The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  Years later, when I finally learnt to read, I discovered what it said:

  Pup.

  Jessie

  I’m at school before anyone else. This isn’t new because Kay often has work early and doesn’t trust me to walk to school on my own. But today, I’m here for a different reason.

  I want to learn more about the boy, Diogenes and Alexander the Great. Last night, I asked Kay about them but she kept saying ‘I don’t know’ and put me to bed. I wanted to read the next history but she said ‘maybe tomorrow’ and that was that. I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed on my own in the morning and woke up Kay for once. I said it was important: ‘I need to go to the library.’

  I haven’t been to the library before school. I know it’s open before school, after school and at lunch, Tuesday to Thursday, because the librarian Mrs Harper tells us all the time.

  It’s 8:15 when I arrive. The door’s wide open and there’s someone’s backpack outside. Bags aren’t allowed in the library because a boy took his inside and his drink bottle leaked cordial everywhere. Mrs Harper was very annoyed. There’s still a big blue stain on the carpet. I leave my bag by the door and peek inside.

  ‘Come in, dear.’ Mrs Harper is putting books away in the non-fiction section. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I want to learn about someone,’ I say.

  ‘Okay!’ Mrs Harper sings, abandoning her trolley and swishing over to her computer. She always wears swishy pants and coats. It looks like the wind is rushing around her whenever she moves. ‘Who do you want to learn about?’

  ‘Diogenes.’

  ‘Oh, Diogenes. Who’s he?’

  ‘Ah … he was a … he lived a long time ago in Athens. He liked to annoy people like Alexander the Great.’

  She laughs. ‘Sounds like a philosopher.’ She clicks away at her keyboard. ‘He didn’t like Alexander the Great, huh?’

  ‘No.’

  Mrs Harper keeps searching, hitting the Esc button after every few clicks, and finally makes an ‘oh!’ sound and jumps out of her chair. Her clothes bob like a jellyfish. She goes to the shelves and gets me a book. ‘Might be something in here.’

  Horrible Histories: Groovy Greeks. The book has a wooden horse on the cover with lots of soldiers. One soldier says, ‘NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL HORSE POWER’.

  I go to the mat area with all the cushions. That annoying boy is here, lying spread out on his belly on the giant giraffe cushion. He’s reading a tattered copy of Guinness World Records 2010.

  ‘Good morning, Jessie!’ he says.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. I turn around and go to the desks on the other side of the library. He follows, pulls up a chair next to me. I hold the book up to my face.

  ‘Horrible. Histories. Groovy. Greeks,’ he says slowly. ‘That’s on TV.’

  I just hmm at him and hold the book up even higher.

  ‘Did you see the episode about the Roman emperor who made people eat rocks for dinner? His name was Elagabalus and he lived from 203 AD to 222 AD, which means he died when he was nineteen, which is very young but not that young back then.’

  ‘I’m reading,’ I tell him.

  He says ‘okay!’ and plonks the Guinness World Records book on the desk. He flicks through it and makes ‘woh!’ noises.

  Before I find anything about Diogenes, Mrs Harper says, ‘Kids, the bell’s about to go. Could you put the books back or come and borrow them?’

  The boy slams his book shut. ‘Sure thing, Mrs Harper!’

  He runs over to the shelves where the record books live.

  ‘No running in the library, Theodore!’

  ‘Sorry!’ he says, and then walks dramatically out of the library, swinging his arms.

  I borrow the book and leave, only to find him waiting for me.

  ‘Let’s walk to class together. I bet the doors are open now.’ He jumps on the spot. ‘Race you!’

  He takes off. I walk after him, flipping through Groovy Greeks until I get to class.

  I wake. Mrs Armstrong is saying, ‘Up you get, kiddo!’

  I’m under a tree near the top oval. It’s no longer recess. Everything’s still. I must’ve fallen asleep.

  I blink a few times.

  ‘Rough night?’

  I shrug.

  Mrs Armstrong takes me to the office and they call Kay. I try to read Groovy Greeks but I fall asleep again while I’m waiting.

