A Mage Alone Read online

  A Mage Alone

  Russell Emmerson

  If you have a few moments, please visit russellemmerson.com and sign up for my newsletter to find out what is coming next.

  Don’t worry—it will be me, not a bot.

  1

  ‘90s grunge music didn’t stand a chance against the late start to the 9.38 dogs from Albion Park.

  Voices bounced off the faded pastel of the pub walls as Bert and Bert, fresh from their dock shifts, attacked the race with comments that moved from spiked lures to personal accusations.

  Eili and the barman ignored it. They both knew it was futile to stop the Berts in mid-stride. At best you would cop a round of abuse for your efforts. At worst, they would find something even more inane to bicker about.

  The truths of cheating dogs, doped horses, petrol ripoffs and bloody city drivers were the feature entertainment of Dockside Tavern on winter nights. The chalkboard invitation to the weekly pool competition stood, scuffed and ignored under the neon lights, and tattered karaoke posters were curling off the wall years after the event. That left Bert and Bert and their collection of conspiracies explaining the surprise loss of the favourite as the Dockside’s ringside entertainment.

  Eili stood up, and stretched out the knots that had begun to form in his back. As he pulled a $50 note from his coat to cover the night’s drinks, he decided to leave in style.

  “They say there’s going to be an inquiry into dog doping, just like there was in Victoria, and the authority has already agreed to terms,” he said, winking at Nick, the barman.

  “You bastard,” Nick muttered, shaking his head as the Berts went off on a tangent sure to keep them busy for another hour.

  “Make sure you get their tips for next week’s races—I want to know whether it’s a better bet to dope the favourite or substitute it with a horse,” Eili said.

  Nick smiled and started clearing the glasses. He would be left with the Berts until he threw them out, leaving him to explore his esoteric grunge collection.

  The bite of the wind hit Eili as he left the Dockside, and he quickly shrugged his coat on under the bare globe above the doorway. His breath fogged and turned blue as it was whipped away into the night.

  He was going to head toward the lighthouse and home, but changed his mind on seeing the large shadow muttering loudly as it stumbled closer. Better to walk around the block. The Port was scary and empty at night when he was growing up. It was less scary and more popular 30 years later, but when darkness fell only the stupid and dead would be caught alone. Walking an extra block was a small price to pay for keeping your teeth.

  He stepped onto the street and headed past the empty block that used to be the warehouse where the police had caught him vomiting after his first big underage drinking session. The memory made him smile.

  He kicked an empty can of vodka and something-or-other to the gutter. It was stopped by a couple of crushed cigarette packs before it tumbled into the drain. A painted sign nearby reminded him to “save our waterways”, so he kicked the rubbish into the drain for good measure.

  The muttering was growing louder behind him, punctuated by the scuffing feet of the perpetually drunk. They sounded like his own.

  He picked up his pace and was ready to turn up a side street when a rough voice called out, close by, behind him.

  “Hey, dickhead!”

  Eili ignored it.

  “Dickhead! I’m talking to you!”

  He’d closed the distance quickly—certainly quicker than expected given his likely drunkeness—and his abuse carried a breath flavoured by cheap booze and tooth decay, coming from a throat made rough from unresting anger.

  Eili knew he couldn’t keep walking. If he did, he was likely to cop it in the back of the head. It wouldn’t be the first time, but wasn’t the preferred ending to a night of a few quiet drinks.

  He stopped and turned slowly, raising his hands near his shoulders, palms open and fingers splayed. No threat here, buddy.

  “Mate, it’s bloody freezing out here—let’s just get the hell out of it,” he said. He tried to ignore his own slurring.

  He turned to look straight into a smiling mouth filled with crazied yellow teeth, eyes darting above them.

  Eili wasn’t short—he told people he was tall for his family—but his broad shoulders gave him a larger presence. Yet the man with the green grenade tattooed on his temple and half his face towered over. His arms were thick, built up for fighting for meagre possessions in his homeless existence.

  “I’m not your fucking mate, arsehole.”

  He pushed closer to make his point, and Eili gagged on the sweet decay that washed over him. He tried to turn it into a cough and failed utterly.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just—”. The words deserted him.

  Grenade-man pushed closer to Eili, pointing down into his face with every word.

  “You think you’re better than me, don’t you, arsehole? So much better than Nathan!”

  The stale alcohol burned Eili’s eyes as he backed away to find space, but Grenade-man—Nathan—just took another step closer.

  “Nathan, mate, I’m just out for a—”

  “I told you I’m not your mate!” Nathan was quivering with an anger driven by terror and more than a hint of barely-restrained insanity. Eili’s attempts at defusing situations like these always assumed an attacker would have a thread of rationality, and it had always worked. Not tonight. Even as he swayed slightly, Nathan’s colourless eyes prevented Eili’s escape.

  “I don’t want no stuck-up knobs like you here!” he yelled.

  His voice bounced off the nearby walls and Eili was desperate to see whether anyone was close enough to save him. But he didn’t dare look away from his attacker as the hot waves of hatred ramped up. Despite the chill of the night, Eili became aware of his own sweat, cold underneath his arms and wet through his coat. He could see sweat on Nathan’s bald head, light bouncing off the drops that gathered and fell, leaving only whisps of steam rising from a fierce and unforgiving face.

