Frans slowly shook his head.
“But I’m sure you can,” said the magician. “Count Grisenstein is looking for a tutor for his young nephew, a teacher who can educate him. And that teacher is you!”
“Why would you…?” began Frans.
“You read the advertisement that he placed in the local newspapers…”
“I most certainly did not!”
“Asking for someone to give private lessons,” the magician persisted. “And you wrote a letter in response.”
“Oh, did I really?” said Frans indignantly. “Then I’m sure I must have done it so that I could search for the treasure, eh?”
“No, searching for treasure isn’t your job. And besides, you didn’t know anything about the treasure at that point.”
“There are a lot of things that I don’t know anything about!” shouted Frans. “Now, would you finally tell me why you asked me to come here?”
“To warn you,” said the magician calmly. “Count Grisenstein is a dangerous gentleman, but that mustn’t stop you from going to the House of Stairs and becoming Geert-Jan’s tutor.”
“But that’s out of the question!” said Frans. “I already have a job, at the village school. I work there every day of the week, except Sunday.”
“But you have Wednesday and Saturday afternoons off!” said the magician. “And you’ll do this for the sake of little Geert-Jan, won’t you? That poor boy, who’s never allowed to play with other children…” He took a step closer to Frans and suddenly he looked very serious. “Think about the rhyme,” he said, “the rhyme written in stone:
“The Treasure shall be hidden out of Sight
Until found by a Child who has the Right.
“That child is Geert-Jan. For the first time in hundreds of years, the terms of the prophecy have come to pass.
“The Fiendish Foe will watch and wait
But a Song will seal his sorry Fate.
“That Fiendish Foe is Count Gradus Grisenstein, with his grasping, greedy heart and his grim and gruesome plans. But he won’t get what he’s after.”
Frans leapt to his feet. He spoke in a loud voice in an attempt to shake off his vague sense of fear. “That’s enough!” he said.
“Prophecies, legends, mysteries and secrets! I wouldn’t even dare tell such a crazy story to the children in my class!”
“Oh yes, the children,” said the magician with a nod. “Ask them for advice. They’ll tell you to write Count Grisenstein a letter saying that you’re sorry his coachman didn’t find you at home on Friday evening, and that you’d like to make another appointment. With your good references, you stand an excellent chance of getting the position.”
Frans was speechless.
“And of course this conversation was just between the two of us,” the magician added. “And by all that’s good and holy I implore you never to mention Sevenways. The Count must not suspect that you have ever set foot there.”
“If only that were true,” muttered Frans.
“Don’t say that,” said the magician. “How else do you intend to beat the Dragon?”
Dragon? That was the final straw. Frans knew he couldn’t stay a minute longer. He took a step back, nodded stiffly and said, “My thanks for your wise advice and enlightening words. But now I really do have to go.”
Frans practically fled. He thought he heard the magician shout something after him, but he didn’t look back. Quickly he climbed up the hill, then back down, and ran past the tent, across the field of grass and to the front door.
He jumped onto his bike and rode off, pedalling so hard that he flew along as if he were on a motor scooter.
THAT WAS THREE and now for Part Four
4
FRANS DISCOVERS THAT THERE’S A CONSPIRACY
He makes friends with Roberto
THIS IS ONE
After a while, Frans slowed down so that he could think more clearly.
Right then, he thought, at least now I know for sure that the magician is mad, completely round the bend, as mad as that Count Gregorius he was talking about, or maybe I’ve gone mad myself – but that’s still not going to get me anywhere! Whatever is at the bottom of all this?
His visit to Mr Thomtidom suddenly felt like a dream. The lane he was riding along looked strange too – he didn’t know why but something was not as it should be.
“Frans, just keep calm,” he said to himself. “You’ll feel better later, when you’ve had something to eat.”
There was Sevenways already. He wasn’t far from home now. But then Frans glanced at his watch and had such a shock that he almost lost control of the handlebars. He looked again… and a few seconds later he was at the signpost, with his bike lying beside him on the ground. He held his watch to his ear; it was still ticking. He’d wound it up that morning and checked that it was right – and now it was quarter to five!
Not one o’clock, but quarter to five!
There was no doubt about it. Now he understood why the lane had seemed so strange: the light had changed, and the sun was already low in the sky. So he’d left the magician’s at around quarter past four… That meant he’d been asleep for almost four hours instead of just a few minutes!
The magician had turned back the hands of his bird clock and then acted like everything was normal.
He must have put something in the port, thought Frans. But why? Why?
He didn’t get the chance to think about the answer to that question, though, as he heard someone call his name in a loud and indignant voice.
“Frans van der Steg!”
His landlady came striding towards him from the direction of the village. She was wearing her purple hat and a coat with a fur collar, and holding an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other. Her face was red and angry.
“Well, aren’t you a fine one!” she said. “I waited for you for a good hour at lunchtime. And now I find his lordship taking the air at Sevenways, as calm as anything.”