  Kay is annoyed but doesn’t say so. As we walk home, she says things like ‘how could you not have slept at all last night?’, ‘did you have a nice morning?’ and ‘walk faster please!’ She has a day off so she didn’t have to leave work. I don’t know why she’s so grumpy. When we get home, I see why. There’s a man in a van waiting outside. The van has flowery writing on it that says ALCHEMY WROUGHT IRON – FOR ELEGANCE AND SECURITY. CALL US FOR AN OBLIGATION-FREE QUOTE TODAY.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kay says to the man.

  ‘No worries, gave me a chance to look at this gate. To be honest, it would be a real shame to tamper with something like this. Beautiful metalwork.’

  ‘Jessie, go inside,’ Kay says.

  I go inside but listen by the door. The man talks about putting metal bars on all the windows and doors. Kay says she wants a new lock on the gate too but the man tries to convince her not to because it will change the gate somehow. But then I feel tired so I go to bed.

  ‘Okay, you’ve had a nap. Get up.’

  Kay opens the curtains.

  ‘Come on, if you sleep any more you won’t sleep tonight.’

  I wish I had mischief. As Kay turns away, I flick my hand at the curtains. They don’t move.

  I read Groovy Greeks while Kay calls people and stomps around the house. I wonder who else could be a mischief. Maybe a mischief lived in this house. Maybe one of the men who went to war and got buried in the park was a mischief.

  When Kay finally gets off the phone, I ask if we can go to the park. She says no but I bounce around and tell her I could stay up all night so she says ‘fine!’ we can go to the park to ‘let off steam’. She checks every lock. As we go out the front door, she says, ‘just wait’ and then checks everything again.

  At the park, I step out the graves again and say in my head:

  BOWRA F.D.A. – Maybe A. Mischief – I’m sorry.

  BAILEY B.H. – Maybe A. Mischief – I’m sorry.

  BAILEY J.L. – Maybe A. Mischief – I’m sorry.

  Kay stops me when I get up to RICHARDS E.W. because it starts to rain. As we walk home, I ask her, ‘Did you know Alexander the Great died when he was thirty-two?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He got a cold. He drank too much.’

  ‘Did you read that in the library book?’

  ‘Yeah. It doesn’t have anything about Diogenes in it yet.’

  ‘Whoever wrote the story probably made up Diogenes.’

  I stop.

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s a history, not a story.’

  ‘Well, that kind of thing can’t happen. You know, magic powers and all that,’ she says. She tugs on my arm. ‘Come on.’ She says it softly, like I’m being silly but she’s trying to be kind.

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  I cry. I don’t mean to. I’m not sad, I’m angry. I wipe my cheeks on my jumper but they keep coming. Kay huddles in close.

  ‘I’m sorry, I guess I can’t know for sure.’

  ‘The book was hidden for a reason,’ I tell her. ‘It’s secret.’

  ‘I guess that’s true.’

  ‘Why would someone hide a fake story?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’

  I nod. We start walking again. Kay strokes my hair, just like Mum used to do when I was upset, only now I’ve just got short bristles poking up around my scar. And Kay’s gentle fingers are not Mum’s.

  I try to be nice. I try to sound sad, not angry, as I ask, ‘Can we read some more tonight please?’

&
nbsp; ‘Okay,’ Kay says. ‘As long as you go to bed early and actually sleep.’

  I nod and try not to smile too much.

  A. Mischief the Second

  Alexandria, Egypt 236 BC – 205 BC

  We set out from the warehouse for the last time that day. Dusk. The sun looked ready to drop into the ocean and fizzle out, but the world still glimmered from the light that shone off the waves. There were five of us, a small company given the ship we were to inspect, but the merchants were not considered hostile. We wore only thick leather, no armour today, though our swords were heavy at our hips and we had daggers strapped to shins and chests in positions chosen more for visibility than practicality.

