He nodded to himself as he looked around. There was one structure that seemed more permanent: it looked like a church, judging from its isolated position up the slope. It was low, like all the other buildings, but it had a stone tower on one side, and a cluster of standing stones about its base. Grave markers of some sort. It had to be the church.

He walked on and saw figures in the shadows of the doorways, heads rise up from behind walls and duck down again. Then someone had the courage to come out to meet him. He wore a thick cloth skirt and top made of greasy wool. He carried a spear with a hooked metal end; carried it in front of him as if he might have to use it. There were noises behind him too, and as he slowly turned round, first the menfolk and then the women and children all emerged to see him.

When the last one had arrived, and Solomon stood in a wide, respectfully silent circle, he cleared his throat and announced: ‘I am Solomon Akisi, and I bring you greetings in the name of His Magnificence, the emperor of Kenya.’

The man with the fish-spear looked around at the rest of his tribe and stumbled forward: he had been pushed by someone from behind.

He spoke. Solomon nodded, not understanding a word. He knew a good deal of World, but there were always differences in the way it was pronounced. He tried again. He tapped his chest and spoke slowly. ‘My name is Solomon Akisi. I am a Masai, from the Kenyan empire.’

The native was a good head shorter than Solomon, but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth. He was an ox of a man, chosen for his brawn, not his brain.

‘Solomon,’ said the man, just as slowly.

‘Yes,’ said Solomon. Trust his luck: he had fallen in with people no better than savages. ‘Do you have a name?’

‘Rory macShiel,’ replied the man.

Then there was a commotion from the back of the crowd and a short – but they all were to Solomon – red-faced woman stepped out, her grey hair awry, wiping her hands on her already filthy apron. She turned on the rest of the townspeople, haranguing them at length, pointing and shouting and stamping her feet.

At first he thought it was some odd local custom, but then it became apparent that she was genuinely cross. It did serve one purpose, though. After a few uncomfortable minutes he realized he could understand her; imperfectly for certain – some of what she said had no meaning at all, but the sense of it was clear, and she used mostly World words. There was enough to work with after all.

She was saying: ‘A man comes to us, and all we can do is stand and gawp and point and say to each other “Oooh, doesn’t he look different to us – isn’t he tall, isn’t he black?” and none of you have the second thought to offer the poor soul so much as a cup of water and a how-do-you-do. The priest’s away and you turn into a clutch of clucking chicks looking for a wing to hide under. Ashamed of yourselves yet? You ought to be at this fuss and hullabaloo. Where’s our manners? That’s what I want to know. Have we lost them under some rock? Should we go and search for them and come back and greet our visitor properly when we’ve found them?’

She paused to draw breath, and macShiel managed to interrupt her. ‘Have a heart, Rose naMoira. What are we supposed to think?’

‘Think? That’s good coming from you, Rory macShiel. You no more think than you please your wife.’ The woman held her thumb and index finger slightly apart and waved the minuscule gap in macShiel’s face.

A boy, the same boy who had climbed the tree, laughed out loud, earning him a cuff around the ear.

‘That’s enough, Rose naMoira macArthur. You hold your tongue.’

Solomon realized that the focus of attention had somehow slipped off him. This had not been his intention at all.

‘So where are my grandchildren?’ demanded Rose naMoira. ‘You take a daughter of mine and there’s no issue. A macArthur’s belly is fertile.’

‘I’m warning you, woman,’ said macShiel. For a moment he looked ready to gut the woman from waist to neck, until another woman, younger, taller, darker-haired, pushed her way through. She glanced up at Solomon, then stood between the arguing pair, arms outstretched, fingers splayed to keep them apart.

‘Go home, Mother, and you too, husband. What sort of welcome is this? Apologies, sir.’ She made a strange movement, almost a bow, but her knees bent and she held the sides of her dress for a moment. Then she wheeled macShiel round and marched him back through the crowd. Those who didn’t stand aside fast enough caught his shoulder in their sides.

‘Enough of him,’ said Rose naMoira. ‘What’s your business here, Solomon? A good Bible name, Solomon, though I’ve never heard of Akiz.’

‘Akisi,’ said Solomon. He drew himself up to his full height. ‘I would make my home here, if I am allowed, for a while at least. I can help you, if you would only help me.’

‘There’ll be no worshipping of idols or strangely named devils, will there?’

‘I believe I follow the same God that you do.’ Solomon pointed to the church high up on the hill.

The sudden panic at possibly having a pagan in their midst receded. The men slowly returned to their nets and pulled their children with them. The women had looms to attend to, and vegetables to weed, and babies to feed.

Solomon was left in the middle of the village, all but ignored. Rose naMoira was still standing next to him.

‘Pah! Ignorant peasants, the lot of them. You’d better come home with me, Solomon. And mind, there’ll be no funny business.’

It took him a moment to comprehend her, then another to take offence, holding up his hands in horror. ‘No, no. I would not. Good lady, you must understand that you are fortunate to have me in your house. I will repay you many times over.’

‘Really? Can you work a loom? Handle a boat? Gut fish and smoke them? Can you husband cattle or shear sheep? Work wood or metals?’ At each shake of his head she grew more insistent. ‘What do you do in this world?’

‘I am a natural philosopher, good lady.’

‘A what? Will that feed you and clothe you and keep you warm at night? Will it protect you from thieves and make you well when you fall sick?’

‘I believe so.’

It was the woman’s turn to shake her head. She led them to a square timber-framed hut, the gaps between the wood filled in with a rubble and mortar mix. ‘This I’ll have to see. Where you come from, are there many like you?’

‘You mean philosophers, or black men?’

‘I imagine you’re all black, even the women. But what is it you do?’

Solomon ducked down very low to enter through the doorway. It was dark and smoky inside. The light from the single window shone directly onto the handloom that was next to it. All else was shadow. It was a hovel, nothing more. How he had fallen.

‘Let me show you something. You must keep this to yourself for the moment. There will be time later for wonder.’ Solomon let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then set his pack down on the only table in the room. He undid the straps and smiled, knowing that only his smile would be visible. ‘Do you have a lamp?’ he asked.

Rose fetched a lamp that smelled of fish oil, and lit it with a hot coal from the smouldering peat fire. When she put it next to Solomon, he could scarcely tell the difference.

He opened his pack and began to pull out the tools of his trade: an odd flat-bottomed jar, a cork stopper with a hole bored through it, thin copper wires scavenged from some rubble field, a small rod of white metal. Lastly he drew out a square of folded cloth and carefully opened it out until it all but covered his lap.

‘Do you have any vinegar, or acid fruit?’

The woman frowned at all the strange objects and strange speech. ‘I’ve some apple cider. It’s on the verge of turning, and I was going to use it for pickling.’

‘Bring it to me.’

She brought him the glazed clay bottle and a horn beaker. She poured some out for him as if he were going to drink it. He sniffed at its contents. The odour was sharp and unpleasant.