Sept’s vision began to darken and his knees began to buckle.
BANG!
There was a flash of white light and the air between Gertrude and Sept seemed to expand. Gertrude’s whole frame was lifted off the floor and thrown against the wall. Sept felt air rush back into his lungs and his vision returned.
Plog ran forward. ‘My wood nymph!’ he exclaimed, pulling Gertrude up with a huge effort.
The white light emanating from the Hand continued to shine brightly, throwing out a huge shadow across the vast hallway. The electricity of magic crackled in the air.
Tell them if they don’t back off, I’ll tear this house down and them in it, signed the Hand.
‘It’ll destroy everything you have, if you hurt me,’ croaked Sept, his throat still burning.
But Gertrude did not seem to notice nor care. She seemed oddly fixed on the Hand.
‘Thinksies you got all the answers, you horrible hairy fing?’ she hissed. ‘But now we’ve got everthings, we don’t need you anymore and I’s not scardy of you anyway.’ Her hand fished in her apron pocket and brought out the book she always carried. The cover was so dark it blanketed the light from the Hand and oozed out darkness. ‘Nasty spidies, with crawly legs get squashed with booksies you know.’
Slowly the Hand’s light faded and the shadow weakened. Sept glanced across at his friend and protector and saw It was edging away.
You can stop her, I can’t, It signed at Sept.
Real fear, like acid filled Sept’s stomach. I... I don’t know how.
It was clear that the Hand was terrified of the book and Gertrude continued her advance.
‘Yeeesss,’ she hissed, ‘I sees it now, same reason that stupid old man, Uncles Too-Good-For-Everything, couldn’t tells the truth,. Her eyes flicked towards Sept. ‘YOU CAN”T TELLS IT TOO!’ Her pupils always went small, when she was being cunning and now they all but disappeared. ‘The boy’s too soft and stoopit to know what’s what, but you knows what this is don’t you?’ She brandished the Black Book and the Hand actually backed away, closer to Sept - as if he could protect It from the advancing Gertrude and the terrifying book that seemed to have so much grim power.
By now the only magic in the room was seeping from its slick cover, like oil from the skin of some long-dead fiend.
Gertrude towered over Sept and the Hand. And she smiled her sweetest smile that was somehow more terrifying than anything that had come before.
‘I’s in charge now,’ she coo’ed in Sept’s ear.
Chapter 17
The Hand finally tells Sept the truth
Count Ludwig and Countess Ludwiga von Waffleater (aka The Plogs)
Does graciously invite you to be celebrating the importantness of the Countess’s
Most Happiest
Birthday
On Friday 13th August
Let us know if your coming or not,
ta etc.
7pm on the dot
Carriages if you is rich enuff to av em
He’d left it too late. Any escape for Sept now was impossible.
The atmosphere in the new house was like being locked inside a submarine at the bottom of the sea: sweltering hot and extremely dangerous. Sept and the Hand were forbidden to leave and remained upstairs, in Sept’s room. Gertrude was far too engrossed in the party preparations to go anywhere. In fact, Plog was the only person who got any relief from the terrible mood that hung over the place like a storm brewing when he went on his shopping trips into town. Even the armies of servants who came to the house, soon went pale, did whatever they had to do as fast as possible, and then fled.
The Hand, after being threatened with the power contained in the Black Book, was almost meek, like a mouse, and totally under Gertrude’s control. All week It had been made to use simple magic to catch turtle doves that nested in the thatch of the nearby grain towers. It was Sept’s job to tie the invites onto their delicate legs.
Only Sept was still defiant. Quiet for now, but brooding, his brow permanently furrowed, angry at everything. The pressure in the house mirrored by the pressure in his head, which felt thick and heavy like his thoughts were made of glue.
Downstairs, Gertrude was screaming at the man who brought the ice.
‘It’s melty!’ she screeched so loud it made the dove in Sept’s cupped hand flutter all the more in fright. The invitations on gold card were heavy and the twine to tie them hurt the small birds, who would open and close their beaks in silent fear before flying off painfully, the gold-rimmed invitations weighing them down.
