The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  I needed to see those rocks.

  Echoing shouts became louder as I approached one of the main caverns. It was rare for men to shout, as everyone was always listening for the creaks that foretold a collapse. Lolek and Jozef, the mine administrator, were arguing. The penitents assigned to the cavern, including Ulryk, waited behind their commander, looking a little embarrassed.

  ‘They weren’t there before! They weren’t!’ Lolek protested.

  ‘Then you are either going blind or someone put them there because they knew what a gullible fool you are,’ replied Jozef.

  I came close to Ulryk. He smiled faintly and gave me a tired embrace. His clothing was damp, a precaution for any good penitent. ‘Good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Lolek’s lost it.’

  ‘Were the eggs really not there yesterday?’

  ‘I didn’t notice them, but it’s a big cavern,’ Ulryk said. He stroked the horse at my side. ‘We haven’t lit it properly because there’s still so much gas to burn off. We only see the place in flashes and dull light.’

  ‘Can I … can I see them?’

  Ulryk smiled and raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re just rocks.’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure. I’ll take you down when we break for lunch. We’ll say you’re inspecting it for horse mills or tracks or whatever.’

  Lolek refused to go back down there, so when lunchtime came, there was no one in the lower cavern. Corridors branched out ahead of it, with men like Władysław chipping away at new deposits, but when we descended deeper, there were no torches, only Ulryk’s small handheld lantern. The cavern itself was so vast I couldn’t see the ceiling. Only the tips of pointed stalactites, menacing as fangs, poked out of the darkness. Cauliflower salt formations bloomed on the walls. It felt oddly familiar.

  We walked through a puddle of brine, ankle deep, and came to a side of the cavern where dripstone columns parted.

  ‘Your dragon eggs, sir.’

  There – four massive stones, smooth but oddly not damp like the salt domes we’d passed. They were all separate, complete rocks, not connected to any of the other deposits. Four. Feliks. Dorota. Mother. Father. Dreams from the night before came to me: running my hands across the rock. That sense of mischief bubbled up again. They really looked like eggs.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before, have you?’

  ‘To be honest, no,’ Ulryk said. He shivered and crossed himself.

  ‘Just smooth rocks?’

  ‘Just smooth rocks. Shiny white gold.’

  White gold. Salt’s other name. With salt blocks that size, you could buy a whole kingdom.

  Dorota. Our little sister. When she got old enough to play Smok Wawelski with us, she was not content to play the princess offered as reward for killing the dragon. No, she played the king. She loved bossing me to ‘save the kingdom, good cobbler!’ as she motioned at the bakery as if it was hers.

  We loved playing near the Wawel Hill caves, just at the base of the castle. We weren’t supposed to, and the soldiers guarding the castle always tried to scare us away. One day, we were chased by an especially aggrieved soldier.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you brats?’ he shouted, bolting towards us.

  We shot away. Dorota and I sprinted down the hill. Feliks ran into the caves. The soldier went after him, his voice booming as it echoed off the cave walls.

  ‘Come back, you little monster!’

  Another soldier carefully made his way down the hill after us.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he called. ‘We just want to talk to you.’

  The first soldier’s voice bellowed from the cave. ‘God help you!’

  Though the voice was not as loud, its reverberations coming from deep inside the cave, it was enough to send us scampering into the streets.

  As we arrived home, the most hideous crack sounded within my skull. It was like a dragon egg, giant and deadly and final, splitting open. I fainted.

  That night in the mine after the eggs were discovered, all I could think of was that sound. That crack. Something breaking. Yet, for the first time in my life, it didn’t feel sinister. It felt … mischievous.

  I lay in the loft until all the heartbeats below, horse and man, slowed and their breaths became deep. I crept past my sleeping colleagues and took a lantern down to the lower levels. The threat of methane bothered me – the air seemed thicker – but I consoled myself that the lantern was mostly contained and smaller than the one Ulryk used to show me the eggs. As I went down, I noticed a tiny flickering light coming from deep within one of the corridors. Men working late, perhaps? My destination was much further ahead. They wouldn’t notice me.

