Rainbow's End - Wizard (2 page)

He’d fallen at the edge of a large,
rock-strewn clearing - a rocky desert, really. A few hundred metres wide, it stretched a kilometre to the east, and about the same to the west. Apart from several large outcroppings, thousands of rocks in all shapes and sizes lay scattered all around; snow completely hid the smallest, the larger had a layer covering their tops, like fluffy white toupees. At the clearing’s opposite end: against the green and gold and silver and whites of snow-heavy winter trees, stood a solitary, small cabin.

His
sound of relief seemed unnaturally loud against the frozen quiet of the sleeping trees, and then Thomas, slowly, and with a lot of skirting and side stepping, began making his way across the field of frozen rocks and boulders.

*

It was smaller than it looked like from a distance; built on a concrete platform, of stone, and with a green corrugated iron roof. The top of an orange coloured water tank peeked over its roof, and Thomas swallowed - suddenly aware of a sore dryness scratching at the back of his throat. There was just one window at the small building's front - brown with dirt; its large wooden door of thick, unvarnished planks and a sign that read, “Dept. of Forestry.”

It
seemed deserted, but Thomas knocked nonetheless: a hesitant, tired knock. He expected none, and got no reply, and tried again - louder and longer, before trying the dented and tarnished brass knob. It turned easily, and when pushed, the heavy door, after only the slightest resistance, with a squeaky protest of dry hinges, swung inward.  

Inside w
as gloomy-dark and Thomas called a tentative “Hello…?”, before going in. The cabin consisted of a single room, rectangular in shape and obviously meant to serve as storage or an overnight place only. The stale, musty smell that unlived in places take on after long periods of being shut up, hung in the air. To the left of the door, in opposing corners, stood two single, steel-framed beds, their bare foam mattresses a dull yellow in the half-dark. A small window, high up and dirty, divided the wall between them; in its murky light stood a chair, and on it, a gas-cylinder with a lamp at its top. To the right of the door, in the near-corner, was a sturdy wooden table, hand-made, with a tray on top. On the tray: some upended coffee-mugs, a packet of firelighters and a box of matches. The far corner was taken up by a large, white enamel basin, its single tap fed by a black plastic pipe coming through the wall - presumably from the water tank outside. A big stone fireplace took up most of the right-hand wall, between the table and basin. In it, the makings of a fire were stacked, ready to be lit. More logs were heaped under the table.

Thomas
stumbled to the nearest bed and, with trembling legs, half-sat-half-leaned, and wrestled his stiffly clothed arms out of the backpack straps. The bulky frame fell away, and it felt like a house had been lifted from his shoulders; he stood easily then, even gave several small hops - surprised, and then delighted, at the sudden lightness of his feet. He pulled off his gloves, then took a mug from the table, and went to the basin. Its single tap was tarnished flaky green and stiff with disuse; the first water spluttering from it was rusty-brown. In seconds it turned crystal-clear though, and Thomas filled the dusty mug. He drank greedily, and the water was cold enough to hurt his teeth and deaden his aching throat. He refilled the mug, and slower then, drank his fill.

He we
nt back to the waiting beds, and flipped the thin mattress on the vacant one. It weighed next to nothing, and made a small cloud of dust. The backpack was on the other bed, and Thomas unclipped the sleeping bag from it. When unfurled on the freshly-turned mattress, its padded fabric felt fluffy-soft under his hands, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl right in and go to sleep.

He went outside first:
It was a short walk to the tree line, and he shivered while emptying his bladder. Returning to the cabin, Thomas turned on its threshold for a last look. It was getting dark; the sky was swollen and gloomy grey, and snow was going to fall again. The heavy door swung shut with a small creak and then a click, leaving only the dusky light from the two dirty windows to light the beds. With the last of his strength, he struggled out of the oversized coat, then sat down on the bed. With fingers slow and numb from cold, he untied the laces of his damp hiking boots and pulled them off his feet, leaving his socks. Slipping between the layers of the sleeping bag was like coming home, and sweet sleep rushed in to claim him. His eyelids closed by themselves, and - unnoticed - a single tear furrowed the dry skin of his cheek.

*****

Orson landed in a small park. The grass was yellow and dead, and everywhere patches of snow. A bench stood almost at its centre, and on it sat a man. His head was tilted far back and his Adams apple bobbed up and down as he thirstily sucked at the sherry bottle he held clutched in one leather gloved hand.

Orson loudly cleared his throat, and after
another long swallow, the bench-sitter slowly lowered the bottle. He was middle-aged and swaddled in a heavy woollen coat, scarf and cap. His long nose was thin and red and purple-splotched with a multitude of broken veins. He gave a contented burp, and his eyes - tightly shut all the time - slowly opened. They were glassy and bloodshot, and took some seconds to focus, and then they closed again, abruptly and crinkly-tight. Their owner shook his head, repeatedly and violently, before reopening first one and then the other. The squat old man was still standing there, scowling. It made his impossibly ugly features uglier still, and the bench-sitter gave a mewling, strangled sound, before sticking out his free hand, first in a warding-off gesture, and then waving in a shooing, go-away manner. The apparition’s scowl turned even heavier, and bench-sitters eyes - horrified now - dropped to the bottle he still clutched. With a fearful moan and a violent gesture of rejection, he cast it from him, as if it were a snake.

Orson
lifted his staff, and with its lower tip, pointed at the few buildings across the road. ‘Is this Rockham?’ he asked, in a croaky voice.

