The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

‘Of course. A most fine gentleman.’

  ‘Why does he have a pink lead?’

  ‘Pink suits him, dear.’

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  ‘Where’s Kay?’

  ‘Well now, dear, your house has been burgled. It looks like nothing was taken, but your sister arrived as it was happening. She scared the little bugger away but she’s a bit upset so you need to be nice to her, alright? She’s talking to the police now.’

  Suddenly I feel sad and angry that we’re here in this strange old place where the locks are no good and people try to rob you.

  A police car leaves just as we arrive, but there’s still a white van with blue writing that says BRIGGS AND SONS’ LOCKSMITHS – 24/7 RELIABLE SERVICE. YOUR FAMILY’S SECURITY IS OUR FAMILY’S TOP PRIORITY. Kay is talking with a man who holds a toolbox on his hip.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, we can change every lock, but I don’t want to cost you a fortune for nothing. The little shit probably found it under the mat or something. We don’t even need to change the backdoor lock; he left the key in there.’

  ‘I don’t care how much –’

  Kay sees me and stops. She then leans in close to the locksmith. All I hear is, ‘I’ll pay after-hours, whatever’ and ‘all the windows, doors, everything’. For a while, the man just looks at her. He has that same face that people get when they find out Mum and Dad are dead. ‘It’s pity,’ Kay said to me once. ‘That look is pity.’

  So the man, with his pity face, nods and says, ‘I’ll do you a quote.’

  He goes inside and Kay turns to us. Her eyes are red and she hugs her elbows.

  ‘Thank you for bringing Jessie home, Mrs Moran,’ she says to the old lady from Number 61.

  ‘My pleasure, dear. We had a lovely walk, didn’t we, Cornelius?’

  The cat meows.

  Kay takes my backpack inside and gets me a glass of orange juice for no reason. I sit on the veranda and drink it. More men come, pudgy men who are smiley and hairy like the other locksmith, only younger. They go through the house like it’s theirs. The old lady from Number 61 tells me not to worry, that Kay is being ‘precautious and very wise’. She goes back to her house and brings us cold pasta, which she makes us eat, and puts a tub of fancy ice-cream in the freezer ‘for later’.

  When the locksmiths finish, it’s very late. Except for the old gate lock, they really do change everything. Kays pays them from the credit card she’s only used once before and they leave. Then Mrs Moran and Cornelius leave. The house is quiet.

  Kay goes into every room and turns all the lights on. She turns the TV on. She checks all the new locks. Then she goes into the kitchen and takes the ice-cream out of the freezer, the fancy one and our regular one.

  ‘We’ll let it soften,’ she says.

  ‘What happened?’

  She won’t look at me. ‘Do you want Caramel Honey Macadamia or Mint Choc-Chip?’

  ‘What happened?’

  She opens the lid on the fancy ice-cream and tests it with a spoon. ‘A guy broke in. I scared him away. He didn’t take anything.’

  ‘How did he have a key?’

  She looks at me now. ‘What? He didn’t.’

  ‘The locksmith said.’

  Kay looks at me like the office lady did. ‘He’s wrong. I left the backdoor unlocked.’

  ‘Why’d you change all the locks then?’

  ‘The locks were old and needed to be replaced. Now the house is much safer and I’ll never forget to lock the door again, promise. You can remind me every time we leave and you can help me check.’

  I want to scream YOU’RE A LIAR LIAR LIAR but I don’t. Kay looks sad and tired. Her eyes are droopy. So I ask, ‘You okay?’

  Kay scrunches up her forehead like she might cry. ‘I’m okay. This ice-cream isn’t very soft though.’

  She microwaves both tubs and gives me the bowl she usually uses for soup. She squirts so much Ice Magic on top that it doesn’t fully set and then gives me my favourite teaspoon (the one with the cat on it). She takes me to the TV and gives me the remote.

  ‘I’m going to the loo,’ she says. But she goes to her room and closes the door.

