There's a village an hour from London. It's no different from many others today. This village belongs to the people who live in it, to the land and to the land's past. It also belongs to Dead Papa Toothwort, a fabled figure children used to draw green and leafy, choked by tendrils growing out of his mouth. Dead Papa Toothwort now awakens after a glorious nap. He listens to this twenty-first-century village, to its symphony of talk, for he is listening, intently, for a mischievous, enchanting boy whose parents have recently made the village their home.