The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  ‘How do you know this?’

  He shrugged and offered his explanation nonchalantly. ‘Magic.’

  The next day, seven boys and one girl from the neighbourhood came to the house. Munan, they said, would train them to fight. She’d promised.

  I sent all of them away and relegated Munan to the chicken coop.

  ‘Clean it properly,’ I ordered. ‘I don’t want to see a single stray feather.’

  I sat by the trident maple and followed her every movement with eyes narrowed like a cat.

  ‘You don’t need to watch me, Mother,’ she said.

  Don’t I? I knew, the second I went inside she would flee to the neighbours, determined to train her own little army. I’d dreamt I was with Mulan the night before, flying through the trees on a beast of a horse. A group of men were either riding with her or pursuing her. She rode hard, whipping the horse and ignoring the branches that snatched at her face.

  One daughter off fighting a war; another preparing for battle on her doorstep. I would not allow it. No. No no no.

  Without thinking, I made the branches of my trident maple spin, its three-pronged leaves whirling like swords on a battlefield. It shifted into the shape of a woman, a slender thing much like my daughter, with its branches stretched out like arms. I clicked my fingers and watched it unfurl, the branches twisting back into a more relaxed shape.

  I wished the mischief was good for something other than shaping plants and boiling water.

  ‘They’ll reach the forest by sunrise tomorrow, Yingtai.’

  Hu said this dispassionately as I fed him his morning meal. I dropped the chopsticks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bandits,’ he said. He tried to pick up the chopsticks in his lap. ‘They’ll be here by sunrise tomorrow.’

  I stared at him, the relaxed way he fumbled with the chopsticks as he spoke of the impending attack.

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  He abandoned the chopsticks and clenched his trembling hands. ‘I do.’

  ‘How?’

  He nodded towards the chopsticks. When I did nothing, he tilted his head towards the bowl and then nodded again at the chopsticks in his lap. I picked them up and started to feed him. I felt the world breathe around me, all the life swimming in the soil and the air. My mischief branched out, connecting me to the forest. There was a darkness beyond it, creeping closer.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘What you’ve always done.’

  ‘Me?’

  What did that mean?

  Hu didn’t answer. He lay back, sinking into the cushions that propped him up, and closed his eyes. The slow deepening of his breath told me he was asleep.

  What you’ve always done.

  I have always just dealt with things, done what needed to be done. That’s all.

  So what needed to be done now? I felt the darkness on the fringe of the forest sneak closer as I went about my chores. Then the maple sang again. I glanced at it. Its branches sharpened into something sinister like claws.

  Something sinister.

  I smiled.

  That night I lay in bed, listening to the heartbeats of my family slow into slumber. I got up when everyone was asleep. It was cold and my joints ached. I put on a few extra layers and made my way out into the garden. I left my lantern behind. The world was dark but I could feel where everything was.

  The world was only quiet at night if you didn’t really listen. People were still, birds didn’t sing or cluck. But the wind never slept. It rustled through everything, even the dust on the road, and carried the noise of nocturnal creatures. I left our yard and walked through the streets, letting the moon and the mischief guide me.

  I hadn’t been out to the forest since before Yao’er was born. Mulan and Hu used to hunt there, coming back with rabbits and the occasional boar. It was on our village’s doorstep, a mass of life framing our little collection of families and separating us from the mountains.

  When Mulan was younger, Hu took us to the tallest tree in the forest. I waited with the horse as he climbed, Mulan’s little agile body clinging to his back. I was never game. They disappeared above the leaves, where Hu pointed out the mountains, our village, our home, and the tiny glimmer on the horizon that was the Yellow River. Sometimes, they sang, Hu first, and then Mulan, loudly, willing her voice to bounce off the mountains. But the trees always swallowed their songs. Now, I searched for those melodies, letting my mischief sink into the forest’s memories.

