The birds screeched overhead as the bushland simmered, heatwaves coming off the dirt underfoot as lunchtime approached.
Volta walked aimlessly through the spindly undergrowth of old eucalypts and gums, keeping his eyes trained on his feet to avoid stepping on sunning water dragons, or sleeping pythons under fallen branches. To his right ran a small creek, which stretched further north into Yandina, and further southeast where it ran into Petrie, then out into the Maroochy river which flowed into the Pacific.
Volta knew of the legend of Maroochy, Coolum, and Ninderry, but only because he had googled it. It was a love story, with a gruesome ending. Volta took it as a warning, swearing not to become Coolum, turned to stone to preserve his being after decapitation by boomerang. Two was company, three was a bloodbath.
No one had passed the story on to him, he had no elders or family. Which he didn't realise was a problem until someone had pointed it out, just like Boyd at the park.
The longer he thought about it, the more he knew he was lost. No direction, he didn't know who he was; where he came from or what happened to his people.
Why was it that he was quick on his feet; could track anyone through any terrain and not lose them, and not be seen if he didn't want to be?
Did this get passed down to him, was his father just like this too?
Maybe his father was hiding somewhere nearby, watching over him, waiting for the right time to reveal himself.
Volta's powers were simple and subtle – the kind that could be passed off as a strange trait, a party trick – ones he had honed over the past five years since meeting Bob.
As a teenager he argued with his fists, full of rage and ready to snap from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning. He was in and out of schools, each foster family sent him back within a month, upset that their black status symbol had intergenerational trauma.
Insolent, he always put a dampener on dinner parties.
On his 16th birthday he realised he could hide in plain sight and slipped through the cracks of the welfare system, living in an abandoned house the town thought to be haunted.
His Friday night entertainment consisted of scaring the shit out of white kids who would come to see ghosts and using Wi-Fi from neighbouring houses to listen to hip-hop until he fell asleep.
He was nearly 20 when he had his first vision.
She came to him in his ghost house on top of the hill, angelic and radiating warmth.
They didn't greet each other; she spoke as if they had seen each other the day before.
'Have you found it yet?' she asked, floating towards him on a beam of light.
'What?' Volta looked around, he was standing in his bedroom. A dilapidated space with exposed beams, holes in the wall and a swag in the corner. Rain pouring down outside, the winter air raising goosebumps on his arms where his inflamed skin attempted to heal a smattering of fresh tattoos.
'The enchanted water. Your mission. Have you completed it?' she continued to smile, worry flickering through her hazel eyes.
'Jesus, am I trippin'?' he rubbed his neck, trying to recall if he ate anything suspicious at the soup kitchen earlier.
'What year is it?' she folded her arms.
'2013'
'Oh…' she looked around the room, '… I think I came too early.'
'Too early?'
'I'm running out of time,' she looked down at her bare wrist as if expecting to see a watch, 'listen closely.'
'Um… OK' Volta grimaced.
'You've got to find them—'
'Who?'
She held up a hand.
'Don't interrupt.'
He gulped.
'You've got to find your people. The water will help you, but it's drying up fast. It will be gone in a few years. Your people are dormant, the water will awaken them. You've got to hurry up…' she looked around the room again, teeth clenched.
'What are you, 19?' she cast an eye over Volta.
Volta nodded, nervous.
'Get your shit together.'
She disappeared with a burst of blinding light.
'What?' Volta looked around.
'What?' he shouted, 'you told me nothing!'
He sunk down to his knees.
'My people?' he said softly, trembling.
It had been a long five years searching for the water with only two visions to guide him. He knew he came across as aloof to Bob and Sage who shared concerned looks every time Volta pushed them to work harder. They weren't entirely convinced of the water's existence, but they believed in him, for what reasons he didn't know. He just rolled with it.
Up ahead was a small clearing between the tallest gums in the forest. The creek widened, surrounded by large flat rocks that jutted out into the middle of the fast moving water.
Volta nodded to himself as he walked, thinking… thinking…
Of four things he was sure:
He had to find the enchanted water.
Time was running out.
He only had one option left: Velvet.
But he'd be damned if he had to spend another minute in her company.
In his memories, Velvet stood before him on a hot summers day on the corner of Howard and Sydney in her nightdress; hair still dripping. She smelled like wild rosella, covering her breasts in embarrassment.
She had run after him like he wasn't a threat.
Her skin was pale and pure, her tattoos were delicate and deliberate. When she looked down at the ground her cheeks grew deep pink, green eyes behind round frames and hair flowing like a neo-colonialist portrait.
