ewing and Zachry chapters were researched with the aid of a travel

scholarship from the Society of Authors. Michael King's definitive work on the

Moriori, _A Land Apart,__ provides a factual account of Chatham Islands history

Certain scenes in Robert Fro-bisher's letters owe debts of inspiration to _Delius:

As I Knew Him__ by Eric Fenby (Icon Books, 1966; originally G. Bell & Sons Ltd.,

1936). The character Vyvyan Ayrs quotes Nietzsche more freely than he admits, and

the poem read by Hester Van Zandt to Margo Roker is Emerson's "Brahma."

THE PACIFIC JOURNAL OF ADAM EWING

_Thursday, 7th November--__

Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of

recent footprints. Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts & bamboo, the tracks led

me to their maker, a White man, his trow-zers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a

kempt beard & an outsized Beaver, shoveling & sifting the cindery sand with a

teaspoon so intently that he noticed me only after I had hailed him from ten yards

away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr. Henry Goose, surgeon to the

London nobility. His nationality was no surprise. If there be any eyrie so

desolate, or isle so remote, that one may there resort unchallenged by an

Englishman, 'tis not down on any map I ever saw.

Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could I render

assistance? Dr. Goose shook his head, knotted loose his 'kerchief & displayed its

contents with clear pride. "Teeth, sir, are the enameled grails of the quest in

hand. In days gone by this Arcadian strand was a cannibals' banqueting hall, yes,

where the strong engorged themselves on the weak. The teeth, they spat out, as you

or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars, sir, shall be transmuted to

gold & how? An artisan of Piccadilly who fashions denture sets for the nobility

pays handsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarter pound will

earn, sir?"

I confessed I did not.

"Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for 'tis a professional secret!" He tapped

his nose. "Mr. Ewing, are you acquainted with Marchioness Grace of Mayfair? No?

The better for you, for she is a corpse in petticoats. Five years have passed

since this harridan besmirched my name, yes, with imputations that resulted in my

being blackballed from Society" Dr. Goose looked out to sea. "My peregrinations

began in that dark hour."

I expressed sympathy with the doctor's plight.

"I thank you, sir, I thank you, but these ivories"--he shook his

'kerchief--"are my angels of redemption. Permit me to elucidate. The Marchioness

wears dental fixtures fashioned by the aforementioned doctor. Next yuletide, just

as that scented She-Donkey is addressing her Ambassadors' Ball, I, Henry Goose,

yes, _I__ shall arise & declare to one & all that our hostess masticates with

cannibals' gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me, predictably, 'Furnish your

evidence,' that boor shall roar, 'or grant me satisfaction!' I shall declare,

'Evidence, Sir Hubert? Why, I gathered your mother's teeth _myself__ from the

spittoon of the South Pacific! Here, sir, _here__ are some of their fellows!' &

fling these very teeth into her tortoiseshell soup tureen & that, sir, that will

grant me _my__ satisfaction! The twittering wits will scald the icy Marchioness in

their news sheets & by next season she shall be fortunate to receive an invitation

to a Poorhouse Ball!"

In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a Bedlamite.

_Friday, 8th November--__

In the rude shipyard beneath my window, work progresses on the jibboom,

under Mr. Sykes's directorship. Mr. Walker, Ocean Bay's sole taverner, is also its

principal timber merchant & he brags of his years as a master shipbuilder in

Liverpool. (I am now versed enough in Antipodese etiquette to let such unlikely

truths lie.) Mr. Sykes told me an entire week is needed to render the

_Prophetess__ "Bristol fashion." Seven days holed up in the _Musket__ seems a grim

sentence, yet I recall the fangs of the banshee tempest & the mariners lost

o'erboard & my present misfortune feels less acute.

I met Dr. Goose on the stairs this morning & we took breakfast together. He

has lodged at the _Musket__ since middle October after voyaging hither on a

Brazilian merchantman, _Namorados,__ from Fee-jee, where he practiced his arts in

a mission. Now the doctor awaits a long-overdue Australian sealer, the _Nellie,__

to convey him to Sydney. From the colony he will seek a position aboard a

passenger ship for his native London.

