The Song of Seven

  “It was just a trick!” his student objected.

  “Not just a trick, but also a lie,” said Frans coldly. “Carry on writing.”

  Geert-Jan did as he was told. A little later he asked, “Is one sheet of paper enough?”

  “Make it two,” said Frans.

  “I thought you were against lines as punishment,” said Geert-Jan.

  “I am,” said Frans.

  “Can I write lines of poetry on the second sheet?”

  “All right, then,” Frans replied.

  Geert-Jan swapped his pencil for a pen, dipped it deep into the pewter inkwell and studiously began to fill a second sheet. Maybe there’s a poet in him, thought Frans. It’s in the family, after all. Count Gregorius wrote poetry too.

  After a while, Geert-Jan put down his pen, blew on the lines of poetry to dry the ink, covered them with the lines he’d had to write as punishment and asked, “So when you hand out lines at school, sir, what do you do with them afterwards?”

  “I usually throw them in the bin,” replied Frans.

  “You don’t read them?” said Geert-Jan in a shocked voice.

  “Sometimes I do,” said Frans reassuringly. “I’ll certainly read your lines of poetry.”

  “Sir,” said Geert-Jan in a whisper. “After you’ve read them, would you please not just throw them in the rubbish bin, but burn them? You mustn’t let anyone else read them.”

  “There’s no need to be ashamed…” Frans began.

  “No, that’s not it. It’s just that… Well, you’ll understand when you read them. Do you promise?”

  “Young man, I will destroy your lines of poetry with fire as soon as I have read them,” said Frans solemnly. “No one else will ever set eye on them.”

  Frans himself did not set eye on them until that afternoon when he was on the bus home; he’d left shortly after eating lunch with the count and his nephew.

  He shook his head and smiled as he looked at the sheet of paper filled with “I mustn’t tell fibs.” But when he saw the next sheet, he raised his eyebrows and looked more serious. Now he understood what Geert-Jan had meant. The lines weren’t by the boy himself – and Frans knew them already, more or less… This was what he read, and there was only one spelling mistake:

  TOP SECRET AND CONFIDENTUAL.

  THIS IS WHAT MY ANCESTOR COUNT GREGORIUS

  GRISENSTEIN WROTE IN THE SEALED PARCHMEN:

  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.

  These Words are the Sign:

  All the Children must be your Friends,

  If you are to beat the Foe.

  These Words are the Sign:

  The Stranger who will defeat the Dragon

  Must travel all the Seven Ways.

  Greensleeves will cast the Spell.

  Greeneyes will find the Key.

  Greenhair will beat the Dragon.

  P.S. Please burn this now. G-J Gr.

  He plays cards at the Thirsty Deer

  THIS IS SIX

  The bus stopped for what seemed like the hundredth time and the driver called out: “Roskam!”

  Frans jumped up, banging his head on the luggage rack, and got out, with his overnight bag in one hand and Mr Thomtidom’s walking stick in the other. He hadn’t been planning to break his journey home in Roskam, but he actually wanted to talk to the magician now, and he’d be sure to find him at the Thirsty Deer.

  He soon stepped into the pub for the second time. It was very full – warm and cosy, even though it was also rather smoky and stuffy. The first person to greet Frans was Jan Tooreloor, who was standing at the bar, ordering a drink. When he saw Frans, a peculiar mixture of awe and disdain, joy and fury flashed across his face.

  “Well, who do we have here?” he said loudly. “It’s Mr Frans the Red!”

  A few of the guests looked up and stared at Frans. The landlord came towards him, pointed at a corner of the bar and said, “There’s some space over there, sir.”

  Then Frans spotted a venerable head with a grey beard. He squeezed in between the tables and soon he was standing before Mr Thomtidom.

  “Good afternoon,” said Mr Thomtidom with a smile. “Please sit down. This is Roberto’s seat, but he’s playing billiards.”

  Frans glanced at the billiards table; the boy was leaning over it, entirely absorbed by the game.

