The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  The deacon was coming.

  ‘Balcha!’ I begged.

  He drove the spade deep into the coffin. The wood splintered. He hit it again and again, shattering the decaying wood.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  We glanced up as we heard those English words. It was the deacon. He looked horrified.

  ‘Away with you! This is God’s work!’ Aba Kassie snapped in Amharic, his angry tone uncharacteristically threatening.

  ‘Guards!’ the deacon called out, running away.

  Balcha had smashed away half the lid. We could see down to the skull and skeletoned arms of our prince, dressed so nicely in worm-eaten English garb. Voices and lights emanated from all around us. The whole castle, it felt, was closing in.

  I screamed, my voice adding to the chaos. ‘Balcha!’

  ‘Forgive me, my prince,’ Balcha said. He crossed himself and then grabbed at the bones. There was a sinister snap. Aba Kassie cried out as if in pain. We all crossed ourselves. Balcha begged Alemayehu’s forgiveness for being so harsh, his apology bubbling out in a constant stream. He passed the prince’s bones up to me. I bundled them into the bag laden with our clothes and the History. His skull, his spine, his arms and legs. The bones crunched and snapped. Tears poured down Aba Kassie’s face. For the first time in our journey, I questioned whether we were doing the right thing.

  Guards ran towards us, their muskets drawn, as I placed the last of Alemayehu’s bones in the bag. Aba Kassie took Balcha’s hand and helped him up.

  A shot fired. The bullet soared into the Chapel, showering stone shards over us. Balcha turned to face our pursuers.

  ‘No!’ I yelled and grabbed his hand.

  We sprinted to the Horseshoe Cloister. Gunfire sounded as I flung open the door on the right where I thought the trap door would be. It was a storage cupboard of sorts.

  ‘It should be here,’ I said.

  Balcha slammed the door shut and leaned hard against it, fighting against the shouting guards who pushed on the other side. It was somewhere here. I could feel it. I flung crosses and crosiers aside, as if a secret door might hide behind them.

  There.

  The slight outline of a trap door poked out from underneath a large baptismal font.

  Aba Kassie and I pushed against it, inching it over to reveal the door. I wrenched it open.

  Another shot was fired. Shouts and the sound of wood splintering followed us as we scrambled down slippery stairs. In the dark, I stumbled off the last step and hit the hard, dusty ground of the tunnel below. Balcha, the last to descend, pulled the trap door closed, plunging us into darkness. Aba Kassie lit the small lantern we’d hidden in one of our bags. It barely lit two metres ahead of us. We ran anyway, sprinting blindly into the tunnel.

  Light suddenly flooded down from above. At least three English guards came down after us. Footsteps echoed from all directions. It dawned on me that maybe all of Lema’s speculative tunnels existed, and we were being surrounded on all sides.

  The guards on our heels got close enough for one of them to slash Balcha with the blade on his musket. He cried out and turned, swinging his fist and knocking the guard out. For a split second, we stared at each other in the flickering light. Then that little tickle of mischief told me to blow out the lanterns. So I did.

  It went dark, yet I could see everything. The guards, terrified, raised their guns. A hard click sounded as their muskets were cocked.

  The tunnel lit up with the sparking of gunfire. In the light, I imagine the men saw a flash of fur and nothing else. Balcha moved too fast for me to fully see, like a lion striking. Bullets rushed by his ears as he slashed the throats of the men. The tunnel went dark and silent again.

  I’d never seen a man be killed before, nor had I seen one kill. It was a hideous thing, the speed of it. The singular noise it made, the wet opening of those men’s throats. The final sound that marked their fall.

  An instinct, the mischief perhaps, told me to light our lantern again. The light shone on Balcha, wiping his blade clean. He crossed himself. Aba Kassie muttered a quick prayer.

  Footsteps thumped above and around us. We ran. I led the way, following an invisible beacon, something calling to me.

  Finally! A set of stairs. We scrambled up like rats, no thought for where it might lead. Balcha reached the top first and pushed hard on the trap door above. It wouldn’t budge. I tried to push with my mischief, tried to search for a hinge or lock to move, but those footsteps pounded in my head.

