As they continued walking through the dark, the Hand gradually stopped trembling and Sept felt Its comforting warmth through his wet shirt.
Chapter 15
Introducing the Visigoths
After the Wargs and perhaps because they knew that, sooner or later, the villagers were going to gang up to steal their treasures, Gertrude Plog insisted that Plog hire some bodyguards.
The Visigoths were a terrible, frightening bunch. There were 10 of them, all brothers, and they came from a huge forest that carpeted the tall mountains on the northern shore of the Insidesea many leagues away. And they would chant songs about all the nasty things they liked to do to other people who weren’t Visigoths.
Their names were: Herringmouth, Codeye, Ruddgruel, Spikepuffer, Carpsniff, Doompike, Toadlick, Bonytongue, Daggertooth and Troutsnout, and they all looked exactly alike. So alike, in fact, that it was impossible to tell one from the other, especially when they wore their helmets - the ones with a huge horn in the middle - something they did practically all the time, even when they were in bed fast asleep.
Now the other villagers became really afraid of the Plogs, even Skrewskint had stopped glaring at them when they walked about the muddy main square in their ridiculous new clothes. And Skrewskint’s two rat-dogs hid behind his bony legs when the Visigoths marched past in their hob-nailed boots. Sept almost felt sorry for them.
Gertrude watched the Visigoths carefully for a few days, her small eyes calculating. They might have been short - shorter than Sept, even - but they were strong and carried clubs with rusty nails and swords with blades like an old saw.
‘I wants a Troll Bridge... thems Visiwotsits are like trollsies, so they can make Mistress Plog a big bridge and charge people money for using our road to go through the village.’
So, two bridges were built, even though there was no river for miles. Each had barbed-wire gates and anyone passing through had to pay a silver coin to pass.
Most people took one look at the strange Visigoths with their long hair sticking out from under their helmets and sharp teeth and paid quickly.
The only thing the Visigoths did seem to fear was the Hand and, oddly, they treated Sept with a sort of quiet respect. Sept used this to help where he could.
‘I’m sorry sir, we really have no money, all I can offer you is this bag of acorn flour and even then we’ll go hungry.’
The Visigoth named Codeye stared back at the bald man with his cart full of silent children as if to say, I don’t care. His associate Troutsnout sniffed wetly and pointed at the mother’s finger in the cart.
‘B-but that’s her wedding ring, it’s the only thing of value we’ve got in the world. You couldn’t make her give you that - and it’s gold, the sign says silver.’ The man looked close to tears, but Troutsnout just pointed again at the small ring and Codeye patted his club.
‘That’s alright,’ said Sept who was passing by on his way home and caught the end of the conversation, ‘you can pay us on your way back.’
‘Why, thank you, young lad,’ gabbled the man and even the small children sitting on the cart looked a bit happier, though still just as damp. Codeye made an odd grunting noise.
‘What’s that?’ asked Sept. ‘Are you disagreeing with me?’ It was funny, he thought, a few months ago he’d never have dared speak to anyone like that - still less someone armed and definitely dangerous as Codeye, but a lot had happened to him recently... and he’d survived. Codeye started to raise the barrier and it was Troutsnout’s turn to make objecting snuffling noises with his long nose.
Sept felt heat rise up through his stomach into his hands and the smell of runny mud (and worse) was replaced with a sort of hot dryness. When he spoke again his voice seemed louder and, at the same time, weirdly distant. ‘You have something to add, Master Troutsnout?’
Troutsnout let out a squeak of fear and scuttled behind Codeye, who raised the barrier and saluted at the bald man and his family as they shot through the gate.
There, thought Sept, this is why I am staying, but even he knew that wasn’t just it.
By now, news of the Plogs had spread and people avoided Nowhere as much as possible. Some of the tradesmen in town had been to see Gertrude, to ask her to take away the tolls. But she refused. So Begre, Flargh, Spew and several others all announced they were leaving.
‘Over my deaded body,’ snapped Gertrude, then she smiled like a warthog with a nasty plan, ‘or yoursies.’
The unhappy villagers took the point and stayed.
Nowhere has got even worse, thought Sept, as he watched them walk away through the drizzle and mud. He didn’t even think that was possible.
The Hand, Plog and Sept still went out every day, finding lost coins, trinkets and small treasures, whilst Gertrude stayed at home, out of the rain that seemed to pour continuously from iron skies, and counted the money coming in.
As the days turned to weeks, Sept suspected that the Hand could do much more than simply point at where treasure was; that said, the Plogs were too greedy and probably lacked the imagination needed to think of asking it to do anything else.
In the long dark evenings that Sept and the Hand were left on their own whilst the Plogs went out and spent their money, or stayed in and gloated over it, the Hand would keep Sept company.
Bit by bit, It told Sept about the long life It had lived: first as the Llamara and how It had travelled the hot deserts and lush deltas with Its first master, the warlock.
He was cruel and he kept me chained night and day, unless I was helping him perform his spells. The old meanie.
Why? signed Sept.
He didn’t know any other way. In truth, he had no great skill himself, except the binding spell he trapped me with. I suppose he was scared I would turn my power on him.