  “If you don’t get out of here I’m going to fucking show you why you don’t mess with Nathan!”

  Eili felt spit hit his face with every word, a hot spray that cooled quickly on his pale skin. He couldn’t hear anything around him, just the echoes of the threat from townhouses and warehouses, marking the time before he became a bloodied statistic.

  I’m dead, he thought, and his body tensed as it prepared itself for the attack.

  A manicured voice held back the violence.

  “Nathan, this a good man. You should leave him be.”

  It was crisp, with a warm smile. A trace of an accent that Eili struggled to identify through his panic.

  “He’s a fucking dickhead!” Nathan’s red face pushed closer, the constant shake of his body readily apparent.

  “Come now, there is no need to be rude. You may have had some refreshments, perhaps one or two too many, and now you are angry. Think clearly, Nathan. This man does not deserve your anger. It is not his fault.”

  Nathan's face stretched in a tortured grimace as he considered the explanation. From his trapped vantage point, Eili could see a green-purple vein throbbing under the grenade tattoo. He saw Nathan’s jaw clench and his eyes narrow as the anger bunched—and then saw it pass, his eyes relaxing into a vacant sorrow. His shoulders settled as he stepped back from Eili.

  In between breaths of steam, he turned away and headed back towards the heart of the Port. The wet streets carried back a soft “G’night” as Nathan stumbled away.

  Eili was unable to move, his body still reacting to the terror of being trapped. A moment later he began to shake. It started as a quivering in his chest, broke out as spasms along his limbs, sparking a sharp intake of breat
h as his body fed its need to act. He fell to the kerb as he legs gave up.

  “Nathan can be—” the voice paused to find the right word “—expressive of his frustration, but he means you no harm.”

  Eili snorted through his shock.

  “No harm? Thank God for that. I was beginning to worry, but at least I have that comfort now. It’s good to have comfort. And my arms,” he said, looking around for the voice that had saved him.

  He was alone.

  Nathan could still be heard stumbling almost a block away, but the street around Eili was empty. He suddenly felt the wave of post-adrenaline exhaustion and moved to rest his back against the nearest building. There was no one coming down any nearby street. All doors were closed so residents could safely ignore the threat he had faced, their windows covered to shut out the abuse.

  And there was silence.

  The streetlight bleached the yellow building behind him and made the spaces around it darker still. A poster on the wall nearby broke up the brightness of the building.

  Eili recognised the poster. It was an “Aussie” poster, distributed throughout the city but the first he had seen in the Port. It showed a colourised historic picture of an Indian man, sitting with shoulders set back proudly, his burgundy turban setting off a smart black suit. There was a purposeful set to his eyes and his moustache was exquisitely crafted.

  Beneath this study of elegance, the poster declared “Aussie!”, in obvious contrast to the mix of cultures of the mid- to late-1800s.

  The man in the poster had a strong brow, taking in a distant view as he planned for his future, one that he would control. He was a man that would change the world.

  And then the poster’s eyes moved.

  Eili froze, then shook his head to clear the stress.

  And froze again—the poster’s moustache twitched.

  The light. It’s obviously confusing me, and who would be surprised given everything that’s happened, thought Eili.

  He knew he needed help when the poster’s mouth moved and spoke to him in the same calming voice that had saved him.

  “It is very rude to stare, and I really should not have to tell you that,” the poster said. “I can understand Nathan is confused, but you—you do not need the benefit of that same understanding. You should be courteous, for that is all that separates us from the smaller creatures of this world.”

  Eili continued to look at the poster. Aussie. With a Calcutta accent. Speaking to him.

  “I would think you should first thank me. That would be a very proper thing to do,” the poster said, and then stared pointedly at Eili, waiting with raised eyebrows pushing up his turban.

  Eili jumped in front of the poster that was currently making a very persuasive case for his lack of social graces. His body was still heavy from the confrontation and the cold, and he tripped and fell into the gutter, looking straight into the eyes of the poster as it smiled at his lack of coordination. Eili knew he would hurt tomorrow, but concerns over his sanity were currently taking priority.

  The poster offered little solace.

  “I would recommend you calm yourself to avoid further discomfort. You were at little risk of harm from Nathan and I pose a limited threat—”

  The poster looked down at his obvious lack of legs and chortled at his own joke.

  “—So it appears your greatest concern is you,” he said. His shoulders bumped happily as he chortled again.

  Eili’s mouth went through the motions of responding, but with no words that would capture the occasion of being abused by a poster intent on saving people and then providing lessons in common courtesy. He settled for a vague acknowledgement of presence.

  “I'm sorry,” he started. “I didn't know you were ... ”

  He trailed off as his mind again failed to provide appropriate words for the situation. Didn't know you were there? Didn't know you were alive? Didn't know Nathan had hit me and I was hallucinating?

  The poster saved him the trouble.

  “Sadly, it is a common experience,” he sighed. “So very few people speak to me. It can be discouraging.”