  I walked for an hour, following the songs the trees had trapped in their trunks. Hu and Mulan’s singing got louder in my right ear, so I veered off the main path. I found our tree. It was even taller now, its branches fanning out above the canopy of leaves from other trees. I sighed as I laid my hands on it, wishing I’d once had the courage to chase Hu and Mulan up into its branches. Hu cut a few notches into its trunk long ago. Lichen and insects now made their home in the nooks. I brushed them away before placing my slipper in the first foothold.

  The mischief surged around me as I laboured up the tree. I stopped often, clinging onto branches and looking where to go next. When I finally made it to the top, I clung onto the trunk, my back to the forest, too frightened to turn around. There was a curve to the tree here. I imagined Hu and Mulan resting in it.

  Finally, I turned. Awed by the sight, I sagged further into the tree. The forest stretched out, a rolling sum of green. Our village was to the east, a collection of roofs and a few tiny lights. The mountains loomed above, so still and massive. I saw how small I was.

  Lights twinkled in the north, torches from the approaching leopards. There were more than just a few renegade soldiers; at least thirty trampled the road ahead. As I sank into my mischief, that connection to the earth, I heard their sniggers and proud talk. I rested as comfortably into the tree as I could, listening again for the lingering memory of Hu and Mulan’s songs. I thought of the penjing, my dear old maple.

  The forest and I became one. I was in the eyes of every owl and insect, in the dirt under the leopards’ feet. I crept into the trees and sank deep into their trunks, twisting them into dragons, snarling faces, and slender women with limbs outstretched to the sky. The trees shifted only when they weren’t watched. I jumped from branch to branch, behind each man’s back, shaping the trees in front and behind them. Whispers started. Then gasps and shrieks. The forest surged. I felt them shiver.

  All the movement woke the animals of the forest. The birds chattered; somewhere, a monkey screeched. The wind howled. The leaves that framed the wicked trees quivered. I was everywhere and everywhere was me. I angled the limbs of tree women into claws, blocking the way ahead. The men at the back deserted. The remaining men thrust their torches into the branches. I brought all the water out of the earth, dampening the trunks. Water dripped from the leaves. The wind followed me and blew the torches out. The forest was lit only by moonlight. It wasn’t long before they all fled.

  I returned to my body and opened my eyes. The forest around me shifted back. The leopards retreated to the west. The next town in their path was three days away. I hoped they were frightened enough to leave them alone.

  Then I got down from the tree and went home.

  The days that followed were much like the last. Cleaning, cooking, feeding Hu. Rumours circulated, followed by confirmed reports: the bandits had left our region. Some speculated that the Emperor’s men had come and scared them away; others believed spirits protected the town. No one asked for my opinion.

  I dreamt again of Mulan. The men who galloped after her were friends, men under her command. They found the leopards on the road and dispatched them, capturing their leader and killing the rest. I sat on her shoulder as her gaze turned to the forest, our forest, her heart yearning for home. But then she turned and commanded her unit back to the capital. The elder’s son, the one who’d been sent to beg the Emperor for help, was the only one to venture into the forest. He was home by the time I woke up.

  That morn
ing, as the town celebrated their returned son, I fetched Hu’s meal. He was so tired, he struggled to hold his head up. I fed him in silence, save for my regular little encouragements.

  ‘I wish they knew,’ he said to me.

  ‘What, my darling?’

  ‘That it was you.’

  In that moment, the tendrils of our mischief, his and mine, connected in the earth beneath us.

  ‘The people who matter know.’

  Jessie

  It’s Sunday. Sunday’s a resting day where we do nothing and I’m allowed ice-cream after dinner. But we’re not resting. I didn’t even get breakfast. We’re on the train to Perth. Kay woke me up early and said she had to go to work. I have to come with her because I’m not allowed to stay home alone.

  ‘They’ve covered for me so much. I couldn’t say no. It’ll be fun, I promise. There are only two of us who work on Sundays. Well, there are more than two, obviously, but in Stock and Stack, there are only two of us and we’re out doing retrievals, so you’ll have the whole workroom to yourself. I’ll find you a computer or some books, and we can get milkshakes and muffins for breakfast. There’s this takeaway place at the station that does the best milkshakes. And there’s a bakery. We can get a jam donut.’

