There was a forlorn pride about the building, as it strove to retain dignity amidst the rampant neglect that surrounded it.

The mullioned windows stared at her blindly through a cataract of grime and cobwebs

In the once ordered garden, nature had reclaimed her own, embracing freedom in an orgy of growth, In one part, tangled bramble had almost eclipsed the lawn in its haste to conquer new territory. Shrubbery and wildflower jostled with each other in a constant fight for new space

The Horse Chestnut tree now dominated the bottom corner by the gate. Its heavy drooping leaves sheltered an entourage of nettles that had grown up around its base. Even the stone path had succumbed, its surface slick with mossy growth.

Sara pushed open the sagging gate. It stuck halfway, jamming on the moss covered stone. She squeezed through the gap, her back scraping on the For Sale sign nailed to the gatepost.

Carefully she made her way to the house, edging passed the prickly brambles.

Cracked black paint curled away from the surface of the stout wooden door. The brass knocker was tarnished and worn. Moss had even invaded the deeply etched 1653 in the stone lintel above it. Her eye caught a flash of yellow beside the doorframe and the aroma of honeysuckle invaded her nose.

She reached out and felt the rough strength of the warm stone beneath her hand.

An onrush of images and sensations flooded her brain. She felt as if she were suspended between two worlds, her feet in the here and now, her mind captured by the past. She had come home, to the house that her father had built.

Toby couldn't sleep. Before even a hint of dawn invaded the sky, he slipped out of bed and crept down to the kitchen.

Patience was sleeping on the old settle by the dying fire. An empty flagon of ale dangled from the plump hand that hung over the arm of the settle. Tendrils of lank, grey hair had escaped from her white mobcap and hung around her plump face. Each sonorous breath ended in a ragged snore, which formed little bubbles of saliva around her pursed lips.

Toby sneaked silently passed the sleeping woman. Normally she was a cheery soul, but awakening her abruptly from a drunken snooze could bring out a quick burst of temper.

He lifted the metal door latch as quietly as he could and went out into the garden.

Outside the air was warm and still. The twitter of birds heralded an almost imperceptible lightening of the sky. Barefoot, he ran down the cobbled path, passing a small enclosure, which housed a pitiful assembly of small headstones, down into the thick canopy of trees that led to the river.

Leaning against an ancient oak, he peered into the gloom.

"Master Toby. Is that you?"

The voice startled him, then a large dark shape moved into his line of vision.

"What in God's name are you doing out here at this time of day? And in your night-shirt, what would your mother say?"

"They are all sleeping, but I was too excited. I came out to find you."

"Your father wouldn't be too happy about that, I dare say?"

Toby's father had forbidden him to associate with the old poacher, fearing some harm may befall him. Although he was reluctant to disobey his father, a deep bond had formed between he and Jem. It sometimes seemed that Jem was the only person who had time for him.

His father, a master cabinetmaker, was always busy supervising the apprentices in the workshop.

Old Patience would sometimes hug him to her ample breast and tell him he was a 'bonny lad', but mostly she was occupied with the cooking and supervising the girls who came in from the village.

His mother's frequent bouts of illness kept her confined to her bed and he was told not to trouble her during these times. Secretly he thought that his mother's infirmity was connected to the small headstones in the enclosure. He had even suggested as much to Jem. The poacher had been noncommittal.

"Aye, happen so," was as far as he had ventured.

"So the day's the day when you be apprenticed to your father is it?"

"Yes!" Toby could barely contain his excitement. "Now I will learn to be a master craftsman like him. But today I am to accompany him to Liverpool. There is a particularly fine piece, bound for a squire in Ireland and father wants to supervise the loading himself. He says it will take most of the day for us to get there. Have you ever been to Liverpool Jem? Is it really so far?"

The old poacher shook his massive head.

"Nay young Toby, I never left these parts." He chuckled and held up a brace of pheasants he was carrying. "There be enough to keep me busy hereabouts."

"Then I will tell you all about it when I get back," said Toby.

"You might not even be going if you don't get back to the house afore there're stirring."

Toby threw his arms around the man's waist and hugged him briefly, before turning and retracing his steps back to the house. It was none too soon; he could hear his father stirring as soon as he entered his bedchamber.

It was mid afternoon before they reached the bustling port. Toby's eyes and ears were bombarded by an assortment of strange new sights and smells. As his father drove the cart slowly along the quay, Toby craned his neck, trying to take in everything at once.

