The Hairy Hand Page 4

  Within seconds Plog was hopping about, bumping into things and sucking a finger. After jabbing it with various bits of cutlery, a rusty fork had turned in his hands and speared him. ‘It attacked me... oh blimey, I’m bleedin’ to def, ’elp me ma, I’m dyin’ ‘. All in all, it had been a very bad day for Plog.

  ‘Don’t talk soft, it’s just a nick. Big baby... as for this useless lump of rubbish...’ With that Gertrude Plog scooped up the box that was lying on its side and threw it on the fire.

  Sept, finally couldn’t stop himself. ‘No! It’sit’s mine! My uncle gave it to me, you shouldn’t have done that! Why do you always have to do horrible things?’

  ‘Har, har, serve you right for bringing us a load of rubbish,’ said Plog.

  ‘Thassright - an’ tomorrows yur goin’ back to the old miser’s place and yur gonna fetch back somfin expensives this time... are you listenin’ ?’

  But Sept was very far from listening. He was too busy staring intently at the fire. Sept’s fingers felt funny and the dry whispering had started again.

  Two things caught his attention: first of all, the wooden box did not seem to be catching light - it just lay in the heart of the fire, and the flames seemed to burn around it, flickering away from the surface of the wood. Secondly, there was now a very definite scratching noise coming from inside the box, same as in the cave, but louder... as if something was scrabbling to get out. Even the Plogs heard it now and they stopped talking and stared. The scrabbling grew louder and more urgent and then became a knocking, then a banging. Sept’s funny feeling grew stronger and stronger until it felt like his whole body was burning up. Knock, knock, knock, bang, Bang, BANG, BAANNGGG, BOOOOMM!

  The box exploded into several hundred unglueable bits - sending shards, splinters and slivers of wood in all manner of surprising directions. Everyone ducked.

  Something shot out of the fireplace and into the air.

  Something dark and sinister-looking, whispering voices only Sept could hear, filled the room.

  The thing landed on the table. The Plogs stared. It crouched there and seemed to stare back.

  There was a pause that seemed to go on for ever...

  ‘IT’S A HAIRY HAND!’ shrieked Gertrude Plog in her loudest, screetchiest voice. ‘IT’S A HAIRY HAND!’ she repeated, just in case no-one had heard her the first time. Then, for good measure, she pointed at it. ‘IT’S A HAIRY HAND! And what’s it doin’ in my kitchen?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Plog. ‘Ask ’im.’

  Both adults turned slowly and glared at Sept through small, piggy eyes.

  ‘Why did you brung us this ’orrible ’airy ’and?!’

  Sept, deciding to play for time, took a closer look. The creature shuffled to the edge of the table where the boy stood, as if It wanted to get as far away from Gertrude Plog as possible. Sept leant backwards, but he didn’t run. He just kept looking, instead. Jet black skin covered the Hand as well as sleek black fur: from the stump of the wrist cupped in silver, to the long, tapered nails. It looked like it had belonged to a small, agile animal - not a human, but somehow it seemed... intelligent. His mum was spot on about one thing, though - it was a hairy hand all right.

  A hairy hand - Sept swallowed hard and tried to think happy thoughts. However, it was clear that in spite of his best intentions he was a big disappointment to his parents. Yet again.

  Why on earth had his uncle said it was the best thing he could have chosen? To Sept, it looked weird and a bit scary and it moved fast, very possibly in any number of random directions - like a scorpion. At the base of the stump where the silver band ended, was a short chain. The splinters of wood covering the end suggested that the hand had been chained inside the wooden box. This meant it could be dangerous.

  But not necessarily.

  Sept had learned over the past few weeks not to jump to hasty conclusions - things weren’t always obvious. He looked more closely and now, he noticed that the Hand was shivering. It seemed to be scared. If it was scared of him, why should he be scared of It? Sept wondered. He took a deep breath, and ever so slowly stretched out his right hand. The creature went very still. It could be preparing to pounce, thought Sept, unable to get the jumping scorpion image out of his head. The Plogs seemed to hold their breath, too, Gertrude’s small eyes flitting from Sept to the table like someone looking from a safe distance at someone else about to be bitten by something poisonous. In spite of his fear, inch by slow inch, Sept’s hand went forward until it was almost touching the creature from the splintered box. The whispering started once more and the smell of hot sand and spices filled the room, though Plog and Gertrude did not seem to notice.

