Frowning, the magician looked up from his plate, which was now empty. Frans forgot about his salad and waited eagerly to hear what she would say next.
Miss Rosemary folded the napkin in four and slowly recited:
Try, my Child, and my Child’s Child’s Children
To unravel this tangled Rhyme.
One alone will never find me,
Together you must beat the Time.
Scale the heights, head down below,
The steps will show you where to go.
In this house with many a stair,
Follow the steps to lead you there.
The magician raised one lecturing finger. “A tangled rhyme indeed…” he said. “And what were those words? One alone will never find me… Do you see now why Gradus Grisenstein had to give his nephew the parchment?”
“He knows he can’t find the treasure on his own,” said Miss Rosemary. “We mustn’t forget the prophecy on the lintel either,” the magician added. “The treasure will be found by a child.”
“I understand it now,” said Frans. “But what’s all that about steps to show you where to go?”
“It’s a clue to where the child must seek the treasure, of course,” replied the magician. “It’s clearly connected to steps and stairs or even ladders maybe, anything that would allow a person to scale the heights and head down below. Any of the steps in that house might show the seeker where to go…”
“A most illuminating clue,” said Frans, “when the treasure’s hidden in a house with a hundred staircases. No wonder no one’s ever found it!”
“There’s more in the parchment,” said Miss Rosemary, folding out the points of her napkin. And she said:
These Words are the Sign:
All the Children must be your Friends,
If you are to beat the Foe.
“And so we’ve solved the next puzzle,” said the magician. “Why does Count Gradus Grisenstein claim that his nephew is in poor health, so that he has to keep him indoors? Because then the boy doesn’t have to go to school! If he were to meet other children, they’d become his friends. And the count is scared of that happening.”
“Because he’s the Foe,” said Miss Rosemary.
“The Fiendish Foe that the other prophecy also warns about,” said the magician in a hushed voice. “Yes, Count Gradus Grisenstein is the Dragon that must be beaten…”
Miss Rosemary recited:
These Words are the Sign:
The Stranger who will defeat the Dragon
Must travel over Sevenways.
“And here we come to the heart of the matter!” said the magician. He picked up the napkin, which Miss Rosemary had now put down, and waved it around. “The Stranger who will defeat the Dragon… the Dragon is the Fiendish Foe, and only an outsider can eliminate him. You, Mr Van der Steg, are a Stranger! You have not been living here long, and the day before yesterday you had never heard of the House of Stairs. You are the one who will beat and defeat Count Grisenstein…” He flapped the napkin at Frans, making him blink. “That’s why Jan Tooreloor drove the coach – with you in it – via Sevenways to the House of Stairs,” he continued. “I mean, if you hadn’t got out, you’d have travelled over Sevenways to Count Grisenstein, just as it says in the prophecy.” Mr Thomtidom raised his hands; they were empty. “The napkin,” he said, “is under your plate.”
But Frans wasn’t impressed by this conjuring trick. “As it says in the prophecy?” he repeated. “So I need to go to the House of Stairs because, according to you, it’s been predicted?”
“Precisely. Because it was predicted and prophesied by Gregorius the Mad,” said the magician.
Gregorius the “Mad”, Frans thought to himself. So what does that say about people who believe his rhymes are true? And what does it say about me if I do as they tell me? He didn’t really want to answer those questions, so he emptied his plate in silence.
“Your letter to Count Grisenstein has been written and posted,” said Miss Rosemary, apparently reading his mind. “If he sends for you, you can’t refuse. There’s no going back!”
She stood up. And suddenly she seemed like the good fairy from a children’s story, with her mysterious eyes and her silver hair. She smiled at him and added, “Didn’t you tell your students you were longing for a new adventure and an important mission?”
Frans smiled back at her. “I am at your service,” he said. “Frans the Red is ready for duty.”
“Excellent,” said the magician. “Then our business is concluded.”
“Concluded?” said Miss Rosemary. “Whatever you say. Then I’ll fetch the pudding. It’s semolina, with redcurrant juice, as red as our hero’s hair.” She gave the magician a meaningful smile and left the room. They’re hiding something else from me! thought Frans. He turned to the magician and said, “There’s one more thing I don’t understand.”
Mr Thomtidom looked at him with a frown, stroking his beard. “What’s that?” he asked.
“What,” said Frans, “does the Sealed Parchment have to do with the colour of your shirt?”
He ventures into forbidden territory
THIS IS THREE
“And of course he didn’t answer my question,” said Mr Van der Steg.
It was the next day. The bell for half past three had already gone, but his students had all stayed behind so as not to miss any of his story about the visit to Miss Rosemary’s.
“Oh no!” Frans continued. “Mr Thomtidom just began telling me some long and complicated story about how difficult it is to find a tie to go with a green shirt. Then he magically made my tie and his tie disappear, and had them both reappear in a finger bowl. And when Miss Rosemary came back with the pudding, it was so delicious that we forgot about our deep and meaningful conversation.”
