“So were there seven ways back then?” asked Frans, who wasn’t really in the mood for a lecture on local history.
Mr Thomtidom answered this question with another question.
“Answer me this, how many paths meet at a fork in the road?”
Frans thought for a moment. “Three,” he replied. “It’s a road that splits in two, so it’s three different paths in total.”
“Exactly. And how many ways are there when three paths meet?”
“Three, of course,” Frans replied. “That’s three ways, too,” he added, feeling rather surprised after all.
“So what conclusion can we draw?” said the magician in his lecturing voice. “If two roads can be three, then it follows that seven ways can be six, not seven.”
Frans frowned and didn’t say anything.
“Just think about it,” the magician continued. “You get Sevenways by adding together a fork in the road and a crossroads. A crossroads is four roads and a fork in the road is both three roads and two, so therefore we can demonstrate that six ways are in reality the same as seven.”
Frans almost choked on his coffee as he tried to follow the magician’s logic. It all sounded very clever, but he was sure something wasn’t right. To his annoyance, though, he couldn’t quite spot the flaw in the man’s reasoning. A little sharply, he said, “With that kind of thinking, you could undermine our entire system of arithmetic.”
“Do you really think so?” said the magician with a smile. “I’m delighted to hear it. You know, I’m not one of those people who is always at sixes and sevens or in two minds or who does everything at the eleventh hour. And that’s as sure as two and two doesn’t always make four.”
But Frans wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about maths. “Mr Tomtidom…” he began.
“THomtidom, please, not Tomtidom,” the magician corrected him, pronouncing the TH in his name very clearly.
“Mr THomtidom,” said Frans, “you asked me to visit to…”
“…to give you the chance to ask me something,” the magician said, completing his sentence for him. “Or rather, to give me the chance to tell you something.”
“About Count Grisenstein,” said Frans, “who lives on the stairs.”
“At the House of Stairs,” repeated the magician. “So you already know!”
“I don’t know anything!” cried Frans. “Where on earth is the House of Stairs? It can’t be that old ruin by the signpost and…”
“Please, Mr Van der Steg, not so loud,” said the magician. “The building at Sevenways obviously isn’t the House of Stairs, but the ruin of Jan Tooreloor’s tavern.”
“But the signpost says…”
“Once upon a time, many years ago, the pub was on the road to the House of Stairs.”
“Oh,” said Frans. “So it’s a real place, then?”
“But surely you never doubted that, Mr Van der Steg? Otherwise you’d never have come here to ask me about Count Grisenstein!”
“To be honest, I’m not convinced he exists either,” said Frans. “I received a letter from him and…”
“Well, non-existent people don’t send letters, do they?”
“The letter was a reply to a letter from me, one that I never wrote!”
“A reply to a letter from you? And what did your letter say?”
“I just told you. I never wrote a letter!”
“Please calm down, Mr Van der Steg,” the magician said in a soothing tone. “Maybe you just forgot. Some people are simply forgetful by nature.”
“Not me,” said Frans angrily.
The magician downed his coffee and stood up. “We have secrets to unravel and mysteries to solve,” he said. “And now that we’ve finished our coffee, it’s time to begin. Please accompany me to my house.”
“Your… house?!”
“Yes, my house,” said the magician. “As the façade proved merely to have the appearance of a house, you thought this tent was in reality my home. In fact, I only spend time here when I need to meditate. My real house is a good deal more comfortable. Come with me, and I shall reveal the heart of the matter.”
He hears about a hidden treasure and a rhyme written in stone
THIS IS THREE
On the other side of the hill, between a copse of birch trees and a pine grove, stood a small wooden bungalow with a huge chimney. That was his real house, the magician said.
Unless he has another house hidden away somewhere nearby, thought Frans. But when he went inside the bungalow, his doubts vanished, because everything looked just as it should.