  Kay rambles the whole trip. I’m tired because we stayed up late reading the History. I really like Yingtai. I wish we’d talk about her and not Kay’s work. I saw the movie Mulan a few years ago. I used to like it but now I don’t because they got so many things wrong. Mulan’s mum was barely in it.

  We get off the train at Perth. Perth is a big station, where all the trains come together. We go up the escalators to the bakery, where Kay buys me a jam donut and a gingerbread man. She waves the gingerbread man in my face and says, ‘Look at my big smile, Jessie, let’s see your smile!’ like I’m three. I don’t smile. Then she orders a caramel milkshake and a flat white with an extra shot and two sugars from the place that has lots of ice-cream. I slurp the milkshake as we walk over the bridge towards the art gallery.

  Kay works at the State Library. It’s a funny, ugly building, a big block of concrete with weird sharp angles that lives behind the art gallery and next to the museum. The side of the building where the main door is looks like the library was even bigger once but then some giant came along, sliced it open and covered it in glass. It’s like a big cake with lots of layers that get smaller as they go up, with windows instead of walls. But that’s only the front of it. Around the back and sides, it’s concrete, like maybe they used up all their windows in the front.

  Inside, the library has two caverns that go through its centre. You can stand on the bottom floor and see all the way to the top. There’s a set of stairs you can climb, or you can take one of the glass lifts like from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

  Kay takes me to the back of the library, away from the main entrance, and through a secret door. She has an ID card that lets her in. We go through a dark corridor and then get to some lifts that are silver and very wide, like hospital lifts. We go up to the first floor, out into the library, and then to a door behind a desk. Kay taps her ID next to the door and it flashes green. It makes a click. She pushes it open.

  We enter a room with long desks and lots of mess. There are trolleys everywhere with old books, newspapers, all sorts of stuff. There are no windows but the light feels too bright. It smells strange in here too.

  ‘I’ll set you up on this computer,’ Kay says. ‘You can go on YouTube and watch Pokémon or whatever you like.’

  ‘Can I read the History?’

  ‘I didn’t bring it. Groovy Greeks is in your backpack.’

  The door makes that loud clicking sound. A lady comes in. She has grey hair so long it goes past her bottom. She sees me and smiles.

  ‘Hello there. You must be Jessie.’

  I nod.

  ‘Jessie, this is Lily,’ Kay says.

  The lady holds out her hand while she juggles a stack of newspapers in her other arm. I shake it but don’t really know what to say. Lily has a nose-ring, which I thought only teenagers got. She and Kay talk a bit about ‘who’s taking what floors’. Kay asks if she can do ground, first and second so she can keep an eye on me. Lily says she’s happy to do Battye, which I think is the third floor.

  Kay sits me down and puts her hands on my shoulders, which means I’m about to get ‘a talk’.

  ‘I need you to stay here, okay? The first-floor stacks are through that door –’ she points to an open doorway ‘– but you’re not allowed in there. There are things that could fall on you and books that are very old and expensive. I retrieve books that people request, so I’ll be in and out all the time. I’ll know if you move.’

  ‘Can’t I sit with everyone else and look out the windows?’

  ‘No, I want you to stay here.’

  So I’m stuck. Kay goes away for seventeen minutes before returning with some green slips. She disappears into the stacks, returns with a small trolley loaded with three red boxes, and then goes out again.

  I’m bored. I finished Groovy Greeks ages ago. It says nothing about Diogenes. I try googling Diogenes but I can’t stop glancing at the doorway to the stacks. If I push my seat back, I can just see a set of stairs going up.

  Kay comes back after thirty-one minutes. She glances at me on her way into the stacks. Again, those green slips. She seems to swap them for books or boxes. Then, she comes back after twenty-eight minutes, and then again after twenty-four.