“Aunt Wilhelmina…” Frans began. “I mean, Mrs Bakker… I’m terribly sorry, but I…”
“Please, no excuses,” she interrupted him. “You’ll have to heat up your lunch yourself, and I hope for your sake that you have your key with you. The front door’s locked and I’m not giving you mine.”
She turned and, without looking back, strode off along the track leading to “The Herb Garden”. With dismay, Frans watched her go; he knew he didn’t have his key.
“Oooh!” said a voice behind him. “That’s tough luck on an empty stomach. Unless you want to come and eat at my place.”
Frans spun around. It was Roberto… or the Biker Boy.
Of the two, he looked more like the young man Frans had met at the Thirsty Deer. He was dressed flamboyantly, in a brightly checked shirt and dusty khaki trousers, with a red handkerchief tied loosely around his neck and a wide-brimmed straw hat perched on the back of his head. He was standing hands on hips and legs apart – with tall muddy boots on his feet, and his right hand resting on a big penknife that was hanging from his belt. He looked at Frans with a challenging grin.
“Well?” he said. “Say something! Are you up for it?”
“Up for what?” said Frans coldly. Then he walked closer and said, “So what are you now? A cowboy?”
The young man raised his eyebrows. “I’m Roberto,” he replied, “as you well know. And I was just kind enough to invite you to come and eat at my place.”
“Yes, very kind indeed,” said Frans sarcastically. “But please don’t feel obliged to do something in return for the chips. You were very welcome to them.”
“Now what are you talking about?” asked Roberto with a look of surprise on his face.
“Stop trying to make a fool of me,” said Frans. “I know perfectly well who you are.”
“Of course you do, I just told you,” the boy said. “I’m Roberto, adventurer and idler.”
“And Biker Boy,” Frans added.
“First cowboy, now Biker Boy,” said R
oberto. He sounded annoyed. “Listen, you can’t go around saying all kinds of things about me! What’s your problem with me, schoolteacher?”
“All these mysterious goings-on… and your friends, that’s my problem!” said Frans. “Why are you acting as if I’ve never been on the back of your scooter?” He pointed dramatically at the tumbledown pub. “That’s where we first met, in Torelore’s Tavern… I mean Tooreloor’s.”
“Mysterious goings-on?” said Roberto. “So Mr Thomtidom didn’t tell you anything?” He pronounced the magician’s name correctly.
“Mr Thomtidom…” repeated Frans. “So you’re both involved in the same conspiracy!”
“That’s right,” said Roberto, nodding calmly. “The Conspiracy of Seven. And you’re one of us…” He held up his hand and continued, “Don’t interrupt! You will be one of us as soon as you’re initiated. But you mustn’t be so suspicious and you have to stop going on about scooters and chips. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, how do you think I feel?” wailed Frans. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on! What am I supposed to make of you, for instance? Please don’t try telling me some tired old story about a twin brother who’s your double.”
“I don’t have any brothers,” said Roberto. “Anyway, that’s enough chatting. Are you coming? I live nearby and I’d like to remind you that I just invited you round to eat.”
Frans remembered just how hungry he was, but he said, “And do you intend to slip me some kind of sleeping potion too, so that I’ll wake up in a few hours with no idea what’s happened in the meantime?”
“What do you think I am?” exclaimed Roberto, staring at him with big, innocent eyes.
“That’s exactly what that friend of yours, Thomtidom the magician, just did.”
“Oh, him!” said Roberto, shrugging his shoulders. “It may not have been a sleeping pill. Could have been hypnosis. He says he has hypnotic powers, and he does like to experiment.”
“You seem to think it’s perfectly normal,” Frans said abruptly. “Well, I don’t! I refuse to be someone’s guinea pig.”
“Well, I don’t have hypnotic powers in any case,” said Roberto. He took off his hat, turned up the brim, put it back on, and said, “And if you come to visit me, there are sausages for tea!”
Frans frowned thoughtfully. He suddenly realized that he quite liked Roberto, even though he didn’t trust him one bit.
“Sausages with mustard,” said the boy.
That settled it. “Fine,” said Frans. “I accept your invitation.”
“Just leave your bike here,” said Roberto. “It’ll only be a nuisance on the path to my place. It’s this way.” He pointed at the blood-red arm of the signpost.
“The way to the robbers’ den…” muttered Frans. He picked up his bike, leant it against the wall of the pub, and then followed his new acquaintance, wondering if he would soon get to find out more about this Conspiracy of Seven.
Roberto led the way along the muddy path, which was so narrow that they had to walk in single file. It wound around, taking them through hilly woodland. Roberto strode ahead in his big boots, whistling quietly to himself. For Frans, who was not wearing boots, the walk wasn’t as pleasant. They went over a number of ditches and streams, across rickety plank bridges. Frans counted the bridges; there were five in total. Twice they came to a ditch that they had to jump over. Roberto was right; this was no path for a bike – and certainly not for a scooter.
Now and then Roberto looked back, and one time he said, “It’s not far now.”
That wasn’t quite true though, and they walked on for a long time, mostly in silence. Frans was surprised at himself. He really should have been asking all kinds of questions. But, he thought, I wouldn’t really know where to begin. I’m just going to wait and see what happens. I do hope he was telling the truth about those sausages though.