  As I entered the cavern, I felt I was stepping into the mouth of a dragon. My light wasn’t strong enough to reveal the stalactites above my head, but I sensed them there. I made my way to the egg-shaped rocks and placed my hand on the largest of the four.

  I spread my fingers. The rock cracked. That same sound. I gasped, thinking it really was a dragon egg. As the salt splintered, I realised the fracture was emanating from my palm. I felt a surge of playfulness and pushed it further. The rock split. As the two halves separated and smacked against the ground, the cavern shook. Stalactites above trembled. Some came crashing down. I looked up at the cauliflower formations and, with a grin, bent my fingers into claws and swiped the air. Claw marks scratched the wall.

  Then I felt something else. Something up in the nearby corridors. A groaning, like something bending out of shape.

  An impending collapse.

  I left the cavern. I ran. I’d never been this close before, never felt the corridors around me moan. Then I saw the light again. It pulsated in the middle of the creaking. I focused on the light and heard familiar voices.

  ‘Hold the light closer, I want to refine the detail in the face.’

  ‘It’s looking good. Perhaps we can start defining the arms.’

  Władysław and Ulryk. Their talk was punctuated by the sound of a pickaxe, but this noise was delicate and quick. Surely they’d noticed the rumbling coming from the walls.

  Something snapped. They didn’t hear. They weren’t moving.

  I hurled my voice down the corridor. It echoed into the chamber where their light flickered, bouncing against the buckling walls. I screamed ‘RUN!’ but it came out distorted, like a roar. The corridors shook. As the earth crumbled, I ran back to the level above.

  I caught my breath in the main cavern on the upper level. Plumes of dust and powdered salt billowed out of the corridor that descended below. Rescuers arrived, lanterns swinging. Then Władysław and Ulryk emerged from the cloud, coughing and covered in dust.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Is anyone else down there?’

  ‘What happened?’

  Jozef rushed forward and gave them water. They drank heavily.

  ‘A collapse,’ Władysław rasped. ‘Corridor 15B.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s gone into the main corridor,’ Ulryk added between coughs.

  ‘What on earth were you doing down there?’ Jozef demanded.

  Władysław looked guilty.

  ‘A chapel, sir,’ he said. ‘We were carving a small chapel off Corridor 15B. For men to pray before descending –’

  ‘There’s something down there,’ Ulryk interrupted, looking frightened. ‘Something big. It warned us. Or it wanted us out of there.’

  ‘What?’ Lolek’s voice came, steeped in fear.

  ‘It was a roar, like a lion,’ Ulryk said.

  ‘Or a dragon,’ Lolek whispered.

  ‘No, it was a voice, it shouted RUN, didn’t you hear?’ Władysław said. ‘It was familiar.’

  ‘Was someone else down there?’ Jozef asked urgently. ‘Could someone else be trapped?’

  ‘No,’ Władysław said. ‘It came from the walls, from the stone, from everywhere. Maybe …’

  ‘What?’ Jozef pushed. />
  ‘Maybe,’ Władysław said slowly, ‘it was a ghost.’

  Dragons and ghosts. Nothing else was spoken of for weeks. On inspection of the corridors, it was found that two had collapsed, but the main corridor and the cavern were intact. The findings in the cavern – the egg split open and the claw marks – only fuelled debate about the possibility of a dragon living in the tunnels. Those who believed in the ghost dismissed the dragon theory. If there was a dragon, it would’ve eaten us all. Dragons didn’t warn miners. Ghosts did. They started referring to the ghost as Skarbnik, Treasure Keeper, though most men called it simply ‘him’ – out of fear or respect, I wasn’t sure.

  It was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. Each night I slept for an hour or two, then woke suddenly, ready for mischief. I walked silently through the mine, no need for a lantern. I could see in the dark now. It wasn’t the same as seeing, exactly, but I knew where everything was, like walking through a house you’d lived in your whole life. I stroked the walls, leaving behind claw-shaped gouges. I carved LISTEN FOR SKARBNIK OR HEAR DEATH into a wooden bridge over a brine lake.

