The Hairy Hand Read online

  ‘Wossat, then?’ His voice was an old lady’s - high and reedy, like a squeaky door that has not been opened for years. The Hand seemed to have realised what was expected of It and Its long fingers twirled and writhed as if preparing a spell.

  ‘Oh, this is an evil appendage, a wicked servant with black thoughts and a terrible imagination...’

  ‘Do you mean terrible in the sense that it thinks up bad stuff or that it doesn’t have a very good imagination?’

  ‘Um, the first one,’

  ‘Oh, alright,’ Skrewskint didn’t look convinced at all. ‘So what’s it do then?’

  Sept took a deep breath. ‘If I let It have Its way my Hand will turn your tongue to stone, your eyes will go backwards in your head, centipedes will crawl from your mouth and slugs ooze from your ears.’ The Hand went stiff, pointing directly at Skrewskint. One of the dogs whined. Sept began to warm to his theme.

  ‘If I give the word It will cover your face in farting warts.’ He was actually enjoying himself now as the shotgun hung more limply in Skrewskint’s large hands and the two dogs backed behind their master’s legs. ‘You’ll never be able to wash out the stink and people will smell you coming a mile away and cross the road holding their noses.’ Behind Skrewskint, the Plogs had finally worked out what was going on and they began to edge their way towards the gap in the fence.

  ‘Well, there’s no need for that,’ Skrewskint was looking even paler than usual. ‘But those Plogs, they owe me what’s mine.’ The shotgun began to rise again, pointing right at Sept who felt panic creeping back.

  ‘Not one inch higher!’ he shouted in his most commanding voice, pointing the Hand right at Skrewskint. But he never found out if the bluff would have worked.

  ‘Quick, Ma, scarper!’ shouted Plog, pushing Gertrude through the hole and squeezing behind her like a fat rabbit. Clearly they didn’t mind leaving Sept on his own with Skrewskint and his rat-dogs. The shotgun went up and there was a loud explosion just as Sept shoulder-barged the creepy old man, forcing the shot high, so it missed Plog by about three feet. Both man and boy fell in an untidy heap on the ground. Sept, his ears ringing, was up first and running for the gate at the other end of the garden, the Hand clinging grimly to his collar. He’d jumped up fast, but not fast enough.

  ‘Stop, you young thief!’

  Sept abruptly halted just as another loud bang cut through the dawn silence, followed by a strange rush of zipping noises.

  As he turned, everything went super clear - it was as if his eyes could take in every detail of the scene: Sept saw the orange blast of the rusty shotgun; the puff of black smoke. He could literally feel the pellets zipping through the air, like a swarm of Firestorm Wasps racing towards him, their dry wings making the noise of a muttering crowd.

  You can do it, another voice rose over the sighing swarm. He should have been terrified but he felt strangely calm, only his fingers felt funny. Sept kept the thought of wasps in his head and, as the lead pellets raced towards his chest, he simply brushed them away, like shoo-ing a cloud of flies and felt the blast change course and miss him. Then, just as rapidly as things had got weird and slow, everything sort of sprung back to normal.

  Sept had no idea what had just happened, and he didn’t get a chance to think about it. The Hand was pointing frantically at the hedge.

  ‘Good idea!’ said Sept, ‘I think it’s time to go before he reloads.’ The Hand gave him the thumbs up sign.

  ‘If I see any of you again, I’ll feed you to my dogs, one tiny morsel at a time!’ Skrewskint looked a bit mystified as to how he could have missed such an easy target, but Sept was now too far away for him to load and fire again. Sept landed the other side of the gate, rolled and scrambled to his feet. Then he grabbed the Hand, shoving it into his coat pocket and ran down the road, arms pumping, chest heaving.

  Sept didn’t go home immediately. He hadn’t forgotten all Gertrude’s threats about going back to his uncle’s. However, he had just saved his parents’ lives, so after some thought sitting by the road, the Hand still on his shoulder, he got up to see how they were.

  When he opened the front door, he found the Plogs sitting by an empty fire.

