‘My own people, the mighty people of the Kenyan empire, use this for their own ships. You are using square sails, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You cannot turn into the wind with them?’

‘No.’

‘You can with this.’ Solomon bent down and began to draw in the wet sand. ‘The wind comes from the north, say. But you want to sail north, to your fishing grounds. Currently you would have to stay at home and mend your nets, or be forced to row all the way. With a jib, and some changes to your hull, you can go north, fish and come back with a boat-load. You cannot sail directly into the wind, but by going close to it, you can tack this way and that, always close but never broaching.’

macShiel sat on his haunches, looking from the spinning wheel to the diagram on the beach and back again. He stroked his beard. ‘What changes to the hull?’

‘A deeper keel. There is a device called a freeboard which is suitable for small boats like yours.’

‘Show me.’

Solomon drew on the sand again.

‘I see,’ said macShiel, and lapsed into deep thought.

Solomon was prepared to wait: he knew that with each turn of the wheel powered by its four swinging sails, what he desired moved inexorably closer.

Finally macShiel stood up and dusted the back of his kilt free of sand. ‘What do you want in return?’

Solomon smiled broadly. ‘Ah, we understand each other. Neither of us are of this land. You came from over the water, just like I did, though not so far. But we will not fit in, no matter how long the dirt stays under our fingernails or the salt sits in our hair.’

‘That might be true, but it doesn’t tell me what you want.’

‘I want those.’ He pointed to his crude model. ‘I am not a craftsman. I want, say, four of them. Twice the size and solid, with good bearings. Each one will need a shield to cover the leeside of the machine, so that the wind will not slow the wheel down, only speed it up.’

‘Four, you say? I don’t know about that. The first one will be the most difficult. After that, maybe, maybe not. I’ll build you one. There’s a lot of wood, and maybe some iron that’ll be needed. Not an easy task at all.’

‘Your wife’s mother has no right to call you an idiot, Rory macShiel. Two then. Build me one now. Then take one of your boats. Put a freeboard on it, and a mast with a jib. I can tell you if the construction is right. Then after you have sailed it to An Cobh and back in a day, you can build me another.’

macShiel flexed his great muscles, as if readying himself for the task. He spat in the palm of his hand, then offered it to Solomon. He saw him hesitate. ‘You have to shake on it. Otherwise it’s not binding.’

Solomon didn’t want to appear too eager. Just the right amount of reluctance was needed. He put on a forced smile and took macShiel’s spittle-smeared hand in his.

‘Done.’

Solomon called it an aeoleopile. Everyone else called it macShiel’s device, and every day the residents of An Rinn would stand for a few moments on the hillside overlooking the boatyard, just to check its progress. They acknowledged the idea as Solomon’s, but the making of it was both the wonder and the folly. It took shape slowly on the stretch of beach he used to make and repair boats. macShiel laid the pieces out, searched his seasoned wood and steamed straight lengths into curves, which he pinned together with oak nails.

Solomon fretted over the size of the thing. It was clear that macShiel had embraced the idea of the self-turning wheel, but not what it was for. Solomon wanted it to spin steadily and strongly, but macShiel built on a scale like himself, solid and unyielding. It would be a miracle if it turned at all.

It grew and grew. There was a frame, with little wooden rollers, to lift the wheel up into the wind. The axle hung down, which is just how Solomon wanted it, and he was able to pass on the measurements taken from a quern stone. The town’s boys were a specific problem. They would throw stones at the machine, and laugh as they were chased away.

‘Are we ready, Rory?’ said Solomon.

‘I think we are.’ macShiel was sitting on the wheel, rigging up the final sail. ‘I can feel it wanting to turn beneath me. There’s raw power there like a charging horse or a strong current.’

‘Like a lion,’ said Solomon.

‘A what? What are they?’

‘Like a cat, but bigger; bigger than a man. They have huge claws and great teeth, and they can bring a cow down with one bite.’

macShiel chuckled. ‘Nothing like that exists in this world, man.’

Solomon bristled. ‘I have seen them with my own eyes.’

‘Of course you have. Now then, are you sure that brake is on?’

A lever, a massive friction brake, was lashed to the side of the wheel, and Solomon shook it. ‘It is on.’

‘Good – being up here when this moves is a sure way to lose a leg.’ He finished the rigging and pulled the sail up. The wind caught it as it rose and it snapped out tight. The mechanism creaked. ‘Do you feel that? Do you feel it?’

‘I feel it.’

macShiel jumped free and brought up his knife. ‘Now we’ll see. Hold the brake.’

Solomon reached up and held the brake against the wheel. macShiel cut the rope tying it on. ‘Let her go.’

At first nothing happened – for long enough to draw jeers and hoots from the crowd on the hill. They had not been invited and the event was unannounced, but the townspeople knew that the device was nearing completion.

Then the lull in the wind was over, and a gust caught the sails. The wheel started to turn, slowly at first, and gradually picked up speed. Soon it was flying round, sweeping the air with a deep swoosh every time a sail shot by.

It silenced the people of An Rinn, but had the opposite effect on macShiel, who turned to them and whooped and called and danced and lifted his kilt at them, shouting his defiance and triumph. They came closer, grudgingly. One of them was Rose naMoira.

‘That’s all very well, Rory macShiel, but what’s it for?’

Solomon pushed the brake against the wheel, and it slowed to a stop. macShiel tied the device off and looked to the Kenyan for help.

This was Solomon’s moment. If he failed to convince them of his greatness now, he would leave them to their ignorance and find somewhere else, more worthy of his talent. He unwrapped a heavy stone from its cloth cover. ‘Do you recognize this, Rose?’

‘Is that not my quern? Solomon, have you taken my quern?’

‘Yes, Rose. This is your quern.’ He hefted it and carried it to the axle. The end of it had been shaped to fit the square hole in the top stone. He had a small pile of sea-worn boulders to raise the bottom stone into place directly under it. He let the top stone drop slightly, and it fell into place.

‘What’s he doing with my quern? How am I supposed to make flour if he’s taken my quern? And is that my barley, Solomon?’

‘It is your barley too. Free the wheel, Rory.’

macShiel slipped the knot, and the wheel started to turn again. Except this time it turned the top stone of Rose naMoira’s quern against the bottom stone with a rhythmic rasp.

Solomon poured a handful of grain into the hole at the centre of the top stone. The stone turned, and fine dust started to cloud out of the rim before blowing away in the wind.

There was a collective inrushing of breath, even from macShiel, who should have guessed long ago the purpose of the wheel. Solomon realized he had many more surprises in store for him.

Rose went to look at her quern stone, which up to that point had only ever been turned by hand. She took the pouch of grain from Solomon and copied what he’d done. More flour dribbled out.

‘It could do this all day, couldn’t it?’ she said.

‘All night too, if you needed it.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘If this was a spindle, I could spin thread on it.’

‘If it was an auger, I could drill holes with it,’ said macShiel.