  She’s in there for ages. When I finish my ice-cream, I go to her door. She’s crying inside, soft, like she’s sobbing into her pillow. The last time I heard her cry like this was at the hospital, where she howled and pulled her hair and said sorry a lot. Then Grandma came and a man in a suit came with papers, and so many people came with papers, and she was always on the phone. She went quiet then, and stayed that way.

  I wonder if I should go in there and give her a hug. But I hate people touching me when I’m sad, so I go back to the TV and count how many times the lady on Lateline says ‘Prime Minister’ as she interviews a man in a grey suit (thirteen in a bossy voice like she thinks he’s a liar, four in a calm voice, two with a smile).

  When I wake up, the TV’s still on and it’s raining outside. The rain is so loud I can’t hear the TV. Kay’s still not here. I peek down the hallway. Her bedroom door is open.

  I walk down the hall and find her in the study at the front of the house. The study has a whole wall of bookshelves, with books going from the floor to the ceiling, and a fireplace with old photographs of Grandma, Dad and other people I don’t know. There’s also a desk and a chair, and a pretty couch that’s small enough to fit right under the window. But Kay’s not sitting on the chair or couch. She’s on the floor in the corner of the room. She stares into the other corner. I look too. There’s nothing there. Just bookshelves.

  Her eyes flutter as I come into the room.

  ‘Hey,’ she says quietly.

  I sit down next to her. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

  ‘Would you like some ice-cream?’ I ask Kay.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  She still looks at the corner.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘The books,’ she says. ‘Aren’t they pretty?’

  The books are not pretty. They’re covered in dust. The carpet is nice though, red with dark swirls. It lifts up in the corner where Kay is looking.

  I point it out. ‘Do we need to fix the carpet?’

  Kay looks down and frowns. She scrambles over and lifts the carpet like she’s peeling off a sticker. It comes away easily. It’s not fraying. Part of it’s been cut.

  ‘It wasn’t like that before,’ I say.

  Kay doesn’t seem to hear. She tugs as hard as she can. I grab the corner of the carpet and help. Then I see it.

  A trap door.

  It’s a square in the floor, no larger than two rulers across, with flat metal hinges along one side and a keyhole on the other. I look into the keyhole. Darkness.

  ‘Open it!’

  Kay sticks her pinkie in the keyhole. She feels around the trap door’s edges.

  The keyhole looks familiar. Large and old. Like the gate key.

  I’m still wearing my school pants. I take the key out of my pocket.

  ‘That unlocks the gate, silly,’ Kays says.

  ‘Can we try it?’ I ask.

  Kay smiles. ‘Sure.’

  I put the key into the lock – it fits! – and turn it. Something clicks and when I try to pull the key out, the door swings open.

  A book.

  Just a single book inside a small box in the ground. A dusty black thing without any words or pictures on the cover. I pick the book up. It’s small but heavy.

  I look at Kay. She smiles and says, ‘Go on.’

  I open the book very carefully but its spine creaks. I stop.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Kay says, and I open the book again. The first page is blank. The paper is thick, a very dull dirty white. On the second page, written in pretty black lettering, is the book’s title:

  The History of Mischief.

  Mischief. Like the key.

  A small symbol is drawn below it: two curves, like a smile and a frown, joined by a straight line and a little circle, an odd eye, above the sm
ile. I can’t help but touch it. I’m very careful and only touch with my fingertips. Kay turns the page. Just a few words:

  For Pan and The Blackwood.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kay says. ‘Turn the page.’

  I turn the page. It’s a contents page with a long list of names and dates.

  Kay points to one of the entries. ‘316 BC,’ she mutters.

  ‘What’s BC mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Before Christ,’ Kay says. ‘Two thousand three hundred years ago.’

  ‘This book is over two thousand years old!’

  ‘No, it can’t be,’ she says, touching the paper.

  ‘Look at all the cracks,’ I say, pointing at the spine.

  ‘Yes, but it’s too well preserved,’ Kay says. ‘And look, it says “Transcription Note”. It’s a copy, not an original.’

  ‘Can we read it?’

  Kay turns the page and starts to read out loud.

  Transcription Note

  The History of Mischief is no ordinary history. It records the secret millennia-old practice of mischief and its practitioners, who, when practising their art, assume the title of A. Mischief.

