The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  The vacuum goes off in the other room.

  ‘Finished, dear! You ready?’

  I need to read more. Maybe I can take it. I look around for my bag. Maybe she won’t know. But I don’t have my bag.

  Footsteps down the hall. I shove the notebook back in the desk.

  Mrs Moran comes into the study. ‘Sorry for the wait. Did you find Sherlock Holmes?’

  I try not to look guilty. ‘Yes, Mrs Moran. It’s very good.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Come, dear. Let’s go for a walk.’

  Mrs Moran puts Cornelius back in his pink harness. She gives me the lead but Cornelius flops on the ground and won’t move. I drag him through the dirt and he still won’t get up. Mrs Moran takes over and he springs up. He walks proudly like he beat me.

  We go to the park and I count out the graves. I try to count properly and say I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about the card and the notebook, and that maybe the real History is somewhere in Mrs Moran’s house. I wonder if Mr Moran was confused when he saw A. Mischief on the origami I left on the veranda. Maybe he thinks there’s another mischief out there.

  I really hope he comes home soon.

  When we finish our walk, Mrs Moran makes me play Scrabble. I don’t want to play. I want to read the notebook and hunt the History.

  ‘I’m bored, Mrs Moran. Can I read?’

  ‘You are reading, dear, look!’

  She lays out the word NOTORIOUS with all her Scrabble tiles and some of mine.

  ‘I want to read a book, Mrs Moran. Can I read Sherlock Holmes again?’

  The doorbell rings.

  Kay.

  Not yet!

  ‘Sorry, I had a flat battery. It took the RAC a while to come out,’ Kay says as she comes in the door.

  I want to scream. I try to think of a way to get back to the study and take the notebook. I ask Mrs Moran if I can borrow Sherlock Holmes, but when I try to go to the study with my bag, she insists on getting it herself. She takes out the card from A. Mischief and hands the book to me. She smiles.

  I’ve been tricked, I’m sure of it. Mrs Moran knows I’m looking for the History.

  Jessie

  Mrs Moran is onto me. I watch her as she vacuums her driveway at night. Sometimes she glances back. Sometimes she sits in her chair with Cornelius like she’s guarding her house. I try to think of a way to get back in and look for the History, but I can’t think of anything clever.

  ‘How would you break into a house?’ I ask Theodore as we make paper cranes at lunch.

  He hmmms, really thinking about it.

  ‘I would make friends with a thief,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t know any thieves.’

  Hmmm again.

  ‘Then I’d try to trick my way in. Maybe take the person some treats and then get their keys!’

  The next day, I return Sherlock Holmes and give Mrs Moran a jam donut from the bakery as a ‘thank you’. She just takes it and asks if I want to have a tea on the veranda, not inviting me inside. I glance at the table near the door with its bowl of keys.

  She beat me again.

  I ask Kay if we can keep visiting, but Kay tells me to stop bothering her.

  ‘Why do you keep asking about Mrs Moran?’

  ‘I want to play with Cornelius,’ I lie.

  Should I tell Kay what I found? Maybe then she’d believe the History is real.

  In the meantime, I keep doing my research. The books on the Paris siege arrive and I find all the balloonists from the History, including Lou’s fiancé Alexandre Prince. Turns out, he was the first balloonist to disappear during the siege. They think he travelled too far in the wrong direction. His mailbags were found out near a lighthouse at Lizard Point, which is at the very bottom of England. He must have thrown out the bags when he realised how far away he was, and then shot up into the clouds over the ocean.

  I bet it was the History. It didn’t want to be found, so it somehow got on the balloon and escaped. Then the balloon vanished. I imagine the History flying up in the clouds and then falling into the ocean. Maybe a fisherman will be the next mischief.

  I have to finish quickly so I can give Kay my mischief report and we can find out.

  We’ve been lazy with visiting Grandma so Kay decides we should go on Saturday.

  ‘Are you sure we can’t take the car?’ Kay tries again.

  ‘Are you sure we can’t put iron bars over the car like we did on the windows?’ I reply.