  “How many? I mean, how many people speak to you?” Eili stumbled, reflecting briefly it was an obvious and sensible question to ask of a poster.

  “Including you?”

  Eili nodded.

  “And Nathan?”

  He nodded again.

  “Two. Precisely two,” the poster said with his crisp accent.

  “Ah.” Eili nodded. He had no idea whether two was a big or a small number considering the circumstances.

  “Why don't more people talk to you then?” Eili asked. “You seem fairly ... chatty?”

  The poster considered the question, nodding at the insight.

  “Well, many pass by, but very few take the time to stop or think. There are too many people too busy; busy with their telephones, or busy with their own thoughts, or busy with their picking of noses or smoking. Nasty habits. And never combine them,” he said directly to Eili. “Awful burns,” and he shook his head as he reflected on his wisdom.

  Eili felt the damp mist start to settle for the night, threatening to become an insistent rain. His body had shrugged off the imminent violence and was starting to come terms with the current situation: he was cold, confused, and in very desperate need of a drink to give himself time to make sense of things that weren’t even beginning to come close to a bad impression of making sense.

  But sitting before him on a piece of paper glued to a wall was a talking, thinking man that had just happened to save him. Eili was prepared to admit that the entire situation raised serious questions. So he asked one. A basic question.

  “If you don't mind me asking: what are you?”

  The poster threw his head back and laughed freely. It bounced off nearby walls just as Nathan’s abuse had earlier, and Eili looked around for windows to open or silhouettes to appear in doorways or police to be called. The poster soon settled although his dark eyes retained the glint of amusement.

  “That is a very easy question to answer for it is before you. I am a picture printed on paper and glued to a wall. I am a poster,” it said. “But there is a far more interesting question that you should be asking, my friend.”

  “And that is?”

  “The question you should be asking is: What are you?”

  The poster emphasised the question by leaning toward Eili and pointing at him. And Eili took the bait.

  “Ok, then, what am I?”

  “You, my friend, are a mage.”

  “A mage?”

  “A mage.”

  Eili waited for the conversation to make sense. It simply got colder.

  “And that is ... ?” Eili began.

  The poster’s look of shock quickly fell to disappointment.

  “A mage, an anglicized version of the Latin magus, thought to have been derived from the same word in Old Persian. It was a very popular term in the 1830s, but it has recently disappeared, it appears.”

  Eili missed the barbed criticism.

  “Ah,” was all he could manage. “Um ... what is a mage? What am I?”

  “Ah, yes indeed!” the poster said. “You, my friend, are a mage. A sorcerer. A wizard. A magician. An enchanter, if you will.”

  The poster waited with an expectant look for Eili’s response, but forged on when it was apparent that nothing more was forthcoming.

  “My friend, you are a mage. A magician. You can do magic.”

  The explanation made only one thing clear for Eili.

  Regardless of whether he could do magic—regardless of whether he was a mage, a sorcerer or even a bloody animagus—he needed a drink. And regardless of whether he would rely on magic to fly there or he was forced to walk to it, he was going to get that drink. Now.

  2

  Cleaning up vomit was just a small highlight of Eili’s Tuesday routine.

  It started with a studious attempt to ignore his alarm. Several times. Then it was on to basics: get up. Clot
hes on, usually a subtle variation of jeans and business shirt. Toast with a slab of butter. Wallet and keys, and out the door.

  Up the stairs with their cigarette butts and shades of chewing gum past, and across the bridge between cars as they passed toward the Port and on to the city.

  Daily coffee from the Red Lime Shack, over a busy Commercial Road and to the office by 9am. Closer to ten, really, but near enough.

  Open the door, alarm off, heater on, blinds open, and head to the bathroom at the back to get a bucket with hot water and scrubbing brush. Back to the footpath to clean up the vomit that always seemed to end up right outside his door. On a good day he need only sweep the footpath to get rid of the dust and grit from the nearby cement factory.

  Bring everything back inside, wash hands, make coffee and sit at the empty reception area to listen to messages. Take the first message about another outstanding bill, delete. If they wanted to get paid, they would call back. Again. Take the second message about ... Damn it. A client meeting he was meant to be at half an hour ago.

  He scrambled for the phone, then wasted time trying to find his mobile where he had recorded the client’s number. Frank and Joe, good denture shop, good long-term client. Patient and forgiving.

  The phone rang. And rang. And was answered.

  He blustered an apology, made a new time, sat back and finished his coffee.

  There wasn’t much foot-traffic, but he didn’t expect any. Morgan Bookkeeping sat between a tattoo parlour, a freight-forwarding company and an empty space that was regularly inhabited by cash-friendly businesses with links to extensive family networks. It was a good community that knew each other and would always band together—as long as it knew to leave each other alone.

  With a sigh, he turned on his computer to start the day, and flicked on the radio to catch up with the news. He’d missed it but he knew they’d repeat it. It would be the same stories. There was no need to be upset.

  As he waited for files to open, he gazed at the white walls behind the monitor and noticed new scuffs. Right above them was a dead pot plant he promised himself he would remove and replace. He’d made the same promise last week, but he could still surprise himself with a week of action.