  The ship itself was a sight to behold. Ships were as common as books in Alexandria, yet I’d never seen one of this shape, with pointed corners and glorious red sails that fluttered like silk. I’d been told the ship came from the East, but ships from the East didn’t look like this, at least not the ones I’d seen. We were greeted by a man and a woman, both dressed in thick, embroidered clothes. Behind them, seamen went about their business. I recited the speech I’d already given five times that day.

  ‘Please allow me to welcome you to the city of Alexandria. I am Aristophanes, a humble servant of our king Ptolemy III. On behalf of our great monarch, I pray that your visit is as fruitful and joyous as our fair city itself.’

  ‘Thank you, Aristophanes. It is humbling to finally visit the glorious Alexandria,’ the man said, his accent foreign but his Greek perfect. ‘We’re here for trade, yet we already feel richer for having come to your shores.’

  ‘We are pleased to have your trade, my lord,’ I said. ‘As this is your first time in Alexandria, you may not be familiar with our many laws and customs. One in particular must be adhered to before you leave this ship. I hope you’ll permit me –’

  ‘We know we are required to forfeit every manuscript to the Library of Alexandria,’ the man said. ‘We commend your wise king for his policy. If every empire collected books like him, perhaps we’d have a much more enlightened world.’

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. We were normally met with refusal, outrage, sorrow, shock and disheartened resignation. Though copies were often made for our visitors, the taking of their original books did something to them. Those who were lucky enough to be provided with a rushed replica were rarely appeased. Never had we been congratulated for the king’s policy of searching every ship that came into port and confiscating all their books.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that, my lord,’ I managed.

  ‘We’ve already taken the liberty of collecting the books in our possession.’

  A seaman came forth, carrying a small chest. He opened it to reveal a collection of scrolls, about ten or so.

  I gestured for my men to retrieve them.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope you won’t mind if we inspect your ship for other manuscripts. It’s merely procedure.’

  The woman’s smile faltered but the man bowed, smiling warmly. ‘Of course.’

  Three of us set out, descending below deck. We split up as we went through the many barrels and bags of grain. I prodded the bags, keen to check them quickly and be on my way.

  It was then that I felt something hard in a bag almost my height. It didn’t feel like a scroll, but something about it felt foreign, perhaps dangerous. Together with the men, one of whom had found a scroll in the merchant’s quarters, I dragged the bag up to the deck. I deposited it at my hosts’ feet. The man gestured to the scroll, ignoring the bag.

  ‘Forgive me, that is an inventory of our stock. You’re welcome to inspect it, but I hope you’ll let us keep it,’ he said.

  ‘My lord, may I ask what’s in this bag?’

  The man still wouldn’t look at it. ‘Rice.’

  ‘There appears to be something hidden inside.’

  ‘Not at all. Rice forms into clumps if the moisture gets in. It can feel quite hard.’

  I bent down and felt through the rough fabric of the bag. It had a definite shape, with sharper corners, and no amount of squeezing or prodding broke it up. I drew my dagger. The woman cried out as if I’d cut her. The man placed his hand on mine.

  ‘Please, sir, you can feel, it is not a scroll.’

  ‘Scrolls are often stored in intriguing ways. We just have to check. You will, of course, be compensated.’

  I cut the bag open and rice spilled over the deck. Inside I found a strange object. It was like a box, rectangular in shape, but covered in dark leather. As I opened it, leaves of papyrus fanned out. It looked as if many scrolls had been cut up, the pieces then piled on top of each other. They were attached to the leather, stitched in on one side so the leaves could be turned. I flipped through it, gazing upon the unfamiliar writings. The papyrus itself felt unusual, tougher; perhaps it wasn’t papyrus at all.

  Whatever it was, this cut-up scroll enclosed in leather, it most certainly was a book.

  ‘I’m sorry, this will need to be confiscated –’

  The man reached out. I stepped back. Behind me, my men placed their hands on the hilts of their swords.

  ‘Please, sir. We’ll pay handsomely if you look the other way.’

  ‘I’m sorry –’

  The woman launched herself at me. She scratched wildly, grasping for the book even as her own seamen pulled her off me. She cried in a language I’d never heard, and then collapsed into wordless wails.