The question caused total collapse:
bench-sitter wailed - a high-pitched, keening sound - and wrapped both arms around himself; he closed his treacherous eyes tight and dropped his head into his lap; then - still wailing - started swaying from side to side and to and fro, shivering and shaking like a wet dog. An irate Orson watched him for almost a minute, before calling the man - obviously simple-minded - a fool, then turned on his heels and marched off. The tails of his fur-coat dragged behind and furrowed the snow, exposing the yellow grass below.

*

…Mrs. Ridley found him there a short while later. Her husband had pulled his cap over his eyes, and held it there with both hands. He was swaying back and forth, and in a breathless voice, repeated the same words over and over: “Never again, I swear. Never again...” She had a hard time getting him to release the cap, and get up, and then he looked around, terrified-like. When she led him to her car, the vicious kick he aimed at the half-empty bottle laying on the grass would have broken several of his toes, had it connected.

The next day
, when a never-to-touch-a-drink-again Mr. Ridley had sufficiently recovered, he told a bemused Mrs. Ridley, that he thought the Moses of Old had appeared to him while he was having his customary drink on his customary bench.

She
asked why he thought it was Moses, and he replied, as if to a slow child: ‘Well, he was very old, wasn’t he? And wearing this coat and carrying his staff and all… He had a dog…’ Ridley frowned, and his eyes became big and staring, and haunted with recall. He added, in an awed whisper, ‘Gawd Hilda, he was ugly’…

*

A single lane tar road separated the park from the small line of shops, and Orson crossed it. A young man was locking one of the few shop doors; Orson stopped behind him and loudly cleared his throat. He turned to face Orson, and although of average height, still had to lower his eyes quite a bit to meet those of the old man. He had short reddish hair and freckles and a friendly smile; the smile wavered for just a second, and then he asked, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes
.’ Orson repeated the question he’d asked bench-sitter, ‘Is this Rockham?’

T
he young man looked him up and down again. The unusual staff Orson carried had him look odd already: Long and shiny and smooth, and almost black with age, it had a plum-sized crystal - flashing with secrets and a life of its own - set into its top. Added to this, the old man was very short; his face was wrinkled and badly shaved, he wore a too long, obviously expensive fur coat, a tasselled woollen cap and a ferocious scowl, and spoke in a froggish voice. Peering from behind the voluminous fur coat, was a Labrador’s friendly face and eyes.

The young man nodded, frowning, and was
immediately asked: ‘Do you know a place called Broken Hill?’

Another nod, and
-

‘Do you have a car?’

Bemused
now, but still wordless, the young man nodded yet again, and glanced at a mud-splattered old Land Rover parked a short distance away.

O
rson pressed a stubby fingertip between the man’s eyes.

2

Darkness fell fast: Like a black canvas drawn across an already leaden sky.
They were a couple of kilometres out of town; the tarred road was narrow with many twists and turns, and no other traffic. Tall pine trees grew on both sides, ghostly-grey on the fringes of the weak twin-beams lighting the road between.

Orson
was in the passenger seat, bundled in his thick fur coat. His eyes barely cleared the dashboard in front and his feet never touched the floor. The old Land Rover was very noisy and the wind gusting through the half-open window in the back made it worse. About three feet of the seven foot long staff stuck out of it, pointing skywards like an antennae.

Tessie lay
stretched out on the back-seat and she at least, was very comfortable. The young man - whose name was Lawrence - was the son of the local vet, and few pets in Rockham and its surrounds, had not yet experienced the comfort of the same well-worn and torn up back-seat. It was upholstered in imitation leather, split in many places and bulging foam, and the hair and smells of numerous dogs and cats and other assorted animals kept the Labrador’s sensitive nose busily snuffling and twitching.

Orson turned in his seat and looked at the young man
, whose face glowed greenish in the dim light of the instrument panel. He asked, in his growly voice, ‘Who was the drunk in the park?’

Lawrence glanced
down at the older man with a half-frown, then enlightenment struck, and his attention returned to the road ahead. He smiled, and his teeth looked very white in the dark.

‘Oh, that’s Mr. Ridley
,’ he said. ‘Farmer Ridley. He’s also our mayor.’ He glanced at Orson and gave an amused little laugh. ‘He drinks there because he’s been banned from the local. And his missus doesn’t allow drink in the house…’

Orson closed his
eyes for a few seconds, mulling over Lawrence’s answer, before asking, ‘He’s allowed to drink in public?’

Lawrence gave a little shrug.
‘He
is
the mayor,’ he said.

Orson
mulled some more, and then sagely nodded his head, impressed by his young driver’s logic. ‘Where does he live?’ he asked then, ‘and how does he get home?’

‘Oh, Mrs. Ridley fetches him
come dark…or Sergeant Wilson takes him home,’ Lawrence replied, and added, ‘The manor house is only a couple of minutes out of town.’

Orson was filled with
admiration for the town’s mayor of a sudden. He was also sorry for the poor manner in which he had treated the man earlier. He was clearly a man with influence, a man of means…

His
rumination over life’s Ridleys was interrupted when Lawrence leaned slightly forward and pointed at the grey-black forest outside Orson’s window. ‘Broken Hill is over there,’ he said. ‘About a kilometre away.’

‘
Well, you have to stop then, don’t you?’ came the reply. Matter of fact.

Lawrence stared at
the old man, sure that he’d heard wrong. He asked, worriedly, ‘Here?’

‘Yes
!’ The reply was impatient and he slowly brought the vehicle to a halt, then set the hand brake. Turning off the noisy engine, he turned to Orson.

‘But there’s nothing here…
And it’s pitch dark and cold. You’ll get lost... and you’ll die of exposure…’

Orson didn’t answer
; just sat staring out his window. It
was
very dark outside, the blackness almost palpably intimidating. He shuddered and muttered, ‘The things I do for that girl…’