  The door swung open suddenly. A rush of bright light and the nervous face of Lema bore down on us.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said.

  We surged up into a stable. Lema closed the trap door as soon as we were out and tried to conceal it with hay.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said again. We rushed out into the dark streets of Windsor, to a large beaten-up carriage. Dr Napier was at the reins, a look of dismay on his face. He glanced at Lema as if this was not their arrangement or, if it was, he was having second thoughts. I caught his eye and smiled, a silent begging in my eyes. We squeezed in and were off.

  Napier’s eyes didn’t leave the road. I tried to thank him, but he shook his head and muttered, ‘God help us.’ He took us out of Windsor but back towards London. Was there no other way out of this country than through its heart?

  ‘You should have told us,’ Balcha said to Lema warmly. ‘I thought you a deserter. But you were there from the very beginning.’

  ‘It was still the wrong thing to do,’ Lema said quietly. ‘But I wouldn’t desert you.’

  Balcha’s mood soured instantly. ‘Alemayehu is free.’

  ‘Is he?’ Lema said, accusatory, as if he too had heard the bones snap.

  We finally came to a stop outside a set of tall, skinny houses that faced the British Museum. Napier ordered us to stay in the carriage and went to knock on one of the doors. He then ran back and bundled us out, herding us towards the light that flooded from an open door. I spotted the smiling face of Dr William Barrie, beckoning us in.

  ‘Quick quick, there you go, come now.’

  Dr Barrie was dressed in a nightgown, but he greeted us like a gentleman, insisting we go through to the lounge where he would have tea served.

  ‘We don’t have time, we need to get them out of London,’ Napier said.

  Dr Barrie clasped Napier’s arms and smiled. ‘It’s alright, John. I’ll go out in a minute and organise a ship. We’ll get them on their way before sunrise, don’t you worry. Let me just put some tea on and get dressed. You can’t go anywhere yet. Might as well have some tea.’

  Napier nodded. He screwed up his face as if to force back tears. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Dr Barrie said, smiling warmly. He took off down the hall and came back minutes later, fully dressed and with a pot of tea. He brought out five different tea cups, two jugs of milk and a sugar bowl made of glass.

  ‘Sorry for the …’ He gestured at the strange assortment of tea wares. ‘Archie,’ he offered, as if it explained everything. ‘I’m off to find a boat. Best be as quiet as you can. Archie doesn’t know you’re here.’

  He picked a coat off the floor, retrieved a scarf and hat from a desk, and went out. It was then that I noticed why Dr Barrie offered the ‘Archie’ defence. The room was a mess, with papers, books, clothes and strange scientific equipment strewn across the floor. Balcha had to move a taxidermy turtle off his chair.

  ‘What did you tell Dr Barrie?’ I asked Napier.

  ‘Not much,’ he said. He glanced around the room, refusing to look at me. ‘A lie.’

  ‘Would he help us if he knew?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How do we know he isn’t going to the authorities?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  I paused. ‘Doctor, if he calls the authorities, we won’t be able to escape.’

  Napier looked at his hands. ‘You won’t be able to escape without him.’

  ‘Can you not procure a boat for u
s?’

  Finally, his eyes met mine. ‘Look at me. What do you think?’

  Silence. We waited, letting our tea go cold. Dr Barrie returned soon after.

  ‘I’ve got a boat for you,’ he said. ‘Small thing, bit old, but it will take you to France.’

  He then gave me a small purse. ‘Give the fellow three coins at the end of the journey. Not before, and not a single coin more. Don’t let him tell you I promised more.’

  ‘What is this?’

  A harsh voice cut through the air. Archibald Barrie stood in the doorway between us and our escape.

  ‘Brother!’ Dr Barrie said cheerfully. ‘John and his countrymen are just saying goodbye on their way home. A quick stop, so generous to spare the time, but they must –’

  ‘What is that?’ he asked, pointing to the bag that held Alemayehu’s bones.

  ‘It’s a bag,’ Dr Barrie said. ‘You embarrass yourself, brother.’

