Balcha nodded his agreement.
‘I am sending you to England to see the British Queen. Requests for the treasures of Maqdala have so far been ignored. Though I require you to ask the Queen to return what her soldiers stole, I accepted long ago that the British do not let go of their loot so easily. But we must have Alemayehu back.’
Again, Balcha nodded.
‘Bezawit is our nation’s greatest translator and a skilled negotiator. If anyone can convince the British Queen to give us Alemayehu’s remains, it is her. She is to take the lead on this mission.’
I froze. In a thousand languages, my mind screamed out: What?
Taytu continued, giving each man an instruction.
‘Aba Kassie, dear Father, I pray you’ll go and offer spiritual counsel to our envoy and bless Alemayehu in the proper fashion.’
She gestured to the man in a mix of foreign and local clothes. ‘Lema, you have been to London. You’ll go as a guide to the places and customs of these people.’
Finally, she turned to Balcha. ‘Soldier, you must protect our envoy.’
‘It would be a great honour, my Queen,’ Balcha said, bowing.
‘Do not forget, gentlemen, you take your orders from Bezawit.’
I glanced at them. They glanced at me.
It was Balcha who asked what we were all thinking.
‘What should we do if the British Queen won’t return Alemayehu’s remains?’
Taytu didn’t pause. ‘Take them.’
We left to the sound of birds singing their wake-up songs. Horses were already saddled and mules loaded. Taytu gave me a bundle of special clothes and jewellery to wear when I met the British Queen, but I didn’t have time to look at them. I was only given a few moments to gather my things. At the last second, I took the History.
We travelled for weeks across the mountains and plains of our country, heading for the port at Massawa. Initially, I was nervous about leaving Taytu. It was music – and language – that helped me. Aba Kassie, the priest, was a giant of a man but he was warm and full of good cheer. He wore the typical white robes and turban of a priest, and the brass cross never left his hand, even as he rode his horse. Always singing hymns, he helped me feel more comfortable. Once he realised I could speak our holy language of Ge’ez fluently, he encouraged me to sing too.
Lema, on the other hand, had none of Aba Kassie’s cheerfulness. He looked at everything as a potential threat, watching Balcha in particular with his shoulders up like a frightened cat. He was an engineer who’d worked with Emperor Tewodros. He’d been sent all over Europe to learn how the foreigners made their weapons. He was forever sketching in a notebook, marvelling at many of the buildings we passed, pointing out how they stood or commenting on the use of materials. He was an odd mix of curious and nervous. I felt both fondness and pity for him.
Balcha was the hardest to warm to. He was an intensely fierce, yet oddly pretty, man. He was beautiful in a way men were not meant to be beautiful. His voice, though forceful and strong, was quite high-pitched, almost like a boy. There were rumours he’d been castrated very young at a battle in Gurageland. If it was true, it didn’t make him any less formidable. His layers of leather and fur made him look bigger, more imposing, as did the muskets, swords and spears strapped to him and his horse. Strangers whispered as they passed us on the road, their eyes lingering on him.
I was frightened of him until one day, when Lema lost his patience with my clumsy cooking, Balcha defended me.
‘She’s an emissary of our Queen and a woman who speaks to God. You are blessed to eat the bread she burns!’ he barked.
He then took a big bite of the blackened bread and, through a wince, smiled and nodded at me. Lema followed suit.
After a few weeks, I felt at home in this new family of mine. Lema’s observations and Aba Kassie’s songs filled my days with safe, familiar music. As we travelled further north, there seemed to be more foreigners, almost all of them Italian. Balcha rode close beside me, always probing, ‘And what is that one saying? What are they whispering about? Why is that one bothering that priest?’
‘He is complaining about his wife. They are talking about our food. He is trying to figure out the word for God.’
He seemed frustrated by my answers. ‘What do they say when we’re not listening, little sister?’
