The storm had finished what the fire started.
In the misty, damp dawn, when there was almost nothing left but rubble and charred beams, Sept woke and gazed about at the ruins of the house. Everyone was gone. There were no signs of the remaining Visigoths: he guessed they must have run off like the guests.
He had just picked up the dog brush from his uncle’s home that had mysteriously survived his travels, the move and the fire, when he saw his father, no longer a storm cloud, climb the cellar steps.
Plog’s expression was ashen. ‘It’s all burned,’ he murmured as he walked past Sept., ‘The machine for makin’ money’s all twisted and melted... useless now... won’t work...’ He looked around. ‘...all gone.’ He turned to Sept and actually grinned. ‘And good riddance!’ exclaimed his father.
And, at that very moment, Sept knew something important had changed. He was still Plog: looked like him, more importantly, smelled like him, but somehow different. For starters, the frown lines around his mouth looked like they turned up now, not down like before, as if he was ready to smile or laugh at any moment, not glare.
‘Come on son,’ he said.
Walking beside him, Sept stood a little closer than normal - for the first time, in as long as he could remember, it felt safe.
They went off to find Gertrude. Had she changed, like his dad, gone back to what she was before her spell went wrong? They found her sitting on the stone steps that led to the fountain.
‘Gertrude?’ Plog edged forward as Sept held his breath.
Mistress Plog looked up. Her make-up had melted and black streaks of mascara ran down from her eyes in twin rivers, mingling with her red lipstick that was smeared across one side of her face.
She should have looked ridiculous, instead she made Sept want to help her.
‘What is it, my hummingbird?’ asked Plog. ‘Forget them people. The Hand can find some more jewels n’ stuff, an’ we’ll go shoppin’. Buy you somefing nice, eh?’
‘It’s not that.’ Gertrude’s voice seemed changed too, softer now. She cupped something small in her hand, like an injured mouse. She held it out. ‘It flew past me, when I was...’ she frowned. ‘I can’t remembers much... you’ll probably laugh, but I was up in the clouds, I think, then I was falling and I reached out... when I woke up I was here and this was in my handsies. It’s important I think, but I can’t remembers why?’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘I think it belongs to you, son, but I’m sorry, it’s very poorly, it’s not moving.’
Sept looked at the Hand and tried his best not to cry.
His mother reached up and stroked his cheek. It felt warm and comforting, but that also made him want to cry too. ‘One things I do remembers is it’s your birthday. Not much of a birthday, I know, and I’m sorry but we are all threes of us here and you’ve not been harmed. That’s somethings.’
Sept blinked. Get a grip, he said to himself. His birthday, he was twelve. He knelt down, next to his mother, very close to the Hand. ‘You said I needed all my magic,’ he whispered to his friend, ‘that I shouldn’t use it all up, but I’m twelve now and, for the first time ever, I know exactly what I am. My magic comes from the rocks, the trees, the sky and the water, it comes from life and it can no more be used up than the wind will stop blowing or the sun stop shining because it is the same power that makes everything that is good around us. As long as I don’t try and use it for power that’s not mine or to hurt people or animals, then there will always be enough for anything I want to do. You’re not dead, I can feel that, you’re just resting... we’ve all had a busy night. But now I want you to feel well again, because you deserve it.’
He took a deep breath.
Stretched out his hand.
And touched the soft down-like fur.
This time the air only felt pleasantly warm and the whispering was like the gentlest of breezes through dry grass, but the light seemed to change all the same: copper-bright as the warmth from his stomach found the tips of his fingers and flowed into the Hand.
‘Cor,’ said Plog.
The Hand’s fingers stirred and the black fur turned to rich gold down, like a rain cloud parting to reveal the sun. It seemed the most beautiful thing Sept had ever seen. His friend stirred.
I am glad it was you, Sept. I have had so many masters over the centuries but none as good and as kind as you. It has been an honour.
‘Can you forgive me?
Nothing to forgive, Sept, after all that has tried to harm you, in spite of the wicked spell that corrupted this village, your parents and everything around you, only you remained true to yourself. Only you were untouched and unchanged.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Sept. Then he asked the question he’d wanted to know the answer to most of all. ‘Will you stay?’
I could do with a holiday frankly... but we’ve got a great future you and I.
‘I think we have,’ said Sept.
And, feeling truly happy for the first time in a long time - perhaps ever - Sept turned to see the villagers and some of the guests coming up the hill towards the house. Through the last of the smoke from the still-smouldering embers, Sept saw the sun shining down on the village. Even that looked different: less drab, less dirty, like it had a future.
‘We’ve come to help,’ said Skewskint, his craggy face showing concern, not contempt.
At that moment Sept knew his magic had worked: the village was no longer nowhere. It was somewhere. It was home. And this was just the start of things.
THE END
Also available
The Hairy Hand Page 12