Did you? The Hand seemed to pause.
Eventually, It said. I didn’t really want to, he was selfish but not exactly evil. Then I realized he would never change. Most wizards are basically just big show-offs. I mean, you only have to look at those hats they wear.
What happened then?
I wandered amongst the Magee and other magical practitioners of the East. I learned many things, witnessed some of the greatest spells ever seen: parting seas, storms of locusts, armies of the Dead rising... that last one was pretty amazing but I still get the shivers.
But never anything that sounds particularly nice, observed Sept.
You got that right.
So what happened next? Sept found it fascinating, that he was talking to something that had lived thousands of years. And the Hand was surprisingly informative.
Then I grew tired of wandering. The palace was my first home. I liked it there... even though...
No-one liked you.
The Hand made a fist in a nodding motion. Yes, that pretty much sums it up.
Sept nodded back without saying anything. He knew very well how that felt.
Chapter 16
In which the Hand finds an infernal contraption to satisfy the Plogs. With varied results
With people now avoiding the village and the Hand having to take them further and further to find treasure, the money coming in began to dry up.
Listening to Gertrude ranting, which was impossible to avoid as Sept’s room was right next door to the kitchen, anyone would have thought the world was about to end.
‘Soon we’ll have nothing left to eatsies!’ This was even though they had enough money by now to live comfortably for the next 20 years,
‘A diet might do you some good,’ muttered Plog under his breath.
‘Wossat?!’ yelled Gertrude, who had startlingly good hearing when she chose to.
Sept gave up trying to read his book and went to get his boots. Gertrude would expect them to find something amazing - and soon - or there would be hell to pay.
The Hand took the hint and, the very next day, they travelled for miles by cart along many roads that took them to the shore of the Insidesea. It pointed to a patch of sand. After an hour of digging their spades hit the top of a wooden crate. Another box. And - like the one in which Sept found the Hand - what was inside would change everything.
It took them nearly half the night to dig it out, with Gertrude shouting unhelpful instructions at Plog and Sept, insisting they keep going. They had to work at night in case they attracted an audience, which only made it harder. Twice they lost the shovel and Sept buried Plog’s precious hat at one stage by mistake. If it hadn’t been for the ridiculous feathers sticking out of the mountain of sand, they never would have found it again.
It then took them the rest of the night to get the huge crate open with crowbars, jemmys and a mallet.
Inside they discovered a large metal object that looked like a cross between an old-fashioned lawnmower and a machine for making round things very flat.
Both the Plogs were pretty upset with the Hand at first.
‘Scrap iron,’ squawked Mistress Plog. ‘Is this some sort of jokesey?’
‘Gives me the willies,’ remarked Plog. ‘Looks like it’s for torturing people,’ he added darkly. They both glared at the Hand who was off making a sandcastle, and ignoring them.
It was Sept who saved the day before things got ugly. ‘This looks interesting,’ he said, picking up a stack of heavy metal plates at the bottom of the wooden box. He held one up to the lamp they had brought with them.
sdnuoP neT
it said in scrolly writing. And
01£
underneath.
He peered more closely, looking puzzled at first, then his eyes lit up.
He went over to Gertrude’s large handbag that was lying at her feet and started rummaging around in it.
‘’av you gawn doolali, mad?’ Gertrude had been arguing with Plog about who was to blame for them being up all night far from home with nothing to show for it but a useless lump of machine they had no idea how to use. Now she whipped around like a tiger. ‘Feevin’ toe rag!’
‘No wait,’ Sept had a mirror in his hand. It was the one that Gertrude used to put her make up on - she kept it next to the trowel. ‘Look at this metal plate in the mirror!’ Gertrude Plog folded her arms and looked deeply suspicious.
‘Shan’t... Why?’
But Plog, who had the natural curiosity of a career Sneaker, was already staring at it. A big grin spread across his greedy face as Sept held the metal plate up to the mirror.
Ten Pounds
It said, and then
£10
underneath. And although he couldn’t read a word, he knew what that sign meant.
They lugged the money printing press (for that was what it was) off the shoreline and loaded it on the cart.
‘That’s it!’ Plog was jubilant when they finally got home. ‘No more ’aving to dig up treasure in creepy places, goin’ down the pawnshop and hawkin’ it there. We’re rich, we can print our own money! We just need paper!’
Gertrude Plog looked ecstatic too. ‘We can build a new house!’
Sept guessed that pirates must have buried the machine there but, as the Hand explained later, the story was a bit more complicated than that: In fact, the printing press had belonged to the Governor of the Bank of England but it was old and clunky, and it started to make funny smells when it printed, so he had it replaced with a new one that worked on electricity.
Being very careful, he had it shipped and buried all the way across a couple of continents to the Insidesea, where nobody he knew ever went on holiday. And then he went to lunch and forgot all about it.
So, the Plogs set about printing as much money as they wanted and they had an enormous yellow house built right next door to their old house. It was the only thing anyone had built in Nowhere for years and was even bigger than Skrewskint’s house. The Plogs became famous in the area and started to attract the attention of rich folk in faraway villages and towns.