When we reached the port at Massawa, there was already a boat waiting for us. I felt a happy shiver as I stepped aboard. The ship was simple but beautiful, with large white sails. The captain promised us a new steam-powered vessel when we reached the Suez Canal in Egypt, but I was thrilled with what we had, running my hand over the polished balustrade as I strode across the deck. The memories of various mischiefs, of sailors, pirates and gondoliers, floated up to my mind. The movement of the ship, as it lolled gently up and down, was familiar. In my head, I spoke all the languages of the seafaring mischiefs.
With the anchor aweigh, the ship sailed out of the port, away from Ethiopia and onto the Red Sea. I sat at the edge of the bow, my legs dangling off the side. I leaned into the wind and shivered every time the boat dipped into the ocean and my face was sprayed with salt water.
Soon the sounds of men being sick overboard filled my ears. My dear companions all lost the contents of their stomachs to the ocean. Bless Aba Kassie. He still held his cross as he leaned over the side of the boat.
As the days went on, the men gained their sea legs a little more. Balcha was the only one who didn’t improve. He descended below deck and wouldn’t leave. He was given a bucket to be sick in, which I emptied overboard twice a day. After a week, it only had a pool of bile and water sloshing about in it. He hadn’t eaten since we left port.
Then one day, I found him in the darkest corner of the vessel. His bucket sat faithfully by his head. He hugged his knees up into his body, and groaned sadly with every movement.
In that moment, I wondered how many men this pitiful soldier had killed.
‘Do you ever think …’
He trailed off.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘The water. Against the hull. Will it break?’
‘Never.’
‘It presses against us. I can feel it. I can hear the wood cracking,’ he whispered, his voice shaking. ‘Can’t you hear it?’
‘No, I hear the boat slicing through the water. The water doesn’t press against us, we press against it. If you come up on the deck, you’ll see us cutting right through it. We’ll go tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’ll see the boat slice open the belly of the ocean. I promise.’
He groaned. Yet, the next day, he was waiting for me, his back against his corner of the ship, his eyes red and full of tears. I offered my hand. He paused before taking it.
We slowly made our way up.
Once we got to the deck, he grabbed at everything he could. He could only stay up for a moment before he was on his hands and knees.
‘Shall we go back down?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he grunted.
He battled on, crawling after me as I led him to the bow of the ship. He grasped onto the balustrade that stood between us and the ocean below. Gradually, he pulled himself up so he could see. I caught a glimpse of his fierceness in that slow but determined gesture. His back straightened as he looked out. There was land in the distance, cut in half with the tiny sparkling blue strait that was the Suez Canal.
‘Slicing open the belly of the ocean,’ he murmured.
‘Slicing open the belly of the ocean,’ I said back to him.
At Suez, we found a steamboat heading for Europe, as the captain promised. Once we cleared the canal, we were out on the Mediterranean Sea for our longest journey yet. We stopped at many ports along the way. I enjoyed every time we docked, as I got a chance to speak the many languages I knew. Finally, we docked in France, informed that it was much quicker to go over land than to venture out to the North Atlantic Ocean and snake by the coast of Spain and Portugal.
As we stepped onto European soil, it was amazing how famili
ar everything was to me. The memories of mischiefs past had me yearning for detours. I daydreamed of swinging from the bells of Notre Dame, where a clever hunchbacked mischief had hidden the History. I could almost feel the sensation of moulding molten glass with my bare hands in a Venice gripped by plague. I wanted to flee east to visit the salt mines and fly further still to the Yellow River that flowed through forests twisted into wicked faces.
There was something else too, in Paris. A feeling. It reminded me of a page in the History, close to the end, with a name smudged out and no memories. Something unsettling, almost taboo, radiated from it. It was a sensation unique to that page. I always forgot it, like the History didn’t want me to know it was there, unless something reminded me. That feeling came again as we entered a train station in Paris. I was relieved when we got on a train heading out of the city.
Eventually, having cut through France by rail, we reached the coast again. We boarded yet another ship, this time bound for Britain. I felt apprehensive leaving Europe, with Africa and Asia at my back, for so many memories lived in those lands. No mischief had ever come from or to England, though many had felt its reach. I tried to focus on the sea. It struck me how the diversities of lands and people were not echoed in the oceans. It was comforting to think that the waters around England were much like those along the coast of Ethiopia. It didn’t take long for this to change. The island nation loomed ahead as we faced the mouth of the River Thames. The familiar ocean receded into a grey sludge, a colour I’d never seen in any body of water.
