The child pulled Father Banyard up the muddy trail, shouting at him. Banyard pulled away, reluctant to get his boots muddy, reluctant to let a local child drag him around and make a less-than-dignified impression on the villagers. The child was yelling in a pidgin mixture of Swahili, Portuguese and English, but even the words Banyard thought he knew sounded exotic and strange.

And musical. Banyard liked music as much as anyone. In church or a sitting room, but not in conversation. A time and a place for everything, that’s what Banyard had taken from Ecclesiastes and he thought it served him well.

He clutched his walking stick more tightly and struggled not to fall down in the soupy red clay. Where was this infernal nigger-child dragging him?