“We’re nearly there,” Roberto suddenly announced. “Stand there and wait until I call you.” He quickened his pace, ran on ahead and disappeared into the trees.
“As you command,” Frans muttered to himself. “And I will obey.” He shifted from one leg to the other, feeling how wet his feet had become. He glanced at his watch a few times (it was already after half past five) and when two whole minutes had gone by, he began to get impatient.
“Hey, Roberto!” he called. “Where are you? I’m coming!”
“Give me a moment!” came Robert’s reply. His voice was clear and came from somewhere nearby. So at least he hadn’t run away.
Frans waited for a minute. Then he decided he’d had enough; he gritted his teeth and started walking.
But suddenly, there was a big bang, and the ground shook. Frans gasped and froze for a moment. Then he broke into a run. “Roberto!” he yelled.
He could smell something – it was just like gunpowder! And as he raced around the bend in the path, the first thing he saw was a cannon.
It was a real cannon, and Roberto was standing beside it, with a look of triumph on his face.
“A salute for you!” he called to Frans.
Frans stopped in his tracks and said, “That’s a dangerous game you’re playing!”
“Don’t worry. It was just a blank,” said Roberto. “What do you think? Isn’t it amazing?”
Frans couldn’t help but agree. When he took a closer look at the cannon, he was really impressed. It must have been well over a hundred years old, but it was still in good condition. “A very fine cannon indeed,” he said. “How did you get your hands on it?”
“Oh, I just found it lying around,” Roberto replied casually.
Frans didn’t ask any more questions. It seemed that he’d ended up in a part of the world where antique cannons were as easy to find as buttons and marbles – a place where magicians could use their powers to send a person to sleep and eccentric counts lived in castles filled with staircases and hidden treasure.
He saw now that they were in a clearing. There was a tent like Mr Thomtidom’s near the cannon. Behind it, half hidden among the trees, he saw a small, round building, the kind of thing you might find in a park. It was even more tumbledown and moss-covered than the pub at Sevenways.
Roberto took a primus stove from the tent, lit it and put a kettle on top. Spreading a canvas sheet on the ground, he invited Frans to sit down. Then he began to prepare their meal, laying all kinds of things on the ground beside Frans: two bright red plastic cups and a cracked plate, bags of sugar and tea, some bread, a jar of mustard and two tins of hotdog sausages. “Could you open them?” he said, putting his penknife in Frans’s hand. Meanwhile he disappeared into the little building and returned with his arms full of wood.
“I hope it’s not too damp,” he said, as he skilfully started to build a fire.
A campfire in the woods… at the end of a path marked by the blood-red arm of a signpost, and a tent that was guarded by an ancient cannon…
Frans and Roberto sat together like old pals, enjoying the meal of heated-up sausages, with a side dish of bread, which they toasted on a stick over the fire, and strong, sweet tea.
By then, the light was turning reddish gold, and the shadows beneath the trees were becoming dark and mysterious.
“So have I been initiated into your conspiracy now?” asked Frans, when he’d finished the last sausage. He said it half joking, half seriously. If he’d been just a few years younger, he might have spoken entirely seriously, even if he’d known it was just a game.
“No, not yet,” replied Roberto, and there was no sound of amusement in his voice, although he spoke quite casually. “First I need to know if you’re prepared to carry out your part of the plan, and if you’ll keep our aim secret from our enemies and from the uninitiated.”
“And what is that aim?” asked Frans.
“Ssh!” said Roberto. “Don’t talk too loud. We’re close to the territory of the Fiendish Foe.”
“The Fiendish Foe?” repeated Frans. “Who? Where?”
> “Count Grisenstein’s estate,” whispered Roberto. He gave Frans a sideways glance before continuing, “Why are you asking about things you already know? Mr Thomtidom must have told you all this! About Sir Grimbold, who brought the treasure here, about Count Gregorius, who hid the treasure, about Count Gradus, who wants to have the treasure, and about Count Geert-Jan, who’s the rightful owner of the treasure… Geert-Jan, who’s imprisoned in…”
“Imprisoned?” said Frans. “Who by?”
“By his uncle, of course, you dope! Count Gradus Grisenstein.”
“Ah, it’s a classic story, told a thousand times,” murmured Frans, ignoring that remark about “you dope”. “The Wicked Uncle, the Innocent Child, in a house filled with stairs and family secrets…”
“It’s not some kind of fairy tale!” said Roberto, his voice rising in indignation. “How would you like being locked up in that house, not even allowed to put your nose outside?” He leant closer to Frans and added in a whisper, “If the boy finds the treasure now, his life will be in danger! Then Count Grisenstein will no longer have to act the concerned uncle…”
Frans sat up with a start. “What are you saying?” he exclaimed, half incredulous, half horrified.
“Don’t be alarmed. Geert-Jan won’t find the treasure, not on his own… not if the prophecy is right.”
“Prophecy?” said Frans.
“So you don’t know anything about it?”