‘It’s meant to melt, it’s ice,’ he heard the iceman’s voice downstairs, trying to be reasonable.
‘Aaargh, stupidest, baldy man, wots broked the ice! Get out, get out of my house and don’t funk youz isses getting any money!’
‘But that’s all the ice I’ve got, I had to collect it from the mountains, it took me a month to bring it down. I’ll be ruined, my family are already eating just dry bread.’
‘So what, don’ts care!’ Downstairs the large front door was slammed, making the front windows rattle.
‘As soon as this party is over, I’m going to ask my parents if I can to go to school.’ Sept was trying to tie a noose around the legs of an especially small dove and he didn’t look up as he said it.
The Hand remained still. A horrible thought crossed Sept’s mind and he looked up from his task.
You’ll help me won’t you?
The Hand seemed to hesitate. It crouched there, completely still as seconds went by.
Well? signed Sept.
I’m not staying, as soon as this ridiculous party is over, I’m off, It replied eventually and made the sign for the Setting Star. North, which meant only one place. Petunia Rise. Sept wasn’t ready for this. He had just assumed the Hand would always stay with him. A hollow, sick feeling like the one he felt when How to Be Happy was lost in the storm washed over him, but far, far worse this time.
Sept felt an anger rise in him, it had been brewing in the pit of his stomach for days, perhaps even years and he had to swallow hard to force it back down.
Well... you know... so what if you do go... SO WHAT? I don’t care, what’s the point of having a magic Hand if it won’t help you... he stopped and looked down.
DESTINY, before you turn 12. LEAVE! the Hand had written on the dirty window pane. Sept stared. He longed to go to school, to have friends, a normal life. Words came to mind, words worthy of Gertrude Plog.
You just want to go leave because you’re thinking of yourself. All along you’ve wanted me to go back to my uncle’s just so you can be amongst the other magical things in his house! And I don’t belong there anymore than I belong here.
No, signalled the Hand with a chopping motion, as in really no.
‘Yes,’ Sept fired right back, suddenly too angry to sign, ‘and I wouldn’t mind betting you leave me as soon as you get there...’ his voice cracked, ‘...just like everyone else.’
Stop... feeling... sorry... for... yourself, the Hand signed firmly and very deliberately. The answer hit Sept like a short slap across his cheeks, you have more going for you than anyone... the Hand waved its finger around in a long circular motion,... anyone around here, It jabbed a finger at him. BUT THE TRUTH FADES. IF YOU’D DON’T FIND IT OUT FOR YOURSELF SOON, YOU NEVER WILL. THERE ARE NO ANSWERS IN NOWHERE.
Downstairs, Gertrude was shouting again, something about all the mirrors in the house being wrong because they made her look fat.
Oh, Sept, I want to tell you the truth - so many times - but there’s a curse that stops me... it’s to do with your uncle and... and that Black Book. The Hand was now more agitated than ever but Sept didn’t really notice. But if you don’t go now, it will be too late... come back with me... Sept, you have to listen... SEPT? Just then there cam
e a great crash from downstairs as a mirror exploded. Sept’s hands clenched instinctively and the dove he held cried out, a single drop of blood beading the end of its beak, like a tear.
The Hand jabbed at him, Sept... Sept... It jabbed again, much harder SEPT!
Sept snapped!
Years being second, or third best had been building to this. His whole life being scared, of being laughed at, but most of all it was years of not knowing where he was meant to fit in. It made his head burn with a rage he never knew he could feel.
He was sick of magic and he didn’t care about money, neither had ever really been any help to him. And he didn’t need the Hand. He didn’t need anybody.
‘Why do you keep going on about going back to my uncle’s? You never say why? Tell me! If I am your master, you have to do what I say, don’t you?’ Sept had decided he would find out now.
It’s not as simple as that... the Hand started to reply.
‘Yes, it is - tell me, I... I COMMAND YOU!’