  The best thing or the worst, his uncle had said. Well there’s only one way to find out, and so Sept extended a finger the last inch and gently stroked the back of the Hand. The whispering stopped and the smell of magic seemed to disappear just like that.

  Its skin felt cool and surprisingly soft, like a new leaf.

  The Hand stopped shivering and then It did a strange thing. It bent its front fingers and arched its back, almost as if it were taking a miniature bow to the boy.

  Instinctively, Sept now let his hand rest palm down upon the table. Next to his own hand It was much smaller. It didn’t seem scary at all now. It felt, Sept concentrated on the right word, familiar.

  The Hairy Hand hesitated at first, then seemed to be about to walk towards Sept’ palm when Gertrude intervened.

  ‘YUK!’ she said, ‘don’t touch it - disgusted fing probably full of diseases and plague. It’ll kill us all.’

  ‘No it won’t...’ Sept started to say, ‘It’s just frightened...’

  But before he could do anything, Gertrude Plog had grabbed the chain. The Hand, now upside down, scrabbled frantically in the air, his mum holding It aloft like a spider hanging off its own thread. With her free hand she opened the back door, swung the chain once and let go. The Hand, fingers waving in all directions, flew across the garden and landed with a faint thud in their compost heap.

  ‘Good riddance!’ she shouted after it, slamming the door. Mistress Plog turned on Sept before he had time to say anything. ‘Tomorrow you go back there’!’ she bawled, ‘and you better find us some jewelsies or money or you’ll wish you weren’t borned!’ She turned. ‘Plog!’

  ‘Y-yes my spring lamb,’ stuttered her husband.

  ‘Lock ’im in the shed for tonight, the slug’s got an early start.’

  Rough hands grabbed Sept and moments later he was being pushed into the lean-to where their outside toilet sat: grubby and smelly and dark.

  ‘Don’t know why she’s botherin’,’ muttered Plog, but not exactly unkindly, ‘you’ll never be a Sneaker; you’ll never be anything I can make use of or figure out. You’re useless in this place, but it’s not your fault - ’ Plog seemed to be struggling with something and, for just a moment, Sept thought he could see another outline of someone, just behind his dad. He blinked but the vision was gone in the gloom.

  When Plog had stomped back into the house, slammed and locked the door, Sept went to the small window. He looked out at the garden where it had started to rain in long grey streaks. ...find us some jewelsies or money or you’ll wish you weren’t borned!

  I already do, he thought sadly.

  Chapter 8

  In which the Hand gets the better of a cat and a falcon

  At the precise same time Sept was feeling miserable and lonely - high up in the sky above the Plogs’ house - a spiralling falcon spied what it took to be a small rat (or possibly a big mouse) sliding through the long grass. Food! It thought, and about time too. It didn’t fancy hanging around in this weather for much longer, but it was hungry and wet feathers were better than an empty stomach.

  Wings tucked in, beak arrowed forward, it dived.

  But juicy, unsuspecting morsels were hard to
find in Nowhere, and next door’s tomcat, Spat (who was just as wet and equally hungry), had seen the same thing and was moving into position to pounce.

  King Mithras’ Paw, to give it the name Uncle Xavier would have known Sept’s Hairy Hand by, was old and cunning. Not actually the hand of King Mithras[2], but the paw of a strange cat-like animal he had been given by a mysterious travelling warlock.

  The cat lived a long life and when it died, King Mithras thought it would be fun to have the Cool Cat-thingy (as he called it) mummified.

  Being magical, the mummified cat remains almost instantly sprung to life. King Mithras’ head wife - who could put up with most things alive but drew the line at dead, zombie, sort-of-cats in her house - promptly threw it on the fire. Only the paw was saved.

