The Rainbow Wizard

The Rainbow Wizard — known to some as Trev — had abandoned the main house.

This was not a dramatic abandonment. There was no argument, no slamming of doors. It was more of a quiet withdrawal, the kind only a gentle soul is capable of. The house had simply been taken over, incrementally, by feral cats, possums, and other mustelids of questionable intent, and the Rainbow Wizard had retreated to the boxy sleepout at the back of the garden.

He knew, in a vague way, that he probably ought to evict them.

But they were there. And it was a fait accompli. And besides, eviction required a certain energy that the Rainbow Wizard preferred to spend elsewhere.

In the sleepout, things were as they should be. A comfortable chair. Seventies prog rock and psychedelic folk drifting from the speakers — something with a long instrumental middle section and lyrics about forests and distant stars. A pipe of pipeweed, packed thoughtfully. The Rainbow Wizard sat in the manner of Bilbo Baggins after a long journey — not going anywhere, not needing to, perfectly content.

From the main house, a power cord ran across the garden like an umbilical cord connecting the sleepout to the mothership. It carried electricity. It carried, in its way, a kind of connection — proof that the wizard had not entirely let go, that somewhere in the tangle of cats and possums and creeping damp, something still hummed.

The Rainbow Wizard did not mind. He had his music, his pipeweed, and the particular peace of a man who has made his terms with the world.

They know how to party.