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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
A exciting adventure by the author of the international bestseller The Letter for the King SEVEN PATHS. SEVEN UNLIKELY FRIENDS. ONE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE. Deep in the woods, in a crooked house full of stairs, a young boy is kept prisoner by his uncle. He cannot meet other children, or have any friends. He holds the key to a secret. Meanwhile, in a quiet village, Frans the schoolteacher invents incredible stories of perilous deeds, shipwrecks, desert islands, and haunted castles to entertain his pupils, in which he is the hero. Then one stormy evening, a mysterious letter blows onto his doormat, summoning him to a meeting. Suddenly, Frans is on a real-life mission, one in which he will encounter magicians, secret passages, conspiracies, hidden treasure, a black cat with green eyes and a sealed parchment which predicts the future. He will learn the secret of the Seven Ways. He will find seven allies. And he will make a fearsome enemy. The adventure has begun...
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Seitenzahl: 431
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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PRAISE FORThe Letter for the King
A Sunday Times, Metro and Times
Book of the Year
‘A true page-turner’
Sunday Times
‘Brilliant, extraordinary’
The Times
‘Gripping, delightful and true’
Guardian
‘Thrilling’
Daily Telegraph
‘A pulse-pounding epic’
Metro
‘Spellbinding’
Financial Times
‘A cracker’
Spectator
PRAISE FOR The Secrets of the Wild Wood
A Daily Telegraph and Sunday Times
Book of the Year
‘Offers intrigue, action and escapism’
Sunday Times
‘Unmissable’
Telegraph
‘Action-packed drama’
Daily Mail
‘Thrilling’
Metro
‘A spellbinding tale that will appeal to the young and old’
The Lady
CONTENTS
Always for Cornelijne
1
FRANS RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS LETTER
And now the story has begun
THIS IS ONE
It was boiling hot, even though the windows and the door into the corridor were all open. The children had been silent for an hour, but that probably had more to do with the heat than with the tongue-lashing their teacher had given them at the beginning of the afternoon. Now that they’d nearly all finished the dull grammar exercises he’d told them to do, the noise was creeping back, little by little – whispers, a cough, quiet giggles, feet shuffling, desks creaking, paper rustling.
Frans van der Steg, sitting at his desk on the platform at the front of the classroom, tutted and looked up. His stern look didn’t make much impression on the class though, perhaps in part because his spectacles had slipped down to the tip of his nose. But he didn’t say anything. He simply wasn’t in the mood.
In the class of first-years at the end of the corridor, the little ones were singing.
Do you know the Seven, the Seven,
Do you know the Seven Ways?
What a tedious tune, thought Frans van der Steg.
People say that I can’t dance,
But I can dance like the King of France.
This is one…
“Well, I know I certainly couldn’t dance at this tempo,” he said out loud. “By the time they get to seven, I could have counted to a hundred.”
The buzz and bustle in the classroom increased, but Frans banged his hand on the desk and put a stop to it before it became a din. Twenty-five pairs of eyes looked at him. Frans stared back and then pretended to go on marking the books in front of him. He looked at the red line he’d drawn beneath the title of Marian’s essay, THE SEKRIT TRESURE, and gloomily wondered why he tried so hard to teach his students to spell. As he glanced at his watch, he heard Maarten’s voice: “Sir?”
Frans van der Steg looked up again. He still wasn’t used to being called “sir”. He hadn’t been working in this village for long, and in town he’d just been “Mr Van der Steg”. What he should have said to Maarten was: “Did I give you permission to speak?” But instead he said, “What is it, Maarten?”
The chattering began again. The children could tell their teacher wasn’t really angry with them anymore, and besides…
“It’s twenty-five past three,” said Maarten.
Twenty-five past three was packing-up time, and Frans van der Steg’s group of ten- and eleven-year-olds could pack up faster than any other class. It had been like that almost since the first day back to school after the summer holidays. At first, the class had been very noisy when twenty-five past three came around, but that hadn’t lasted for long. Kai, one of the most boisterous boys in the class, had – accidentally on purpose – dropped a big box of coloured pencils, much to his classmates’ secret delight. Mr Van der Steg had just shaken his head and said with a serious look on his face, “Kai, Kai, you probably think there’s no harm done and it’ll be easy enough to pick up the pencils and tidy them away, but I’ve seen for myself the terrible consequences of such clumsiness. A friend of mine once did the same thing, only it wasn’t pencils he dropped, but two whole armfuls of lances and spears.”