Frans got up and went to stand among the desks. “After dinner, Miss Rosemary washed up,” he continued in a quieter voice. “Mr Thomtidom dried and I stacked the plates and bowls on a tray and took them to the front room. When I went back into the kitchen though, I heard the magician whispering something. ‘It’s just as well we didn’t tell him everything,’ he was saying. ‘We might have scared him off…’ Then he stopped. I think it was because he heard me coming.”
The children looked up at him, with questions on their faces.
“So what happened…?” whispered Maarten.
“Well, I’m part of the conspiracy now,” said Frans, “but I think there’s another conspiracy within that conspiracy, a conspiracy that I’m not in on. And I’m determined to expose it! No prophecy, no matter how threatening, is going to scare me off!” He put his hands on his hips and looked defiantly at his students.
They seemed impressed. That was how the real Frans the Red should act. But then Marian asked, “So how are you going to do that, sir?”
Frans the Red disappeared, and Frans van der Steg gave a sigh. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I was planning to pay Miss Rosemary another visit, when that meddlesome magician’s not around, with his mysterious mumblings.”
Marian nodded. “Yes, you should watch out for Mr Thomtidom,” she said. “He could enchant you, sir.”
Maarten snorted, but Frans said, “I think you’re right, Marian. You see, I’ve forgotten my books again. And I’m sure it’s down to his magic…! And I left Aunt Wilhelmina’s umbrella there too. She’ll have to fetch it herself now, as Miss Rosemary has told me I can only visit her again if she sends for me.”
When Frans got home from school that afternoon, his landlady was, as always, sitting in the conservatory with a pot of tea. This time there was someone with her, a boy in a leather jacket and a crash helmet. “Roberto!” Frans exclaimed.
“Are you talking to me?” the boy said. “My name’s Rob. That’s what my mum and dad call me anyway, and Aunt Wilhelmina.”
Frans looked at him with some surprise. This boy seemed more like the Biker Boy than the Roberto he’d eaten sausages with.
“Are you sure you won’t have a
cup of tea, Rob?” asked Aunt Wilhelmina.
“No, thanks, auntie. I should be going,” her nephew said.
“Such a hurry!” said Aunt Wilhelmina.
“I need to be somewhere,” said Rob. “Got a practice with my mates.”
“Homework?” asked his aunt.
“No, we’ve got a band. I play the guitar. You know that already!”
“Well, not too fast, please. And keep the noise down!” said Aunt Wilhelmina.
“You’d better tell that to the drummer,” said Rob with a laugh. “Those drums go right through everything. The neighbours keep banging on the wall. But you’ve got to let your hair down sometimes, you know?”
“I was talking about your scooter, not the band,” said Aunt Wilhelmina. “But now that you mention it, the music that you young people play! What a noise! I saw some band on the television the other day, a few longhaired louts playing and singing for a room full of youngsters. Well, it seems the crowd enjoyed it so much that they demolished the place and smashed everything to pieces. Absolutely scandalous! We’re lucky we don’t have parties like that in our village. I’m sure your class would never behave like that, would they, Frans?”
“I do hope not,” said Frans.
Aunt Wilhelmina’s nephew gave him a mocking look. “So you’re a schoolteacher, are you?” he said.
“I thought you knew that,” Frans muttered uneasily.
“Well, I’m off then,” said Rob, “before I have to listen to another lecture about the youth of today. Bye, auntie.”
“Well, I simply don’t understand young people today,” she said. “But it’d be strange if I did! Bye, Rob, say hello to your mum from me.”
The boy gave Frans a casual nod and left the conservatory. Frans followed him to the front door.
“Hey,” he said, “I was at your Aunt Rosemary’s yesterday…”
Rob raised his eyebrows. “Seems like you’re pretty popular with my aunts,” he said. “What have you been talking to them about? Surely not my good behaviour?”
“Stop being silly,” said Frans. “I just wanted to tell you that my letter’s written and posted.”
“Yeah? So what?” the boy said.
“I thought you were interested,” snapped Frans. “The letter to Count Grisenstein!”
“Well?” came Rob’s reply. “What’s that got to do with me?”
Frans understood now: this wasn’t Roberto, but the Biker Boy!
“Don’t be so childish,” he said. “You’re part of the conspiracy too.”
“No, I’m not, that was just a joke,” said the Biker Boy with a sneer. “I just went to Tooreloor’s Tavern on my own for a bet. Ask the children in your class to join in with your games. I don’t have time for this!” He headed outside and got on his scooter, which was in front of the house. A moment later, he roared off, without glancing back at Frans, who watched him go with a bewildered look on his face.
“I think your nephew is taking that double life of his too far!” he said angrily, when he was back in the conservatory with Aunt Wilhelmina. “Now he says he’s not part of our conspiracy.”
“You shouldn’t talk so much about that,” said his landlady. “I’ve already told you conspiracies are supposed to stay secret. And as far as Rob’s concerned, he was obviously in a bad mood because his mother sent him over with a message for me.”
“No, it’s the motor scooter,” said Frans. “Rob with a scooter is a Biker Boy, and Rob in the woods is Roberto the adventurer.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Aunt Wilhelmina. “Rob with a scooter rides through the woods too. But I’m afraid he’s going to have to repeat a year at school if he carries on like this. He only just got through last year and he’s more interested in having fun than in studying.”
