The time had come once again for Arven to uproot and set sail; not that he’d ever been a man of roots or tarry. He’d had Africa in his heart anyway as his next destination, so neighbourhood talk of an expedition to the shores of the Niger River had caused his brow to a lift a little higher than it might normally. Intentions of evangelist preaching had then repelled his dormant Jewish self completely, until his brother-in-law (deceased) had aptly persuaded him that he did not have to partake in those particular goings on. He could go for the adventure, aid and culture alone.

And so the towering wayfarer found himself once more on the deck of a ship, watching the shores of his homeland retreat, the tails of his longcoat whipping around his legs. He had a smile for the nearest stranger, a young girl whiter than the clouds. ”Train your eyes on the horizon”, he advised, pointing out at the hazy cliffs. ”It will make you feel stiller than naught.”