For the first time on the trip, I felt sick.
Now I remembered why we were here, who we were here to visit, and who we were here to take home. I vomited, throwing up into the sickly waters of Britain’s famous river.
Balcha, who sat with me on the deck, handed me his flask of fresh water.
‘Slice open the belly of the ocean, little sister.’
As we came closer to London, the river darkened. The smell was a veil of rot and damp that hung over everything. There were more than just boats floating beside us in the water. On land, the sides of the river swelled grotesquely with human life. I’d never seen so many buildings packed together, so much smoke hanging in the air, or so many people bustling about. The buildings became somewhat prettier as we came into the heart of the city. The great dome of a cathedral pierced the skyline. In the distance, we saw a building shimmering with gold beside a clock tower at least four times as tall as the obelisks at Axum. We all stood on the bow of the ship, staring up at this giant thing, too in awe to be sick.
‘Isn’t it glorious?’ Lema muttered.
‘Shame the rest of the place is so filthy,’ Balcha said, as an indistinguishable dead animal bumped against the side of our boat. Lema retreated to his notebook, now blackened to the margins with scribbles. There were children on the muddy riverbank, snatching at things as they went past. I stared at the clock to avoid the unpleasant sights around me. It was only 3:45 pm, yet the sun was already setting, casting its dying lights upon the golden building and the fetid water of the Thames.
Our boat veered towards a small platform beside the clock tower. There was a group of men waiting for us, dressed formally or in military garb. They were all white with one notable exception: a young man as dark as me, dressed in a suit. His eyes sparkled with recognition and fear.
Of course, they assumed Balcha was the head of our mission, and rattled off their official welcome to him. They didn’t stop when he gestured at me. He turned to the dark man and spoke to him in Amharic, but the man looked away nervously and muttered some apology to his superiors that he didn’t remember any of his homeland’s language. Balcha knew no English, and only had a few Italian words under his belt, so he pointed at me and snapped ‘Signora!’ Lema added awkwardly, ‘He means you speak with the lady.’ I stepped in front of them and smiled.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for your welcome. My apologies for the confusion. I am Bezawit, representative of the King of Kings Menelik II and Queen Taytu of Ethiopia. We have come to seek an audience with your most gracious Queen Victoria and pray you will receive us with the British hospitality so famed even in my country.’
An elderly gentleman, a Lord Oliver, was the only one who didn’t act openly surprised by my ability to speak English. He bowed solemnly.
‘My deepest apologies for the confusion, dear lady. Our Majesty has been in correspondence with Queen Taytu and is most eager to meet such esteemed representatives from the great Christian empire of Abyssinia,’ he said.
Balcha bristled next to me. Abyssinia was not a name we had ever used for our country, but foreigners insisted on it. I too felt a little irritated, that he would use it when I had clearly stated our country as ‘Ethiopia’ just a moment ago. But Lord Oliver continued.
‘Queen Victoria was tremendously fond of Prince Alemayehu and welcomes you to visit her, and the boy’s resting place, at Windsor.’ He then gestured for the Ethiopian man, who came forward awkwardly. ‘This is Dr John Napier. He is one of your kind but has been trained here and in the colonies of India. I must apologise, I was wrongly informed that he knew your language.’
In that moment, a glance was exchanged between the two men. It was one of rebuke. The doctor dutifully lowered his eyes.
‘It is most comforting to see one of my own countrymen,’ I said. ‘But there is no need for a translator.’
‘Such an accomplished young woman,’ Lord Oliver stated. ‘The sun is setting and I hope you can forgive my haste. We have carriages waiting to take you to Windsor. You will receive an audience with the Queen tomorrow.’
We were bundled into a spacious carriage with this Dr Napier. Balcha, ever suspicious, insisted on travelling up front with the driver.