  It was as if my mischief had been lying dormant, waiting. I finally understood that playful tingle other mischiefs had known. Some nights I moved things. I shaped ropes into warped hearts and lopsided smiles. I switched boots beside beds so that men who slipped their shoes on in the dark found the left shoe on their right foot.

  ‘Catch the clown who’s doing this!’ Jozef snapped one day.

  But no one believed a man could scratch through rock in a single night. No one believed a man would hang upside down above a brine lake to carve words into a bridge that was petrified by salt. They said they did, but they didn’t. Hearsay about the ghost and the dragon followed miners into every cavern and corridor.

  Then one night, I ran into someone. We both bounded around a corridor and collided. I was knocked to the ground. When I looked up, Władysław was standing over me.

  ‘Serafin? Is that you? What are you doing here?’

  I didn’t have an answer. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Władysław glanced at the claw marks in the wall above my head. ‘I asked you first.’

  ‘If you must know, I’m trying to find out who’s doing this nonsense!’ I said, pointing at the marks.

  ‘Since when did you get involved with gossip and mischief?’

  ‘I notice you’re holding tools there,’ I said as I tried to get up.

  He held up his small carving instruments. ‘You think these can do that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  He helped me up. ‘I’ll show you what I’ve been doing. Then you can tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  We crossed the main cavern, towards one of the heavily mined corridors. We didn’t go far. Just off the cavern was a small room. There, a sculpture of Jesus on the cross, his arms outstretched and head drooping, was carved into a makeshift nave. Then, to the side, a woman was taking shape. Her form, with its billowing dress and crown, was carved crudely. Her face was half-etched, a delicate eye and nose, and that was all.

  ‘Another chapel?’

  He nodded. ‘With permission this time.’

  I looked at the woman. ‘Kinga?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He smiled at her incomplete form, as if he could see her beneath the salt.

  Władysław’s devotion to Princess Kinga wasn’t unique. Miners prayed to her for protection. It was said that as a Hungarian princess promised to a Polish king, she threw her engagement ring into a salt mine in her home country, only for it to magically follow her and turn the earth below Wieliczka from stone to salt. She brought riches to Poland but was more famous for her chastity, even in marriage, and became a nun after her husband died. None of the miners knew she was a mischief before me. I felt a sort of kinship looking at the statue. For a moment, I too could see her under the salt.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.

  ‘So why are you roaming the corridors?’ Władysław asked, his voice kind and playful.

  I didn’t completely lie. ‘I’m looking for a ghost.’

  ‘Skarbnik? I think he’s real, you know.’

  ‘No, I’m looking for the Smok.’

  Władysław laughed. ‘Why would you want to find a dragon?’

  I gave an honest answer. ‘I think he’s with another ghost I’m looking for.’

  Władysław nodded, and grasped me around the shoulders. It was brief, and then he patted me on the back and said nothing else, but I felt so many years of unspoken sorrow gently acknowledged.

  Of course, he knew. They all did. Everyone knew of the boy who died in the Wawel caves playing dragons.

  It was to be my great act of mischief, saving Feliks. Why else had the book come to me? If the History allowed me anything, surely it would have given me the power to do that, even as a child. Yet, back then, after I woke from the hideous crack in my mind, all the mischief gave me was his voice.

  Serafin?

  It came from within my head. A little voice, wounded, frightened.

  Little brother?

  I sank into myself and followed the whisper. I flew out of the bakery like a spirit, followed the rescuers with their torches, past the soldiers looking guilty, into the mouth of the cave. I went further than the voices that called Feliks’ name, down jagged shafts and uneven corridors, and finally, down one almighty drop. I didn’t see any of this with my eyes. It was like a thread of light in my mind, guiding the way.

  I’m here, little brother. My back. I can’t move. Please help me.

  I couldn’t respond. I tried but nothing came. Feliks cried.

  It’s so dark. Please help me.

