It is the dawn of recorded history, and throughout the world great changes are afoot. But along the banks of a great river, utterly oblivious to "world events", living moment-to-moment and aware only of the information brought in by his senses, a young hunter spots the spoor of a great lion, and - heart quickening - follows the trail as it leads beyond the river valley and into the Western Desert.
Two suns pass, ten, hundreds and more, and all evidence of their passage has disappeared from that spot. The unchanging cycle continues at that place, until one day something unusual occurs. At the edge of that river - the eternal Nile - two buzzards tear at the desiccated flesh of some unlucky animal. But their feast, such as it is, ends suddenly as they sense danger and ponderously launch into the air, seeking refuge in the sky. And at that moment, down from the hills, around a bend in the trail, strides forth a man of grim visage. Is he old? Young? It's impossible to say. And to the buzzards circling overhead, only this much is certain: The man walks with purpose, his eyes are fixed on the horizon to the north, and he wears a cloak of lion-skin.