The air was a heavy mixture of old and new. Mixed with the sweet smell of herbs and spices, was the underlying smell of the sea, mingled with the stench of raw sewerage. Tall masted ships bobbed lazily upon the waves, filling the air with the sound of creaking timber. Everywhere there was activity, as men loaded and unloaded the majestic vessels.

At last his father found the boat he was seeking and reined the horse.

"I have to find the bo'sun," he said, as he climbed from the cart. "You can look around, but don't stray too far."

Toby scrambled to the ground, eager to explore. The bustle of the port was a stark contrast to the sleepy village where he had spent his life. His eyes travelled along the length of the nearest ship, its furled sails ruffling in the breeze. As he began to take in the next vessel, he noticed a group of people on the quayside and his eyes widened in surprise.

Never in all of his ten years had he seen people like these.

There were perhaps seven men, three women and a couple of children. Chains tethered the group together. All were chained by the wrist, but the men also had leg irons. They stood silent, huddled together as if in fear.

What made his jaw drop was the colour of their skin, it was completely black.

"Bit of a surprise when you first see em, ain't it?" Said a voice at his side. The sailor grinned down at him, revealing a set of rotting teeth.

"Who are they?" whispered Toby, "And why are they black?"

"Slaves, bound for the New World. And there're black cos that's the way the good lord made em."

The group was being herded off. Reluctant to lose sight of these exotic creatures, Toby followed at a trot He was so intent in his pursuit that he didn't notice the coiled rope that had been abandoned on the dock. His foot caught in one of the coils and he fell headlong onto the remainder. He stretched out his arm to try to save himself and almost dislodged a stack of barrels. The barrels tottered precariously as he lay winded on the rope.

It took a few seconds of panicky effort before he could finally breathe again.

He rolled onto his side and froze in fear. Two eyes stared at him from between the barrels. Before he had time to scramble to his feet, the rat leapt from its hiding place, scampered over him and ran off down the dock.

Recovering from the shock of the encounter, he stood and brushed down his clothes. Suddenly he remembered the reason for his fall. He scanned the dock, but his quarry had long since disappeared from view.

They spent the night at a hostelry and set off for home at daybreak. Toby felt none of the previous day's excitement. He had slept badly and now his head felt as if it were stuffed with wool. His body felt hot and it hurt to breathe.

"You'll feel better by the time we get home," prophesised his father. But by noon, his condition had worsened so much that his father stopped and made up a bed for him in the cart.

The rest of the journey passed in a blur, as he hovered between nightmare and reality.

There were brief moments of lucidity, when his father lifted him from the cart and carried him to his bedchamber.

Patience hovered into view, her normally red face pale with shock.

"Oh Lord save us! He has the Plague!" she wailed, before Toby sank back into a stupor.

He was adrift in a nightmare of distorted visions. Images bombarded his fevered brain. A kitten, ballooning suddenly into a fearsome tiger, which clawed at his skin with razor sharp claws. Spectral horses with thudding hooves, making his heart stutter with terror. He felt as if he were drowning, suffocating, as he fought for each laboured breath.

The dreams merged, coalesced, sometimes transforming briefly into the worried face of his father. Then the storm abated and there was only merciful darkness.

Thirst pulled him awake. His mouth felt as if it had been baked in a kiln. He tried to call out, but a strangled whisper was all he could manage.

Exhaustion threatened to drag him back into sleep, but his need for water was stronger.

When he attempted to climb from the bed, his weakened limbs folded beneath him. He lay gasping on the hard floor. The door to the room was slightly ajar, if he could only reach it someone would come.

He pulled himself towards the door. The rough wooden floor scraped his bare knee. At the door he rested briefly, before crawling out onto the landing. He tried to call out again, but his parched throat was incapable of sound.

Ahead loomed the staircase. He pulled himself towards it and gazed down into the silent hallway. A wave of nausea washed over him as he clung to the newel post.

His body screamed for him to surrender, to just lie down and sleep, but some inner force drove him on.

Slowly he descended the stairs, sliding his bottom over one step at a time. The effort made him perspire. His hands clinging to the banister rails were slick with sweat.

Only when his bare feet touched the cold stone floor of the hallway, did he allow himself to rest.

Sprawled at the foot of the stairs, he had a clear view of the hallway and into the kitchen beyond.