  ‘Reading something cool?’ she asks as she walks past, this time holding a long slip with pink, yellow and blue paper. She doesn’t wait for a response. When she comes back, she has a small book-shaped box with gold lettering. Then she disappears.

  She won’t be back for another half-hour. If I have a very quick look, she won’t know.

  I go to the doorway and peer in. The stairs go up to another floor. Behind them, there are so many bookshelves, I can’t see where they end. The bookshelves are so tall, they almost touch the roof. They are metal and stacked right up against each other, with no room between them. What’s the use of them if you can’t get to the books? How did Kay get those books out?

  I’ve got more than twenty minutes before she comes back.

  I tiptoe into the stacks, past the stairs and into the land of giant bookshelves. There’s a sign on each one, sometimes with just letters like a secret code. Each bookshelf has a handle, not like a door handle, more like the wind-up handle on my jewellery box, the one that makes the ballerina inside turn. I try to turn one of the handles but it won’t budge.

  I walk further and find a gap between two bookshelves. I peer inside. There are many books, with a few of Kay’s green slips sticking out between them. All the books look old. It must be why it smells in here. Kay once said there’s lots of leather books decaying in the stacks, and it smells like off honey. I can see what she means. It’s sweet but kinda sickly.

  I try the handle on this bookshelf. It’s heavy but it moves. The whole bookshelf rolls along tracks on the ground, like a train. I try another and another. They squeal a little and make a little knocking sound when they come together. Then I turn the handles until the shelves are back to where they were before, so Kay won’t know I was here.

  I’ve got plenty of time so I walk around the stacks. At one end, I find a secret room. It has a tiny glass window in the door, but it’s so dark I can only just see a few bookshelves inside. I touch the glass. It’s cold.

  Kay told me about these. A rare book room. A fridge for special old books. Could there be something as old as the History? I try to go in but the door’s locked. I notice the card reader. I think about stealing Kay’s ID. She’d be so angry she’d never let me read the History again.

  I go back to the workroom and check the time. Better not risk it.

  When Kay comes back, she smiles at me. I smile back thinking, you don’t know what I did. She has those long slips again, the ones that are three joined together. They look important. She swaps them for t
wo of the book-shaped boxes.

  ‘I have one more retrieval shift and then we can have lunch, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She leaves.

  Another half hour to explore the stacks.

  I go back to the rolling bookshelves. This time, I step over the little train tracks. The bookshelves are so tall, like walls. I want to see the books at the top. There are steps on wheels all around the stack. I wheel one over, pick it up (it’s heavy!), and put it inside the shelves. When I step on it, I can see some of Kay’s green slips. They sit in the gaps between books. I pick one up. It’s a form: TITLE, AUTHOR, CALL NUMBER. It has scribbles on it, like a doctor’s writing. I can’t read it.

  A little squeal. The bookshelves behind come towards me! The shelves bang into the step and shudder. I scream. Someone grabs me and pulls me out of the shelves. It’s Kay.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? I could’ve killed you!’ she screams, shaking my arm. She digs her fingernails in. She won’t let go. ‘I tell you to do one thing for your own good. One fucking thing! Why can’t you help me? Why do you have to make everything so hard?’

  Then Kay cries and hugs me really tight. Her ugly sobs echo around the stacks. It’s horrible.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  Kay just bawls. Eventually, she calms down and lets go of me. She wipes her face and takes a big breath.

  ‘Let’s have lunch.’

  In the café downstairs, I have a cheese and salad sandwich and Kay has another flat white with an extra shot and two sugars. She looks past me as she sips her coffee. Doesn’t say a word. Her eyes are glassy like she might cry again. She doesn’t buy me a muffin, even though the lady behind the counter says I should try Kay’s favourite, which is raspberry and white chocolate. Kay tells the lady I don’t deserve it.

  After lunch, Kay takes me to the first floor, but this time to the public area. She sits me in front of a librarian called Neil.

  ‘If you move, you are never reading the History again,’ she says, shaking her finger at me.