The Old Windmill is, well, an old windmill. It doesn’t have sails anymore, or convicts chained to its grindstones. It does have a plaque telling you how it used to have both of those things, though. When I first saw it, as an ignorant hick in from the country, gawking at all the Big Smoke grandeur and silliness, I thought it was a lighthouse. Albeit a rather landlocked lighthouse, being sort of smack damn in the middle of Brisbane. I was heartily disabused of my error by John Portineau laughing his arse off as we cruised past in the ambulance on the way to the Brisbane Private Hospital. Which was right across the road from the Old Windmill.
After bulldozing the Monster Mobile into a park around the corner, Dev and I walked back to the Old Windmill. It perched at the top of Wickham Park, overlooking Wickham Terrace and a pretty decent spread of city. We stopped to admire the view.
It was a beautiful day. Cloudless, peerless blue sky; a gentle breeze swishing through the trees; temperature soaring into the mid-thirties. Dev had to be sweltering in his jacket, but I could see why he didn’t want to take it off.
“Lovely, isn’t it,” I said, looking down the green slope of the park.
And it was, when viewed objectively. The jacarandas were in flower, all their leaves dropped in favour of delicate purple blooms that still managed to send a shiver of nerves down my spine. The explosion of purple flowers meant end of year exams. Four years of associating extreme stress with the flowers had firmly imprinted on me and ten years on, my stomach still did a little flip at the sight.
“Not really,” Dev muttered.
Wondering if he too had a bad sense-memory link with jacarandas, I cast him a sidelong glance. The sorcerer, however, wasn’t looking at the trees. His gaze was fixed on the tall, stone tower of the windmill, brows pinched.
“Definitely a dark power here,” he continued, walking on. He circled the base of the tower. “Then again, a lot of historical sites do gather energy, both good and bad, over time. It’s a concentration of significant events and emotions. Most notably at the time of construction and active use, then less so, but continuously compounded, over the intervenin’ years by the experiences of the folk coming to visit the site.”
Was he lecturing me? Not even Aurum had lectured me. Well, no. He had. Rather extensively at times, but the bastard had taken the time to discover if I needed lecturing in the first place.
“But the question is, is it your sort of dark power?” I asked, trying not to sound like a petulant student. The headache was knocking at the back of my eyeballs, the mitigating efforts of the sunglasses starting to wear off, and it didn’t help my mood much, either.
“I’m not rightly sure.” If he caught the tone of my words, he didn’t show it. “If you could give me a moment.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just hightailed it off into the park downhill from the windmill.
Really? He was gallivanting off into the trees on his own? So soon after nearly being eaten by the local flora?
“Shit,” I muttered and began to head after the moron.
Wary of how Dev might react, I held back, keeping him just in sight. It wasn’t hard. There weren’t too many folks out and about in the park. A bit too early for those who liked to lunch amongst nature and a bit too hot for those looking for a bit of exercise.
Throughout the park were a couple of long, cement structures. Four squarish pillars holding up a wide, flat roof. Air raid shelters from one of the WWs, two of many scattered around the city, now mostly employed as bus stops. Be protected from the falling bombs while waiting to be taken the hell outa there. The one Dev approached, slowed for, dismissed and then left behind, was currently a bum-shelter.
The old guy leaned against one of the pillars, rummaging in the pockets of a ragged old coat that may have begun life, at best guess, as something similar to one of Dr Carver’s blue lab-coats. Dirty, torn, stained and worn inside out, it had long since forgotten its origin. Underneath it, the bum had on a selection of Salvation Army hand-outs—about three t-shirts, a button-down, a knitted vest now less stitch-one-pearl-one and more oh-damn-dropped-one; pants about four sizes too large and held up with a length of thin, fraying rope; shoes that masqueraded as strips of rags wrapped around his feet, to keep the detached soles in somewhat close relation to the worn uppers. Claw-nailed toes hung out over the front of the shoes.
His beard was a grey tangle reaching midway to his belly-button, riddled with twigs and leaves, a few jacaranda flowers and about half a Big Mac’s worth of partially masticated food tinged the lurid faux-cheese yellow of said fast food joint. On top of his head was a wonder-mop of dreadlocks, surprisingly free of debris.
As I got closer, I noticed a smell to drop a ghoul in its tracks.
The bum finished pocket-fishing, coming out empty handed and looked up in time to see me do the whole casual oh-look-there’s-something-off-in-this-other-direction-I-simply-must-see veer.
“Hey, fella.”
Caught. Damn. “Yeah?”
Pausing to hack up a lung, the bum eyed me up and down. “Got a ciggie?”
“Sorry, don’t smoke.” I waved and made to carry on about my snooping.
“You with him?” The beard made a gesture in Dev’s general direction.
“Ah…”
“He ain’t the Shining Man.”
It shouldn’t have, but it did. Stopped me dead in my gotta-get-outa-here tracks. I don’t know, maybe it was all the talk of dark and ominous, but the tone, the choice of words, the implied capital-ness of the S and M and my usual disposition toward the whacky and weird all conspired to hook into me with pesky little claws.
“He’s not the what?” I asked carefully.
“The Shining Man,” the bum enunciated. Shaking his head at me, he added, “You ain’t the Shining Man, either.” With a vague hand wave at me, he concluded with, “Dark. Very dark. Maybe you’re the Not A Man.”