Kai had just gaped at his teacher, but Maarten, who always spoke without being spoken to, had squawked, “Huh? Lances and spears? But how come?”
“Lances and spears,” his teacher had repeated, “with sharp iron points, which don’t break as easily as pencil points. It made such an incredible din! And it had to happen just as we were sneaking through the palace at night…”
“Palace? What palace?”
“The King of Torelore’s palace. We were caught like rats in a trap. We’d worked so hard to steal those spears from the armoury. And then that idiot let them go crashing to the floor! Well, of course, everyone woke up: the King of Torelore, the Queen of Torelore, and all their soldiers with their sabres. And then the fun really started…”
As the teacher continued his tale, you could have heard a pin drop. But when the bell went, the class exploded with questions. “And then? What happened next?!”
Their teacher couldn’t let them go home until they’d heard how he’d managed to escape from the deepest dungeon in the royal palace, where he was tied up with thick ropes and guarded by a hungry lion, could he? But Frans van der Steg had simply told Kai to pick up the pencils and sent them home with a promise to continue the story another day.
And he’d done exactly that. He’d been teaching the class for three weeks now and, at the end of every day, from twenty-five past three to half past, as they packed up, he told them a story, and on Saturday mornings, when the children also had lessons, the stories went on for much longer, sometimes for as long as three quarters of an hour.
His class had heard the tale of his adventures in the Kingdom of Torelore, and his account of his journey back home, complete with a shipwreck and a desert island. They knew all about his stay in the haunted castle, and about the time he’d faced the Abominable Snowman in the Himalayas.
“But it’s not true, is it?” Maarten sometimes said. “You’re just making it up.”
The other children knew that too, but that didn’t make them any less interested in their teacher’s tales. Somehow, in their imaginations, he was two people – one was just their teacher, Mr Van der Steg, but the other was a kind of fearless knight, with hair like flames, FRANS THE RED, a hero who could take on anyone.
And now the only thing that could save this hot, boring afternoon was a new adventure. Yesterday Frans the Red had returned safe and sound from an expedition to the rainforests of Urozawa, and he had a few minutes left today to set off on his next escapade.
Mr Van der Steg straightened his glasses, ran his fingers through his hair and then slowly shook his head.
“Um, chaps,” he said (he always called them that, even though there were girls in the class too), “I’m tired.” He knew he was disappointing his students, but he really had no idea what to tell them. “The thing is…” he continued, “I’m waiting for…”
“For what, sir?” (there’s no need to explain who asked that question).
“For a letter,” said the teacher. It was the first answer that came to him. “A very important letter,” he added. “It might arrive this evening. The sender is… something of an enigma… And I hope,” he concluded, “that it’ll be the beginning of a new adventure, with a mysterious and perilous mission.”
They’ll have to make do with that, he thought. When all the books had been handed in, it would be time to go home anyway. He leant back in his chair, stifled a yawn and absent-mindedly hummed along with the first-years, who were singing the Song of Seven again.
Phew, this weather!thought Frans van der Steg, as he cycled home. It didn’t get this hot all summer holiday. I really should have taken the class outside, instead of being annoyed with them for not doing their work properly.
When he got home, to the house where he rented a room, he found his landlady in the conservatory with a big pot of tea.
“Ah, there you are,” she greeted him. “I bet you could do with a nice cup of tea.”
“I most certainly could, Mrs Bakker,” he said. “You know just what a person needs after a hard day at work. Shall I get the deckchairs out of the shed? Then we can sit outside.”
“Oh no, don’t bother,” his landlady replied. “There’s a storm coming, and we’ll only have to bring everything back in.”
Frans opened his mouth to point out just how brightly the sun was shining today, but then he heard thunder rumbling in the distance, and he changed his mind.
