The Song of Seven

  This is one – This is two – This is three – This is four – This is five!

  Now the party had descended into complete chaos again. Count Grisenstein stood frozen, unable to utter a single word. The policemen stood by helplessly and forgot about their whistles. Berend was so confused that he joined in with the stamping:

  This is one – This is two – This is three – This is four – This is five – This is six!

  Frans was rather startled by the violent reaction he’d unleashed. He took a step into the room, half afraid the roof was about to come falling down on them. But Roberto went on playing and the Song of Seven still rang out, louder and louder, faster and faster… They stamped on the ground to the beat of the music.

  Do you know the Seven, the Seven,

  The children had formed a circle that Frans couldn’t get through, and Geert-Jan was leaping about in the middle, waving his hat in the air. “Stop! Stop!” cried Frans, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice. The floor seemed to be moving… and triumphantly the tedious tune played on:

  This is one – This is two – This is three –

  The floor really was moving!

  “Geert-Jan!” cried Frans. “Stop it! That’s enough!”

  This is four – This is five – This is six –

  The wood beneath Geert-Jan’s feet began to crack…

  THIS IS SEVEN!

  And the floor gave way, splitting apart and collapsing.

  Roberto’s guitar strings snapped with a ting, breaking the sudden horrified silence.

  The wood gave another creak, and everyone stared at the gaping hole into which Geert-Jan had disappeared.

  A cry went up and everyone in the room crowded around the hole. Then there came another cry, a shout of delight, surprise and joy. It was Geert-Jan’s voice shouting: “I’ve found it! The treasure! The treasure!”

  A moment later his head popped up from down below, through the splintered floorboards, his face dirty but beaming.

  “I’ve found it!” he panted. “The Song of Seven… you all found it. The chest is here, under the floor…”

  It took a while to bring Geert-Jan and the chest up out of the hole. Then they all stood around the chest in awed silence. It was a small but heavy chest, a chest of ebony… very old and with a golden lock.

  Geert-Jan knelt down beside it; he stroked it affectionately and looked up with gleaming eyes at Frans, who was standing beside him. Count Grisenstein stood on the other side, with the two policemen just behind him. They stared in surprise at the chest and then at Frans and his green hair.

  Mr Thomtidom was the first to speak.

  “Well, well,” he said, stepping forward. “It seems that we’ve witnessed a great event: the Treasure of the House of Stairs has been found.”

  “A great event indeed,” said Count Grisenstein with a stony face. “But who, may I ask, are you?”

  Mr Thomtidom bowed and replied in a quiet voice, “Police… plain clothes. Um, just between the two of us, I’m a detective.” He held up his hand; a badge glinted in his fingers.

  The policemen politely tipped their caps.

  “You came here to deal with a disturbance of the peace,” Mr Thomtidom said to them. “But now you can be witnesses to a far more important matter!”

  “Yes,” Frans chimed in. “The treasure has been found, which by right belongs to this child, the heir of the Grisensteins.”

  The count bit his lips. “That’s if it is the treasure!” he said frostily. “We won’t find out until the chest is opened.”

  “But you’ll open it right away, won’t you?” said Mr Thomtidom with a smile. “We’re all very eager to see.”

  Geert-Jan held his hand out to Frans and whispered, “The key, sir.”

  Count Grisenstein smiled. “I would like nothing more than to allow my nephew to unlock the chest,” he said. “But perhaps you are unaware that there is only one key that fits… and we don’t want to force and damage the lock but should wait until it too has been found. Gregorius the Mad’s golden key.”

  Geert-Jan sat up and said, “Greeneyes already found it!”

  “Oh yes?” said the count. “So where is it?”

  Geert-Jan looked at Frans again, who was staring at the count. “The key,” he said calmly, “is in your right inside pocket.”

  The count glowered at Frans, as if he hadn’t been expecting this response. But before he could reply, the magician had conjured up the key.

  “Yes, here it is,” he said cheerfully, handing the key over to Frans.

