The Song of Seven

  “If you walk straight on, you’ll come to the gate to the Grisenstein estate,” he said, when he was standing on the road with Frans. “It’s not far, but I’ll lend you my walking stick. That should save you some bother.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Frans, “but…”

  “No, please don’t argue,” said the magician, interrupting him. “I brought this stick specially for you, Mr Van der Steg. Is it true that you’re staying there tonight?”

  “Yes, it’s true,” replied Frans, accepting the walking stick.

  Mr Thomtidom nodded his approval. “That’s a stroke of luck,” he said. And in a low voice he continued, “Keep your eyes peeled! Make sure Geert-Jan minds his p’s and q’s and his sixes and sevens, and keep your seven senses about you too, even if a little black beast turns up at your window!”

  “What?” said Frans.

  “There’s the bus going in the other direction,” said Mr Thomtidom. “I need to catch it! You can find me tomorrow afternoon at the Thirsty Deer.” He dashed across the road and hopped onto the bus back to Roskam.

  He came out here just for me, thought Frans, as he began walking towards the House of Stairs. He’s a decent man, even though he is peculiar. Oh, and he didn’t give me my books! But I don’t have any time to study this weekend anyway. And I missed my evening class yesterday too. I should have asked Mr Thomtidom where he found my wonderful references. And where’s Jan Tooreloor staying – in his house or in the tent?

  Mr Thomtidom was right; it wasn’t a long walk to the estate. This time he approached from the front; this entrance, like the back, was barred with a large iron gate. It was opened for him by a surly, burly bald man in a gamekeeper’s uniform, who then locked it up and trotted off, soon disappearing from sight.

  It was still quite some way to the House of Stairs, and by the time Frans reached it, he was very grateful for the walking stick.

  He paused for a moment on the lawn in front of the house, beside a pond with a fountain that wasn’t working. He took another look at the building; it was as if someone had somehow taken a whole load of houses and castles, shaken and shuffled them all up together, and then made a new building out of the resulting mishmash. An intricate terrace of marble staircases rose from the garden to the front door, with stone flowerpots and large statues adorning the balustrades. But the marble was cracked and dirty, not a hint of green was growing in the flower pots, and most of the statues had lost their heads.

  Frans climbed the steps and banged the knocker on the front door. The door opened instantly and a surly, burly bald man in a butler’s uniform appeared. Frans realized right away that it was the very same man as the gamekeeper who had unlocked the gate for him. He must have changed his clothes quickly, as he was panting and looked red in the face.

  “You must be the new tutor,” he said. “I’ll present you to the count; he’s waiting in the Round Room.” He took Frans’s overnight bag in his large hand and led him into the hall. It was a very grand room with carpets and crystal chandeliers, and staircases on three sides, covered with elegant red carpets.

  Frans limped upstairs after the butler, wondering how many servants the count must have. Probably not very many, if they had to do two jobs. And Jan Tooreloor had been sacked. The mysterious Ivan must still be somewhere in the house though. But this butler-and-gamekeeper couldn’t be the dark and mysterious spy, as his eyes and complexion were pale.

  After the elegant red carpets, their route took them through a less grand part of the house – across empty landings, along gloomy corridors and, of course, up and down lots of stairs. The butler stopped at a door and said, “Please enter. Shall I take your bag to the guestroom?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you,” said Frans. “Oh, if I could just take out the schoolbooks first.” Then he knocked the door and went in.

  Count Grisenstein was sitting at a desk in a round room, studying a complex drawing that looked like a map. When he saw Frans, the count quickly folded it up, rose to his feet and greeted him with a smile.

  “Ah, excellent. You’re on time in spite of the long journey,” he said. “How’s your leg?”

  “Better by the day,” replied Frans.

  “Would you mind if I introduce you to my nephew right away?” said the count. “I’m sorry it’ll mean climbing another flight of stairs.”

  “Oh, I’m starting to get used to it,” said Frans. “Although finding my way around this house is proving a challenge. I’d very much like to see a map of the building.”