“Once it starts raining,” his landlady said, “that’ll be the end of the summer.”
Frans looked out to see thick black clouds rolling towards the sun. He didn’t reply.
“Would you like a biscuit, Frans?” his landlady asked. She was old enough to be his mother, so he didn’t mind her calling him by his first name. When he spoke to her, he was always polite and called her “Mrs Bakker”, but whenever he thought about her, it was as “Aunt Wilhelmina”. He knew that was her first name, and he thought the title of “aunt” suited her. She was rosy-cheeked, plump and perky, and she was a wonderful cook.
“I’m going out this evening,” she told him. “The neighbours have asked me to go round and watch something on TV with them. Some kind of drama. It’s supposed to be good. So you can work at the big table in the dining room if you have lots of paperwork to do.”
“Thank you,” said Frans. He sat down, stirred his tea and sighed again. “I still have another nineteen essays still to mark,” he added, “and twenty-five spelling tests. And I’ve got to do my own homework for tomorrow too.”
“That’s the biggest nonsense I’ve ever heard! Schoolteachers are supposed to give out homework, not do it themselves.”
“Ah, but I want to get ahead,” said Frans, “which is why I’m studying for another qualification.”
His landlady gave him a look of disapproval. “You should be satisfied with the job you have! My son was always interested in getting ahead too, and where did that get him? All the way over there on the other side of the globe! In Australia! My only son, and he’s all I have.”
“But he writes you lots and lots of letters,” Frans said, to cheer her up, “and he sends you photographs of the grandchildren.”
“That’s true,” she said. “I’m expecting one today, in fact. I suppose that’s better than nothing. But the postman’s late though.”
“I’m waiting for a letter too,” said Frans with a smile. “And it’s a very important one, or at least that’s the story I told.”
“Have you been making things up again? I hear you’ve got those children’s heads spinning with all kinds of crazy stories. Mind they don’t return the favour. Would you like another cup of tea? Ooh, look how dark and cloudy it’s getting now! I’m glad I only have to go next door this evening. Looks like we’re in for a terrible storm.”
Mrs Wilhelmina Bakker was right: that evening, after dinner, the rain came hammering down against the window panes. Frans was sitting at the big table, with all his papers spread out over the plush red tablecloth. The wind blew so hard that the curtains were rippling, even though the windows were closed. The whole house was creaking; at times it sounded like someone was walking up and down the hallway, sighing and groaning. But of course there was no one there; Frans was all alone in the house. He tried to concentrate on his work, but after a while he had to get up to look. Opening the curtain, he peered outside. A flash of lightning blinded him for a second, followed, a moment later, by an almighty clap of thunder.
I hope that lightning didn’t strike anything important, he thought.
But then other sounds filled the air – windows rattling away, doors banging and flying open.
“What on earth…!” said Frans, dashing into the hallway.
A gust of wind blasted towards him; the front door had blown wide open. The brass lantern in the hallway swayed to and fro, and strange shadows danced across the walls. Rain lashed Frans’s face as he struggled to close the door. It was only then that he spotted the letter on the mat. He picked it up; the envelope was damp and the writing was smudged. Yet he could still clearly make out his own name and address.
“My goodness me,” he said to himself. “It seems my story has become reality – a letter for me, and it just blew in with the storm.”
He checked that all the other doors and windows were properly closed, before going back into the dining room and sitting down at the table to open the envelope. After reading the letter, he sat there for a while, staring at it in amazement. Written in strong, confident handwriting, the letter said the following:
Tuesday 22 September
Dear Mr V der Steg,
In response to your letter of the eighteenth of this month, I should very much like to meet you. As I live in a somewhat remote spot in the woods, I shall send my man to pick you up, on Friday 25 September, at exactly half past seven.
Respectfully yours,
The signature was illegible. All Frans could make out was two large letter G’s, each followed by a small r. Gr… Gr…
But that wasn’t why he’d raised his eyebrows. He was most surprised because he had not in fact written a letter on the eighteenth of this month.
Then he began to laugh. It was obviously just the children playing a joke on him.
But which of his students had handwriting like that? One of their fathers must have written it, or an uncle, or a big brother.
