The Old Windmills

On the flat crown of the hills above the town, Polly came upon a procession of round stone towers lined up against the sky like sentries who had forgotten their war.

They were windmills, or had been. The roofs are long gone and so are the sails; what remains are hollow towers, open to the weather, their small dark windows staring out at nothing in particular.

In their working days the wind up here, which never seems to rest, hauled their great sails around from dawn to dusk, and the mills ground the district's wheat into flour for the town spread out below.

Polly studied the masonry at close range and felt a small jolt of recognition. This was the same honey-golden stone she had touched in the cave down at the waterline. She tilted her head, and a question began to take shape.