Not A Man? “I’ll have you know I’m very much—”
“Nah. You’re not him, either.” The old guy peered at me, eyes scrunched up in the brown leather of what was visible of his face. “My mistake. You’re close, but… eh. Something’s not quite there.”
I’ve been called some interesting things in the past, but not quite there? Trust me, when it gets down to the serious name calling, it’s generally because I’m all there and making a nuisance of myself.
“Listen, mate,” I said, backing off, “whatever you’re talking about, I’m sure it’s very important in… your circles, but I have to make sure I don’t lose that guy.”
“They’ll all be here,” the bum continued. “The Shining Man, the Not A Man and the Daughter of Hell.”
No! Matt, don’t listen to him. He’s crazy. Nothing he’s saying has anything to do with you. Walk away. If you lose Dev or let him be killed by a geranium Aurum will probably have something stern to say about it.
“Daughter of Hell?” I enquired while my better judgement threw its hands up in despair.
Cackling in that I’ve-got-you-now-my-pretty way, the bum nodded. “It’ll all come down to her. A choice between her two natures. If she chooses wrong, the world will be destroyed.”
I do hope I could be forgiven for my interest. I mean, Amaya was, technically, a daughter of the late, never lamented Lord of Lust, Second Lord of Hell, demonic general par excellence and all round devilishly devious demon, Asmodeus. Her decision to turn against him had sort of cemented our victory over the Demon Lord. I like to think she chose right, and thus, the world continued on all worldly and full of humans not being slaughtered, subjugated or possessed by Asmodeus’ army of winged demons.
Still if I wasn’t the Shining Man or the Not A Man, I might have been stretching on the Daughter of Hell identity.
Not that this guy’s mad ramblings had anything to do with me. Nothing at all.
“You said it’ll, as in, it will, as in future tense, as in, hasn’t happened yet,” I clarified. “Right?”
“Not yet,” he agreed. “I see it happening on a dark and stormy night.”
And this is what I get for humouring the crazies.
The bum spread his arms wide. “Right here. A big battle for the future of mankind. Three against many. One Who Was Dead will stand opposite his own kind. She Who Is Three shall preside over it all.”
I blinked, trying to work my head around all the Important Names. “And you’re telling me this why?”
Returning to his pocket scavenge, the bum shrugged. “Thought you might like to know.”
“Right.”
This time, I made it two successful steps away before he had to add a final parting shot.
“Because when it’s your turn, you’ll be alone.”
Heart stuttering, I spun back to face him.
He was walking away, still rummaging through his pockets, mumbling under his breath.
I should have chased after him. I should have shaken the meaning of those words out of him. I shouldn’t have just stood there, gaping like a hooked fish having its photo taken by a madly grinning angler. I shouldn’t have given the old fool’s words a moment’s worth of credit. Yet, I didn’t, didn’t, did and did. Why? Beats me.
“Hawkins?”
“Yeah?” I jerked and turned about again, finding Dev standing behind me, frowning.
“Y’all right there, buddy?”
“Yeah.” The old bum was well away now. I’d have to run to catch him and that felt like too much effort when I’d finally decided to ignore everything he had said. “Just got a headache, that’s all.”
“You got anymore ibuprofen?”
“Nope.”
But I did have a hospital right across the road.
“Find anything interesting?” I asked Dev as we hiked back uphill.
“Nothin’ beyond the general sensations around the windmill itself,” he reported dryly. “Hopefully there will be something more at the next place.”
At the top of the park, we crossed the road and headed into the hospital. Inside, we found general reception and a coffee shop and no pharmacy. A friendly Friend of Brisbane Private Hospital volunteer directed us down a corridor to find the pharmacy.
It was a small place, most of the shop devoted to shiny, colourful gifts for the ill or newly-blessed. Dev made the tactful decision to wait outside while I went in, feeling like my hair might be getting too small for my head.
Considering the size of the space and the size of him, you’d have to agree the chances of me missing the other occupant were so small as to be non-existent. And yet I did.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” the shop lady said to me when I reached the counter. She turned back to her other customer.
I glanced at him the same time the mountain turned to look at me.
The technical term here is ‘oh shit’.
Henry ‘The Colonel’ Tanqueray, former star of the Broncos and All Blacks—scandal included—narrowed his bloodshot eyes at me. There were cuts on his lips and purpling bruises under his eyes, spreading oil-slick like down his cheeks. Butterfly strips held closed a cut over his left eyebrow.
“You.” The word wasn’t so much slurred as it was forced out between the avalanche of boulders in his throat.
“Sir?” the shop lady attempted. “Your change.”
Henry left her hanging onto the coins. He squared off to me, seemingly growing wider and taller as he pulled in a deep breath, getting ready to smash. His big hands curled into fists.
“You surprised me last night,” he growled. “I’m not surprised now.”
I backed up. “I’m sorry about last night. Caught me in a bad moment.”
“Yeah? Let me catch you in another one.”
There is no shame to say I turned and ran. The Colonel lumbered after me.
“Run!” I shouted at Dev as I whizzed past his confused expression.
One glance at the big guy rumbling out behind me did what my shout didn’t. Dev overtook me with his longer legs.
Thankfully, we were both faster than Henry. Still, we all caused quite the stir as we pelted back through the foyer and out the front doors of the Brisbane Private Hospital. Pulling ahead of the ex-NRL player by a decent margin, I took a moment to wonder if Erin would be calling me about this little incident too.