  Frans waved the key at Ivan, who was still sitting high up on a balustrade, and then he passed it to Geert-Jan.

  In the background Miss Rosemary said in a singsong tone:

  Greensleeves will cast the Spell.

  Greeneyes will find the Key.

  Greenhair will beat the Dragon.

  In breathless silence, Geert-Jan put the key in the lock, turned it and opened the chest. Everyone craned their necks to look inside, but what they saw didn’t look very impressive at all. Inside the ebony chest was a smaller metal box, and inside that was a parcel wrapped in a faded green cloth…

  “There’s a letter too,” said Geert-Jan, “from Count Gregorius.”

  It all started with a letter, thought Frans, and that’s how it’s ending too…

  He heard the children sigh and wondered if it was disappointment – they’d probably been expecting silver and gold, precious stones and jewellery.

  As Geert-Jan looked at the letter with a serious expression, something fell out; three coins rolled across the floor.

  The magician picked them up, studied them closely and said, “These are very old coins, bronze ones from the Holy Land.”

  “Ha! And there are only three of them,” gloated the count.

  “All good things come in threes,” said Mr Thomtidom.

  He gave the coins back to Geert-Jan, leant over the letter and slowly read out the first lines:

  I, Count Gregorius Grisenstein, hereby give this treasure to my grandson, or to his child, or to his child’s child, and so on. I shall also account for how I came to find it and why I hid it again. But anyone who wishes to understand me fully must read this Book, from A to Z.

  “A book, a letter and three bronze coins,” he added under his breath.

  Geert-Jan had in the meantime taken the parcel out of the metal box and carefully unwrapped the faded cloth. The book appeared; it was bound in leather and looked very old.

  Frans closed the chest, so that Geert-Jan could rest the book on its lid. The boy opened it and let out a surprised “Oooh!”

  The pages were made of parchment; they were not printed, but written in graceful letters, and on every page there were beautiful capital letters inlaid with gold leaf, and drawings of mythical creatures, with colourful miniatures of wonderful castles and knights on horseback with plumes on their helmets. Every page was a masterpiece of art and calligraphy.

  “This is very precious indeed!” said Frans. “A genuine medieval manuscript, Geert-Jan!”

  The children came closer to take a better look.

  “Don’t touch it with your fingers!” Count Grisenstein said sharply. “Geert-Jan, be careful! If it’s genuine, it’ll be absolutely priceless.”

  “It’s just a sort of comic book,” mumbled Jan Tooreloor.

  “But very artistic,” said one of the policemen.

  “And most certainly authentic,” said Mr Thomtidom, turning the title page. “Can you read it, Mr Van der Steg?”

  Frans bent more deeply over the book and read:

  This is a True and Faithful Account of the Escapades of Sir Grimbold, Count Grisenstein, how he went on a Crusade and sailed across the sea, and suffered a Shipwreck and became stranded in the Land of Torelore, of his Adventures in Torelore, and his Journey back, which ended at the Seven Ways.

  Twice he hesitated – at the word Torelore. He’d always thought he’d invented that land himself, and it was very strange to dis
cover that it really existed, or had once existed… Does that happen often? he wondered. That the stories you dream up aren’t just fantasy, but came from somewhere and really happened, in another time, in another place, without you knowing it?

  Geert-Jan picked up the book and looked around with an expression of delight. Suddenly, though, he almost dropped it. Frans quickly took the book from him.

  “Aunt Rosemary!” cried Geert-Jan, flying into her arms. “Aunt Rosemary, what an amazing birthday!”

  “I beg to differ,” said Count Grisenstein coldly. He turned to the policemen. “I withdraw my accusation,” he said. “You may leave.”

  “But you can’t just send them away,” said Aunt Wilhelmina unexpectedly. “We might need them. And, besides, we should give them something to eat. I’ve brought cakes and, whether you like it or not, this is a birthday.”

  Jan Tooreloor stepped forward with a big box.

  “How dare you show your face here again?” growled the count. “Where’s Manus?”