  The original History was a book of signatures that, upon being touched, granted the practitioner unpredictable magical abilities along with the memories of previous mischiefs. Each entry told of their greatest acts and, as such, the dates listed mark the period of their tenure as a mischief. The History survived thousands of years, but then began to degrade in the nineteenth century. Only some of the histories remained intact. Those that survived were recorded by myself and Chloe McKenna.

  The histories here take first person form, as they were observed through the memories and emotions held in the original book. More details of the transcription itself feature in my story, at the end of the History. Chloe believed the original History, with its decaying memories, would restore itself. Until that time, this record shall be its history.

  Henry Byron

  a.k.a. A. Mischief the Two-Hundred and First

  5 August 1966

  Kay says, ‘That’s the year Dad was born.’

  And we turn the page.

  A. Mischief the First

  Athens, Greece 316 BC – 236 BC

  Our first day in Athens was fading. The sun was dripping below the horizon, casting a pinky-orange hue across the darkening sky. The bustle of early evening on the agora: food stalls, restaurants, shops. The noise, the blending of human voices, animal cries and slave chains, was life going by. It was the end of the day and, for a moment at least, I was free.

  I meandered with a weary, lazy gait towards the Eridanos River. I’d abandoned my shoes as soon as I was given the night off. It was a rare thing, a time where the only one I served was myself. I couldn’t remember life outside slavery. I was born into it, or, in my fantasies, perhaps I was the son of a defeated monarch. I was the only slave I knew without a name. I was just ‘the boy’. I was a man really, around eighteen or so, but the title hadn’t shifted. I smiled to myself, enjoying the feeling of sand between my toes, the scratch of it, the way it stuck to my feet. I felt like the boy of my namesake.

  The river came into view. It was not as busy as I expected. There were a few women filling their jugs with water, but no one else. It didn’t take long to realise why. An elderly man was resting against the marble steps, completely naked and scratching himself for all the world to see. He held a cup in one hand.

  The man’s frame was ravaged by hunger, the joints in his limbs and hips jutting out as though his bones wished to burst from his flesh. His skin was a sunburnt brown, as tanned as it was wrinkled, and he had knotted white hairs on his head, his chin and the scrotum he so publicly scratched. He looked up and considered me. Then he turned his cloudy eyes to the sky.

  I returned to the river, equally indifferent, and took those final steps. As marble and sand gave way to moist earth, I dropped to my knees. I cupped my hands, scooped up the water and drank, slurping deeply.

  ‘HA!’

  A great exclamation, then – smash! I inhaled a gulp in surprise and coughed, water spluttering from my nose and mouth. The old man stood, his arms outstretched. His ceramic cup lay in pieces by his feet. He fixed his eyes, now wide and blazing, on me. He shouted in a tone that was gleeful and surprised.

  ‘A child has beaten me!’

  He laughed, a throaty cackle punctuated with the odd high-pitched gasp. He gripped his belly. He looked utterly mad. He gestured at his broken cup and muttered something about human folly and having everything we needed already. Then he pointed at me. He grinned and his eyes sparkled. They were a clear shiny blue, the cloudy white all but gone.

  ‘There is a dog in you, pup!’ the old man roared. He hit me hard on the back – too hard for a man his age – and then cupped his hands and drank too, giggling between each gulp. After a long drink, he pulled himself up and walked back towards the agora.

  Dog. I suddenly realised I was looking at the man my master wanted to meet. I followed him. Eventually his giggly form came to a large wooden barrel, overturned and nestled into a corner of marble between the agora and the Eridanos. There was no doubt: this was the rogue Cynic philosopher, Diogenes of Sinope.

  By the time I made it back to camp, the sun was set. So many lanterns were lit among the tents, I could see them before I left Athens’ gates. The lights hovered in the dark, like menacing spectres waiting on the edge of the city. I knew Athens wanted us gone, this army camped outside their walls. But no one defied my master. No one defied Alexander the Great.

  And yet, as I approached my master’s tent, I heard raised voices.

  ‘We cannot advance into Persia without assistance from Athens.’