  ‘It’s nothing of any import to you,’ the man pleaded. ‘Just a small thing of a small people. Nothing of any worth to Alexandria.’

  ‘The law on this matter is very clear. I assure you, if the librarians decide it’s of no value, it’ll be returned to you.’

  This was a lie, of course. The woman knew. She screamed at the man, bitter, accusatory. He looked at the book in my hands. That same look of resignation I’d seen countless times came upon his face.

  ‘Please ask your scribes if they’d be good enough to make a copy for themselves and return the original to us.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, another lie. I knew such a novelty would never be returned.

  As we left the ship, the woman cried out in Greek. ‘Your library will burn!’

  We took the confiscated scrolls to the warehouse overlooking the port. The clerks were busy, labelling each item with the customary ‘from the ships’ and loosely sorting them in preparation for their trip up to the library.

  ‘What’s that?’ the clerk asked, pointing to the leather-encased book under my arm.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I better take it to Old Pup straight away.’

  The clerk nodded, his eyes still lingering on it.

  The other men departed for home while I made my way to the Royal Quarter. The library sat within the great Mouseion, dedicated to the Muses. Its entrance was open to the air, with gardens and elegant colonnades so scholars could debate among nature and the cool sea breeze. I rushed past its beauty, through the cavernous open doors, into the covered section of the library.

  My footsteps echoed as I fast-walked through the high-ceilinged halls and their wide ornamental columns. I passed the reading rooms and dining halls, and came upon the shelves, piled from floor to ceiling with scrolls. My destination was the belly of the library, the stacks, where the acquisitions department would be winding down for the day. When I arrived only Cleon was there, making notations on a brightly coloured scroll.

  ‘Old Pup gone already?’ I asked.

  ‘First floor,’ Cleon replied, not looking up from his work.

  To the staircase. In my haste, I didn’t notice the young slave carrying a pile of scrolls so large he could barely see over them. He bumped into me and our books went flying. Scrolls unfurled across the marble floor, my leather-wrapped book disappearing among them. The boy apologised in clumsy Greek as he stumbled about, picking them up. I snatched my precious find from him. His master, a scholar with a gnarled walking stick, descended upon him as I rushed up the stairs. A cry reverberated through
the library’s great silence.

  I searched the labyrinth of the first-floor shelves, but couldn’t find Old Pup. He’d entrusted me with many responsibilities that weren’t afforded to other confiscators. It’d been a day much like this, two years previous, when I discovered a merchant was hiding great works of literature by stitching them onto the end of stock reports, assuming no one would check their entire contents. I still remember Old Pup’s wrinkled face smiling at me as he said, ‘You have a good eye, my son. You may bypass the clerks whenever you see fit.’ He was someone I genuinely liked.

  As I surveyed the alcoves in the walls, I noticed the slave again, wavering slightly as he stood by his master, who sat in one of the niches. I felt a pang of guilt. His cheek was split open and his left eye swollen.

  The lamp in the scholar’s alcove went out. He grumbled and had the boy move his books to the niche beside it. Once he was settled, that lamp, too, went out. Oddly, the lamp in his previous alcove was lit again. Both of us stared at this, then looked around. I saw Old Pup, sitting on the opposite side of the floor, going through a scroll. He was absorbed in his work and couldn’t have had time to relight the other lamp. The scholar then glared at me. I shuffled away, pretending to look for something among shelves of … astronomy, it seemed.

  As the scholar moved again, I caught a glimpse of Old Pup. His eyes were lifted, though he still leaned into the scroll. His hand made the tiniest movement, as if plucking something from the air. The lamp by the scholar went out. He then opened his fingers suddenly. The second lamp lit again. A smug grin flashed across Old Pup’s face, and then disappeared, eyes returning to the scroll. The scholar glanced up in frustration.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d seen or if I’d even seen it. All I’d really witnessed was flickering flames under the watch of an old librarian who happened to delight in his patron’s annoyance.