The American magician came to the port-city.
He watched the ships resting in their berths, their sides rust-red, the names of their companies in sterile block letters.
“Hanjin,” he said, the unfamiliar name delicious on his tongue.
He had arrived early; there was time yet.
The sound of the water soothed him.
It reminded him of Lake Erie, of home.
The whistle sounded over the dockyard, signalling shift change.
The magician waited by the gate.
He had never met Paul or Rhiannon, but he was a well-informed man.
He knew his contemporaries.
He studied the sullen faces that passed him.
One he picked out, without knowing just how.
The eyes had seen more than one life’s worth of world.
He followed the walloper away from the yard.
A woman loitered palely by the edge of the parking area.
With a glad cry she ran to the walloper.
He picked her up and swung her around in the air.
Her feet were bare and brown.
They walked to a car, hands clasped and swinging, heads bowed and murmuring.
The magician turned away.
There were no answers here.
He watched the ships come and go from the harbour until the light faded.