The Song of Seven Page 2

  He took off his glasses and thoughtfully polished the lenses. That rain! It was coming down so hard and the wind was howling away!

  “A fine beginning for a ghost story,” he said to himself, shaking his head. “A letter that was franked on a date it couldn’t have been sent. Written by someone with the grim and gruesome name of Gr… Gr… And tomorrow he’s sending his ‘man’ to pick me up, at half past seven precisely. Who on earth does he think he is, ordering me about like that?”

  THAT WAS ONE and now for Part Two

  2

  FRANS GOES FOR A RIDE IN THE DARK

  In a carriage through the rain

  THIS IS ONE

  It wasn’t Maarten who was the first to ask if their teacher’s new adventure had begun yet. Marian beat him to it, at quarter to three, when they were drawing.

  “Sir,” she said, “what was in the letter?”

  Frans gave her a piercing stare. Marian looked like an angel, but a very mischievous one, and she wrote wildly imaginative essays about secret treasures hidden away in even more secret passages. But her handwriting and spelling were so bad that the letter couldn’t possibly have come from her.

  “What are you talking about, Marian?” he asked.

  “About the letter that was going to arrive yesterday,” she said. “You told us that…” Then she fell silent and blushed.

  Mr Van der Steg looked around the class. The children stared back at him. They’re all in on it, he thought. They know more about this whole business than I do – I’m sure of it! And he said slowly, “Yesterday evening, with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, the letter came blowing into the house. I found it lying on the mat.”

  The children looked as if they were really interested to find out what would happen next. “I was astonished,” he continued, “because I have no idea who sent it, but he knew my name and address and…”

  “But you told us he was going to write to you,” said Maarten, interrupting him. “So you must know him! I mean…”

  “Don’t interrupt when I’m speaking, Maarten,” said Frans van der Steg. “I was expecting a letter, that’s true, but not this one…” He paused, not quite sure what to say next. Until now, he’d always had complete control of the adventures he’d invented. But even if the children were somehow involved, it wouldn’t have been kind of him to keep quiet about the letter. So he said, “According to the person who sent this letter, I wrote to him too, last week. But I didn’t.”

  “Ooh, it’s so mysterious,” whispered Marian. Her eyes were sparkling and there was a smudge of green paint on her nose.

  “Who…” began Maarten. Then he put up his hand and asked politely, “Who sent it, sir?”

  “I don’t know. He calls himself Gr… Gr…” Frans turned around and wrote the name on the board in big letters. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “It sounds like a growl or a groan, don’t you think?” he said. “He must be a grisly grump. Or maybe a griping grouch. Gr… Gr… Do you think his surname’s Grumplestiltskin?”

  “He’s a greasy grotbag,” said Kai.

  “A grim grizzly bear!” cried Maarten.

  “He wants me to pay him a visit this evening,” Frans continued. “He’s sending his man to take me to his house in the woods… But,” he added in a brisk tone, “his man will have a wasted journey, because I won’t be at home.” That was true. On Fridays he always went into town for his evening classes.

  But the children thought that was wrong of him. Imagine not being at home when a gruesome grouch is sending his man to pick you up so that you can pay him a visit. Surely their teacher didn’t mean it…

  It took Frans some time to calm them down.

  “This Mr Gr… Gr… mustn’t think he can boss me around!” he declared. “If he’s so keen to speak to me, then let him come to me. And I shall tell him exactly what I think of him.”

  At twenty-five past seven that evening, Frans van der Steg put his books in his bag. Then he wrapped his scarf around his neck, wondering if he should go on his bike or take the bus into town. It was still raining, so he decided on the bus. I’ll have to run, he thought, or I’ll miss it.

  As he stood in the hallway, putting on his coat, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” he called to Mrs Bakker, who was washing up in the kitchen. “And then I’ll be off.”

  On the doorstep stood a large man in a dark coat. He’d put up his collar and pulled his cap down almost over his eyes. Frans couldn’t see much of his face, just a big red nose. He stood there in the storm, rain and hail, and said bluntly, “Are you Van der Steg?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” replied Frans, and then he saw a carriage on the road in front of the house – an old-fashioned coach with a black horse.

  “It’s half past seven,” said the stranger. “I’m here to fetch you.”

  “Yes, but…” Frans began.

  His landlady called from the kitchen, “Close the door, Frans! Do you want me to blow away?”

  “Get in,” said the man. Then he turned around and walked to the coach.

  Frans headed outside, closing the door behind him. He wanted to tell the stranger that he had another appointment and so he couldn’t go with him. But the man didn’t give him the opportunity. He climbed up front into the driver’s seat and pointed his long whip at the coach door.

  “Get in!” he ordered.

  “Do you think I’m mad?” replied Frans van der Steg. But suddenly the adventurous spirit of his own stories took hold of him. Why not?

  He climbed in, closed the door – and sat there in the carriage, with his bag full of books beside him. They moved off – the wheels rattling, the horses’ hoofs click-clacking on the road, the wind whistling through the gaps around the windows, and the rain drumming on the roof. The coach sped up, going faster and faster, swaying and wobbling, and it was pitch dark inside.

