The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  ‘William!’ he said. He stood and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘John!’ he exclaimed. He turned Napier’s handshake into an embrace. ‘Good to see you, finally!’

  ‘Sorry, let me introduce you,’ Napier said. ‘Friends, this is Dr William Barrie and ah, forgive me, we haven’t met.’

  The gloomy man made no attempt to introduce himself.

  ‘This is my brother Archibald,’ Dr Barrie said. Still, the man didn’t offer any greeting. Dr Barrie continued. ‘We’re both so happy to meet you. John here is a dear friend, such a clever man at university. Showed everyone, didn’t you, John?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Napier asked.

  ‘Archie works at the British Museum. The Castle requested a Maqdala manuscript as a gift for your guests. When he told me who they were, I hoped you might be in attendance.’

  ‘A gift?’ I interjected.

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Barrie said. ‘I dare not say any more, lest I ruin the Queen’s surprise.’

  ‘Won’t you please join us at least,’ Napier begged.

  Finally, Archibald spoke. ‘Oh, no, we couldn’t.’

  ‘We’d love to! Since the demands of royalty have kept you from visiting me, I must seize this opportunity. Besides, we couldn’t refuse such pleasant company, could we, Archie?’ Dr Barrie said, physically prodding his brother to elicit a response.

  ‘Yes, brother,’ he sighed. I was surprised to find his accent, a thoroughly English tone, didn’t match his brother’s Scottish one. This was explained almost as soon as the men took their seats. Dr Barrie joked that his brother had spent too much time in London and had lost his accent. Archibald dryly commented, ‘Perhaps it is the other way around, brother,’ and Dr Barrie laughed as if it was an old joke we all shared.

  As we dined, the pork removed, Dr Barrie spoke enthusiastically to everyone, thanking me every time I translated a sentence. He apologised for Archibald, playfully saying that his brother was the ‘gloomy sort’. He asked questions about Aba Kassie’s cross and invited Lema to a personal tour of the dome at St Paul’s Cathedral. He complimented Balcha on his furs and joked that perhaps it was a fashion Londoners could get behind with their terrible climate. At the end of the night, he handed Dr Napier a card.

  ‘I’m living with my brother – this is the address. It’s just by the museum. Small, but always open to visitors,’ he said. Archibald sighed and glared at his brother, annoyed. ‘Come and stay anytime you are in London.’

  Napier looked at the address scrawled on the card. ‘I will, thank you.’

  Then, with the happy doctor and his brother gone, our bellies full, we retired to our rooms. Balcha insisted on guarding my door.

  Finally, I was alone, lying on a bed lined with silk sheets, listening to the castle breathe. Though it was so still in the upper levels, I felt movement below, of servants scurrying about, cleaning, cooking, putting things in order. Men in tall furry hats and red coats stood outside doors and gates, guarding their occupants much like Balcha guarded me. From my window, I couldn’t see the chapel where Alemayehu was buried, but I channelled former mischiefs who were much more attuned to the earth. I searched for him, digging in the ground with my mind.

  I found his bones, remains heavy with loneliness. The feeling made me gasp. For the dead to have weight, a sorrow that lingered even after life had ended – it frightened me. I didn’t know if it was real or not, but I reached out to our prince and whispered a promise.

  ‘We are here to take you home.’

  The Queen made us wait. We dressed in our finery, were brought to a sitting room and told to wait. The only one not bothered by this was Lema, who quizzed the footmen on this or that triviality to do with the castle. Before breakfast, he somehow managed to find a groundskeeper and an architect. Someone had even given him a few books on the castle’s history. I think the people liked him, his friendliness and awe.

  I sat at the window and, with my mischief, knocked the furry hats off the guards who stood at various posts around the castle. Most of them didn’t flinch, leaving their hat on the ground. Two, clearly tortured, stood in anguish until they dared snatch them up. In both instances, the men were rebuked by their superiors. I felt a little sorry for them. Still, the mischief bubbled over in times of boredom. Perhaps if the Queen didn’t make us wait, I’d leave her guards alone.

