Chapter 1

Those who paid any attention at all to the man limping down the dirt cart path would likely have branded him a derelict, given the shabby state of his clothes and his dirty, unshaven face. He didn't walk as much as he shambled, hunched over, like he had just taken a solid punch to the abdomen and was still looking for a place to fall. Yet, every few minutes he managed to stop, pulling himself out of his crouch, slowly and painfully standing upright. He would spend a few moments standing completely still, checking his surroundings, as if trying to gauge where he was and how far he had left to travel; then he would resume his stooped and stumbling gait, his hands held palms-down in front of him, seemingly on guard for the next time he might fall forward onto the ground.

An observant passerby with a moment or two to spend might have noted other things about the man. His clothes, for instance, spoke of having seen better times; the tweed of his suit coat and pants echoed the look of a professor at Oxford, perhaps on his way to his club for a spot of tea. However, the cloth was ripped jaggedly in some spots, and streaks of dirt and blackish soot covered the fabric both front and back.

To look him in the face was to see a man who once took great pride in his full, yet neatly trimmed mustache; now, his mustache bristled, uneven and ragged, while the rest of his face had not seen a razor for perhaps a month. To look more closely was to see a man who once enjoyed good food and drink, perhaps to excess. Yet now, though the red lines edge across his nose still spoke of his fondness for drink, what once had been ruddy and full cheeks were now sunken and hollow, and the skin below his eyes hung loosely and dark, as if always in shadow.

But there were no observers, or perhaps more precisely, none who cared to observe the man shambling across the ground toward the small country village. Those who had come upon him as he made his painful walk took note of him, but only so that they could take the widest path around him. In these northern reaches of England, far removed from the bustle of London or even the activity of Manchester, the unspoken motto of the natives remained "Aid your neighbor; distrust all others on sight." And so the man traveled, alone and on foot, with only his own memory to aid him in finding his destination.

A distance that would have taken an able man only minutes to traverse took this stranger nearly an hour. After slogging through the last mile, he finally stood upright to view a small cluster of homes arrayed at various distances around the center of commerce in this rural community - a shop selling dry goods, a smithy, a school, and a church. Having only read about the town, he stood for a moment comparing what he remembered to what he could see, orienting himself to the various landmarks that caught his eye. Then he began moving again, this time with a bit more urgency, as if more sure of where he was going and eager to be getting there.

Instead of keeping to the main path, which would have lead him through the center of the town, he made his way behind the shop and the footpath which would take him toward some of the better built of the community's homes. Though rural, this was still England, and status in the community was reflected in the state of house in which one lived. Once he was away from the store a bit, he again stood to get his bearings, and his eyes locked on the second house he would come to on the path.

He knew from the moment he saw it that he had finally found his destination. It had been described to him as a bit of vibrant life in the midst of an ordinary English village, and he could see that the description exactly fit. Where the house he stood beside seemed dark and uninviting, the second one on the path fairly took one by the hand to encourage visitors to come in. A brightly-painted white fence ran the length of the path in front of the house, its gate open to welcome anyone stopping by. From there, a neatly kept dirt walkway was lined with bright flowers which didn't end when they reached the front of the house, but instead branched to each side, surrounding it with color. The house itself was different as well; where most homes around it were either gray or brown, this house was an earthy red, making it look as if it had been built of brick, even though it was obviously made of wood. The effect was astonishing; without knowing he was taking the steps, the man was pulled toward the house, basking in its sense of life and vibrant welcome. He placed his hand on the gate, leaning just a bit; as it held his weight, yielding only slightly, the man's shoulders began to tremble, and he bowed his head, his lips moving as if in prayer. When he looked up, his eyes were shiny, and the tracks of tears cut through the grime layered onto his face by weeks of walking without stopping.