There were shelves full of books, and more books piled up on the chairs and the floor. Hanging on the walls were thermometers and barometers, old engravings and faded maps, and shelf after shelf of the strangest objects. A first quick glance revealed lots of bottles filled with all kinds of coloured liquids, four or five hourglasses, a crystal ball, an octahedron, a Bunsen burner, a rack of test tubes, a black hat, three pinecones, a bird’s skull and a terrarium with salamanders inside. The room was pretty packed, but still fairly neat and tidy. In the middle was a round table with a colourful tablecloth woven with the signs of the zodiac.
“Please sit down over there,” said the magician.
Frans looked around, trying to find a chair that had nothing on it, until his host freed one up for him by removing a stack of books.
“Actually,” he said, “these are your books. I’ve been keeping them for you.”
“But where on earth did you get them from?” asked Frans. “Oh, of course,” he continued. “I don’t really need to ask, do I? You must know that rude coachman, and the young man who calls himself the Biker Boy.”
“The Biker Boy?” repeated the magician, clearing another chair and joining Frans at the table.
“I mean Roberto,” said Frans. “Does he have a scooter?”
“Roberto? No, he definitely does not have a scooter,” replied the magician.
“I don’t know if I believe that, Mr Thomtidom,” said Frans. “Thank you for looking after my books, but what I’d really like to know now is why that coachman disappeared and abandoned me at Sevenways in the dark.”
“Oh, you mustn’t hold that against him,” the magician said. “Poor Jan hasn’t had the easiest of lives, so he can sometimes be a little difficult to get along with. Besides, you’re the one who got out of the coach. I believe you actually refused to go any farther.”
“Yes, but…” began Frans.
“Oh, I forgive you completely,” the magician said, interrupting him. “As you said, it was dark, and our courage can fail us at such times.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Frans, with a chill in his voice. “I’m not the cowardly type, but I don’t see why I should meekly allow myself to be carried off to… who knows where?”
“Who knows where? You know where!” the magician said. “Your destination was the House of Stairs. Which brings us to the heart of the matter. I shall begin with the House of Stairs. First, though, I’d like to ask you something. Why are you so curious about Count Grisenstein?”
“Why?!” exclaimed Frans. “You’re asking me… Now that really is the last straw! It seems as if everyone’s conspiring against me!”
“Please don’t be angry, Mr Van der Steg,” said the magician. “You’re a stranger to these parts, so you don’t know that there are some subjects we discuss only in whispers around here. And one of those subjects is the House of Stairs. Before I take you into my confidence, I would like to know: firstly, why you accepted Count Grisenstein’s invitation; secondly, why you changed your mind when you reached Sevenways; and thirdly, why you then decided to go exploring and went to Roskam.”
Frans did not reply.
“And to convince you that the House of Stairs is not some fantasy, I’d like to show you this,” the magician continued. He handed Frans a well-thumbed book. “Turn to page 77,” he added.
The book was called Historic Houses and page 77 began as follows:
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The House of Stairs is one of the oldest and most remarkable buildings in this region. It owes its name to the large number of staircases it possesses.
“So many steps! Stairs and ladders and fire escapes…” said the magician. “The building’s a maze. No two rooms are on the same level. So…” he continued, “will you answer my questions now?”
Frans realized it was the only way he’d find out anything. And so he told the magician the whole story, starting with the letter. He even mentioned the children and that he’d suspected them of being involved.
When Frans had finished, the magician gave a satisfied nod and said, “Now it’s my turn, Mr Van der Steg. Close the book. You can read it at home later. I shall now give you a brief account of the history of the House of Stairs.”
Frans settled back and prepared to listen. He was sure the magician’s tale would be a long one and would involve plenty of learned words.