Everything was still and silent, but this anomaly barely registered. His mind totally absorbed with his terrible thirst, he made the torturous journey into the kitchen.

The black metal cauldron hung motionless over the empty grate. The thought of the liquid it might contain gave him new strength. Eagerly he scrambled towards it, around the empty settle and up onto the hearthstones. Grasping the bars of the fire grate, he pulled himself upwards and panting with effort, finally manage to sit on the grate itself.

He peered into the pot. Perhaps, half a cup of sluggish liquid lay in the bottom. He plunged his arm into the pot. Bringing his hand back to his mouth to suck hungrily at his wet fingers.

Maddened by the tantalising moisture, he lowered his head into the cauldron and lapped up the remaining moisture with his tongue. When it was gone, he pulled himself back to sitting position.

Instead of abating his thirst, the paltry amount only served to make it more urgent.

His eyes swung to the door.

Outside was the pump and water aplenty. With renewed vigour he lurched across the floor, flinging himself at the metal latch that held the door closed. At the first few attempts the sneck slipped through his clumsy fingers, then it suddenly slipped free.

The opening door threw him backwards, almost spilling him onto the floor. Grimly he clung on, until his balance was restored.

For a moment he failed to understand what he was seeing. Large rough boards had been nailed criss-cross to the doorframe, effectively barring entry to the house. Through a large v -shaped opening, he could see the pump and the water contained in its trough.

Sobbing with frustration, he launched himself at the opening, forcing his body through the gap. The rough boards tore at his flesh and soon his night-shirt was soaked with blood.

Then suddenly, he was through and crawling towards the pump.

He laid his head onto the surface of the water and drew in great mouthfuls. It ran like honey over his parched tongue and throat. He drank until his limbs gave way and he fell back onto the grass.

For a few moments he sat motionless, until his stomach, rebelling at the amount of unaccustomed liquid, spewed it back in a violent stream.

Vomiting took the last of his strength. He tumbled forward, face down in the dew soaked grass.

When he awoke for the second time, he was lying on a straw pallet. Mercifully, his mouth was moist and though he still wanted water, the previous urgency was gone.

A shadow loomed over him and he felt a hand stroke his hair. When a wet cloth touched his lips, he sucked at it gratefully.

"It's alright Toby lad," whispered a voice near his ear. "Jem's got you now."

The bell of the ancient church struck the hour, jolting Sara out of her reverie. She couldn't believe that she had actually found it at last. All the years of searching, then in the end she had discovered it by a fluke.

The bank had sent her up to the north of England, to upgrade the computer system in one of the branches. She had finished the work by Friday morning and wasn't relishing the tedious drive back to the capital.

The weather was warm and sunny, so she had decided to explore a little of the surrounding countryside, stay another night and drive back early Saturday.

She had happened upon the village around lunchtime and stooped for a bite to eat. It was a quaint little place, with thatched cottages and a church that dated back to Norman times.

On her way out of the place she had spotted the house and her heart did a sort of flip-flop.

Not daring to believe it was true, she had parked the car and retraced her steps.

She stood for a while outside the gate drinking in the house and thinking about the other time.

Sara had always been aware of the other time. It was something she accepted as naturally as breathing.

As she grew older she had realised that her parents were upset and frightened by it, so she had stopped talking about it to them. But the memories didn't diminish; if anything they grew stronger. She recalled every thing in great detail.

."Who lives here?" she asked of an old lady who was passing.

"Nobody now love," came the reply. "Bill Carter lived here up till last year when the took him off to a nursing home. He died last month, poor soul and his son put the place on the market. Shame it's been let go so much, it's a bonny place when it's looked after."

Knowing what she had to do, she left the front of the house and made her way around the side. As with the front, the vegetation had taken control of the back garden. The cobbled path was almost obliterated by greenery. She followed it as best she could until she came to the small enclosure.

The small headstones were concealed amid the tangle of course grass. Of the larger one in the centre, only the top was visible. She made her way towards it and began to clear away the accumulated growth. The pitted stone still bore the clumsily etched inscription, though the words were almost worn away with age

' JOSHUA WRIGHT AND HIS WIFE MARTHA, WITH GOD 1664.

Sara pulled more grass, working until the body of the grave was uncovered. When she was satisfied with her work, she retraced her steps to a patch of wild orchids, that she had notice before. She gathered a large bunch and returned to the grave.

"These are from Toby, "she whispered, as she finally laid flowers on the grave of her parents.