  Finally, we were instructed to come, and began our journey down a long hallway. The walls were lined with paintings of monarchs long dead, their unsmiling eyes following us until we came to another sitting room. Though small, it seemed more like a piece of art than a room for living. Gold was the overwhelming feature. I tried not to follow it up the walls as we approached an unassuming woman dressed in black.

  Queen Victoria stood to receive us. This old woman, this ever-mournful widow with her weary smile, was queen of the world’s largest empire.

  Formal welcomes were exchanged. The Queen insisted I sit with her. I waited for her to sit and chose a couch across from her. I sat alone, my men standing behind me. The Queen sat with the quiet dignity of a woman whose life had been made up of these kinds of meetings, lords and soldiers of her own country at her back. I saw in Victoria the same thing as Taytu: those eyes. Those sharp watchful eyes.

  I was struck by the strangeness of it. In a world where men existed with singular authority in every realm, how was it that these two women sat on the thrones of their respective empires? Men surrounded them, served them. How was it that God made these women rulers, yet men thought themselves just in excluding women from everything outside the home? I thought of all the women who surrounded Jesus, who were with Him when He died and when He rose, who held their faith when all the men had left. What wicked sorcery had men worked to sideline us so? I felt the authority I’d been granted by my Queen, and for a moment believed I could do anything.

  ‘Lady Bezawit, I hope you will forgive the informality of this session. From our correspondence, I feel like an old friend to Queen Taytu, and would like to receive you in the manner befitting friends.’

  I bowed as I sat. ‘We are honoured, Your Majesty. Our Queen humbly asks that you accept these gifts as a token of our gratitude for your kind reception.’

  Lema came forward with a small crate.

  ‘Coffee, a gold cross made by our finest artisans in the holy town of Lalibela, and a Bible in our ancient holy language of Ge’ez,’ I explained.

  ‘What generous gifts. You must tell your Queen how very grateful I am for her kindness,’ Queen Victoria said. ‘I hope you will accept this small gift in return.’

  A man behind her extended a book to me. It was a large beautiful tome in Amharic, a catalogue of the Library of Maqdala. For a moment, I thought it was a list of everything that would be returned to us, that all the books in this catalogue would be coming home. I smiled, relieved I hadn’t needed to ask. But then nothing else came.

  I turned to the Queen. She waited for a thank you, but I was speechless. Did she realise what she was giving me, this inventory of the treasures her soldiers had stolen from us? Or did her people just think that, due to its size, it must be something precious?

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered. ‘Ah … it’s so good of you to return a lost treasure from Maqdala. Our Queen will be most humbled.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. I must say, it’s a delight to meet the countrymen of my dear Alemayehu. I met with him a few times, did you know? The sweetest of boys, such a sensitive, thoughtful child,’ the Queen said. ‘I still mourn his passing. He was far too young.’

  I nodded and took the opportunity to move on to our difficult request.

  ‘Your fondness for Prince Alemayehu touched our Queen’s heart. She sent me here because she so admires your kindness and mercy. She requests that I humbly ask that the Maqdala treasures be returned to our country, along with the remains of Alemayehu, so he may finally find peace in his homeland.’

  Queen Victoria smiled. It was tender, genuine. Then she said, still smiling, ‘It is wit
h a heaviness in my heart that I must deny your Queen’s most reasonable request, but so many of the relics she has asked for we cannot find. The others are precious things we fear will not survive if they are not archived and cared for properly. We hope she will find comfort in the fact that the relics will survive forever under our care, so that generations of Abyssinians and indeed the people of the world may enjoy the fine culture and history of your people.’

  I stared at her. The sweetness of her tone, the way she expressed a desire that our treasures survive, couldn’t mask the truth of what she was saying: you cannot be trusted with your own history. But she went on.

  ‘And dear Alemayehu. I imagine your Queen would not want to disturb his remains, especially in such a holy place as St George’s Chapel. He has been buried with many kings and queens of my country, a place befitting such a noble prince. I encourage you to visit him. Our Dean,’ she gestured to a balding man behind her, ‘would like to give you a tour of our Chapel. I am confident you will see it is the best place for him.’

  Her smile was kind but her eyes gave away the inflexibility of her position. I smiled back; no point arguing. We gave our thank yous, our goodbyes, and quietly followed the Dean to the Chapel.