Do I know anyone who’s called Gr… Gr… something? he wondered. No, I’m certain that person doesn’t exist. Someone’s deliberately made the signature impossible to read.
He studied the letter and then the envelope. They were made of beautiful, expensive-looking paper, with a small coat of arms in the corner, which had another G on it, with a cat’s head inside.
Frans put down the letter and opened his textbook. After a couple of minutes, he caught himself thinking about the letter again. What nonsense, he told himself. It’s just the children having a joke, that’s all. I’ll have to do something about this tomorrow though. I’m the one who makes up my adventures, and they shouldn’t be getting involved. “In response to your letter of the eighteenth of this month…” However did they come up with that? What day is it today? Thursday the twenty-fourth. And the letter’s dated the day before yesterday… Ha, they might as well have written April the first! And of course there’s no stamp… No, wait a second, there is a stamp on the envelope…
He took a closer look and got another surprise. The stamp had been franked in the nearby village of Langelaan on 23 September!
“How can that be…?” he murmured. “That was yesterday, and I didn’t say anything to them about a letter until today. They must have faked it somehow… but they can’t possibly be that clever. I can’t imagine how they might have done it. The envelope’s dirty, but it doesn’t seem to have been tampered with. Hmm…”
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 ONEand 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 back 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?”
“Why are you asking me?” said the Biker Boy. “You’re the one who went for a ride in that thing, not me! Did anyone ever tell you you’re a bit weird?”
He’s not wrong, thought Frans. But what he said out loud was, “If you want me to be your witness, you’ll need to be a bit more polite.”
“Fine. Okay!” said the Biker Boy. “Come on.”
Soon after that, the boy climbed proudly onto his scooter. He revved the engine and the bright beam of the headlight lit up the sheet of falling raindrops.
Frans got on behind him. There were supposed to be seven paths here, but he had no idea which one went into town. It was actually a stroke of luck that he’d run into the Biker Boy – how else would he have found his way home?
But as they noisily sped off, he began to change his mind. Not just because he was getting colder and wetter by the second, but mostly because he was worried every moment might be his last. The Biker Boy rode his scooter hard, racing faster and faster, and tearing around the bends.
“So irresponsible,” Frans said to himself, as the trees flashed by and the wind whistled around his ears. His ride in the coach had actually been a lot calmer. Sometimes he thought he could hear the Biker Boy singing above the din of the engine. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
That’s just what I’d expect of him. He’s trying to frighten me, thought Frans van der Steg. However, the Hero of Torelore gritted his teeth and spoke fiercely to himself, “But he won’t succeed!”
Even so, he sighed with relief when they reached a road with a tarmac surface and a sign with a speed limit. The Biker Boy slowed down (although he must still have been above the speed limit) and called back over his shoulder, “It’s not quite ten to nine by the church clock. I’ve beaten my record!”
“And you didn’t break your neck doing it!” Frans shouted back to him. “Congratulations!”
Shortly after that, they rode into town, and by nine they’d stopped at a chip shop. There was a cinema across the road, with a few young men in leather jackets hanging around outside. One of them saw the Biker Boy and gave a loud whistle.
“Are they your friends?” asked Frans.
“The film won’t have started yet,” said the Biker Boy, ignoring Frans. “I’m going to get some chips first. This weather! Come on.”
They both had a bag of chips. Frans rubbed his glasses clean, put them back on, and looked carefully at the Biker Boy. For the first time he could see him properly. The Biker Boy stared back at him too, weighing him up. Then he said, “Wait here a moment for me,” and he walked off. Frans watched him cross the street and start talking to the boys in leather jackets outside the cinema.
“Right then,” said the man in the chip shop. “So that was two bags of chips…”
Frans paid for the chips, and when he looked up again, there wasn’t a soul in front of the cinema. He waited a couple of minutes before crossing the street and heading into the cinema lobby. The Biker Boy and his mates weren’t there either. The man behind the ticket desk looked at him expectantly and asked, “Want to buy a ticket, sir?”
“No, thank you,” said Frans. “I’m waiting for someone.”
