The Song of Seven

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 twentyfive
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 Van 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 ONE and now for Part Two