  ‘What did she say?’ Balcha asked as we walked.

  ‘She said no,’ Lema answered.

  Aba Kassie frowned. ‘Why?’

  I didn’t know what to say. There were no words in any language I knew to explain it.

  St George’s Chapel was a building of grandeur and detail. The windows were tapestries made in glass and the floor was tiled in black and white squares. Its pillars rose up like ancient trees, spreading like branches at the high ceilings.

  The Dean showed us a brass plate that commemorated Alemayehu. It listed his name, his birth and death, and a small quote: ‘I was a stranger and ye took me in.’ It was as beautiful as anything in the Chapel, but seemed very small against the statues and tombs surrounding it. I could understand it. This foreign prince, dead at eighteen, was not British royalty and couldn’t feature so prominently. I could see it as a kindness, a great honour, the way they commemorated a foreigner in one of their most treasured places of worship. But I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Alemayehu felt, so small and isolated in a world so alien to his own, a world in which he would never truly belong.

  The Dean took us outside, to a patch of land with no markings, and informed us that this was where Alemayehu was buried. I didn’t tell him that, in fact, he was standing on top of Alemayehu, not in front of him. I was already planning how to take his bones home.

  Lema said, ‘Please don’t do this.’ Napier said, ‘You can’t do this.’ I quietly admired the difference between the two.

  ‘Aside from the obvious logistical impossibility, it would cause a diplomatic incident!’ Napier insisted.

  ‘How is this refusal by the British, this stealing of our treasures and our prince, not a diplomatic incident?’ I asked. ‘Why do we continually have to beg and scrape and be polite?’

  Napier shook his head. ‘Consider what happened when Emperor Theodore –’

  ‘His name was Tewodros,’ I corrected.

  ‘Whatever you call him, think of what she did when he locked up her countrymen. She sent an entire army!’

  ‘She didn’t send them to free her countrymen. She sent them to rob us and stop Tewodros’ progress. It wasn’t in Britain’s interest to have an African country with independence and power so close to its colonies.’

  ‘Her motive is irrelevant. Think of what she did. What will she do when you dig up her ancestors’ graveyard?’

  ‘She won’t spend millions of pounds getting back the bones of our prince.’

  Napier exclaimed ‘HA!’ so loudly Aba Kassie jumped. ‘She won’t have to! If you get caught even attempting this, you’ll never leave this castle!’

  ‘Am I to take it you won’t assist us?’

  Wordless sounds escaped him, gasps and stutters, as if my request was so incredible he momentarily lost the ability to speak. ‘No!’ he finally got out.

  ‘Very well. I trust you won’t tell our hosts.’

  ‘I have to!’

  ‘She won’t do it. No need to tell,’ Lema interjected in his broken English, clapping the doctor on the shoulder. ‘She is joking.’

  ‘I am not,’ I said bluntly.

  ‘She is,’ Lema insisted. ‘A silly lady. The priest talks sense.’

  Lema turned to Aba Kassie and begged him to intervene. The priest responded in Amharic, ‘Alemayehu needs to come home.’

  Lema, his hands still on Napier’s shoulders, smiled. ‘The priest says no. Don’t worry. The priest talks sense. No need to tell.’

  Napier shrugged Lema off him, glancing from Aba Kassie to me, uncertain. ‘Please don’t do this, Lady Bezawit. You don’t know what these people are capable of, you haven’t seen … you haven’t seen the way they treat people like you.’

  ‘People like us, you mean,’ I said.

  ‘No, I mean people like you,’ he stressed. ‘People like me are a different matter. This will not be tolerated.’

  One last time, he said, ‘you can’t do this’, and left.

  Lema fell at Aba Kassie’s feet and begged him to see reason, to think of the danger, to think of the consequences. The priest touched his head gently and said, ‘You don’t need to participate if it so grieves you. But I’d sooner face the wrath of this queen than live knowing I left our prince here. Wouldn’t you?’

  Lema hung his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t be a part of this.’