  Archibald’s eyes narrowed. He studied Aba Kassie, who held the bag close. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘What an impertinent question,’ Dr Barrie rebuked. He turned to us. ‘My apologies, my brother forgets his manners when he’s curious.’

  ‘They’ve stolen something, haven’t they?’

  I resisted the urge to insist we couldn’t steal something that was already ours. Dr Barrie continued to admonish his brother.

  ‘What a silly thing to say. Truly, you embarrass us both.’

  Archibald considered us. He took note of Balcha, who simmered with the energy of an armed man.

  Then his eyes settled on Napier.

  ‘It would be quite an ungrateful thing to do. Treasonous even.’

  ‘It is disgraceful that you’d make such an accusation of our guests,’ Dr Barrie retorted.

  Again, Archibald spoke to all of us, but his eyes remained on Napier. ‘We suspected you might try something. Your kind often do. Do you know what we do to traitors, Dr Napier?’

  The doctor shrunk. We all looked at him. He tried hard to ignore our begging stares, holding Archibald’s gaze. Though his voice wavered, he answered, ‘Yes, Mr Barrie.’

  I watched the way Archibald eyed Napier, as if he was trying to communicate all the consequences the doctor would face for this. It reminded me of the way Lord Oliver had glanced at him when he realised Napier couldn’t translate for us. It would be easy enough for us to escape – Archibald wasn’t armed – but it was clear that even if we did, Napier never would. Archibald would make sure of that. I needed to do something to silence him.

  I took the bag containing Alemayehu’s bones and approached him. ‘I have something better than any treasure your empire has ever stolen.’

  Archibald smirked. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’ll give it to you if you let us pass.’

  ‘You could offer me the Kohinoor diamond, and I would still say no.’

  ‘Let me show you,’ I said. I opened the bag and reached inside. My fingers brushed against Alemayehu’s skull as I picked up the History and handed it to him. He took it and sighed, annoyed. As he opened the book, I saw the pages, once scrawled with the names of every mischief, were blank. I felt sick.

  ‘This is nothing,’ he said.

  Then, on an empty page, my name started to appear, as if the page itself was bleeding out in black ink. Archibald touched it. The flashes of so many lives danced across his eyes.

  We left. No one asked what I’d given him. It was as if they hadn’t seen.

  We made it to the boat. Before we cast off, Aba Kassie begged Napier to join us. I translated, and the doctor, aghast at the very thought, shook his head. As we floated away, I waved. Dr Barrie waved back and smiled, but Napier stared at me, his lips pursed together, as if he had so many things left unsaid. For a moment, I thought I saw regret.

  We sailed down the Thames in the dark, our way illuminated only by the captain’s dusty lantern and the few lights that danced from the swollen shores. By sunrise, we were already out of London.

  Balcha was confident, even before we made it to France. ‘We looted Windsor, little sister,’ he joked.

  I don’t know what happened to the History. As we made our way to France, trekked back across Europe, and found a boat on its way to the Suez Canal, I could still speak all the languages of the world. Only one strange thing happened. A woman shouted to me as we boarded a train leaving Paris. She had long black hair, and eyes as blue as Serafin’s were green.

  ‘Madame!’ she called.

  I stopped, with one foot on the train, and turned to face her.

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked.

  I was confused. It was unlikely that she’d mistaken me for someone else. ‘Pardon, madame?’

  ‘The book.’

  The book? The History? Who was this woman? I tried to speak, but my voice was swallowed up. Lema seemed to understand though. He called back to her, one word:

  ‘England.’

  We hurried aboard, but from the windows, I watched this woman, and she watched me.

  Months later, as I sat with poor Balcha, staring out at the sea that still made him so sick, we spotted a strip of land that was the coast of Ethiopia. My heart swelled with joy. The voice came to me again after so long. I didn’t know if it was for me, or for Alemayehu. But the voice was so all-encompassing it could’ve been for all the lost souls in the world. It spoke from the depths of the universe. It came from everything.

  Welcome home.

  Jessie

  ‘That’s Lou!’

  I shouted. I didn’t mean to.

  ‘The lady at the end, with black hair. I bet it was Lou. Or Chloe.’