  So we take the two trains, the bus and the seventeen-minute walk, and then we’re there. It took one hour and twenty-eight minutes in total, which is twenty-six minutes longer than last time (we missed the train and the bus). Lulu isn’t there so another lady signs us in. I see that weird guy David come out of a room and then run back in when he spots us. Kay doesn’t notice.

  We arrive at lunchtime and sit with the old people and their families. I didn’t realise the nurses would feed us too. We have roast lamb, potatoes and gravy. Then we sing happy birthday to a lady in a wheelchair and she blows out a nine and a two candle on a slab of cake. Grandma makes sure I get a big piece before we go back to her room. It’s vanilla sponge with custard inside and cream on top, which Grandma knows is my favourite.

  Grandma and Kay talk while I eat cake. Kay says something about me becoming a ‘library goer’.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful,’ Grandma says. ‘When I was your age, I’d do anything for a good book. What are you reading?’

  ‘I’m researching The History of Mischief,’ I say. ‘I’ve read books about Alexander the Great and Diogenes, and the Alexandrian Library, which was in Egypt. I’ve read about Mulan, the real one, and the Polish dragon and salt mines. Kay even bought me a special book and a DVD. I’ve just been researching the Paris siege and the balloons. Did you know they ate animals from the zoo because they were so hungry? They ate elephant and antelope and …’

  I stop because Grandma isn’t smiling. I think I was rambling.

  ‘I’m happy you’re reading,’ she says. But she doesn’t sound happy.

  ‘Darling girl, could you refill my water jug please?’ she then says, pointing to the jug on her table. ‘It has dust in it. And maybe some clean cups? Thank you.’

  The jug doesn’t look like it has dust in it, but I take it anyway. Adults do this all the time. They give you a chore to make you go away so they can talk about you. I wait by the door and listen.

  ‘These stories don’t sound appropriate for a nine-year-old,’ Grandma says.

  ‘They’ve been sad but they’re fun too. Jessie loves the magic in them,’ Kay says.

  ‘Why is she doing “research”?’

  Kay chuckles. ‘She thinks it’s real. Whenever she finds something that doesn’t match up, like a date or something, she’s convinced the History is true and all the other books are wrong.’

  ‘Why is this funny to you?’ Grandma sounds angry.

  Kay’s voice softens. ‘I don’t mean – it’s not funny, but it’s sweet. And, I think she needs this.’ Kay then says really quietly, ‘I need this. It’s the only thing that makes her behave.’

  ‘Bribery isn’t a good parenting strategy.’

  ‘I’m not a parent, Grandma. I’m doing my best.’

  Grandma sighs. ‘I know,’ she says, her voice all soft again.

  ‘It’s the only thing she’ll talk to me about. It can’t hurt, can it? It’s like Santa or fairies. She’ll figure it out one day. I want her to keep talking to me. I want her to be happy about something.’

  ‘I understand,’ Grandma says. ‘You’re doing such a good job. I know it’s been the hardest on you.’

  ‘It’s been hard on everyone.’

  ‘Maybe, just read the stories before you read them with her. To check. They sound violent.’

  ‘Okay, Grandma.’

  ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Yep, no, it’s a good idea.’

  They start talking about something boring like the nursing staff, so I go and
fill the water jug up in the kitchen.

  I feel angry. I know Santa and fairies aren’t real, but this is different. The History is real, I just know. And why don’t they want me to read things that are sad or violent anyway? Nothing is more sad or violent than what happened to Mum and Dad. And me. And no one could protect me from that.

  I’ve got to meet Mr Moran. If I can’t find the real History, I’ve got to meet a real mischief. I get my chance when we arrive home from visiting Grandma. Mrs Moran’s daughter Helen is out the front, going to her car. I rush over and say hello.

  ‘Yes?’ she snaps at me.

  I decide to ask, even if she’s grumpy. ‘Is Mr Moran home yet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Moran, is he home yet?’

  ‘My father’s dead. He died seven years ago.’

  ‘Oh … but Mrs Moran said –’

  ‘Mother forgets. She’s not well.’

  I don’t know what to say. I just go home. I wonder if I should’ve said sorry. More than anything though, I wonder where the real History’s gone now. Maybe Mrs Moran is a mischief but she doesn’t remember.