  “I’ve come to return your walking stick,” he said to the magician. “Thank you for the loan.”

  “It was my pleasure,” said Mr Thomtidom. “Do you mind if I borrow your books? Some of them are very interesting. Unfortunately I don’t have them with me today. I hope that’s not too inconvenient.”

  The landlord appeared at their table and asked Frans what he’d like.

  “A coffee, please,” he replied. “And one for you, Mr Thomtidom? Right, we’ll have two coffees – and a candle.”

  “A candle, sir?” asked the landlord. “Need a little light refreshment?”

  “Just bring me a candle, please,” said Frans with a sigh.

  The landlord shuffled off.

  “Any news?” asked the magician quietly.

  Frans looked around the bar again. He nodded at Roberto, who looked back at him with one normal eye and one with a purple ring around it. Jan Tooreloor was still standing by the bar, now gazing thoughtfully into his glass.

  “You can speak freely,” the magician continued. “You could cook up all kinds of plots and conspiracies in the middle of this din and no one would notice… Aha, that chair’s just become free, so Roberto can come and join us.”

  The landlord brought the coffee and the candle, and Roberto abandoned his game of billiards at a signal from the magician.

  He greeted Frans cheerfully; he seemed to have forgotten their disagreement at the gate to the House of Stairs.

  “So,” said Frans, “I see you haven’t escaped without injury either. The job of liaison officer seems to have its own dangers.”

  “Who cares about danger?” said Roberto, as he sat down with them. “Certainly not the Seven.”

  “How is Miss Rosemary?” asked Frans.

  “Excellent,” replied Roberto. “Although she was angry with me for a whole day. She sends her greetings.”

  Mr Thomtidom tapped Frans on the arm. “Well…?” he asked in a conspiratorial tone.

  Frans slowly took two sheets of paper from his pocket. “Here,” he said, “I have some lines that Geert-Jan Grisenstein wrote as punishment.”

  “Lines?” said Roberto, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I see you’re off to a good start. What did that poor boy do to deserve punishment?”

  “You’re the one who deserves to be punished,” said Frans wryly. “For stealing cannons from other people’s property.”

  “It was just the one cannon,” Roberto objected. “Besides, I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it, with the permission of its rightful owner, Count Geert-Jan Grisenstein, the Lord of the House of Stairs.”

  “Well, the Lord of the House of Stairs has chosen to write down some very interesting lines for me,” said Frans.

  Roberto tried to read them, but Frans rolled up the sheets of paper and held them in the candle’s flame. “I promised him I’d destroy them after reading,” he said. “It’s a secret, don’t you know?” He waited for the paper to go up in flames, without paying any attention to the magician, who was warning him about the fire risk. He almost burned his fingers, but he put out the flame, threw the burnt remains in the ashtray, and then looked at his co-conspirators with a smile. “You both know the contents,” he said. “The Sealed Parchment… all the verses!”

  “All of them?” said the magician, furrowing his brow.
br />   “All five of them,” nodded Frans. “I found the final one particularly enlightening. Now I understand why you always wear green shirts.”

  They were silent for a while. All around them was the chattering of the other guests, and the billiard balls click-clacking softly in the background. No one was paying any attention to them, except for Jan Tooreloor, who was eyeing them over the edge of a recently refilled glass.

  “Well, nothing to say?” Frans asked the magician. “I’m Geert-Jan’s tutor now, and I plan to remain so. No prophecy – no matter how insane – is going to scare me off. That’s what you were worried about, isn’t it?”

  Mr Thomtidom moved his lips, but he spoke so quietly that Frans couldn’t hear what he said.

  “It’s high time a reasonable person with some common sense became involved in this business,” Frans said in a loud voice.

  “And I suppose that person would be you?” asked Roberto.

  Frans did not reply. “Anyone can buy green sleeves,” he said, “and you see green eyes now and then. Just today I met a black cat who has green eyes…”

  “Greeneyes will find the key,” said the magician.

  “Which key?” asked Frans.