“The House of Stairs,” said Mr Thomtidom, “has belonged to the Grisenstein family for centuries, and even today it is inhabited by members of that illustrious clan, although they are not as powerful and eminent as they once were. Once upon a time” – and now he sat up straight – “everyone would prick up their ears at the sound of that name. There was Count Gregorius, for instance, also known as Gregorius the Mad, who had nine cats to guard his castle and raced through the woods on his horse at night, singing at the top of his voice. His daughter Griselda was… but I mustn’t get side-tracked. I’d better go back to the Middle Ages, and the days of Sir Grimbold, a knight who…”
“Do you really have to go back that far?” asked Frans. “I came here to find out about the Count Grisenstein who’s alive today! I’m sure all those ancestors are very interesting, but I don’t have much time…”
Just then, the clock on the mantelpiece began to make a grinding sound, as if to lend force to his words. Frans had never seen such a peculiar clock. It looked like a castle with towers, and each of the towers had one or two windows, like a cuckoo clock. The clock’s face was where the gate of the castle would be, its hands pointing to twelve. As Frans studied the clock, the window in the tallest tower opened and, instead of a cuckoo, a wooden owl popped out, looked at him with glassy yellow eyes and said “Hoo-hoo!” twelve times, in a deep voice.
“I made that clock myself,” said the magician, when the owl had vanished back into the tower.
“What a fine piece of work!” said Frans.
“You really think so?” said the magician, sounding flattered. “It’s not quite finished yet. That owl should only appear at twelve midnight. I have another bird in mind for noon – what do you think of a lark? At one o’clock a hummingbird hums, and two turtledoves coo at two… Oh, it was quite a job carving all those birds! At first I was only going to use mythical creatures, but the problem is that I don’t know what kind of sounds they make. The phoenix, for instance, and the garuda and the roc and the griffin… I don’t suppose you happen to know their calls, do you?”
Frans replied that unfortunately he didn’t.
“That’s a shame,” said the magician. “Well, maybe I could keep them silent and just use them for the half-hours. But to get back to the House of Stairs… Where was I again? Oh yes, Sir Grimbold. Now I definitely need to tell you about him. Sir Grimbold went on a crusade, and he was away for seven years. He returned with many tales of dangerous adventures and a large chest made of ebony. That chest contained a treasure of inestimable value, but he told no one how he came to have it, and no one was allowed to look inside the chest. Sir Grimbold’s family lived near here in a house made of grey stone, which is where the name Grisenstein comes from, but for himself he built a lowly hovel at the point where the Seven Ways meet. He lived there as a hermit for the rest of his life, and he kept the chest with him. However, after his death, it simply vanished…” The magician looked at Frans and repeated the word: “Vanished!” Then he stood up and said, “All you’ve had is coffee. How about something a little stronger?”
“Oh, please, don’t trouble yourself,” said Frans.
“No, no. It’s no trouble at all. You’ll have a glass of port with me, won’t you? It’s very good, a lovely deep-red glow, like the blood of rubies.” The magician put two crystal glasses on the table and brought out a dusty bottle. As he poured the drink, he continued his story.
“A couple of hundred years later, Sir Grimbold’s great-great-great-grandson Gregorius enlarged and embellished the grey stone house, and named it the House of Stairs. When they were working on the cellars, a secret passage was discovered, which led to the spot where the hermit’s cell had once stood.” The magician raised his glass and said, “To your health and to the success of your new venture.”
New venture? thought Frans. What venture? but all he said was, “Thank you,” and drank some port. It was indeed very good.
The magician also took a sip. “In the library at the House of Stairs,” he said, “there is still a document that was written and signed by Count Gregorius Grisenstein. He reveals that he found Sir Grimbold’s chest, and the treasure inside it – which was ‘exquisitely fine’. Then he had the passage bricked up and the treasure hidden once again, this time in the House of Stairs itself. He does not say where, and he concludes with the following lines:
“Words written in stone with a good, true knife
Will last far longer than my own brief life.”
The magician emptied his glass. “So, what do you think?” he asked.
“A secret passage and a hidden treasure,” said Frans. “It’s almost too good to be true.” He noticed that his glass was full again; his host must have topped it up. Frans took a sip, looked at the clock (it was quarter past twelve) and asked, “And then what happened?”