  “I threw him out of the coach not far from Roskam,” replied Tooreloor. “But I don’t think he started walking home straightaway. He’s probably recovering at the Thirsty Deer.”

  Count Grisenstein shifted his angry glare to Frans. “I should have suspected you from the very first,” he said. “I believe a conspiracy has been hatched against me…”

  “You’re right,” said Frans calmly. “There were seven conspirators. And now there are even more people who know who you are: the Fiendish Foe of the rhyme on the lintel.”

  “And the Dragon in the Sealed Parchment,” added Mr Thomtidom, passing the police badge from one hand into the other.

  “However did you…” began the count.

  “You know very well!” said Frans. “Why else did you object to my green hair?”

  The children whispered his words like an echo: “Green hair. He’s Greenhair…”

  The count looked at them, a flash of concern on his face. But then he recovered. “I don’t like this one bit,” he said. “I’ll have nothing to do with this party.” He turned and strode off.

  “Good riddance,” said Roberto. He took a cake from the box Jan Tooreloor was holding.

  “I don’t think it’s quite that simple, Roberto,” said Miss Rosemary, who had come to join them, with Geert-Jan. “As far as Gradus Grisenstein is concerned, he may well be the Fiendish Foe, but he’s still one of us!”

  “One of us?” said Frans, rather surprised.

  “Absolutely. After all, he believes in Gregorius the Mad’s prophecies too.” Miss Rosemary watched the count go; he was just disappearing through the door that led to the spiral staircase up to the Rococo Room. “I’ll go and have a quiet word with him,” she continued. “We need to settle this whole business once and for all, don’t you think?” She patted Geert-Jan on the shoulder and dashed after the count.

  Good, thought Frans, she’s probably the best one here to convince the count that he’s lost.

  He looked at Geert-Jan and said, “I’m sorry I was a little late to your party, but…”

  “Oh, I knew right away that you had a plan, sir,” said Geert-Jan. “When Uncle Gradus said you’d left…”

  “Ah, so that’s what he said, is it?” muttered Frans.

  “Yes… but I knew it was just one of your tricks,” said the boy, with a look of delighted approval. “Mr Greenhair…”

  Frans didn’t reply; he was touched by Geert-Jan’s faith in him.

  “I think red hair suits him better,” said Aunt Wilhelmina. “Green hair is rather unusual… just as unusual as this party, in fact. My goodness, what a mess! It’s going to be such a lot of work to clean it all up. But first let’s have something to eat and drink.”

  And assisted by Selina, who was still in a state of utter confusion, she set to work. Meanwhile Mr Thomtidom returned the badge to one of the policemen. “Thanks for the loan,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it, sir,” replied the policeman, and then he exclaimed in surprise, “But I didn’t lend you anything!”

  Frans had sat down on the chest, with the precious book on his knees.

  “I have your books too,” said the magician, sitting down beside him. “Here, in this bag. I thought you might want to get back to your studies.”

  “However did you guess?” said Frans.

  Calm had returned; the children sat contentedly around the hole in the floor, surrounded by all the debris. They ate cakes, drank lemonade and talked quietly together. Roberto ate a second cake, looked at his guitar with a frown and started to restring it.

  “So the prophecy turned out to be true,” said the magician. “Well, almost… Thanks to your bright – no, brilliant – idea, Geert-Jan and the children found the treasure, and the song sealed the count’s sorry fate. But there’s still one thing that’s bothering me…”

  “Me too,” said Frans. “I think my idea, no matter how bright it may have been, wasn’t really that brilliant. Allowing the children to demolish a room just doesn’t seem right…”

  “Demolish? I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” said the magician. “It’s really not that bad.”

  “They danced a hole in the floor,” said Frans, “and as a reward for their bad behaviour, they found a treasure!”

  “They found a treasure,” repeated the magician. “And that’s what’s bothering me. What about the steps that were supposed to show us where to go?”