  “Unfortunately I don’t have a map,” said the count. “But rest assured, we live in just a small part of the building. We’d need too much money and staff to keep everything decently maintained. Geert-Jan, however, regards the entire house as his property… and his playground. He’s waiting for you in the library. That seemed like the best place for your lessons. I see you’ve brought some books.”

  Frans walked with him and thanked him for the invitation to stay the night. He was starting to think though, that Count Grisenstein really might not be quite what he seemed. Although it could of course have been a different map that Frans had seen on the count’s desk…

  *

  The library was large; three walls were covered with bookshelves and the fourth had windows looking out over the woods. On a table in the middle of the room, notebooks, pencils and pens had been laid out next to a huge pewter inkwell. But there was no sign of a boy.

  Count Grisenstein frowned. “Geert-Jan!” he called.

  No reply.

  The count looked around the room, opened a door and called the boy’s name again. “I told him to wait for you in the library,” he said irritably. “He was here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Frans said calmly.

  The count shook his head. “You don’t know my nephew!” he said. “He’s probably wandering around the house somewhere. If we wait for him, he won’t show up until the end of the afternoon and then he’ll claim, with an innocent look on his face, that he’d ‘completely forgotten’ you were coming.” The look he gave Frans was half joking, half apologetic, but his eyes were cold and angry. “I’ll go and look for him and then send him to you,” he added.

  So it would seem he’s rather a spoilt little boy, thought Frans. “Let me help you look,” he said.

  “Absolutely not!” said Count Grisenstein firmly. “You’d only get lost.” With large strides, he left the library.

  Frans heard him calling, his shouts echoing along the corridors and in the stairwells: “Geert-Jan! Manus! Selina!” He heard footsteps going up and down – and then a woman’s voice snapping, “I’m not going to risk my health again to go looking for that young man!”

  Shaking his head, Frans put his books on the table and, as he did so, his eye was suddenly caught by the tablecloth that was hanging over it. It was moving! He bent down, lifted one corner and said, “Come out from under there!”

  A slim blond boy emerged and looked up at him. For a moment, he didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or cry, but then his features hardened and any emotion vanished.

  “I imagine you must be Geert-Jan Grisenstein,” said Frans. “I am Mr Van der Steg, your tutor. You must know your uncle’s gone searching for you, so run along after him and make your apologies.”

  “Apologies?” said the boy, acting surprised. “He told me to sit in the library, and that’s what I did.”

  Frans began to suspect that “poor little Geert-Jan” might not be the easiest of students.

  “Excellent,” he said calmly. “Then you can go and explain to your uncle that he’s made a mistake. And be quick about it!”

  The child didn’t move a muscle.

  “Well?” said Frans.

  Geert-Jan walked around the table and sat down, as far as possible from Frans. “No, sir,” he said in a clear voice. “If I go downstairs, Uncle Gradus will be going upstairs. If I go up one flight of stairs, Uncle Gradus will be going down another. If I go l
eft, he’ll go right… that’s what always happens!” The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. “It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack! A needle that’s moving!” he concluded cheekily.

  Frans walked over to him. He wanted to grab him by the scruff of the neck and repeat his order. But the boy ducked out of the way, flailing his arms.

  “Oh, sir!” he cried out, in genuine or feigned horror. “Now you’ve gone and knocked the inkwell over!”

  There was an awful lot of ink in the pewter inkwell, and a dark-blue puddle spread across the tablecloth. Frans picked up the inkwell and quickly started mopping up the ink with his handkerchief, while Geert-Jan stood and watched, without lifting a finger to help.

  “If I do as you say,” he continued cheerfully, “then I really won’t be here when Uncle Gradus comes back. And he’ll have to go and look for me again.”

  “If you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll empty this inkwell over your head!” said Frans furiously. “Go to the door and shout to let him know you’re here.”

  “But you just told me to hold my tongue…” began Geert-Jan.