He chose a spot where he could keep an eye on the chip shop, and stood there a while. The scooter was still there, but the Biker Boy didn’t show up. He could hear dramatic music coming from inside the auditorium. The film must be starting.
Frans went to the man at the ticket desk and said, “Did a couple of… young men in leather jackets just go inside?”
“The cinema’s full of yobs in leather jackets these days,” the man replied sadly. “I’m a father, sir, and there’s no way I’d ever let my children go to the second showing. And if they ever get a scooter, I don’t want them racing around aimlessly like that bunch of hooligans. Those things should only be used for getting from A to B, don’t you think?” His face had brightened up now that he had someone to talk to. “I might work at a cinema,” he said, “but how often do you think I watch films? Never! I’m all for healthier ways to spend your time. Camping, for instance. A tent in the woods, away from civilization, that’s what you want! But these youngsters nowadays, they’re all too lazy for that…”
Frans listened to him for a while, still keeping an eye out for the Biker Boy, even though he was sure he wouldn’t turn up. He was probably watching the film with his mates.
Well, he needn’t think I’m going to hang around here waiting for him, he thought to himself. He can have those chips in exchange for the lift. But I’ll be happy if I never see him again. Ignorant lout!
Frans said goodbye to the man at the ticket desk and walked to the nearest stop to catch the bus back to his village. He was chilly and wet and disappointed with himself. In one of his own stories, this evening would have turned out very differently. But, he thought, I can’t quite imagine how…
THAT WAS TWOand now for Part Three
3
FRANS FINDS OUT WHO GR… GR… IS
He follows the carriage’s trail and ends up at the Thirsty Deer
THIS IS ONE
The next morning the wind had blown away all the rainclouds. The weather was cool, but fine, and the sun was shining as if summer still lingered. But Frans van der Steg cycled to school with a frown on his face.
He had the growing feeling that he should have acted differently the night before. The children would be sure to want to hear about his adventures, but the role he’d played had been anything but clever or heroic. I shouldn’t have got into the coach, he thought. No, I shouldn’t have got out of it. I really should have made that coachman answer my questions and boxed the Biker Boy’s ears… Oh, and I wish I’d never made up that story about a mysterious letter.
It was Saturday, which meant the class would be expecting at least half an hour of stories. Frans had brought a book to school with him, and when it was time he read out one of the stories. As he reached the last page, he kept glancing at his watch and he went as slowly as he could. But the story was still finished before twelve. The bell wouldn’t ring for another three minutes… and, of course, the children asked the question he’d been dreading.
“Sir, did you visit Gr… Gr… yesterday?”
“No,” answered Frans truthfully, and he wondered yet again if that person actually existed. He raised his hand to fend off more questions. “Listen, chaps,” he said in a serious tone. “I’m afraid I’m on the trail of a strange and dangerous secret. I can’t tell you any more than that at the moment… And now I’d like to ask you a question. Do any of you know or suspect the actual identity of Gr… Gr…? Because the man must have a name!”
The classroom was very quiet. Some of the children stared at him with wide eyes, while others deliberately looked away. Marian, who blushed easily, went bright red.
Frans van der Steg cleared his throat. He really did feel very uneasy… just as if there actually were some dangerous secrets involved! Or was it because he felt like he was somehow fooling his class? But there was no way back now, and he had to break the awkward silence.
“Perhaps it’s better if anyone who knows something about this speaks to me in private,” he said. “You can always talk to me after school.”
Now they all started whispering, and somehow it sounded different… Don’t start imagining things, Frans told himself. You just caught a little chill yesterday, that’s all.
Then, fortunately, the bell went, and he could send them on their way.
As he was marking books in the empty classroom, Marian suddenly appeared beside his desk. “Sir…” she began shyly.
Three boys were standing in the doorway – Maarten, Kai and Arie.
“What is it?” asked Frans.
The boys came over to the desk as well. “Sir,” said Maarten – of course he was the first one to speak – “it’s about what you just said in the lesson…”
“Gr… Gr…” Kai growled softly.
“Do you know who Gr… Gr… is?”
“Oh, no, no,” the children answered at the same time.
“No, sir,” said Maarten. “But we want to help you if we can. Could we… can we… We’d really like to take a look at the letter!”