  Yes, something wasn’t quite right! Frans thought about the ladder that had almost proved his downfall, but he really didn’t feel like talking about that. “Oh,” he said, “I suppose not all parts of a prophecy have to work out. I didn’t get my green hair because it was predicted, for instance. I have you to thank for that.”

  “That was a bright idea too,” said the magician. “It was traffic lights that gave me the brainwave: if they can switch from red to green, then so can hair. Red and green are complementary colours, as you probably know.”

  “But how long am I going to have to go around like this?” asked Frans.

  “I think your hair will turn amber first,” said Roberto, looking up from his guitar. “And then it’ll probably go back to its old colour.”

  Mr Thomtidom had returned to his own problem. “Scale the heights, head down below, the steps will show you where to go,” he mumbled.

  Roberto strummed his new strings, testing them out.

  “Hey, play something else for us!” cried Geert-Jan, jumping to his feet.

  “Only if you all stay sitting down!” said Aunt Wilhelmina sternly.

  The magician suddenly stood up. He looked at Roberto and sang quietly: Do re mi fa so la ti… I’ve got it!” he said. “The Seven Ways… the seven notes of the scale… Roberto played his guitar, the children sang a song… You can’t make music without a scale… That’s the meaning of Gregorius’s prophecy. Scale the heights! He meant a musical scale!”

  “A musical scale?” repeated Geert-Jan.

  “Yes,” replied Mr Thomtidom. “And the ‘head down below’ – that was your head, Geert-Jan, looking up at us from the hole. ‘The steps will show you where to go’… Oh my goodness me, of course! The steps of the dance. And ‘Together you must beat the Time’ – it wasn’t about the time limit at all. It was all about the music!”

  Roberto strummed his guitar. “Well, I’d never have thought of that,” he said.

  “I wish someone had worked it out sooner,” said Frans, thinking back to all the steps he’d scaled for nothing.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” said the magician with a look of satisfaction. “Prophecies always come true, notwithstanding and in spite of our efforts.”

  When Miss Rosemary returned to the room, all the children were standing around and looking at the pictures in the old, old book. She went to join them and said, “At home in the attic I have a glass case that this book would fit inside perfectly. You can bring the book with you, Geert-Jan, but your uncle has set one condition: you have to keep
the book in the case.”

  They all looked questioningly at her.

  She smiled and nodded at Geert-Jan. “Yes,” she said, “Count Grisenstein thinks it’d be better for you if you came to live with me at the Herb Garden.”

  The children responded to this news with a loud “Hurrah!” Except for Geert-Jan – he didn’t shout; he just looked very happy indeed.

  “What about the count?” Frans asked in a quiet voice.

  “I told Gradus he should return to The Hague,” replied Miss Rosemary. “After all, that’s where counts belong. You know the old song: In The Hague there lives a count… And he can’t stay here. He’s made it impossible for himself, and he must realize that too.”

  “So the House of Stairs is going to be empty,” said Frans.

  Geert-Jan looked around the room. Ivan had come downstairs and was rolling around in the streamers. “But I do love the House of Stairs,” said the boy pensively.

  “Later, when you’re older, it will belong to you,” said Miss Rosemary. “Then you can come and live here – if you like.”

  Geert-Jan nodded and turned to look at Frans. “Sir…” he began, and then he gasped. “Sir, your hair isn’t green anymore… it’s orange!”

  “You see! I was right,” said Roberto. “Soon it’ll be back to red again.”

  Geert-Jan threw his hat in the air and cried cheerfully, “Three cheers for Frans the Red! Hip, hip…!”

  And that was the end of the party.

  The children said goodbye and went home, and the policemen went on their way too. Selina and Berend cleared up the mess and headed off to the kitchen, taking the leftover cakes with them. Count Grisenstein returned, calm, cool and polite, as if nothing had happened. The conspirators were waiting for him.

  For the first time, all seven of them were together: Frans the Red and Roberto, Miss Rosemary and Aunt Wilhelmina, Jan Thomtidom and Jan Tooreloor, and Ivan the Terrible, who was winding around Geert-Jan’s legs.