This all took several months as hundreds of architects, bricklayers, carpenters and craftsmen and women had to be hired, all because Gertrude Plog wanted to move in before her birthday in August.
Whenever a bill came in for more bricks, or for the new swimming pool that had its own desert island in the middle, or a hot tub, then Plog would sneak off to a room he had built far below ground and print out even more money, which he would stuff into the pockets of his uniform and put the rest under his hat.
In Gertrude’s head the birthday had become the Most Important Thing in the World:
‘It’s going to be the most marvelousy party anyone has ever seen!’ she exclaimed, all four of her chins wobbling with excitement as yet more delivery men arrived carrying boxes of chocolate buttons, bunting, pink sparkles, balloons and party poppers. ‘Everyone will be all jealousy and their eyeballses will explode!’
‘Yes dear,’ said Plog sounding doubtful.
But not as doubtful as Sept felt.
‘This is going to be a terrible party,’ he confided in the Hand. Feeling a vague sense of dread, as if something awful was about to happen.
It’s not too late to sneak off in the middle of the night, his friend replied. Sept shuddered at the thought.
They’d never let me, he signed back. They’ll find me and drag me back, just so I can be around for her stupid party and to see how amazingly happy they are now.
The Plogs seemed to be getting everything they had ever wished for, but Sept could see that all this magic and money hadn’t changed a thing, really. I don’t feel any different, nothing has changed for me. He still felt just as unhappy as he had before the Hand came along. For, deep down, Sept still had no idea who he was or where he belonged.
And, in spite of all their new money and new clothes, Gertrude still went about in the faded apron she had always worn over her dress. In the front pocket, the menacing outline of the Black Book was ever present. Lurking like some wicked creature.
Being the person who made sure the Plogs did some good with their money became a full time job for Sept. As far as he was concerned, his parents and Nowhere was all he had - he might as well try and make the best of it. He made sure, whenever he could, that Plog didn’t ask too much for the jewels they sold at the jewellers. He even thought up ways to attract the Visigoths’ attention, so they spent as little time as possible bullying travellers for money on the toll bridge.
‘Spikepuffer’s found a rat that died in the sewer last week. He says he’s going to gobble it up behind the shed!’
There was a popping noise and Boneytongue and Herringmouth left their post by the toll bridge and ran down the hill at the speed of sound.
But little did Sept know, that his helping people was about to come to an end.
‘Can’t I give her some money?’ asked Sept one day, when they were in town. He had been following Plog, lost in his unhappy thoughts, until his attention had been caught by a young girl about his age carrying a small dog. She was selling bags of breadcrumbs to feed the birds although she looked half-starved herself. ‘She’s not begging and we could have a bird table at home?’ In truth they could have had twenty bi rd tables but Plog just snorted.
‘Why pay good money for what the birds can get for free. And if she’s so poor, she can work harder. Like us.’
Inside his pocket the Hand scrunched up into a small, balled fist - something It did when It was angry. Sept knew just how it felt.
With a determined look on his face, he thrust his hand deep into Plog’s coat pocket and pulled out a bunch of notes.
‘Here,’ he said to the girl, with what he hoped was a confident smile, ‘we’ll have twenty bags. Keep the change!’
With a look of rage on his face, Plog stepped forward to grab t
he money back...
But Sept was ready for him. He stepped between Plog and the young girl who was still staring, open mouthed, at more money than she had ever seen in her life. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Sept, ‘not unless you’d like Skrewskint and the rest of them to know how we’re getting all this money... and anyway,’ he continued, enjoying the look of alarm on Plog’s face that went from bright red to pasty white in milliseconds, ‘you made a promise to a certain Somebody to be nice to me.’
As soon as they got home Plog stormed through the door and started to make for the cellar of the new house where they kept the money printing machine hidden from preying eyes of jealous villagers.
‘I’m going to need to print some more money!’ he fumed, ‘The Cretin keeps giving ours away... all this ink and paper is costing us a fortune,’ he grumbled fishing the cellar keys from his pocket, ‘Septimus the bloomin’ Saint can get a job and pay for it, if he’s so keen on throwin’ it about!’
‘Whatsies?’ Gertrude Plog had been happily separating all the baby pink marshmallows from a pile of assorted colours and eating every second or third one she found. The white and blue ones were going in the bin. ‘Whats he bin up to?’ her eyes narrowed dangerously at Sept who was trying to slip past both of them and up the stairs.
‘You heard, ask him - givin’ our money away, like it grows on trees!’ Sept knew what was coming and he tried to duck, but it was inevitable: Gertrude’s arm, like a fat anaconda, shot out and grabbed Sept by his throat.
‘Isses this true?’ she snarled at Sept.
‘Gnarggh... No!’ Sept struggled for breath, his windpipe squashed between Gertrude’s fat fingers.
‘Liar!’ Plog shouted. Sept felt the fingers tighten. He took as much air into his lungs as he was able to.
‘It’s not your money,’ he gasped. ‘If it wasn’t for the Hand and me, you wouldn’t have anything...’ The whites of Mistress Plog’s eyes began to go bloodshot and her forearm wobbled with the effort as she squeezed more.
‘Thinksies that do you?’
The Hairy Hand Page 8