There was a long pause and the whispering of magic came again, this time the voices sounded urgent and worried.
The Hand went very still. With great effort, It made the sign of the Bowing Servant.
So be it.
‘Go on!’
Now the Hand began to shake, as if some invisible force was throttling it. Sept suddenly thought about what Gertrude had said about secrets and not being able to tell. He thought about the Black Book and felt cold fear trickle down his back. But it was too late. The Hand, as if in great pain, was signing: It seemed more like a death warrant than a message.
Surviving the storm, Skrewskint’s shotgun should have killed you, taming me... You... are... like your uncle and a thousand generations before your time... you are... a... WARLOCK... but you are also special... so much more than the others I have ever known. You are better than all of them, It signed, the shaking getting worse. The whispering seemed to rise to a roar, the scent of dry sand filled the room and Sept felt like he would choke. When you were born, your uncle made a terrible mistake. He left a book of magic unattended. A wicked book, of dark spells: the Black Book Gertrude always carries around with her. Gertrude tried to conjure a spell to make her rich and powerful, but it backfired and the whole village was cast down into despair and darkness. Everything good here died at that instant. It affected everyone, including your parents who became mean and twisted, the only way you have ever known them to be... and you were so small, Sept.
But even though you were so young, Sept, you were the only one who wasn’t turned into a terrible person, and you were standing right next to Gertrude when she chanted the words she couldn’t understand. You were immune to the wickedness, that is why you are special.
Your uncle’s three gifts to you were made out of guilt for letting the Plogs get their grubby paws on the Black Book and in the hope you would find something at his home that would reverse the spell. He tried to tell you this in his letter when he died, but Gertrude probably made sure you did not see all of it. In spite of everything, you found me, but I don’t think I have been much use. I fear I have failed you it feels right telling you this now, in spite of the curse on anyone who reveals the spell.
Boy stared at Hand.
Your power is a great gift but, like all gifts, it is not fully given until it is freely accepted. Sept, if you do not accept your destiny, your power will pass before your... the Hand was shaking,... Sept, you must believe me, you need to accept your fate before your twelfth birthday.
There was a long pause: the longest pause Sept had ever known. The whispering died down to the faintest murmur as if waiting for his answer. His hands unclenched and the dove flew raggedly to earth.
Eventually Sept spoke.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ he said, his voice like ice. And just like that, the voices fled and the room went back to how it was.
But Sept barely noticed. He had tried everything and failed: he’d tried to be a Sneaker like his dad, a fence like his mum, traveller, hermit, good son, rich kid who helped people. Now, apparently, he had special powers, but, even if he believed it, he didn’t care: he just wanted to be carefree, to be normal, to go to school and have friends his own age, not some weird magical, hairy, relic.
The words came in a flood of anger. ‘It’s so obvious, you think I’m stupid, just like my parents! You’re trying to stop me, just so you can go back to Petunia Rise where you belong - not me!’ He glared at the Hand, feeling a new kind of anger, not burning hot, but like frozen steel slicing deep into his kidneys. So, It was willing to lie to him. He was no more a warlock than any of the other things. At that moment, Sept felt hate that he’d thought only Gertrude capable of. Except, more than anything, he hated himself for being so stupid. For believing.
‘There’s nothing for me there, there’s never been anything for me anywhere, I’m just a weirdo with crap parents and a freak for a friend... not that it’s any sort of friend anyway! I’ve got...’ he remembered the advice in How to be Happy, ‘...I’ve got choices!’
Sept was too angry to notice that as soon as the Hand had said Its last words, It had sort of shuddered and shrivelled up. Still driven by a rage like wind across an arctic ice sheet, he grabbed the Hand and strode out of his room, down the corridor to the Plogs’ quarters. On the mantelpiece sat the strong box Plog used to keep the jewellery they dug up in.
Without any hesitation, he grabbed the Hand roughly and shoved It in.