  This was a shame because the mummified ex-pet was actually a very, very rare Llarmarra. One is born only once every 1000 years and whilst they can be a bit odd, they are generally thought to be the most magical and, importantly, loyal creatures on the face of the planet.

  Uncle Xavier had looked after the Hand because he respected anything that magical but it had never really belonged to him. He recognised its many potential powers, not least of which was a resistance to fire, which It had acquired thanks to everyone (like Mithras’ wife and Gertrude Plog) wanting to burn it on first acquaintance.

  And now, something was making the last magical remains of the Llarmarra struggle through the rain, across the muddy courtyard. Towards a lonely boy in a shed. Towards Sept.

  Back to the hungry Falcon...

  Seconds into its dive, it had reached supersonic; hurtling towards the Earth, like a feathered javelin. Its eyes narrowing as they focused on its juicy, prey.

  Just at that moment, Spat, yellow eyes also narrowed, extended his claws and pounced.

  The Hairy Hand, the last remains of what had once been a court Llarmarra, may have looked blind and unsuspecting to the stupid, but it had been following the cat’s progress and the falcon’s descent very carefully. And its timing, born of thousands of years’ experience, was spot on.

  As the falcon stuck its talons out to scoop up the Hand, a huge shadow suddenly seemed to spring out of the ground. Both falcon and cat tried their best to stop in mid-air as the shadow grew until a clawed spider towered over the tops of the gnarled trees at the end of the muddy garden. As the wind rose to a howl, the monstrous spider pounced, its razor fangs extending towards feline and falcon.

  Far below, as it drizzled chilly rain and, more recently, clouds of gently falling falcon feathers and cat fur, the Hairy Hand continued its progress.

  Because of this boy, the Hand had lost Its home, been thrown on a dung heap and left in the rain. It had every reason to be very annoyed with Sept indeed. And It knew just where he was.

  2(whose hands were bigger and not in the least hairy or magical, for that matter)

  Chapter 9

  The Hairy Hand gets where It is going

  Inside the shed Sept was unaware of what was coming for him.

  He was lying miserably on the cold stone floor, listening to the rain. He was exhausted but only able to doze in fits and starts - a combination of being cold, hungry and the noise of the rain keeping him awake. Whenever he did drop off, he immediately had his strange recurring dream of the cart and someone chanting and lots of people crying.

  Pata pata pata pata, tap, tap, tap... Pata pata pata pata... tap, tap, tap.

  Odd, the rain hadn’t been making that noise earlier. Tap, tap, tap. He looked up without much energy: through the grimy window he could see a small dark shape. It moved again. Tap, tap, tap.

  Sept dragged himself over to the glass. Through the thick dust and damp cobwebs he could make out the dim form of the Hairy Hand and he stood staring at It. It seemed to be concentrating intently on the boy.

  Sept forgot all about feeling sorry for himself and shuddered.

  He was about to draw back, away from the window and this strange, almost frightening creature, when Sept noticed that It was shivering again and he felt a pang of pity. And then guilt. None of this was the Hand’s fault. It was mainly his. He should have chosen some silver spoons at his uncle’s instead, then everyone would have been happy.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It really was horrible weather out there.

  Sept used his elbow to smash a small pane in the window. He knew his mother would be furious if she found out, but he didn’t care anymore - he was already in so much trouble and he doubted he could make matters any worse.

  The Hand, which had darted out of the way of the falling glass, now crawled in carefully over the broken glass, Its chain sliding behind. Sitting on the windowsill, It faced Sept and did Its strange little bow again. Then the Hand sort of sat back and seemed to be waiting for something, a gesture that somehow reminded Sept of an obedient dog.

  Slowly and very carefully, so as not to alarm It, Sept repeated his action from before and stretched out his own hand letting it rest on the sill. Always let a scared animal come to you, in its own time, he’d read somewhere. If it trusts you, you can trust it.