  “That can be interpreted in a number of ways,” said the magician. “Literally or figuratively, whichever you prefer. But I know that the treasure is kept in an ebony chest. And legend has it that only one key fits the lock, a key made of gold…”

  “The magical key to the kingdom? Saint Peter’s key to the gates of Heaven?” said Frans. “Hocus pocus! Open sesame! Greensleeves… all right, then. Greeneyes… fine! But as for Greenhair… I’ve never heard of any person or animal that has green hair!”

  “Mr Van der Steg,” said the magician, “you mustn’t be so concerned about the prophecy! Prophecies come true or don’t come true whether we human beings do anything about them or not…”

  “Now that’s simply not true!” Frans said, interrupting him. “You’ve done everything you can to make it all come true! Aren’t I a stranger? Didn’t I have to travel over Sevenways?”

  “Ssshh!” whispered Roberto.

  “Miss Rosemary didn’t quite remember that line correctly, by the way,” Frans continued in a quieter voice. “Although it boils down to the same thing. The place Sevenways isn’t mentioned specifically.

  “These words are the Sign:

  The Stranger who will defeat the Dragon

  Must travel all the Seven Ways.”

  Mr Thomtidom sat up straight. “Is that right?” he whispered. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely certain. ‘All the Seven Ways’, not ‘over Sevenways’,” replied Frans. “It sounds better too, don’t you think?”

  “My goodness me,” exclaimed the magician. “This is proof that prophecies come true, notwithstanding and in spite of our efforts. Seven Ways, you say?”

  “Yes, and…?” began Frans.

  “Think about it! Have you travelled all the Seven Ways? Yes or no?” The magician stood up and waved over at the bar. “Roberto,” he said, “call Jan over. He needs to hear this!”

  “Mr Thomtidom, everyone’s looking at us,” Roberto warned him.

  “Why shouldn’t they look?” replied the magician calmly. “The four of us are just playing a nice game of cards.” He already had a pack of cards in his hand. “Ah, here comes Jan,” he continued. “See if you can find another chair, Roberto.” He began dealing the cards, quickly and neatly.

  “I’d rather play billiards,” said Roberto, when the four of them were sitting around the table, each with thirteen cards in his hand.

  “What do you want from me?” asked Jan Tooreloor grouchily. “Am I here to play hearts or bridge or…?”

  “No, there’s more at stake! A treasure hunt, in fact…” whispered Roberto. “Our little club needs to grab a few spades so we can go in search of our hearts’ desire and maybe even find a few diamonds too.”

  “It’s about the fourth verse of the Sealed Parchment,” the magician whispered confidentially to Jan Tooreloor. He repeated the lines as Frans had told them to him:

  “The Stranger who will defeat the Dragon

  Must travel all the Seven Ways.

  “I bid spades,” he added.

  “Seven Ways?” said Jan Tooreloor sulkily. “All I know is that you lot treat me like I’m a few cards short of a deck. I’ve been dealt a bad hand. I’m no good at bridge. Let’s play poker instead.”

  “Don’t you get it?” said Mr Thomtidom. “We thought our Secret Agent” – he nodded at Frans – “had to travel over the crossroads at Sevenways; we didn’t know he had to travel all of the Seven Ways.”

  “That’s what you thought,” said Jan Tooreloor. “But I was always against bringing a stranger into our conspiracy.”

  “So you abandoned him at Sevenways,” the magician continued. “And what happened next? Mr Van der Steg, it’s your turn.”

  “What game are we actually playing here?” asked Frans.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Roberto. “You can play bridge or poker, or bluff or cheat.”

  Frans laid a king of hearts on the table.