  “Ah, yes, it would seem that I am in fact mad,” Frans said to himself. “I’m skiving off my classes and I don’t even know where this grumpy coachman is taking me.”

  Frans couldn’t see anything through the windows. He tried to open one, but it wouldn’t budge. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he raised his voice and shouted, “Hey, coachman! Coachman! Where are we going?”

  There was no answer. Just the sound of rain and wind, of wheels and hoofs. He fiddled with the windows again, tugging and banging on them. And as he did so (with no luck), he realized he wasn’t enjoying himself at all. Then the carriage suddenly rounded a bend, and he fell off the seat. When he’d picked himself back up, he noticed that the thud of the horses’ hoofs sounded much duller now. They seemed to be riding along a dirt track, so they must have left the village behind. As I live in a somewhat remote spot in the woods…

  But of course he couldn’t be afraid – not Frans the Red, the Hero of Torelore and the Vanquisher of the Abominable Snowman!

  But I do wish I could see something, he thought. Again he tried to open a window. This time he realized that he needed to pull it down; it was stiff, but he finally managed it. The wind blew about his ears, but at least he could look outside now.

  Yes, they were riding along a dirt track. A lantern hung on the outside of the coach, but its light was weak and it kept swaying, so he couldn’t make out very much at all. He could vaguely see fields and a dark sky above. There was no sign of the village – no houses, no barns, no farms. Frans leant out of the window and yelled at the coachman, “Hey, you! Where are you taking me?”

  The coachman didn’t appear to hear him; he just cracked his whip and the carriage went even faster.

  Frans sat back down. The coach was shaking him about, and he was beginning to feel rather cold. He couldn’t get the window closed again, so he just sat and looked outside.

  “A nice little ride in the countryside,” he muttered to himself. “In a coach that must be over a hundred years old… the suspension isn’t in great condition and I wouldn’t be surprised if a wheel fell off. And all at some ungodly hour… But no, it can�
��t be much later than eight o’clock…” He tried to remember if he’d ever seen this coach before – as far as he knew, there was nothing like it in the village. They were riding through a copse of trees now. The village was surrounded by plenty of woodland, and Frans had already been for a few bike rides, but it was too dark to make out anything that might have been familiar.

  As the coach slowed down, he leant out of the window again and thought he could see a light through the trees. Then they swung around another bend, bounced across a pothole and, with a jolt, came to a stop.

  Silence. Only the sound of the rain.

  “Are we there?” Frans called to the coachman.

  “Not yet,” came his gruff voice. “This is Sevenways.”

  “And where exactly are we going?” asked Frans.

  The coach jerked forward before stopping again. They’d come to a clearing. Frans could see a signpost nearby. “Where are we going?” he asked again.

  “Don’t have to tell you that, do I?” was the grumpy reply.

  Now Frans felt a flash of anger. He turned the door handle, which – wonder of wonders! – opened right away. Then he leapt out of the coach, walked to the front and yelled, “What kind of way is this to treat a person? I refuse to go any farther until I know where we’re going.”

  “Sir!” barked the coachman. “Don’t tell me you know nothing about it!” He waved his whip in the air.

  Frans looked around. They’d stopped at a point where a number of paths met and he could see the outline of a house nearby. There was light in one of the windows.

  “If you don’t get back in,” said the coachman, “you’re going to get soaked.” He clearly didn’t say it out of concern for Frans though, as it sounded more like a threat when he continued, “And you’d better be quick about it, or we’ll be late.”

  Frans took a step backwards and trod in a puddle. For the second time, he felt something that was a little like fear. He glanced at the house again and saw the glint of a sign. It looked like a pub, which meant he couldn’t be too far from civilization. So, firmly, he said, “I’m not getting back into this carriage until I find out who you are and what our destination is.”

  “As you wish, sir!” called the coachman. “If you don’t want to go beyond Sevenways, then you can stay at Sevenways! Good evening.”

  He cracked his whip and shook the reins. The coach moved off, narrowly missing Frans and splashing him with mud, before heading down one of the tracks.

  “If this is a joke, it’s gone too far!” Frans muttered angrily, and he stared after the coach until it disappeared from sight. “Leaving me in the pouring rain at Sevenways. The Seven Ways! I thought that was just a song or a dance…”

  But there was the pub, where he could shelter and have a hot drink. He’d have to walk back home, but he didn’t want to think too hard about that for now.

  The light in the window moved and, as he walked towards the building, it went out. Frans paused for a moment. It was so dark! The pub couldn’t be closed, could it? He felt his way through the dark, groping for the door. It was open, and so he went straight in. The place was even darker inside, but at least it was dry.

  “Hello?” he called. His voice echoed strangely. “Hello!” he called again. “Anyone home?”

  No one answered.

  Frans shivered. Suddenly he knew he was in an abandoned building, in a room without furniture or people. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, but there had been a light just now… It hadn’t been an ordinary light though, he realized, more like a torch or something similar. So there must be someone else inside the building… He listened carefully, but the pouring rain drowned out any other sounds.