  If Sept expected any thanks, he was about to be disappointed.

  ‘It’s alls your fault!’ Gertrude yelled as Sept stood by the door. ‘That magicky hand could have exploded those dogsies with a spell. You just wait till I gets my hands on you...’ but she stopped. The Hand had jumped from Sept’s shoulder, who stood in front of the window. A red sun was rising and it threw the Hand’s shadow out across the room, like a giant spider bathed in a bloody red glow. The whole room suddenly went very hot and the whispering came once more, like grains of sand being blown over dry parchments.

  ‘Er,’ um,’ Plog had gone sweaty and Gertrude’s jaw wobbled in fear. ‘Let’s not be hasty, my cherry blossom... we don’t know what that thing can do.’ He glanced at Sept. ‘Boy... um, I mean Septimus, my dear boy, tell It Ma was only joking...’

  Sept smelled the air, magic had a sort of burning odour to it he was beginning to realise. ‘It’s OK,’ he said to his parents. ‘As long as you don’t make any sudden moves,’ he added, not forgetting the speed of the slap in Skrewskint’s garden.

  He turned back to the window as the Hand signalled to Sept for a pen and paper by making writing signs. When Sept shrugged, as if to say that he seriously doubted they had such things in their house, the Hand seemed to look briefly exasperated, before It scampered over to the fire and started to write in the ash strewn around the grate.

  Sept looked on, his eyes getting wider with each line, as he read the words out loud for the benefit of his parents.

  Dear Plogs

  When Xavier told me you were stupid, he left out the part about you being brutal, selfish and lazy. I also thought he must have been exaggerating about just how stupid you are. After less than a day in your uninspiring company, I can see he wasn’t. If anything, he was being kind. That Sept is still essentially good and, frankly, alive, is a minor miracle and the only reason I am writing what comes next. So, try and concentrate. And, for the love of the Ramses, stop picking your nose.

  (Plog pulled his finger out of a large, hairy nostril and wiped it on his trousers, muttering to himself).

  I will find gold and jewels for you.

  But only if YOU do not harm Sept or treat him in any way other than your loving and loved son.

  This is my first solemn promise to you both.

  We will find gold and jewels that people, long-dead, have buried or perhaps lost. We will unearth precious gems in forgotten places, fabulous artefacts and coins of great value.

  In short, I will make you, Master and Mistress Plog, rich beyond your wildest dreams.

  However,

  I will not steal from or hurt anyone for your greed.

  AND, if you do hurt Sept, I will have my revenge. And it will be terrible.

  Sept is more special than you could possibly guess.

  This is my second solemn promise.

  Finally, you have something, in your possession that does not belong to you. The Book. I am unable to reveal the harm you have already done with it, but my third and final promise is, if you ever try to use it again for your evil purposes, it will be the end of you.

  Llarmarra ‘Hand’

  It took a few moments for what Sept had just read out to sink in, before Plog began to grin and Gertrude began to laugh. And laugh, louder and harder with each passing second, until her flesh wobbled and tears ran down her face. ‘Didn’t I tellies you it would all be worth it,’ was all she could bring herself to say.

  And all the time, Sept stood quietly in the corner. He wasn’t thinking about the money, or the threats the Hand had made. He wasn’t thinking about the Hand, really. What book?, was what he thought. Although he had a pretty good id
ea, and just thinking of it felt like cold water trickling down his spine.

  Chapter 13

  It’s unbelievable - the things people will throw away or just leave lying about the place

  ‘Dragons’ Teeth!’ Sept was sure he knew this hand sign. ‘That one means a storm is coming. A big one.’ The Hand flicked a long finger up for yes, a thumb for well done and then crooked its little finger in a circle.

  ‘Um... old man? No wait, that’s the middle finger... don’t tell me, I know, I know this one... um... snail... no, like a snail... TORTOISE. It means be still... or don’t move.’

  Sept was a fast learner.