  Frans looked up from the tablecloth. He’d never felt so tempted to give one of his students a clip around the ear. “Do the last thing I told you to do,” he said icily. “And then go up or down a flight of stairs and fetch some milk to get this stain out.”

  “The ink will be dry before I’m back,” said the boy. “It’s a hundred and nineteen steps to the kitchen…” Then he took one look at his tutor and decided to get moving.

  Frans looked at the tablecloth with a worried expression. This was not a good start!

  Outside the library, Geert-Jan called out, “Uncle Gradus! Uncle Gradus! I’ve been found!”

  Soon after that, Count Grisenstein returned. Frans told him with some embarrassment that there’d been a little accident with the inkwell. The count took it very calmly. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Now at least you know what to expect from your student. I hope you’ll be able to teach him something.” But he didn’t sound very confident.

  Frans didn’t feel much confidence in himself either as he sat at the table, waiting for his pupil to come back.

  The boy returned surprisingly quickly, but without the milk. “Selina wouldn’t give me any,” he told Frans. “She said we should just put a vase on top of it.”

  “Yes, do that,” said Count Grisenstein. He was already at the door. “Well, Mr Van der Steg, your student’s here now,” he said. “So you can begin. Geert-Jan, do your best.”

  “Come and sit opposite me, Geert-Jan,” said Frans, when the count had left the room.

  The boy acted as if he hadn’t heard. “Which vase shall we use?” he asked, walking around the library and looking at the various vases.

  “Come and sit here with me right now!” said Frans.

  To his surprise, Geert-Jan obeyed his order this time. “Ooh, sir, your handkerchief’s absolutely soaked with ink!” he cried, barely containing his glee.

  “That’s not a problem,” Frans replied abruptly. “I have an acquaintance who can turn it white again in a second.”

  “Do you?” said Geert-Jan. “No, you’re just making it up,” he added spitefully. “That’s never going to come out.”

  “I’m not saying it’ll come out,” said Frans. “I’m just saying he’ll make it white. The man I know can do the same thing in reverse too. He’ll give you a sheet of blank paper, and when you look at it again a little later there’ll be something written on it – in ink.”

  Geert-Jan opened his mouth to ask a question, but then changed his mind and tried to look bored. Frans studied him; this boy was not some sweet child with anxiously pleading eyes! Quite the opposite, in fact. The boy seemed arrogant and distant. He was tall for his age, thin, blond and rather pale. His eyes were dark blue, but he was looking down, as if trying to hide his thoughts.

  “But let’s not talk about my handkerchief,” said Frans, wiping his ink-stained fingers, which only made them look worse. “I’m here to teach you something…”

  “I don’t like learning,” said Geert-Jan.

  “Well, that’s a shame for you,” said Frans calmly. “But I don’t care.” He opened a book and put it down in front of the boy. “Read to me,” he said.

  Geert-Jan looked at the pages, sniffed and began to read. He did it very quickly, but in a monotone, ignoring all the full stops and commas. Frans listened to him without making any comment, and waited for him to reach the bottom of the page before saying, “Go on.”

  The boy glanced up at him, a look of confusion and defiance on his face. Then he read on in the same way, for another whole page.

  “Go on,” said Frans again.

  Geert-Jan frowned, but did as he was told. This time he read more slowly, and sometimes his voice began to rise or fall a little.

  “Stop!” said Frans. “You’re an excellent reader.”

  For a moment, Geert-Jan looked at him in surprise.

  “Absolutely,” said Frans. “Reading for so long while keeping up that drone is a real challenge. Do it properly this time, and pay attention to the full stops and commas. That should be much easier.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy and he read, “The sun went down comma evening fell and a few stars appeared in the sky full stop the man said comma quotation marks it’s getting late…”

  “If you carry on like that, it’s going to be really late by the time we finish,” said Frans.

  “I have to go to bed early,” said Geert-Jan quickly.

  “Why? You can always have a lie-in tomorrow,” said Frans. “If you’re that slow to grasp your lesson, we’ll have to go on until midnight.”