  Hesitantly, he took a few steps. He felt another door and went into a second room. And he found himself standing in the rain again… No one could live in this building; the roof wasn’t even intact.

  He went back to the first room, where he leant against a wall, clenching his fists inside his coat pockets. If this had happened in one of his stories, he’d definitely have had some kind of weapon in one of those pockets.

  He held his breath for a moment. Above his head, he could see light through the cracks in the ceiling. It shifted, disappeared… and a second later it shone directly into his face. He blinked. There was a staircase in front of him and someone was coming down, with a torch in his hand.

  On a scooter with a biker boy

  THIS IS TWO

  “What are you doing here?” asked the stranger, coming closer. He was quite short and slight, and he was wearing a crash helmet. His voice sounded young and not at all surprised. Frans was sure he’d never met him before though.

  “I’m sheltering from the rain,” was all Frans said.

  “Yeah, it’s chucking it down,” the young man replied. “Look, it’s raining bricks.” He stopped next to Frans and gave the wall a couple of whacks. A couple of bricks came tumbling down.

  Frans leapt out of the way. “Hey, watch out!” he yelled.

  “This whole place is going to collapse before long,” the young man said cheerfully. “Hey, Jan!” he called, with one hand up to his mouth. “Bring us something to drink!” He turned back to Frans and said, “You didn’t really think this was a pub, did you?” And he shone his torch in Frans’s face again.

  Frans thought this was very unpleasant – not just because he couldn’t see anything now, but also because he felt ridiculous. “But it used to be a pub though,” he said.

  “Yes, it used to. Tooreloor’s Tavern.”

  “Torelore’s?” said Frans with surprise.

  “Tooreloor, Jan Tooreloor, what are we all waiting for?” chanted the young voice in the darkness. “But he’s gone now and this is a haunted house… or a haunted pub.”

  Frans stepped aside to avoid the irritating beam of light. But the torch followed him and the voice asked, “So who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “My name is Frans van der Steg,” Frans answered coldly. “Will you stop shining that light in my eyes? And, if I might ask, who are you?”

  The young man in the crash helmet turned the torch on himself. Frans saw he was just a boy, around sixteen years old, and that he was wearing a black leather jacket.

  “And jeans and biker boots with pointed toes,” said the boy, shining the light on them. Then he showed Frans his face again, looking at him with a mocking sneer. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m a biker.”

  “Oh,” replied Frans. “And what’s your name?”

  “I call myself the Biker Boy and that’s what I am,” the boy replied. “My scooter’s outside.”

  “And what are you doing here?”

  “That’s my question,” said the Biker Boy. “I asked first. Why did you come here in that stupid old coach? You meeting a date here or something?” He grinned and added, “Don’t think she’ll come all the way out to this spooky hole. There are ghosts here after sunset.”

  “What nonsense,” snapped Frans. “You know, my business here is actually none of your concern. But maybe I should be concerned about what you’re up to.”

  “Oh yeah?” said the Biker Boy. “Whatever you say. Actually, as it happens, I could do with some help. I’ve been looking all over for a packet of cigarettes I left lying around here…”

  “And I’m sure you’d like me to help you look, wouldn’t you?” said Frans sarcastically. He didn’t believe a word of the Biker Boy’s tale.

  “You can try,” said the Biker Boy. He swept his torch around the room. It had clearly once been the pub’s main bar, but now it was empty and bare, dirty and rundown. “But you won’t find it,” the Biker Boy continued. “There are three cigarettes in the packet, and my mates drew a skull on it, with their signatures underneath.”

  The circle of light paused at a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a cobweb and a big fat spider.

  “It was a bet,” the Biker Boy said. “We were out here this afternoon, me and my mates, and they said I wouldn’t dare to come b
ack after sunset. So I bet them I would. I’m supposed to bring back the cigarette packet they left here as proof that I came… Hey, you don’t have it, do you?”

  “Of course not,” said Frans. “I got here after you.”

  Then there was a sudden bang above his head, as if something had fallen. Frans jumped.

  “Ha, what a chicken!” the Biker Boy scoffed. “It was just the storm blowing off another roof tile. No need to tremble like that!”

  Frans looked up at the ceiling. Was that a footstep he’d heard?

  The Biker Boy grabbed his arm. “Listen here,” he said. “I have to get back before the second showing and…”

  “The second showing? What showing?” asked Frans.

  The Biker Boy looked at him with round, dark eyes. “We’re going to the cinema,” he said, “and if I win the bet, they’re going to pay. You can at least prove I was here, so you’ll have to come with me as a witness.”

  “Why would I ever…?” Frans began.

  “I’ll take you on the back of my scooter. So you’ll have a lift into town. Or were you planning to walk home?”

  “You don’t even know where I live!”

  “You’re right, and I don’t care,” said the Biker Boy. “Come on. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Maybe it’s not such a bad idea, thought Frans. He didn’t really trust the Biker Boy, but once he was in town, it’d be easy enough to get home. It was too late for his evening class now anyway. Then he cursed under his breath.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the Biker Boy.

  “I left my bag in the coach, with all my books in it,” said Frans, “and that wretched coachman’s driven off with it. Do you know who he is?”