As he turned the key he distinctly heard a voice in his head cry, ‘No! You are not like the others!’ But Sept ignored the voice and concentrated, instead, on his anger. It seemed so much simpler.
That night, Sept dreamt again of the cart, the silhouetted figure with its arms raised chanting a spell and the weeping.
Chapter 18
Gertrude Plog finally goes proper bananas
As soon as the party was over, Sept was determined to make his parents let him go to school somewhere far away. It would be the last thing he ever asked of them. They didn’t really want him around anyway. He would leave them the Hand trapped in Its box. They deserved one another.
After just 3 months, the house was finished. Including a giant fountain.
It was huge - the size of an Olympic swimming pool - and instead of water, Gertrude had insisted on installing a treacle pump. Boiling and churning treacle slopped about like thousands of gallons of gooey lava.
Two days earlier, when they were trying it out, the Visigoth, Daggertooth, had fallen in. Sept thought that his brothers would rush to help him. Not a bit of it. Instead they stood at a safe distance, took out their lunch and settled down to watch. After five minutes, Sept couldn’t stand by any longer.
‘Um, aren’t you going to do something to save him?’ he asked.
Herringmouth (or it might have been Ruddgruel or perhaps even Spikepuffer) didn’t bother to turn around. ‘Nah.’
‘But he’ll drown in that treacle if you don’t.’
‘Hur, hur... yurse.’
Sept looked over at Daggertooth who, to be fair, didn’t seem that upset by the fact that the sucking treacle was now up to his middle. He looked over at his brothers. ‘Help?’ he said without much conviction.
Sept looked at the nine remaining Visigoths.
‘Funny,’ remarked one.
‘Glug,’ remarked another.
‘Oh for goodness sake,’ said Sept and he threw Daggertooth a rope.
If the Visigoth was grateful for being saved he didn’t show it. In fact everyone seemed quite cross with Sept for spoiling their fun. As far as Sept was concerned, this was just more proof, if any were needed, that most grownups he had ever met were bonkers. That night, Daggertooth slipped off, leaving a note to say he had gone home to sulk.
By now everyone was talking about the new house up on the hill in the creepy villag
e of Nowhere and the strange couple who had built it - all paid for in cash - with new ten pound notes from Old England!
Whilst Plog had been busy ordering the builders around, making sure the architect built everything exactly how Mistress Plog wanted it, Mistress Plog had been hard at work making a list of all the important and rich people nearby.
She was going to have the biggest birthday party anyone had ever seen. And after that, everyone would admire them and want to be their friend. Her dreams would come true.
By the time her big day arrived, Gertrude was in a state of extreme agitation. By 7pm she was wailing that no-one was going to come and her birthday had been ruined.
No expense had been spared and, as the guests began to trickle in, fashionably late at 9pm, they stared in amazement: Plog, dressed in his uniform that had been washed and now sported a row of medals, was flanked by two elephants dressed up in died sheep wool to make them look like woolly mammoths. Each fake mammoth held a giant bowl of popcorn dyed all the colours of the rainbow and, as Plog welcomed the guests by the gates, he invited each of them to try some.
Plog loved popcorn, especially if it was coloured, and he could not understand why no-one even so much as had a nibble.
In fact, most of the guests, assuming he was some sort of footman, just ignored him or hung their fur coats on his head. After half an hour he was completely covered and no-one could see or hear Plog under a huge pile of expensive coats.
As the astonished guests walked up the drive, they were then met by the sight of the Plogs’ new fountain.
It was windy and the treacle fountain went wrong almost immediately. Pretty soon leaves and twigs got mixed up with the treacle, then the pumps stopped working properly and instead of cascading treacle, it just bubbled, belched and farted like a big, sticky swamp.
The guests had already started to snicker as they reached the main entrance of the house.
Sept, in his best jumper and trousers, was there to greet them; on his own - the Hand was still in the box upstairs. Gertrude had insisted he hold a donkey that Plog had been forced to paint white and stick a plastic horn on.
The Hairy Hand Page 9