He sat up. Glimmer of sand. Late stars. A breeze in which he seemed to smell the salty fish-head muck the world was made of, half Billingsgate, half sex. Out in the channel was a small light. It was hard to say at first which way it was headed or if it was headed anywhere, if, perhaps, it was merely floating out there. But after watching a minute, unblinking, the light grew brighter, the song clearer, and there could be no more doubt.

Whatever was coming it would touch the beach no more than thirty yards from where he sat. He undid his coat. The carbine, faithful dog, fell under his touch, but as his fingers slid towards the lock, the hammer, he realised he had not loaded it again, not since. And this was remiss and strange, some foolish symptom of the previous day’s confusion. Anyway, the look of it was usually enough. The look of himself. Usually.

The singing stopped. You might imagine the world’s turning stopped with it. Then the light was raised and Calley saw the form and figure of a man, though one so encumbered with what he carried—a great shadow on his back—he was more a type of beetle than a man. A beetle that crossed water without the need of a boat.

He let go of the carbine and buttoned his coat again. Anyone who could cross a torrent in his boots, singing, was not to be frightened off with a gun. He walked down to the shore and stood there waiting as the light came closer. Another stop, another raising of the lantern. They were only ten yards apart now.

“Good morning to you, brother,” said the voice in what might have almost been a continuation of the song. “You are a man and not a spirit, I suppose?”

“Flesh and blood,” said Calley. “Though I do not yet know what you are.”

“One who would come ashore if you have no objection.”

“I have none,” said Calley.

“The crossing time is short,” said the man, walking again, walking where, when Calley lay down to sleep, the sea had been.

A minute later and they stood together on the beach. The beetle was plain enough now, a man about Calley’s own build, and on his back a frame to which a vast number of objects were attached. He had a stick in one hand, the lantern in the other.

“You’re a pedlar,” said Calley.

“The pedlar,” said the man, “or so I like to think of myself though there are one or two others who walk the islands. May I raise my lamp, brother, and see you more clearly?”

He raised it, looked, nodded, lowered it again. “I did not know we had soldiers here,” he said.

“Are you alone?” asked Calley.

“I am,” said the man, “for the moment. And you, brother?”

“Yes,” said Calley.