  He then tore page upon page from his notebook, ripping them in a violent jerking motion. He chose them methodically, flicking through the notebook and tearing the desired leaves out. Then he got his pencil and circled various sections. Finally, he stuffed the torn papers, around twenty of them, into my hands, and left.

  I opened up the crumpled sheets. The first thing I saw was a map of the castle.

  Lema disappeared. No one saw him leave the castle, but he was gone. I sat alone, studying his notes, and ignored the call for dinner. There were multiple maps of the castle, some that offered a bird’s-eye view, others that sliced open the roofs and detailed the rooms inside. There was another that sketched out basements and tunnels that threaded under and out of the castle. Here, he’d circled a spot in the Horseshoe Cloister outside St George’s Chapel. There was a tunnel that went under the Curfew Tower and out towards the town of Windsor. He labelled it SALLY PORT – CHAPEL – NOT CONFIRMED BY ARCHITECT. There were many tunnels splitting off from the Tower, all with question marks and a source:

  George – Groundskeeper

  Big Mary – Cook

  Little Mary – Maid

  How had he managed to find all this, to convince so many people to share the secrets of the castle with him? On all of the maps, there were little Gs marked out along the walls, gates and entrances, which I guessed were guard stations, with times to indicate a changing of shifts. His other notes were a garbled mess of Amharic and English, with words running into each other, things crossed out or smudged. I discerned one thing at least: there was a way out of the castle. There was no way to make it to the Chapel without crossing a guard station but, once we had Alemayehu, there was a way out that avoided the gates.

  I briefed Aba Kassie and Balcha on the plan, with one important caveat: don’t look at me. They never questioned why. They trusted me enough to follow blindly. We’d made it here after so many months and finally, we’d do what we came to do. We prayed together, muttering the familiar words in unison, our hushed tones a gentle music.

  We packed our bags, leaving behind any bulky items. While most of Balcha’s weapons were confiscated, no one had been game enough to search beneath his fur-covered back, where he’d strapped a blade. His furs acted as a kind of shield, and he used them again, concealing the weapon. I wore all the gold jewellery Taytu gave me, determined it wouldn’t be lost. The History, I wrapped in
our clothes.

  We left our quarters just before midnight. I led the way. Aba Kassie and Balcha kept their eyes off me, even as they followed on my heels. This was enough for the mischief. I sank into it and turned every eye away from us. We walked past sleepy guards, whose slow blinks lasted just long enough for us to walk by them unseen. I thought of the boy, who ran so fast it was as if time slowed.

  We made it to the Chapel and came to the spot where Alemayehu was buried. There was a shovel waiting for us, leaning up against the wall with a small note. It was in Amharic, in Lema’s messy handwriting: From Kindly Old Anti-Monarchist Scottish Gentleman, Name Difficult to Discern – Gardener. Do not take. This is his favourite.

  Lema, it seemed, was more of a mischief than me.

  ‘Is it safe?’ Balcha asked, the shovel already in his hands.

  Lights flicked inside the Chapel, delicate candlelight playing against the stained-glass windows. I probed with my mischief. There was a deacon inside, but he had fallen asleep.

  I nodded.

  Balcha drove the spade into the earth, splitting the grass. Aba Kassie whispered a prayer, his eyes closed, his hands held out with his palms facing the heavens.

  ‘I’m going to look for the sally port,’ I whispered to Balcha. He nodded and continued digging.

  I ran to the Horseshoe Cloister on my toes, aware of the many windows that bore down on me, and tried to find the tunnel’s entrance. The curved building was made of red brick and black timbers. There was an archway that Lema had circled, and there I found a door. It was locked, so I turned the mechanism with my mischief, and went inside. I came to a long hallway with many doors, all closed. I stood for a moment, quickly going over Lema’s notes in my head. Trap door. I sank into the ground beneath me and felt something coming from the first door on my right. I turned the knob.

  Then, I felt something. Someone waking. The deacon in the Chapel stirred.

  I ran back.

  Balcha was now deep in the ground. He struck the lid of the coffin with his spade.

  ‘Hurry,’ I urged.

  Standing with two feet in the earth around the coffin, Balcha tried to prise the lid open. Aba Kassie’s prayer came faster, words joining into one.