As we went on our way, Dr Napier offered a few mumbled words to us. ‘Hello, welcome, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.’
Aba Kassie offered Napier his cross for a blessing, but he just stared and then bowed curtly to it. The priest withdrew his cross and said a prayer for him anyway.
‘Where is he from?’ Aba Kassie asked me.
‘Dr Napier, sir, what a pleasure to see an Ethiopian in these faraway lands. Pray, where do you hail from and how did you come to live here?’
‘Ah, I don’t know, I left Abyssinia very young. I travelled on the same boat as Alemayehu, I’ve been told. I was orphaned at Maqdala and a good British family took pity on me and saw that I was educated.’
I forced a smile, trying to swallow my annoyance that this man too felt the need to give Ethiopia a foreign name. ‘You’re a doctor, sir?’
‘Yes, it is quite fortuitous that you should come now. I finished my studies in Edinburgh recently and was visiting London to see an old university friend.’
‘How fortuitous indeed,’ I said. ‘You know nothing of Amharic, sir?’
‘No, my apologies. I don’t know why Lord Oliver assumed I did. I remember nothing of Abyssinia, I’m afraid. The only evidence I was there is my skin. I hope I may still be of service.’
I went to translate but Aba Kassie was frowning, staring at Napier as if he was a long-lost acquaintance he was trying to place. He recognised the words ‘Alemayehu’ and ‘Maqdala’ and placed a hand on Napier’s arm.
‘I know you,’ Aba Kassie muttered.
‘The priest says he knows you, sir,’ I explained.
‘A little thing … he wept over the Emperor’s body with Alemayehu. He had a father, a good man. He survived. Why was he not given to his father? Why is he here?’
Best, perhaps, not to translate that.
‘He thinks he remembers a little boy from Maqdala just like you, but who can tell? I’m sure there were many boys at Maqdala when it was sacked. If it was indeed you he remembers, he says you were a very sweet child.’
The doctor nodded and offered a weak smile to the priest and then to me. As was the British way, I smiled meekly back.
It was dark by the time we reached Windsor. The castle at night was a monstrous shadow,
its turrets and walls so high they blacked out sections of the starry sky. We could only see glimpses as our carriage approached, but the place seemed so enormous I felt we were visiting an entirely new land, a place distinct from Britain itself.
Our belongings were searched, weapons confiscated. Balcha did not resist the loss of his arms, though he glowered at the strange guards in tall hats. The English guards kept their distance. As we moved into the castle’s compound, Balcha grinned at me. It was the smile of a soldier who still had at least one of his weapons.
Even as we were greeted and shown to our guest chambers, Lema spun around, face tilted upwards. He scribbled furiously without even looking at his notebook.
‘Good Lord. Would you look at that? Did you see the Round Tower? I must speak to their engineers. How does it stay up? Perhaps the architects will meet with me. Did you see that ironwork? Good Lord!’
Every time he said ‘good Lord’ he crossed himself with his pencil.
Though none could understand him, Balcha kept asking when we would meet the Queen, thoroughly dissatisfied with my response that we would see her tomorrow. He interrogated Napier, he badgered the maids. I’m sure he asked purely to unnerve those who could only understand the harsh tone in his foreign words.
‘You’re frightening them,’ I said.
‘They’re frightening me.’
At dinner, we were shown to a dining room with paintings on the ceilings and tapestries on the walls.
Balcha poked at the food in front of him.
‘What are we eating?’ I asked.
‘Pork,’ Dr Napier explained.
I pushed my plate away and quickly translated. Everyone recoiled.
‘Savages,’ Balcha spat. He looked at Napier as if he’d betrayed us.
There was a sudden creak, a door opening, and two men entered. One, tall with sand-coloured hair, was gloomy. He looked as though he’d once been handsome, but his beauty was marked by vicious scars and a dreary demeanour. The other, a man with messy black curls, smiled as if we were beloved relatives. He held his arms out as if he meant to embrace us. For the first time since we arrived, Dr Napier smiled.
The History of Mischief Page 17