  I flip through my notes and books for the rest of the afternoon. I feel sad. Everyone’s dead. Mum. Dad. Mr Moran. Alexandre Prince.

  I find Kay in her room. She’s already in bed, watching TV on her laptop. I cry a little.

  ‘Come here,’ she says. I bundle in beside her.

  She hugs me. She kisses me on the top of my head, where there’s enough hair now that it almost hides the scar. Then we watch a show from Britain where people bake cakes in a big tent. I fall asleep.

  The next day, I give Kay my mischief report. I don’t tell her about Mr Moran and the A. Mischief note from 2009.

  She asks if I want to read the next history. ‘We can stay in bed all day and read, if you want.’

  I say, ‘yes’, of course.

  A. Mischief the One-Hundred and Ninety-Eighth

  Addis Ababa, Ethiopia 1879–1890

  Alemayehu is dead.

  I woke to this, the wordless words of God, a voice so all-encompassing and other-worldly that it was felt more than heard. I listened for Him, waiting for more. Then some sinister realisation sank in, that Alemayehu truly was dead, that I lay there moments after he’d slipped from the world. I wondered if anyone had been with him. A priest. A friend. Anyone.

  Alemayehu is dead.

  The only person I told was Taytu. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She didn’t question how I knew that our prince, taken to London over a decade ago, had passed away. But behind those intelligent eyes, I saw her mind working.

  ‘Thank you, Bezawit.’

  That was all she said.

  That day, I found The History of Mischief on the end of my bed.

  God never spoke to me again.

  I came to Taytu when I was around four or five. God spoke to me often even then. I gained a reputation for predicting the future, dispensing little sermons and tugging on the priests’ robes to tell them what I’d heard. My father, a soldier who fought at the Battle of Maqdala, laughed at this, enchanted. But his friends watched me with narrowed eyes. Rumours, suspicion and fear followed me.

  Somehow, those whispers reached Taytu and she sent for me.

  Even then I could tell she was a leader. Her eyes watched carefully, studying every detail. She was beautiful and plump, her skin shone, her braids were tight, and her white dress was embroidered with elaborate red crosses. But those eyes. I couldn’t look away.

  She gestured for me to come to her. I did so without fear. She took my hands in her long, gentle fingers.

  ‘My child,’ she said. ‘I hear you speak to our Lord.’

  ‘No,’ I said, very sure of myself. ‘He speaks to me.’

  She smiled. ‘And what does He tell you?’

  I answered simply. ‘Everything.’

  Taytu considered me, as if she was searching for something. ‘Do you know what I’ve heard about you?’

  ‘Father says I’m a gift of God.’

  ‘Yes, but some men think otherwise.’

  I felt suddenly embarrassed. If this magnificent woman believed what those men were saying, perhaps it was true. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  She smiled and sat back, as if her assessment was over. Then she leaned forward and tapped me playfully on the nose.

  ‘But what do men know?’

  I moved into her palace at Entoto, which would soon become the city she named Addis Ababa, New Flower. My father was given a position in her army. She referred to me as her niece and sent away anyone who spoke against me. She told me to be still and listen to God, and that whenever He told me something, if He allowed it, I could tell her.

  In her palace, the voice became clearer. Once, she asked what God sounded like. I couldn’t tell her, for it wasn’t a sound as we know it. The words came to me, voiceless yet loud, neither male nor female, and equal measures strong and gentle. The voice emanated from everywhere and yet it felt as though its origin was a singular place. I had been with Taytu for four years when Alemayehu died.

  It wasn’t until I came to Taytu that I learnt about the Battle of Maqdala and Alemayehu’s place within it. Emperor Tewodros, Alemayehu’s father, united the country and started major industrial initiatives. To advance his work, he called on Britain, as a fellow Christian nation, to send him skilled men and equipment. The British ignored his letters and their missionaries were found with documents that insulted him as a barbaric black dictator. In response, Tewodros took them prisoner. The British attacked his mountain stronghold of Maqdala. Instead of surrender, Tewodros shot himself.