My judgment of Dr. Goose was unjust & premature. One must be cynical as

Diogenes to prosper in my profession, but cynicism can blind one to subtler

virtues. The doctor has his eccentricities & recounts them gladly for a dram of

Portuguese _pisco__ (never to excess), but I vouchsafe he is the only other

gentleman on this latitude east of Sydney & west of Valparaiso. I may even compose

for him a letter of introduction for the Partridges in Sydney, for Dr. Goose &

dear Fred are of the same cloth.

Poor weather precluding my morning outing, we yarned by the peat fire & the

hours sped by like minutes. I spoke at length of Tilda & Jackson & also my fears

of "gold fever" in San Francisco. Our conversation then voyaged from my hometown

to my recent notarial duties in New South Wales, thence to Gibbon, Malthus &

Godwin via Leeches & Locomotives. Attentive conversation is an emollient I lack

sorely aboard the _Prophetess__ & the doctor is a veritable polymath. Moreover, he

possesses a handsome army of scrimshandered chessmen whom we shall keep busy until

either the _Prophetess's__ departure or the _Nellie's__ arrival.

_Saturday, 9th November--__

Sunrise bright as a silver dollar. Our schooner still looks a woeful picture

out in the Bay. An Indian war canoe is being careened on the shore. Henry & I

struck out for "Banqueter's Beach" in holy-day mood, blithely saluting the maid

who labors for Mr. Walker. The sullen miss was hanging laundry on a shrub &

ignored us. She has a tinge of black blood & I fancy her mother is not far removed

from the jungle breed.

As we passed below the Indian hamlet, a "humming" aroused our curiosity & we

resolved to locate its source. The settlement is circumvallated by a stake fence,

so decayed that one may gain ingress at a dozen places. A hairless bitch raised

her head, but she was toothless & dying & did not bark. An outer ring of _ponga__

huts (fashioned from branches, earthen walls & matted ceilings) groveled in the

lees of "grandee" dwellings, wooden structures with carved lintel pieces &

rudimentary porches. In the hub of this village, a public flogging was under way.

Henry & I were the only two Whites present, but three castes of spectating Indians

were de-marked. The chieftain occupied his throne, in a feathered cloak, while the

tattooed gentry & their womenfolk & children stood in attendance, numbering some

thirty in total. The slaves, duskier & sootier than their nut-brown masters & less

than half their number, squatted in the mud. Such inbred, bovine torpor!

Pockmarked & pustular with _haki-haki,__ these wretches watched the punishment,

making no response but that bizarre, beelike "hum." Empathy or condemnation, we

knew not what the noise signified. The whip master was a Goliath whose physique

would daunt any frontier prizefighter. Lizards mighty & small were tattooed over

every inch of the savage's musculature:--his pelt would fetch a fine price, though

I should not be the man assigned to relieve him of it for all the pearls of O-

hawaii! The piteous prisoner, hoarfrosted with many harsh years, was bound naked

to an A-frame. His body shuddered with each excoriating lash, his back was a

vellum of bloody runes, but his insensible face bespoke the serenity of a martyr

already in the care of the Lord.

I confess, I swooned under each fall of the lash. Then a peculiar thing

occurred. The beaten savage raised his slumped head, found _my__ eye & shone me a

look of uncanny, amicable knowing! As if a theatrical performer saw a long-lost

friend in the Royal Box and, undetected by the audience, communicated his

recognition. A tattooed "blackfella" approached us & flicked his nephrite dagger

to indicate that we were unwelcome. I inquired after the nature of the prisoner's

crime. Henry put his arm around me. "Come, Adam, a wise man does not step betwixt

the beast & his meat."

_Sunday, 10th November--__

Mr. Boerhaave sat amidst his cabal of trusted ruffians like Lord Anaconda &

his garter snakes. Their Sabbath "celebrations" downstairs had begun ere I had

risen. I went in search of shaving water & found the tavern swilling with Tars

awaiting their turn with those poor Indian girls whom Walker has ensnared in an

impromptu _bordello.__ (Rafael was not in the debauchers' number.)

I do not break my Sabbath fast in a whorehouse. Henry's sense of repulsion

equaled to my own, so we forfeited breakfast (the maid was doubtless being pressed

into alternative service) & set out for the chapel to worship with our fasts

unbroken.

We had not gone two hundred yards when, to my consternation, I remembered

this journal, lying on the table in my room at the _Musket,__ visible to any

drunken sailor who might break in. Fearful for its safety (& my own, were Mr.