  ‘It is intolerable that I should have to beg for a few ships!’

  ‘Yes, but Athens knows we cannot sack them as we did Thebes.’

  Eventually, his generals shuffled out, looking grim.

  I took a deep breath and entered.

  Alexander was alone, sunk down in his chair as he gazed absently over the maps in front of him. He looked tired and mildly annoyed. It was an expression I knew well. My first memory was of Alexander, then no more than six years old himself. He had tested his blade skills by stabbing a knife between my outstretched infant fingers. He cut me twice but I didn’t cry. He liked that. I was a plaything that lasted longer than the others. I guessed at my age in proximity to his. He was twenty-one.

  ‘Didn’t I give you the night off?’ he mused.

  He didn’t look at me.

  ‘Yes, but I found Diogenes, Master, and thought it best to notify you immediately.’

  ‘Immediately?’

  ‘Forgive me, Master, you were engaged with more important matters.’

  ‘So you waited?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Good boy,’ he replied, a small glance my way. ‘Did you seek an audience with the philosopher on my behalf?’

  I dropped my head. ‘No, he was … somewhat confronting.’

  Alexander smirked. ‘No matter. Tomorrow. You will find him tomorrow.’

  He said it like a threat. I mumbled yes as he turned back to his maps. He held out his empty cup. I rushed to fill it with wine.

  Find him.

  I woke early and slipped back into Athens. But Diogenes was not in his barrel, nor was he at the river. I searched through the bustling city streets for hours, trying not to look at the graffiti that marked every building. Many of the drawings mocked Alexander. The first one I saw depicted him as a dwarf with a giant sword, cutting the head off his father Philip II. His other tiny hand was outstretched to catch the crown of the fallen king. Rumours about King Philip’s death followed wherever Alexander went. If he caught any such whisper, he cut the tongue out of the person who spoke it. Yet, they still rumbled on like faraway thunder, a common theme in the gossip of Athens.

  Then, I saw him: Diogenes, fully-clothed this time, lumbering down the middle of the road,
swinging a lantern with theatrical flair. The lantern was lit, despite it being midday. He swung it at passers-by, narrowing his eyes to study them. He then scowled, disappointed.

  I followed as he trawled up and down the agora. People frowned back at him, others laughed, many smiled.

  ‘It’s daytime, dog! Is the sun not enough for you?’ one man yelled. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  Then he turned and fixed that craggy, fierce scowl on me. He held the lantern up to my face and leaned in so close our noses almost touched. He grimaced, as if the sight of me offended him. He spun back around and went on his way. I paused, then trotted up alongside him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Looking,’ he barked.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘An honest man.’

  ‘I can show you one.’

  He stopped. His bright, suspicious eyes turned on me. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Alexander the Great, King of Macedonia. He desires an audience with you.’

  Diogenes laughed and continued walking. ‘Any man who calls himself “the Great” is as honest as I am young.’

  A tiny seam of mischief opened inside me, and I grinned. ‘My master is visiting the great philosopher Plato at his academy. I believe there is a lecture today. Perhaps you’ll find an honest man there.’

  He smiled wickedly. ‘Perhaps you are right, pup.’

  As we approached the amphitheatre, I spotted Alexander, surrounded by his generals and various Athenian noblemen. He looked uninterested in Plato’s lecture. His entourage watched nervously. A bored tyrant was no good for anyone.

  Diogenes walked to the front seats. He stopped right beside Alexander. He didn’t acknowledge him, nor anyone else, and turned his back on the king. A small gasp echoed around the chamber. Diogenes ignored it, watching Plato with exaggerated mock interest, nodding despite the philosopher’s sudden silence. Plato glared back with open contempt.

  ‘Sit. Down,’ Plato instructed.

  I whispered who he was to Alexander.

  ‘Oh! Make space for the philosopher,’ Alexander said to his men, shooing them so Diogenes could sit on his left. ‘Sir, won’t you join us?’

  Diogenes ignored him. Plato commanded him to sit again, and then added, ‘Friends, I may have said that man is a featherless biped, but perhaps we have found the exception. A man as dog.’