“The treasure was never found,” the magician said in a hushed voice. “All the Grisensteins have searched for it, and that may be one of the reasons why the House of Stairs has seen so much demolition and rebuilding. It truly is a remarkable building! The following words are carved into the stone lintel of the back door. Listen closely, Mr Van der Steg!
“The Treasure shall be hidden out of Sight
Until found by a Child who has the Right.
The Fiendish Foe will watch and wait
But a Song will seal his sorry Fate.”
A silence fell. Frans emptied his glass and politely refused when the magician offered him a refill. Then he asked, “Why are you telling me all this?”
“It’s the inscription that Count Gregorius was referring to in his document,” said the magician, “the words written in stone. Count Gregorius hid the treasure. And Count Gregorius was, of course, none other than Gregorius the Mad, who was in the habit of infuriating everyone with his mysterious utterances and incomprehensible rhymes, which he liked to refer to as prophecies.”
Frans glanced at the clock again. It was almost twenty-five past twelve, and he needed to leave at half past. His landlady had told him not to be late for lunch. The magician’s story really did seem to be taking a long time. Was it his voice that was making Frans so sleepy?
When, he thought, is he finally going to get to the “heart of the matter”?
“That’s why,” continued the magician, “some people claim there never was any treasure, and that Gregorius the Mad made it all up! However, there is another account…” His voice became quieter and quieter until it was just a vague buzzing.
Then Frans heard nothing more.
THE SEKRIT TRESURE … that was the title of Marian’s essay. No… No, it was Mr Thomtidom the magician who’d been talking about treasure…
Frans opened one eye and realized his head was lolling on the table.
Oh dear, he’d fallen asleep!
With a jolt, he sat up. He blinked and felt his face turning red.
The magician was sitting opposite him, looking at him with a sympathetic smile. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked.
“N… no… yes…” stuttered Frans.
“You’re not tired, are you?” said the magician. “I do hope my story didn’t bore you. Sometimes I do rather stray from the point.”
Frans saw that it was only one minute before half past twelve, so fortunately he’d fallen asleep for just the briefest of moments, although he still didn’t understand how it could have happened. He took a deep breath and smelt a scent of pine trees and freshly mown grass, with a hint of something else: pepper and peppermint… Suddenly he realized he was hungry. “I’m not tired in the slightest,” he said, and he sneezed.
“Bless you,” said the magician. He’d taken off his black coat and didn’t look nearly as elegant now that he was in his braces and a green shirt.
Frans straightened his glasses and said, “It was most interesting. Please go on. You told me about the treasure, but you haven’t told me about Count Grisenstein yet. I mean the Count Grisenstein who wrote to me.” As he spoke, he thought: How strange that I’m so hungry.
“The man calls himself Count Grisenstein, and he is undoubtedly a Grisenstein,” said the magician. “His first name is Gradus. But the true and legal Lord of the House of Stairs is Geert-Jan, even though he’s only ten years old. He’s the heir to the house and the owner of the treasure, should it ever be found. And if there’s any truth to the old story I just told you, he’s the one who holds the key to the secret.”
But Frans hadn’t heard the story the magician had just told. He didn’t dare to tell him that, though, but just nodded at the other man, trying to look as intelligent as he could. His stomach had started rumbling. He blushed again and hoped his host wouldn’t notice.
The magician stood up and started pacing the room. He had to step over the occasional pile of books, but he didn’t stumble once. As he paced, he continued his story, “Count Gradus Grisenstein is the great-uncle and guardian of young Geert-Jan, who is an orphan. They live at the House of Stairs, with a couple of grumpy manservants and a bad-tempered housekeeper. Geert-Jan has a weak constitution, they say, and he hardly ever comes outside. But that,” he continued, “is absolute nonsense! The Grisensteins have always, without exception, enjoyed perfect health – so why not Geert-Jan? His uncle says he’s not allowed to go to school. But he still has to learn, of course.” He stopped and asked Frans, “So can you guess now why Count Grisenstein wanted to speak to you?”