Boerhaave to get his hands on it), I retraced my steps to conceal it more artfully

Broad smirks greeted my return & I assumed I was "the devil being spoken of," but

I learned the true reason when I opened my door:--to wit, Mr. Boerhaave's ursine

buttocks astraddle his Blackamoor Goldilocks in _my__ bed _in flagrante delicto!__

Did that devil Dutchman apologize? Far from it! He judged _himself__ 'the injured

party & roared, "Get ye hence, Mr. Quillcock! or by God's B----d, I shall snap

your tricksy Yankee nib in two!"

I snatched my diary & clattered downstairs to a _riotocracy__ of merriment &

ridicule from the White savages there gathered. I remonstrated to Walker that I

was paying for a private room & I expected it to remain private even during my

absence, but that scoundrel merely offered a one-third discount on "a quarter-

hour's gallop on the comeliest filly in my stable!" Disgusted, I retorted that I

was a husband & a father! & that I should rather die than abase my dignity &

decency with any of his poxed whores! Walker swore to "decorate my eyes" if I

called his own dear daughters "whores" again. One toothless garter snake jeered

that if possessing a wife & a child was a single virtue, "Why Mr. Ewing, I be ten

times more virtuous than you be!" & an unseen hand emptied a tankard of sheog over

my person. I withdrew ere the liquid was swapped for a more obdurate missile.

The chapel bell was summoning the God-fearing of Ocean Bay & I hurried

thitherwards, where Henry waited, trying to forget the recent foulnesses witnessed

at my lodgings. The chapel creaked like an old tub & its congregation numbered

little more than the digits of two hands, but no traveler ever quenched his thirst

at a desert oasis more thankfully than Henry & I gave worship this morning. The

Lutheran founder has lain at rest in his chapel's cemetery these ten winters past

& no ordained successor has yet ventured to claim captaincy of the altar. Its

denomination, therefore, is a "rattle bag" of Christian creeds. Biblical passages

were read by that half of the congregation who know their letters & we joined in a

hymn or two nominated by rota. The "steward" of this demotic flock, one Mr.

D'Arnoq, stood beneath the modest cruciform & besought Henry & me to participate

in likewise manner. Mindful of my own salvation from last week's tempest, I

nominated Luke ch. 8, "And they came to him, & awoke him, saying, Master, master,

we perish. Then he arose, & rebuked the wind & the raging of the water: & they

ceased, & there was a calm."

Henry recited from Psalm the Eighth, in a voice as sonorous as any schooled

dramatist: "Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou has

put all things under his feet: all sheep & oxen, yea & the beasts of the field;

the fowl of the air & the fish of the sea & whatsoever passeth through the paths

of the seas."

No organist played a _Magnificat__ but the wind in the flue chimney, no

choir sang a _Nunc Dimittis__ but the wuthering gulls, yet I fancy the Creator was

not displeazed. We resembled more the Early Christians of Rome than any later

Church encrusted with arcana & gem-stones. Communal prayer followed. Parishioners

prayed ad lib for the eradication of potato blight, mercy on a dead infant's soul,

blessing upon a new fishing boat, &c. Henry gave thanks for the hospitality shown

us visitors by the Christians of Chatham Isle. I echoed these sentiments & sent a

prayer for Tilda, Jackson & my father-in-law during my extended absence.

After the service, the doctor & I were approached most cordially by an elder

"mainmast" of that chapel, one Mr. Evans, who introduced Henry & me to his good

wife (both circumvented the handicap of deafness by answering only those questions

they _believed__ had been asked & accepting only those answers they _believed__

had been uttered--a stratagem embraced by many an American advocate) & their twin

sons, Keegan & Dyfedd. Mr. Evans made it known that every week he had the custom

of inviting Mr. DArnoq, our Preacher, to dine at their nearby home, for the latter

dwells in Port Hutt, a promontory some miles distant. Would we, too, join their

Sabbath Meal? Having already informed Henry of that Gomorrah back at the _Musket__

& hearing cries of "Mutiny!" from our stomachs, we accepted the Evanses' kindness

with gratitude.