  He immediately regretted his words, as Geert-Jan nodded happily and said in a bright and sinister voice, “Midnight! The witching hour… when all the ghosts come out… Great!”

  “Read the first page again, and do it properly this time!” Frans barked.

  Geert-Jan leafed through the entire book to find the first page, but when he’d found it he read it without making a single mistake. Then he jumped to his feet and said, “Now I can go and choose a vase.”

  “No,” said Frans.

  “What about these two?” said the boy. “This one’s nicer, but this one’s bigger.” He put the biggest vase on the table. “Look, it covers almost all of the stain…”

  “Geert-Jan,” said Frans sternly, “listen to me! You will remain seated in that chair until we are finished, just as you would at school.”

  “May I just put back the other vase back?” asked the boy. “It might get knocked over too, and it’s fragile.”

  “Sit down!” roared Frans.

  Geert-Jan quickly sat back down. “From now on,” he announced, “I’ll act exactly as if I’m at school, sir! I won’t say anything unless you ask me a question, and whenever I want to ask something I’ll put my hand up.” He crossed his arms and put on an obedient face.

  Frans didn’t trust this act at all, but he just said, “Excellent,” and began asking him questions. Geert-Jan’s answers were sometimes right, occasionally wrong, but mostly completely crazy. Frans soon realized he was giving the silly answers on purpose; his student seemed to enjoy pretending to be stupid. Well, if you’re trying to make me angry, it’s not going to work! he thought.

  The boy sat opposite him with an innocent look on his face; he kept up his pretence of good behaviour, acting so extremely politely that it almost became cheekiness. Half an hour slowly crept by…

  “Now let’s see how good you are at sums,” the tutor said finally.

  “Whatever you say, sir,” said Geert-Jan in a bored voice. “I’m very good at numbers. Including fractions and decimals too, sir.”

  “Good,” said Frans, opening up a different book. “Then do these sums. The first five.”

  Geert-Jan put his hand up and said, “Will you check them straightaway, sir?”

  “All right,” said Frans, “I will.”

  Outside, in
the distance, there was a bang.

  “What was that?” said Geert-Jan, forgetting to put his hand up.

  “Do your work,” Frans ordered.

  Geert-Jan looked at the sums and began to work them out, quietly mumbling to himself. Frans stood up and walked to one of the windows. He looked out over the woods – wasn’t Sevenways in that direction? He heard another bang, and then another, and he remembered Roberto’s cannon.

  “Three!” whispered Geert-Jan.

  “Have you already finished three sums?”

  “Almost, sir,” said Geert-Jan. “Did you hear that? What do you think it was? A cannon?”

  “That’s most unlikely,” said Count Grisenstein, suddenly emerging through a hidden doorway between two bookcases.

  Frans was a little shocked by this unexpected appearance, but Geert-Jan hardly paid any attention.

  “Fortunately there are no military training grounds nearby,” said the count, as he came to stand behind his nephew and took a look at his sums.

  “But it could still be a cannon,” muttered Geert-Jan, covering his book with one hand.

  “There was once a cannon here in the garden,” said the count. “Your father and I used to play with it sometimes, although you couldn’t shoot with it. But when we returned last year, it had disappeared. It must have been stolen when the house was empty.” He turned to Frans and said, “I’ve come to ask if you’ll take tea with me in the Rococo Room later. Geert-Jan will show you the way.”

  “I have to finish my sums first,” said his nephew. “Four!” he said at the sound of the next bang. “Four times seven is twenty-six…”

  “Twenty-eight,” corrected the count. “I’ll see you later, Mr Van der Steg.” He left the library.

  “You mustn’t watch me while I’m working,” Geert-Jan said to his tutor. “I can’t concentrate.”

  Frans didn’t reply. He looked outside again and wished he were standing in front of a class full of children in a perfectly ordinary classroom without any hidden doors.

  “Finished, sir!” said Geert-Jan.