I get to my feet and begin to gather up the canvas. He does not move and I drag it over him as if he wasn’t there. I put the bag on my shoulders, walk behind him and, without a word, lift him up from his armpits. He is a dead weight and when he gets to his feet he totters unsteadily. I hold him by the arm. ‘Can you walk?’ At that he tries to walk, takes a few steps but his legs shake and I take him by the arm again.

Like this we make our way slowly back to the cave, stopping every few minutes to rest. I am tired too, having barely eaten for two days. By the time we make it back it is early afternoon. I have to forego collecting fuel. There is a small store of it but it won’t last long.

In the cave I look again at him. I search my memories. Something there I cannot find.

I build up the fire, place him on my bed, take my fishing gear and head off down the path, closing the door behind me.

My mind wanders as I fish. I almost miss a tug on the line. I find my self making up stories that could explain this man’s presence. An ambassador from Axum sent to re-establish contact with Bran. A refugee. A man from an undiscovered part of the world, a place lost for centuries, untouched by our wars, our famines, our destructive climates. A place of dragons and legendary kings. He has walked up from the bottom of the ocean, half man, half fish. Buried in the mud of the cliffs for ages, released now by the waves, he has been brought back to life by the warm rains. My imagination knows no bounds. A killer.

A man from who knows where driven by vengeance and greed and lust for death. A silent man, plotting even now to take over my island. Or, like me, an exile, a visionary, a leader of men fallen foul of changing sentiment, banished to take his chance on the high seas. More sinned against than sinning. I allow my mind to wander too much.

Considering his size, the coat, the softness of his flesh, he is most likely a senior figure in Axum.

Perhaps still a criminal though. But then I too, in law, am one.

I think about him in the cave and wonder what he is doing. My back is to the cliff. I begin to feel his eyes staring at me from the ridge.

I look around quickly. There is nothing to be seen.

And then I know.

And then I know who he is. It comes to me. It has been over twenty years since I last saw him and he has changed so much and I hadn’t got a clear look at him until this morning. That is why it has taken me so long. I jump up, turn as if to run to him but sit down again. There is no reason to let him realise I know who he is just yet. I need to see if I can discover his intentions, to see if I can make him talk.

His name is Andalus. He was ruler of Axum. A senior leader indeed.

He is the man with whom I concluded peace for our territories, the man with whom I formulated the Programme, though it was mostly my idea. I am surprised he is here. Very surprised. It is potentially a bad omen. I will have to find out his story and to do that I will have to keep my knowledge of his identity secret and hope he doesn’t recognise me.

I hook a second fish. They are both small but enough for one night.

At the cave I cook them with some roots I place near the fire. The outside of the root becomes charred but the inside remains soft. I don’t know what it is but it tastes like sweet potato. When I give him the food he eats hungrily, quickly. It is the quickest I have seen him move since I found him. I am surprised he does not burn his mouth. He finishes long before I do and I give him some of mine. While he eats I watch him and the memories come back. Beneath the bulk, somewhere within this fat grub of a man is my enemy, my enemy who became a friend, of sorts. Under a changed skin is a link to what I am, to what I was.

We eat all the food and by the time we finish it is dark again and we settle in for our second night.

He is still sleeping when I leave the cave the next morning. He lies on his side, curled up like a baby. I am concerned that my routine has been put out. If I am to feed him I will have to collect more fuel and harvest or catch more food. I will have to work more quickly. I take my clothes with me when I go swimming and head straight to the peat beds from there.

When Tora came to me on that Wednesday evening after the death of her mother, I knew then that we would last. And we did; until near the end. As I held her – she did not then hold me back – I had to take a couple of sharp breaths to avoid making a sound. I don’t know if she felt these. I knew because if a relationship can survive that it can survive almost anything. I did not think of asking her to join me in exile. I suspect Abel would have vetoed it but it was not a question I would have asked. For all I knew when I left the settlement I would be dead in a matter of days. No, I did not want Tora with me. I do wonder what she would have said but, truth is, she most likely would have said no. She had moved on, though I suspect she still harboured feelings for me. I have no regrets. If she had been here the supplies would have to be divided in two, making our time together shorter. And if we had had a child it would be shorter still. There comes a point at which, if I had been a patriarch with a content wife and several children, the birth of a further child would cut our time down to hours. Perhaps even, though this is mathematically impossible, a birth would cause time to regress, to go backwards and we would already be dead. We would never have existed.

This man I have found, he will cut down my time here but at least it will end there. At least he is only one variable.

Back in the cave I find he has not moved.

I address him: ‘Are you ready to tell me why you are here?’ His eyes are open but he is unblinking. He has shown no signs of recognising me. ‘I will need help collecting food and fuel.’ He does not reply. I am beginning to grow impatient but I will give him some more time. He is a guest after all. And an acquaintance. Through the war and beyond we Brans maintained a spirit of generosity, though in the time of the Programme it had little chance to show itself.

In spite of having little food we always catered for refugees who continued to trickle in during and after the war. We absorbed the healthy ones into our society where we could, absorbed them into the rationing system. The populace weren’t allowed food in their homes since communal cooking cut down on waste. So we would stand in a queue with these refugees, these people who had given nothing to us, and they would be fed the same as everyone else, the same as the healthy at least.

I decide to head back to the beach to fish instead of collecting grass seeds and roots. Fish will help Andalus get his strength back more quickly.

The seeds I mash and boil into a gruel of sorts. It is less appetising than fish but if I am to eke out every moment of the island’s life I need a balanced diet. I look after myself in this way. I fear there will not be enough time to collect seeds if I have to catch twice as many fish. If I fall behind and cannot collect enough food I will lose strength and grow weaker faster and I might never be able to get out of the spiral.

The balance would be thrown out.

I have been able to smoke fish but in the damp it is difficult to store food and the worms and insects seem able to find whatever I leave out.

I have tried eating these worms too but they are vile and I would rather eat the food that attracts them.

I could keep a fire going in the cave. Eventually the moisture on the walls would go and it would be dry but to do that I would exhaust my fuel supplies very quickly.

I catch four small fish this time. They are like the ones I used to enjoy as a young man but have a sharper nose and a slightly gamier taste. I call them Species Three as they are the third variety I caught. The task of naming I leave to others. I check my crab nets, which are located nearby.