  Six weeks passed very quickly from that rainy dawn when the Plogs had been promised riches beyond their wildest dreams in exchange for being good to Sept. However, it’s worth pointing out that for all of them, this was not saying much: up until now Sept’s wildest dream had been not having to smash the ice in his bath most mornings; Gertrude’s had been not having to eat the pretend chocolate in dog biscuits; and Plog to go to bed, just once, without being in terrible pain.

  All their lives had improved - for one thing, they found out very quickly what a huge amount of treasure people just leave lying about the place. Even in a place like Nowhere.

  For example, at the first crossroads out of the village, high on a windswept hill, the Hand pointed, with one thin, hairy finger, at where a diamond engagement ring lay wedged deep within the long grass and brambles.

  Afterwards, when they were at home and both the Plogs snoring in the larger room next door, the Hand started to write the ring’s story in the ash beside the fireplace:

  It once belonged to a beautiful young girl with rich parents. The girl was young and perhaps a bit foolish, but she had read enough romances to know she should marry for love, and knew enough of her own mind to refuse to accept a wealthy but disgusting old man who had dirty grey hairs growing out of his nose and ears. Honestly, if you could see what I can see, he makes Plog look like a ballerina. Urgh!

  ‘What happened next?’ Sept loved these stories as much as any book.

  Well, late one night, in thick fog, she tore the ring from her finger and hurled it away. She was running away from home, from her parents and the old man’s servants who were chasing her, with the sole purpose to bring her back to marry their master.

  ‘And then,’ Sept wanted to know more.

  Sorry, no idea, but it probably doesn’t end well, take it from me, these sorts of story rarely do.

  It seemed the Hand could tell the story behind the ring just by touching it. However, as soon as the ring had left her finger, the memory had vanished, so the Hand was unable to tell what had become of her.

  The Plogs left Sept alone with the Hand each evening, usually with no fire, whilst they stuffed their faces in the comfort of their bed and pawed at whatever new treasure the Hand had found for them.

  This might not sound ideal, but Sept was finally knowing what it was like to have someone to talk to who was interesting and interested in something other than making other people unhappy. Better still, the Hand could not waste time every evening writing everything down, so it set to work teaching Sept the Secret Sign Language of the Magician Pharaohs.

  His apprenticeship started the very evening the Plogs lit a fire but went to bed before it had died down.

  Immediately the Hand started pointing at the hearth, doing Its strange, bobbing up and down routine that Sept was beginning to realise meant it wanted his attention. At first he thought the Hand had seen more treasure, so he placed It gently on the stone floor.

  Then the Hand scurried over to the fireplace and Sept leaned in, expecting It to write in the ash again. However, his friend, or his protector? - Sept wasn’t quite sure what the Hand was, yet - stood very close to the flames, silhouetted and pointing behind the boy. Sept looked around, to see if one of the Plogs had come back. Instead he saw that the fire’s licking orange flames had thrown the Hand’s shadow out across the whitewashed wall behind them. Sept turned back to the Hand to see It curl Its fingers and hunch down. Sept jumped forward in alarm, thinking the heat of the flames might be hurting the Hand.

  But, at that moment, a thought occurred to him.

  Sept turned around slowly and, sure enough, the shadow against the back wall that the Hand had made was clearly a human figure. Bunny ears was one thing, everyone can make those, but just how the Hand had managed to make a shadow that looked so real made Sept gasp. The shadow figure was sitting down and it had long hair. Sept had tried making shadow pictures before on his own in the candlelight and had given up at a rock. Now the shadow changed and he was looking at a ring and so, this was how, bit by bit, the story of the girl and the lost ring was replayed like a puppet show.

  As the weeks went on, Sept quickly learned that not all signs were whole words. Sometimes the Hand would need to spell out a word. It taught him the signs for the letters by drawing a picture and writing in dust or ash the corresponding letter in modern writing, so that the letter A looked like a big bird with a bald head (a vulture, Sept supposed), ‘J’ was a snake, ‘D’ a hand and so on. Sept, who had taught himself to read, learned so quickly the Hand became excited.