  The Hand seemed to hesitate but then, bit by bit, It crept slowly, yet elegantly onto Sept’s outstretched palm. It sat there, the warmth of the boy’s body slowly leeching into Its own until the shivering subsided.

  ‘I’d offer you some food,’ Sept said, cradling the Hand as he went to sit back down where he’d been lying moments earlier, ‘but I don’t have any and I’m not sure how you eat.’ He paused. ‘In fact I don’t think you eat at all?’

  The Hand wagged a slender finger in a sort of digit ‘no’.

  Still somewhat hesitant, Sept touched the fur on its back. It was silky smooth, like a black panther’s.

  Sept felt a tingle.

  He looked down and saw the Hand seemed to be agitated again. It waved Its fingers about in a circular motion, like antennae, as if It had sensed something somewhere and was trying to pinpoint it. Then, all at once the waving stopped and the Hand pointed. Jab, jab, point.

  ‘What?’

  The Hand stabbed Its middle finger into the air somewhere above Sept’s head. He followed the pointing.

  ‘Up there?’

  The Hand nodded a finger.

  Sept peered at the spot. Hmm, well it did look like someone had made a hole in the wooden frame above the doorway, or perhaps it was just a rotten patch. He went over somewhat dubiously, taking care to place the Hand on the ground first. But the Hand immediately ran up Sept’s arm and settled on his shoulder. Instinctively, Sept tried to brush It off, but It just scuttled across to his other shoulder. ‘Gerroff, gaah!’ It tickled. The Hand dodged under Sept’s grasping fingers and ran under his shirt, down his back. ‘Ah, no! no! Stop! Aaagh! Ahha ha hah haah!’’ In spite of everything: his tiredness, his fear about tomorrow’s repeat journey, the continual ache of having parents, he was beginning to realise, who didn’t care about him, Sept was soon laughing and wriggling as the Hand scuttled about him. Until, eventually, It came to rest back on his shoulder, hardly any weight at all; yet somehow reassuring. Sept’s laughter subsided as the Hand pointed again at the hole.

  ‘OK, ok, I get it, but this had better be something good - like food,’ sighed Sept. He really was exhausted and he knew he had to try and get some rest before morning and the long dangerous journey ahead. He put his finger into the hole and wiggled it about. Nothing. No, wait! His finger brushed up against something metallic. He pushed his thumb into the hole as well. Whatever it was, it was long and thin and cold. Using his thumb and forefinger like a pair of tweezers, he pulled.

  A key.

  The Hand got very excited at this, and started bobbing up and down.

  ‘How did you know it was there...?’ he began, then stopped. The Hand was now pointing at the door.

  ‘OK, a spare key to this door!
’

  Sept trudged through the driving rain, the garden lit up in flashes of lightning, like a negative. He hoped neither of his parents were looking out of the window, although he was fairly sure they’d be fast asleep by now.

  Back inside the house it was warmer, drier and a lot less smelly than the shed. The Hand shook off the drops of rain like a small dog and looked like It was peering about. From their room down the corridor, Sept could hear both Plogs snoring.

  A sudden hard tap on the side of Sept’s head, and - ‘Ow! What?’ Sept stage whispered. The Hand on his shoulder crouched and made a keep the noise down patting motion, before pointing emphatically at the front door.

  Sept started to follow the silent instruction, when something delicious-smelling pricked at his nostrils. In spite of his desire to leave the hovel as quickly as possible, he found himself drawn to the kitchen where the remains of the Plogs’ stew sat in a large pot by the stove.

  Outside the wind howled and the rain poured down all the harder. Thunder boomed above the dark woods in the distance and out of the window, ragged clouds, like witches shrouds, flew across the horizon. As Sept moved forward, the Hand slipped off his shoulder and scurried forward. Sept was vaguely aware that his new companion had become increasingly agitated the longer they stayed in the house. Now It scurried over the kitchen counter and tipped a bowl of flour over. It’s gone mad, thought Sept as he made a grab for It. The Hand was too quick and It jinked away from Sept and began scribbling a picture of a house in the fallen flour. Sept stopped and looked at the drawing. It was familiar.