  ‘I bet you’re right,’ Kay says. ‘Did you like this history better?’

  I nod. I loved it. I loved Bezawit and Balcha and even Lema. I loved slicing up the ocean and stealing the bones. But …

  ‘Is the next mischief going to be the grumpy Englishman?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Kay says.

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  She smiles. ‘But his brother was okay. Maybe he’ll be in the next history. Maybe Lou and Chloe too.’

  ‘Can we read it now?’

  ‘No.’

  Worth a try.

  ‘Do you think Queen Victoria went after Bezawit?’

  ‘Don’t know. You can find out when you do your mischief report!’ She tries to be cheery.

  ‘Can I use your laptop?’

  Kay pauses. She has a video open. Her baking show. But then she smiles at me.

  ‘Sure.’

  I open another browser, careful not to close her video. I go straight to the State Library catalogue. Time to find some books. Over the next few days, I research and make cranes with Theodore. I request a kids’ book about Alemayehu called The Prince Who Walked With Lions. I imagine him walking around London with a pet lion on a lead, like Mrs Moran and Cornelius, only bigger and golden. This makes me laugh but later I feel annoyed because there are no other books about him. I request every travel book about Ethiopia I can find on the library catalogue. Kay says I should look into Queen Victoria and Windsor Castle, but there are too many books about her and she’s boring, so I just ask for books about the castle.

  I do a google search and find photos of Alemayehu. He looks sad in every photo. I also find pictures of Balcha. He’s not as pretty as Bezawit makes out. He became a Dejazmach (a General) after the Battle of Adwa, where Ethiopia beat Italy in a big battle. Even though the Ethiopians won, the Italians came back and killed Balcha in 1936. It says he came out of retirement to fight. He killed one of them before they killed him. He was seventy-three.

  I find articles from 2007 and 2015 that say the Ethiopian Government asked for Alemayehu’s bones to be ‘repatriated’, which Wikipedia says means ‘returning an asset, an item of symbolic value or a person – voluntarily or forcibly – to its owner or their place of origin or citizenship’. Britain said no. I wonder if Taytu buried the bones in secret. Should I write to the Ethiopian Government and tell them they do have the bo
nes, they just need to look?

  I tell Theodore about Ethiopia when we’re in the library at lunchtime making cranes. He saw a documentary about Africa and learnt that in Ethiopia, they have churches carved out of mountains. I tell him about the prince’s bones and the requests to have them returned. Theodore says it’s sad Britain won’t give them back. We don’t talk for the rest of lunch.

  It takes THREE WEEKS for the Alemayehu book to arrive, but I don’t complain because I don’t want to get in trouble at the library again. We go to the park on the way home and I tell the soldiers about Alemayehu and Bezawit. Who stole their bones back from the enemy when they were killed? Maybe a lady like Bezawit went around Germany and Gallipoli and all those other places, gathering up the bones of Guildford’s dead men. As I count around the gravestone, I scoop up pretend bones and empty them into the ground.

  ‘What are you playing?’ Kay asks.

  ‘Secret.’

  ‘Can I play?’

  I shake my head and continue.

  The next day at school, I take my Alemayehu book. It’s so early the teachers are only just arriving with their coffees and papers. Miss Sparrow walks past and says hello.

  ‘You’re here early, Jessie,’ she says.

  I say, ‘My sister has to start work early so she can pick me up’, but all I’m thinking about is what Miss Sparrow is holding. It looks like a hunk of salt, except it’s an orangey-pinky colour. It’s bigger than her hand. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This is a salt lamp.’

  ‘But it’s not white.’

  Miss Sparrow smiles like adults do when kids say something that to them is stupid. ‘Salt comes in all kinds of colours. The colour depends on what minerals are in the salt.’

  ‘Do you eat it?’

  Again, that smile. ‘You can eat the pink salt, but this is not for eating. You put this on a wooden pedestal and it lights up. Some people think it purifies the air and makes it healthier. It’s a lot more expensive than table salt.’

  It reminds me of the salt mine and how you could stay there to get well if you had asthma and things like that.