  After Tewodros’ death, the British looted Maqdala, taking so many of our treasures that fifteen elephants and two-hundred mules were needed to carry the bounty back to Britain. Alemayehu, only seven years old, was taken too. What the British couldn’t take, they burned. For days, burning manuscripts fluttered down the mountain.

  Maqdala seared itself into those around me. Europe was a place of danger and power. Taytu was cautious to assume benevolence on behalf of those who burned and stole our precious books and relics. When she married Menelik of Shewa, this became even more obvious. Though he was not yet Emperor of Ethiopia, many foreigners came to visit. She gazed quietly at them with those intelligent eyes. Her silence felt like a prelude to something significant. She was like a lioness, completely still save for her eyes, which followed every movement.

  When God spoke to me, I spoke to her. I wanted to be worthy of her. I wanted to be worthy of God, who blessed me with every revelation. So when He stopped talking to me, I lost my worth. I stayed in my room for weeks on end, fasting, praying and begging for God to speak to me and take this wicked book away, this book that now spoke to me instead of Him.

  Taytu asked me many times, ‘Has our Lord blessed you with His word, my child?’

  Ever the same answer: ‘No, my lady. No.’

  Then one day, as I was making my way to the dining hall, I heard the unmistakable hushed chatter of foreign visitors. They were Italian, a diplomat and his translator. I stood there transfixed, understanding every word.

  Spotting me staring, they stopped. The diplomat was startled, but the translator said to him, ‘Don’t worry, she doesn’t understand. None of them do.’

  ‘Capisco perfettamente,’ I responded. I understand perfectly.

  If I was Taytu, I wouldn’t have given myself away. I would’ve eavesdropped on the secrets they shared when they thought no one was listening. It just rolled out of my mouth, like an instinct.

  The Italians were wary of me from that moment. Taytu noticed this and brought me to her meetings with them. I started to correct the translator’s Amharic. I then translated the Amharic into Italian, much to his annoyance. I was called on when the British arrived, and then the French. Soon I was translating for the Ottomans and the Germans. I could even read their various scripts.

  If it was in the History, I knew it. In gaining the mischiefs’ memories, I gained t
heir languages too. I spoke with the ease of a native speaker. One’s own language never feels foreign. It is the language we start to speak before we form memories. It is the script we use to think, to dream, to feel. These new languages – Italian, English, French, Arabic, and endless others – felt the same. Then I realised I could speak any language, not just those hidden in the History. It was easy.

  Taytu never questioned it. She stopped asking if God spoke to me. Sometimes she looked at me like Diogenes looked at the boy, with that knowing smile. Those looks were something I could never translate.

  A decade passed like this. Despite my prominent role, I had a way of blending in, averting the gaze of others. It was I who heard that Emperor Yohannes was dead. I’m ashamed to admit it was satisfying that my words could unleash the chaos that ensued as Menelik scrambled for the throne. That mischievous feeling, that tickle in the chest that all mischiefs felt, made me praise God for His gift of the History. I ignored any niggling thoughts that perhaps, this was a gift from another, more sinister deity.

  It happened late in 1889, a decade after Alemayehu’s death. Menelik became Emperor, and Taytu our Queen. The day after her coronation, I was summoned. It was so early the birds outside were still sleeping. I was eighteen and had been with Taytu for most of my life. I wondered which guest was so important that Taytu would receive them this early.

  When I arrived, there were already three men, all Ethiopian, in her chambers. There was a priest, a strange man dressed in a mix of Ethiopian and foreign garments, and Balcha Safo, a young but respected soldier I’d seen at court many times. I never liked being around him. I went straight to Taytu’s side.

  ‘Bezawit, I’m here to address you too,’ Taytu said, gesturing for me to stand with this group of men. I went to the priest, kissed the cross he offered in blessing, and stood close to him.

  ‘I’ve called you here for an important mission,’ Taytu said. ‘The sacking of Maqdala is a great stain on our glorious history. So many of our holy books live as objects to be gawked at by those who cannot read them. Most intolerable of all, our prince’s bones lie in their soil. This is unacceptable.’