Our hosts' farmstead, seated half a mile from Ocean Bay up a winding,

blustery valley, proved to be a frugal building, but proof against those hell-bent

storms that break the bones of so many hapless vessels upon nearby reefs. The

parlor was inhabited by a monstrous hog's head (afflicted with droop-jaw & lazy-

eye), killed by the twins on their sixteenth birthday, & a somnambulant

Grandfather clock (at odds with my own pocket watch by a margin of hours. Indeed,

one valued import from New Zealand is the accurate time). An Indian farmhand

peered through the windowpane at his master's visitors. No more tatterdemalion a

_renegado__ I ever beheld, but Mr. Evans swore the quadroon, Barnabas, was "the

fleetest sheepdog who ever ran upon two legs." Keegan & Dyfedd are honest woolly

fellows, versed principally in the ways of sheep (the family own two hundred

head), for neither has gone to "Town" (the islanders thus appellate New Zealand)

nor undergone any schooling save Scripture lessons from their father, by dint of

which they have learnt to read & write tolerably well.

Mrs. Evans said grace & I enjoyed my most pleasant repast (untainted by

salt, maggots & oaths) since my farewell dinner with Consul Bax & the Partridges

at the Beaumont. Mr. D'Arnoq told us tales of ships he has supplied during his

ten-year on Chatham Isle, while Henry amused us with stories of patients, both

illustrious & humble, he has benefacted in London & Polynesia. For my part I

described the many hardships overcome by this American notary in order to locate

the Australian beneficiary of a will executed in California. We washed down our

mutton stew & apple dumpling with small ale brewed by Mr. Evans for trading with

whalers. Kee-gan & Dyfedd left to attend to their livestock & Mrs. Evans retired

to her kitchen duties. Henry asked if missionaries were now active on the

Chathams, at which Mr. Evans & Mr. DArnoq exchanged looks & the former informed

us, "Nay, the Maori don't take kindly to us _Pakeha__ spoiling their Moriori with

too much civilization."

I questioned if such an ill as "too _much__ civilization" existed or no? Mr.

DArnoq told me, "If there is no God west of the Horn, why there's none of your

constitution's _All men created equal,__ neither, Mr. Ewing." The nomenclatures

Maori & Pakeha I knew from the _Prophetess's__ sojourn at the Bay of Islands, but

I begged to know who or what Moriori might signify. My query unlocked a Pandora's

Box of history, detailing the decline & fall of the Aboriginals of Chatham. We lit

our pipes. Mr. DArnoq's narrative was unbroken three hours later when he had to

depart for Port Hutt ere nightfall obscured the dykey way His spoken history, for

my money, holds company with the pen of a Defoe or Melville & I shall record it in

these pages, after, Morpheus willing, a sound sleep.

_Monday, 11th November-__

Dawn sticky & sunless. The Bay has a slimy appearance, but the weather is

mild enough to allow repairs to continue on the _Prophetess,__ I thank Neptune. A

new mizzen-top is being hoisted into position as I write.

A short time past, while Henry & I breakfasted, Mr. Evans arrived hugger-

mugger, importuning my doctor friend to attend to a reclusive neighbor, one Widow

Bryden, who was thrown from her horse on a stony bog. Mrs. Evans was in attendance

and fears that the widow lies in peril of her life. Henry fetched his doctor's

case & left without delay (I offered to come, but Mr. Evans begged my forbearance,

as the patient had extracted a promise that none but a doctor should see her

incapacitated.) Walker, overhearing these transactions, told me no member of the

male sex had crossed the widow's threshold these twenty years & decided that "the

frigid old sow must be on her last trotters if she's letting Dr. Quack frisk her."

The origins of the Moriori of Rekohu (the native moniker for the Chathams)

remain a mystery to this day Mr. Evans evinces the belief they are descended from

Jews expelled from Spain, citing their hooked noses & sneering lips. Mr. DArnoq's

preferred theorum, that the Moriori were once Maori whose canoes were wrecked upon

these remotest of isles, is founded on similarities of tongue & mythology &

thereby possesses a higher _carat__ of logic. What is certain is that, after

centuries or millennia of living in isolation, the Moriori lived as primitive a

life as their woebegone cousins of Van Diemen's Land. Arts of boatbuilding (beyond

crude woven rafts used to cross the channels betwixt islands) & navigation fell

into disuse. That the terraqueous globe held other lands, trod by other feet, the

Moriori dreamt not. Indeed, their language lacks a word for "race" & "Moriori"

means, simply, "People." Husbandry was not practiced, for no mammals walked these

isles until passing whalers willfully marooned pigs here to propagate a parlor. In

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