  I jumped up and ran out of the bakery. Mother grabbed me.

  ‘I know where he is! Let me go!’ I screamed.

  I bit her. She slapped me hard.

  ‘You’re not going down there too!’ she cried.

  I fought but it didn’t take much for her to barricade me in my room.

  Serafin, I’m here, Feliks begged. Just here. Please. Help me.

  I thumped the walls, tore the bedsheets, pulled hay from the mattress, made as much noise as I could. As night fell, I collapsed in a heap of torn cloth and cried, all the while Feliks’ voice begging, little brother, I’m here, in my head.

  The search went on for days. Men even came from the mine to join the rescue effort. Some said they could hear Feliks calling to them, but no one could find him. His voice, light and faraway, bounced from cave to cave.

  Feliks still called to me. He slept, nodding off every now and then, but when he was awake, he called out.

  I’m so hungry, little brother.

  By the fourth day, he sounded drowsy. His begging slipped into wistful nostalgia.

  Do you remember the first time you had gingerbread? The smells came through the floorboards and drove you mad. I stole one for you. Your eyes! It was like you’d never tasted anything before. I feel that now. Anything, just a piece of bread, would do.

  The next day, he barely said a thing. Just a few words.

  I’m thirsty.

  When he spoke, something rattled in my brain. When he slept, it was a quiet hum. When Mother brought me food, I threw it at her. I felt so helpless, trapped in my room. But even I couldn’t reject the water. I was thirsty from screaming. I felt guilty as I sipped.

  There’s a giant smooth rock here. It’s oval like an egg.

  It could be a dragon’s egg.

  On the fifth day, I heard nothing but humming. Then, as night fell, Feliks woke suddenly. He was frightened, like he didn’t know where he was. He made these tortured rasping sounds.

  I’m here, I called out to him. I’m with you.

  I don’t know if he heard me, but he calmed down.

  It’s alright, he said. It’s good in a way. I’m here so he won’t be lonely anymore. The dragon, I mean. We’ll be friends. The Smok and me. I’ll be fine.

  He sounded resigned to his fate, almost happy.

  You are
Serafin. You are ten years old. You are my little brother.

  Silence. Not even the humming I felt when he slept. I lay there for a long time, straining to hear. As the silence crept throughout my body, like cold seeps into bones, I started to cry.

  I was going to do it, I’d been sure of it. I was going to follow Feliks’ voice through the cave, raise his body like magic out of the long drop and snap his spine back into place. We would walk out of there together, hand in hand. Because I was Serafin. I was ten years old. And I was his little brother. What other mischief could I do?

  The search continued for another week. But there was nothing left to do.

  He was already dead.

  Decades later in the mine, the History hummed like Feliks still living. The sound seemed to grow as the miners dug deeper, adding more corridors from the artery that ran between the main cavern with its many shafts and the new cavern with its dragon eggs. As weeks went by, a new labyrinth appeared. Corridors crossed, some were abandoned, others lengthened. Those that collapsed were repaired. Makeshift rooms were dug into naturally occurring caves, where endless drops and jagged rocks were dispersed between smoothed salt domes and saline puddles.

  And the History, oh, it hummed.

  I went down a few times. We brought a horse to the main corridor between caverns, but the animal wouldn’t go further. The air was too thick, I suspected. The penitents’ work was crucial. The whooshing sound of gas being burnt off, as well as the pops and bangs of mini-explosions, were heard even up in the main cavern.

  I tried to stop the mischief, to ignore that sizzling hum that once told me my brother was still alive. If I couldn’t sleep, I sat with Władysław as he worked on the chapel. But sometimes, I went other places with my mischief, places no one went, places where lanterns couldn’t be brought for fear of starting a fire. I told myself to stop, but I ventured out involuntarily in my dreams, exploring the maze, both natural and man-made, that sprawled beneath. Searching for him. Some claw marks were found, ambiguous enough that the Smok’s detractors argued they were just normal gouges from mining the rock. I didn’t remember doing them, but then I did.