“That’s right,” said Marian. “Maybe we’ll see something useful. Would you mind?”
Frans took the letter out of his pocket, where he’d slipped it that morning. Without saying anything, he placed it on the desk and watched as the children studied it. He couldn’t see their faces, but they seemed to be completely serious. Marian was the first to look up; she was blushing again, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“No idea,” she said breathlessly.
“Me neither,” said Kai and Arie. Maarten just shook his head.
“Well, that’s a shame,” said Frans as casually as possible. “But thanks anyway.”
The children shuffled their feet and looked a bit embarrassed.
“Do any of you know a biker?” asked Frans.
Now the children looked puzzled. “A biker?” repeated Marian. “What do you mean?”
“One of those yobs in leather jackets who race around on scooters,” said Maarten. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, sir?”
“My brother’s got a scooter,” said Kai. “But he’s not a yob.”
“That’s what you say!” said Arie.
But Maarten asked, “Is this biker part of the secret too?”
“Maybe,” replied Frans. “He rides along the roads in the dark, talks about ghosts and then disappears without saying goodbye.”
“And then?” asked Marian, like it was a story.
“I don’t know yet,” said Frans. “Well, maybe you’ll get to hear more about it, and maybe not. We’ll just have to wait and see. And if you have anything to report, come and talk to me! See you on Monday.”
The children left, but Maarten popped back and whispered, “This is for real, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, Maarten,” Frans said, with a nod, “it’s for real.” And, as he spoke those words, he meant what he said.
Just a moment later, though, he’d changed his mind. If it was for real, there had to be some logical explanation, and he couldn’t think of one.
“It’s a conspiracy,” he said to himself, “and those four children are part of it – maybe even the whole class!”
But as he cycled home, he whistled a happy tune. Now he knew what he needed to do! He was free that afternoon, so he’d go back to Sevenways and take a good look around in daylight. He’d follow the trail of the carriage and find the solution to all these puzzles. On Monday he’d tell the children the end of the story – and he was sure they’d all be amazed.
*
After lunch, he asked his landlady, “Have you ever heard of Sevenways?”
She looked at him with some surprise, or at least he imagined she did. “Seven Ways?” she repeated. “People say that I can’t dance…”
“No, I don’t mean that Seven Ways,” said Frans. “It’s just… I… Well… Apparently there’s, um, a crossroads near here with seven paths…”
“It sounds to me like you’re all at sixes and sevens,” his landlady said. “Why are you interested in Sevenways?”
“I’d like to go there,” said Frans. “Just for a bike ride.”
“That’s a good idea,” she replied. “It’d be nice for you to get out and about a bit. Sevenways isn’t hard to find: down the high street, left at the petrol station, and then take the first turn-off after Dijkhof’s farm. Have fun!”
Soon after that, Frans was cycling along the route that the carriage had taken the evening before. After the farmyard, the road got worse and worse, all mud and huge puddles, but he didn’t let that put him off. The weather was still fine and he could see the tracks the coach had left. He didn’t know the countryside around him, but it was beautiful and very quiet, with not a single house in sight.
After cycling for half an hour, he came to Sevenways, the point where so many paths met in the middle of the woods.
He got off his bike. The abandoned building was on his right, the haunted pub, as the Biker Boy had called it. It was indeed little more than a ruin; in this bright afternoon light there was no mistake about it.
In front of him was the signpost. It pointed in seven directions. He’d just come along one of those roads, and another went into town. That was the path he’d been along yesterday with the Biker Boy; the tracks of the scooter were clearly visible. The marks left by the carriage were much deeper. It had driven on along a third path, which, according to the signpost, led to the village of Roskam. The fourth way went to Langelaan. The fifth arm of the signpost was very narrow and was simply painted blood red. The sixth went to the “Herb Garden”, and there was no seventh way.
Frans counted them again – yes, there really were only six ways. The seventh arm of the signpost pointed at the ruin. There had once been something written on it, but most of the letters were gone. He could make out a T at the beginning and then an O… no, it wasn’t Tooreloor… And there was an S and a T… with an R and an S at the end.