  I knew it! It exclaimed one day, after It had told a long story of a farmer who had sold his 7 daughters to a witch for 7 rubies - stones which they found in a dry well by a deserted cottage at the edge of the Lost Woods. Sept had understood the whole story first time, without the Hand having to go back and explain any of Its signs.

  Knew what? Sept had long given up speaking out loud to the Hand, but used the secret language to ask - it seemed more natural.

  The Hand seemed to hesitate, scampering left and right in short, quick movements, as if trying to get around something.

  Now just listen and don’t get angry, I need to tell you something. It’s pretty important. The Hand signed, so rapidly, Sept struggled for a moment to follow the actions.

  Sept bent his index finger, shorthand for What?

  I can’t tell you.

  What on earth are you talking about? Sept was confused, let’s get this straight, you’ve got something really important to tell me, but you’re not going to?

  Um... signed the Hand, yes.

  So why are we bothering to have this conversation?

  Because it’s important... you’re important... there are things you need to do... there are things you can do.

  LIKE WHAT? Sept had learned to sign in capitals and it was proving useful.

  You need to leave, the Hand signed again.

  ‘Where would I go?’ Asked Sept, thinking about the village Nowhere, the rain and the mud and the misery.

  I don’t know! Anywhere away from the Plogs is a good start. First of all, they’ll never change, they’ll just keep on being horrible until they do something really bad to you.

  No they won’t, replied Sept, not really believing it, they’re my parents. I need to stay... it’s my duty. I can make them better.

  No you can’t, said the Hand.

  What’s the second bit anyway?

  You need to go before you turn twelve. Not many people have a destiny, Sept, but you do. You need to leave to become YOU. The Hand looked like it was watching Sept very carefully when It said this.

  Oh, not that again. Sept remembered the incident with the flour. What’s it about me turning 12 that’s so important?’ Sept asked. Sept had also not forgotten the cave and what the old man had said about finding out the truth about himself. Is there truly something about me, or you just don’t like my mum?

  But, in answer, the Hand just bunched up, trembling, as if straining against an invisible force. Sept could see it was upset, so he dropped the subject. In any case, he didn’t like to be reminded of the time before and of the lonely, frightened boy he had once been.

  Chapter 14

 
; The Plogs get even more dreadful, if that’s possible, and they meet some Wargs

  Unfortunately, Sept’s attempts to improve his parents did not seem to be working. And if he hoped they would be sensible with their new money, he was about to be disappointed.

  The Plogs became even louder and started bullying everyone around them. When Gertrude did not get her way, she would pull the horrible Black Book out of her dirty apron pocket and wave it about, promising to use all the terrible spells she knew on people who annoyed her. And, although Sept was sure she didn’t know any spells herself, the book scared the hell out of him and he could tell it scared the Hand, too.

  They also started dressing in what they thought were the best clothes and jewels lots of money could buy. Plog found an old military uniform that had been left in a second-hand clothes shop and bought it on the spot. It was bright purple, with gold frogging down the front and huge brass buttons - like doorknobs - he polished so that they gleamed and caught the sun in a way that frightened horses.

  At about this time, they started to called themselves the Count Ludwig and Countess Ludwiga von Waffleater and they put on accents when they went anywhere new to sell what the Hand found. Gertrude Plog decided that if people thought they were very important people from a faraway land they would treat them with the great respect she thought they deserved and they would also get a better price for the goods.

  They were annoyed when Sept refused to play along.

  But Sept had other things on his mind.

  ‘Gurt avening toe yew, mere servant.’ Gertrude Plog held a hand out covered in gaudy jewelry.

  ‘You what?’ said the young man in the hotel reception.

  ‘Ma waif, say’ed gerd efening, grersey poor person.’ Plog was very helpful these days. At this point he tried out a bow he had been practising recently in the bedroom mirror. It was meant to be regal and add to his air of military grandeur but he really went for it this evening and banged his head on the reception desk by mistake. The pointy button of the bell connected very painfully with his forehead and went off, making everyone look up from what they were doing. The receptionist was still non-plussed. Sept tried to pretend he wasn’t there.