He had told her to stay away, her body tensed next to his as he tried to control his frustration. He could feel her heart beating out of her chest, he could almost hear the gears turning in her head as she weighed up whether or not to do as he said.
Now he had to go back, tell her that he needs her…
No.
It couldn't happen like that.
He sighed, stepping into the clearing.
He was seriously considering returning to the haunted house and living the rest of his life as a ghost; making little white boys cry and eating the same free soup every night that was likely full of depressants. He could become like the Nambour homeless; complacent, downtrodden, mixing methadone with ice. Dying alone at 61.9 years old, tinny in hand, preferably at the miniature train park on a Sunday.
He laughed bitterly to himself.
He was funny.
"Oi." Came a voice from the creek.
Volta stumbled backward.
Standing on a large flat rock was a wild looking man. As black as the night, grey wispy hair floating about his face. He wore shorts and thongs, leaning on a bleached branch which was fashioned into a staff.
"What the fuck?" Volta breathed, looking around.
"Who the fuck?" he looked the man up and down, twice.
"Ha." The man laughed, his teeth nearly blinding Volta.
Volta crossed his arms, eyebrows raised.
"What are you doing on my land?"
The man jumped down from the rock and slowly walked towards Volta.
"Whaddaya talkin' about ya bloody dingo." He shook his head, stopping before Volta.
Volta scoffed.
"This has got to be a joke, right?" he looked around again, expecting to see Joey giggling in the bushes.
"No joke," the mans smiling face grew serious, "I got sick of watchin' you flounder about so I came over here to pass on some knowledge."
Volta grew still, thinking.
"Are you… an elder?" Volta asked quietly.
The man smiled.
"Don't be asking those kinds of questions, I'm not here to talk about that."
Volta grimaced.
"Oi." Came the man's voice from further away.
The man had disappeared from sight. Volta looked around in fright, trying to find him.
"I'm over here." He sat on the other side of the creek, legs crossed.
How did he get over there? Volta thought.
Volta walked towards him, sitting down on a rock opposite.
"I haven't got much time," the man said, glancing down at his wrist, "so don't be interrupting. I've been watching you, and you always be interrupting." He wriggled his finger at Volta, smiling.
Volta bit down on his lip to stop himself from retorting.
"Good," the man laughed, "progress."
Volta held his breath, waiting.
"You've gotta work faster."
Volta exhaled, nostrils flared.
"Don't you think I'm trying as hard as I can?"
The man disappeared again.
A hand whacked Volta up the back of his head.
"Ow!" he looked around to the face of the grinning old man, crouched right behind him.
He leaned back on his heels, stroking his staff.
"All I hear, day in, day out, is your whining…" the man looked off into the distance, "ugh, a white woman, ugh she's so white, ugh she's a colonialist, ugh I can see her breasts." He rolled his eyes.
Volta looked down, cheeks flushed.
"I'm sick of it," the old man gestured with his hand, "you've gotta get your shit together by the next full moon or you'll be dead at the miniature train park."
Volta's head snapped up, eyes narrowed at the old man.
"You won't be 61.9 either."
Volta's eyes grew wide.
The old man chuckled.
"And it won't be on a Sunday." He winked.
Volta shook his head. This guy was a kook.
"Oi," he whacked Volta up the back of the head again, "I'm no kookaburra, I'm no bird. Now suck up your pride and go talk to that woman."
"But… but…" Volta stammered, "but… she's so… whi—"
The old man reached out and grabbed Volta by the front of his shirt, dragging him up to his feet until they were standing eye to eye.
"Cut the shit," he growled, teeth glinting, "do you see any of your black brothers and sisters lining up to help you? They're all gone. Sure, you can piece together a group of mixed coloured folk with half baked powers to make you feel like you've made progress," his eyes grew wide, "but if you think you can do it without that girls help you're bloody dreamin'."
He let Volta go and stepped back into the clearing.
"Get your shit together kid, you've got one week to do something before I come back and kick you."
He tapped on the ground with his staff.
"OK!" he shouted up at the sky, "beam me up!"
Volta looked up at the sky.
Nothing happened.
The old man laughed, tapping on the ground again.
"OK!" he shouted, looking around the clearing, "I'm ready!"
Volta crossed his arms, incredulous.
The old man grimaced at Volta.
"You'll see."
Volta scoffed.
"Okay you old koo—"
With a loud bang, the man disappeared in a bright beam of light.
Volta fell backwards, shielding his eyes.
"Ah," Volta looked around, head spinning, "fuck."
He stood up, brushing twigs from his black clothing.
"Shit!" he screamed as loud as he could, sending hundreds of birds fleeing from the trees above.
Shit, he thought, glaring at the bushland, wriggling his nose in disgust.