The tide is out today. The sea has retreated leaving a long strip of grey beach. The tides are extreme here. In a few hours the waves will be beating against the cliffs from below, the rain more gently from above.

Out along the strand I see a much paler object, so pale it is almost white. A rock perhaps. But it is different to any I have seen on the island before.

I begin the climb down to the beach.

A few minutes later and I am closer, my eyes fixed on the object.

I slow down, stop walking. I know what it is now. Now I can hear only the wind. The wind and the waves. Everything has slowed down.

Stopped. I breathe in, which seems to take minutes. I pick up a rock and I am moving again. I run towards the mound. Stop again. Run. I veer off towards some boulders and crouch behind them, my eyes still fixed on it. My breathing is quicker now. It comes in rasps like it does when I have been chopping wood. It does not move.

I watch for minutes. The rain falls in swathes along the beach. I feel it run into my eyes and down the back of my neck. The rain is heavy and sometimes he disappears behind curtains of water. I have to wipe the rain from my eyes to see him properly.

It is the first person I have seen for a decade. He is large, bulging with fat. Not a working man. His face is turned away from me. He is lying on his stomach, feet turned in towards each other, his palms upwards. He has no hair. A white whale, and possibly a dead white whale.

The coat must belong to him.

In the last ten years I have seen only shadows. This is different, so solid, so unlike a mirage. I blink, holding my eyes closed for seconds.

Each time I open them he is still there.

I walk out slowly from behind the rocks. I open my mouth to speak.

No words come. It is as if I have forgotten how. I try again. This time it is a breath, just louder than the wind. I swallow and try once more.

Finally the word comes out. ‘Hello.’ It is a whisper, a croak. Again. The word is no more than a grunt. It still does not sound like the word I know it is. He does not move. I am now three metres away from him.

I walk in a circle around him, keeping the same distance, my hand still clutching the rock. A dog with its prey. I can see only part of his face.

He is clean-shaven with heavy jowls and a double-chin. His eyes are closed. From his face I know he is not dead.

I crouch down on my haunches and watch his face closely. He is breathing. His bulk rises every few seconds and his lips part when he exhales. He seems peaceful. A man dozing on a beach.

His fat fingers rest on the sand. White worms in black mud. He is covered in drops of water, the rain or the sea. They glisten in the last of the light.

I raise myself, walk up to him and prod him in the ribs with my foot. He does not move. I lean down and shake him roughly by the shoulder. He is as cold as stone. His eyelids open. The eyes are red, the irises dark, almost black. For a few seconds he does not move. Suddenly he takes fright, tries to shuffle away from me, using his arms to shift his bulk. He cannot lift himself. His breathing quickens. I hold up my hands to show I mean no harm and take a step back. I do not speak.

Instead I crouch down again so I don’t tower over him. This seems to relax him slightly and his breathing becomes more regular. We look at each other. I can still only see half his face.

After a few moments I say again, ‘Hello.’ I can recognise the word now but my tongue feels thick in my mouth. He does not respond. I introduce myself. I do not know what name to give myself, my military title or just my birth-name. I decide on both. ‘I am Bran. Marshal. I live here.’

I realise I am speaking in short bursts. I have to get used to talking.

His eyes give nothing away. I am not sure he has even heard me. I try again. ‘Where are you from? Axum.’ It is more a statement than a question.

Still nothing. ‘You are safe. Talk.’

The man closes his eyes. He may be in shock. I have no idea what he might have endured. I place my coat over him to keep him warm.

As I lean closer I catch his scent. He smells of the sea. Not the pleasant smell.

We do not have much time. The tide is out but there are just a couple of hours before it comes in and if we are caught here we would both drown. And the light is fading. I can let him sleep for just a short while before we need to start walking back the way I have come.

There is accessible higher ground half a mile away. I know I will in all likelihood have to half carry him as he looks weak. I set off for the higher ground taking my bag with me so I will have nothing else to carry when I return.

When I do it is dark. I find him in the same position. I wake him again. ‘You will drown here.’ Though he does not reply he seems to understand and tries to lift himself. I place my hand under his arms and haul him up. He stumbles against me, his legs without strength.

He makes me think of a white grub, one whose only purpose in life is feeding. I ignore my distaste and place his arm across my shoulders and my arm under his. Like this we walk slowly along the beach. At one point I smile to myself at the picture we make. To a creature flying above us, or staring down from the grass ridge, or pressed back into the black mud of the cliffs, we would make an odd couple indeed. One tall and stringy, weathered brown, half carrying the other, a stumbling and bloated man, in the dark, pale as the rain.

It is raining hard now. There is some light from the moon behind the clouds but it is faint.

I resign myself to a night of cold and wet. With no fire, no hot food, it is simply a case of waiting out the rain, waiting for dawn.

I shuffle up the last section of the cliff and walk a hundred metres inland to a grassy area with the man still hanging on to me. I let him down. He now seems asleep or unconscious. My grip slips on his wet skin. He falls into a puddle and lands with his face in the water, mud splashing onto his cheek. An eye and part of his mouth are under water.

He splutters, tries to move but can’t shift his bulk. I watch him gag. I am breathing heavily from the strain. He lets out a gurgled cry. Not a mute then. I take his arm and turn him over. ‘I will build shelter,’ I say to him. ‘I have food. We will sleep.’ He looks blankly at me.

I spend the night shivering, clasping my arms around me, and sleep little. The man sits across from me leaning against a rock. He seems not to mind the cold and sits watching me, expressionless. When I wake, after drifting off for what seems like just a few minutes, he is still staring at me, his black eyes unblinking. It is dark but I am close enough to see his eyes. I can smell him too. It is not something I am used to, another human’s smell. The smell of wet grass, mud, rotting birds, pine from the forest, the sometimes dank smell of the peat smoke: these I am used to, these have become mine, my smell, a smell of an island man. But his, an odour of the decaying ocean, wet skin, almost sweet but distastefully so, his is alien.

As it grows lighter and his face comes into focus, I have a feeling I recognise him. I search my memory. I cannot place him.

‘Hello,’ I try again. My voice is coming back. ‘I am Bran. I live on this island. What is your name?’ He is still looking at me but says nothing.

‘Who are you? How did you come here?’ I feel myself growing annoyed at the silence.

‘What are you? Axumite?’ I ask again. ‘What were you there?’ I sigh when he still does not respond and look away through the opening of the tent.

‘You have had a hard time. I understand. You do not have to talk to me now.’ I am annoyed but I have a duty to this man. He is on my island. He is my responsibility. ‘There is a cave on the other side of the island. It is where I live. It is warm. I can make a fire and cook. We must go now. It will take hours to get there.’ I know this will be a difficult trip back. I now have all my gear to carry and can see that he is no stronger than yesterday so I will be supporting him as well.