The next morning, the children in Frans’s class seemed to have the same attitude as Rob. They weren’t paying attention, and they kept whispering, as if they were plotting and planning.
It’s my own fault, thought Frans. I’ve told them too many sensational stories. From now on I’ll have to focus more on actually teaching them.
He straightened his glasses and peered around the classroom. In the back row, Arie was showing something to the boy beside him.
“Arie,” Frans said sternly. “What have you got there? Bring it to me.”
The boy was about to protest, but did as he was told. Silently, he handed a toy pistol to Frans.
“Playing during your lessons? That’s not good,” said Frans. He put the pistol in his pocket and then said, “Back to your seat.”
Arie looked at him unhappily. He knew only too well that there was no point asking his teacher to return his property. He’d hang on to the pistol until Arie’s good behaviour changed his mind. Arie gave a deep sigh as he took his seat again; that could take some time.
Frans looked at his watch and said, “You can start packing up… I don’t have any stories to tell,” he continued, as the expectant silence fell. “I haven’t received an answer from Gr… Gr… I doubt I’ll hear from that gentleman again. And the conspiracy is falling apart. Roberto’s disappeared and the Biker Boy thinks it’s all just a silly game.”
“But Roberto and the Biker Boy are the same person, aren’t they?” called out Kai, before Maarten had the chance to say anything.
“Yes. But Roberto has turned into the Biker Boy,” replied Frans.
“Do you think he’s been enchanted?” asked Marian.
“There’s no such thing,” said Maarten. “Mr Van der Steg isn’t telling fairy tales!”
“Well, maybe I am,” said Frans slowly. “You know, I’m no longer entirely sure that the Story of the Seven Ways really happened…”
“Sir!” said Maarten, with a gasp. “But you didn’t make it all up, did you? About Gr… Gr… and the treasure… And Roberto and his cannon, and…”
Frans shrugged his shoulders. “No comment,” he said. And he thought: And if this story’s made up, it certainly wasn’t me who invented it! I’d think up something better than this. But then who did come up with it? And how is it possible that all these strange things have happened to me of all people?
It was Wednesday. A long, free afternoon stretched out in front of him.
“It’s about time I paid some attention to my studies,” Frans said to himself. “But I’ve left my books at Miss Rosemary’s… She may have told me not to visit her, but I’m surely allowed to go and pick up my own property from her house!”
So, after dinner, he hopped onto his bike and rode off, without following Aunt Wilhelmina’s wise advice, who said he should take a raincoat. “The sun’s shining!” he called back over his shoulder. “And if rains, I can always use your umbrella. I won’t forget it this time.”
By the time he arrived at Sevenways, he was sorry he hadn’t listened to his landlady. The sky was grey as lead and filled with ominous clouds. The woods around the signpost looked dark and gloomy – almost threatening. The six roads were deserted.
“But it’s not raining yet,” Frans said out loud. He looked at the old pub, which really did seem like a haunted house now, and wondered what Jan Tooreloor had done with the sign.
Hmm, no, Jan’s name can’t really be Tooreloor, he thought. No one could have such a strange name. It’s like something from a fairy tale or a song. Or an insult – he’s completely doolally, toorelally, Tooreloor! Then he looked at the blood-red arm of the signpost. In his head he heard Maarten’s voice saying, “You didn’t make it all up, did you?… About Roberto and his cannon…”
Frans left his bike and set off along the path to Roberto’s sanctuary. “I just want to see it with my own eyes,” he said to himself, “so that I know I didn’t make it all up!”
It was growing darker and darker beneath the trees, but he went on walking. When he’d crossed three bridges and a ditch, drops of rain began to fall. But I’m already halfway, he thought, so he carried on. After the second ditch and the fifth bridge, the drips became an actual rain s
hower. He stepped up the pace and soon reached where he was heading.
The tent had gone, but the cannon was still there. Frans realized it was nowhere near as fine as he’d thought at first. It certainly was old – but age had taken its toll and there was no way anyone could have fired it, not even using blanks.
“So I didn’t make up the cannon,” he said to himself. “But what about the shot… Did I imagine that? And where’s Roberto’s tent?”
The rain became a downpour. He fled into the small round building, which was luckily still there among the trees, so it wasn’t just his imagination. It had no door, just a rope across the entrance, with a rather ragged piece of paper hanging from it, which said NO TRESPASSERS in big letters, with a skull drawn beneath. Frans wiped his glasses and read the small letters scribbled below: Except for the Seven.
“Well, that’s nice,” he said. He untied the rope and went inside.
Inside the building, it was dark and not very cosy. The roof was leaking in several places, but he found a dry spot and stood and looked around. The first thing he saw was the tent, neatly folded. Then he spotted a bundle of wood, a primus stove, some empty cans and a few boxes. He opened one and found some firecrackers inside.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, “at least that solves the mystery of the cannon shot.”
So Roberto really had existed. And his big straw hat and an old raincoat were hanging from a hook on the wall.
Frans reached into his pockets for a packet of cigarettes, but all he found was Arie’s pistol. I hope, he thought, that it stops raining soon. I don’t feel much like sheltering in here all afternoon…