  “Most appropriate,” said the magician approvingly. “A Red Man…” He placed the king of spades next to it, picked up both cards and turned to Jan Tooreloor. “And what happened next?” he said again. “Mr Van der Steg didn’t take it lying down, did he? Over the next few days, without anyone telling him to, he travelled all the Seven Ways, all those he had not been along before. The first was his way home… Then he went along the way to the town, in the company of a Biker Boy, as he puts it.” He gave Roberto a wink. “Then he followed the road to Roskam all the way to this pub, that was the third… The fourth is the way to my home, the fifth is the way to Roberto’s hiding place, the sixth goes to the Herb Garden…” For every way he mentioned, he laid an ace on the table; his pack appeared to have more than four of them…

  And he concluded solemnly, “The seventh and final way is the one I do not want to mention out loud.” He looked at the other three. “Play another card,” he ordered.

  When the others had done so, he scooped up all of the cards and said to Jan Tooreloor, “So do you still dare to deny that Mr Van der Steg is predestined, appointed and chosen to be our envoy in the house that I shall also not name out loud?”

  “No, I don’t dare to deny it,” said Jan Tooreloor reluctantly. “But in the meantime it’s left me without a job!”

  “We’ll find something for you,” said the magician reassuringly.

  “You’re still part of our conspiracy,” said Roberto, also in a comforting tone. “I bid four clubs and red is trumps.”

  Jan Tooreloor looked at Frans. “Well, he certainly knows how to use a gun,” he said, with a hint of admiration. “Although I’d rather shoot the Fiendish Foe myself…”

  “Guns?” said Roberto. “Do you have a permit, Mr Van der Steg? Otherwise it’s illegal. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Why don’t we just put all our cards on the table?” said Frans abruptly. “This isn’t a game! All I’m interested in is Geert-Jan’s wellbeing…”

  “Which is why you gave him lines,” sneered Roberto.

  “A bit of discipline would do you some good too,” Frans flashed back. “A boy of your age shouldn’t be hanging around in pubs playing cards…”

  “Whatever you say, schoolteacher,” snapped Roberto. He threw down his cards and stood up. “I’m off,” he added. “Bye, everyone.”

  He walked away. Jan Tooreloor stood up and followed him.

  Frans watched them go, feeling rather disheartened.

  “I won,” said Mr Thomtidom calmly. “Just let them go,” he said to Frans, as he gathered up all the cards. “Roberto needs to be home in time for dinner, and if he misses the bus, he has to walk. His motor scooter’s in for repairs… Speaking of scooters, have you ever thought about traffic lights?”

  “Not particularly,” replied Frans.

  “Ah, then don’t bother
your head about that for now,” the magician advised him. “But you should keep an eye on them, of course. And if you want to be home in good time, you need to get going too; the bus to your village leaves in five minutes.” He smiled at Frans and added, “I’ll pass on your report to our President. Give your landlady my best wishes, and all your class too… Yes, make sure you don’t forget them. Goodbye!”

  “And that’s absolutely true,” said Mr Van der Steg the school-teacher, three days later. “Mr Thomtidom sends you all his best wishes.”

  It was Wednesday, almost midday, and he’d just told his class they could pack their things away.

  “That magician,” said Maarten. “Did you find out why he always wears green shirts?”

  “N… no,” said Frans hesitantly. He hadn’t told the children that Geert-Jan’s copy of the Sealed Parchment had an extra verse; after all, he’d promised the boy he’d keep it a secret. Anyway, he thought, maybe it’s just as well the children don’t know about it. How was his story supposed to end if there was someone in it with green hair? Even the Hero of Torelore had never met anyone like that.

  Otherwise, though, he’d told them the truth about what had happened to him: the beginning of the story on Monday afternoon, with more on Tuesday. The children had listened very closely; they seemed particularly impressed by Geert-Jan’s cheekiness. In fact, Frans had felt the need to tell them not to follow the boy’s example – he thought one difficult student was enough.

  Now all the children were looking at him; they’d noticed his hesitation. Maarten was already opening his mouth to say something.

  “Listen to me, chaps,” Frans continued. “If someone confides a secret in you, you don’t tell it to anyone else, do you?”

  Maarten closed his mouth, and the other children started to whisper. Then they all spoke at the same time: “No, sir!”

  “Then you understand,” said Frans. “My lips are sealed.”