Getting Into Mischief

by Michael P Calligaro

* * *

Mischief Tower basked in the glow of the full moon. Perched atop the highest hill in the city, it stood like a dark guardian, watching over Dresden below with its ever-present yellow eye. Figar stood a short distance away, staring up at the glowing light shining from the tower's highest window. Surrounded by a moat and a high wall with no door, no one ever entered nor left Mischief Tower. Yet every day at sundown that light came on, to extinguish itself just before sunrise. It had been thus for as long as anyone could remember.
Glock’s attempts to impress this week's girl forced their way into Figar's attention and pushed aside his concentration on the tower. From behind him, Glock's voice pleaded, "Aw, Salea, I know important people too."
Her voice a mixture of doubt and amusement, Salea responded, "Oh really? Who?" Figar grinned to himself. This one was smarter than Glock's recent conquests. She wouldn't fall for his silly bragging.
"Well, Figar, for one. Did you know he's a quarter cat?"
Figar rolled his eyes and turned to face them. Salea brought her bright green eyes to bear on him. Strangely, where most girls stared at him in either revulsion or pity, Salea looked on in interest. "Is that true?"
He nodded and spoke in his normal quiet voice. "Some wizard induced a mountain lion to rape my grandmother."
Of the four girls he'd ever told that to, all had frowned in horror. Salea, however, nodded thoughtfully. "I was wondering why you have slitted eyes and so much hair. Can you see in the dark?"
With a shrug, Figar replied, "I can see adequately in less light than most people."
Glock, too dumb to realize he'd already lost her, tried to impress Salea further. "Yeah. And Figar's got better reflexes than normal people too." He paused and looked over Figar's shoulder. A smile spread across his face. "Why, I'll bet he could get even get into Mischief Tower."
Caught by surprise, Salea looked hastily at Glock, then back to Figar with questioning eyes. He stared back. She was a pretty redhead with a sharp mind, and she wasn't repulsed by him. She'd be an amazing way to break his perpetual losing streak with girls; even his mother had hated him. He nodded curtly, spun around and strode toward the tower.
Glock raced to catch up with him. In a low voice, he said, "Wait, friend. I didn't mean for you to actually do it!"
Figar shrugged. "Too late now. I guess you should think more carefully about what you're saying." He kept his face stern, but smiled inside. He'd always wanted to get into Mischief. He just never had a good enough excuse to try. Dresden's legends spoke of numerous people who had tried to get in; none were ever heard from again. But none of them had the senses and reflexes of a cat bundled up in the body of a human. And none of them were a fifteen-year-old boy sure of his invincibility.
The other legends, that Mischief was created by an ancient wizard who wanted to share his wisdom, but only with the most capable of adventurers, did not interest Figar. While power and knowledge might be nice, he looked forward to the challenge of just getting in. He strutted the last couple of yards up the hill and quickly crossed the flat area at the base of the tower wall. He stopped at the moat and peered down into its murky waters. An earlier daytime excursion with a long pole had shown the waters to be over six feet deep. Figar idly wondered if there was an underwater door, but he chose not to demean himself in searching for it. Besides, he didn't really like water much. No, far better to go over the wall.
Salea and Glock caught up with him. She said, "You know, you don't have to do this to impress me."
He grinned at her. "Oh, really?"
She paused and a smile spread across her face. "Okay, I admit it. I'll be very impressed if you manage to get out of there alive." She covertly looked around. "This is exciting."
Figar nodded. "Thought so." He pulled his grappling hook off his belt and twisted the end, setting the four spikes into the cardinal directions.
Salea interrupted him again. "Do you always carry a grappling hook with you?"
He shrugged. "Never know when it'll come in handy." He looked to her again. Her pretty green eyes looked up at him expectantly. His hand trembling, he reached up and ran a finger along her chin and over her lips. Amazingly, she didn't shrink away from his touch. His heart beating heavily, he turned his attention back on the wall. Judging its height to be about ten feet, he untied the first five thin leather straps that bound the coils of his rope. Each coil was secured by a separate strap so that if he fell, they would break one by one, progressively slowing his fall until he moved slowly enough for one to hold. Of course, that would only help going down, not up. With five untied, he should have enough slack to get the grapple over the wall beyond the thin moat.
Taking a deep breath, he considered glancing back at Salea one more time. No. Looking back now would only show his worry. Better to let her think he fearlessly charged into the tower. He spun the grapple around three times and launched it up the wall. It easily sailed over the top, hit the tower beyond, and fell down behind the wall. He retrieved slack, pulling the rope taut. Leaning into it, he tested his weight the best he could without going over the water. Confident it would hold, he recoiled the slack, tying two straps.
With a firm grasp as high up the rope as he could reach, he leapt up and grabbed higher still with his other hand. He swung forward over the moat and his feet hit the wall, his knees bending to minimize the jar of the impact. He held still for a moment, letting the hook dig in and get used to his weight. Then he began his climb, hand over hand, his feet walking up the wall as he went.
No stranger to climbing with his grapple and rope, Figar had little difficulty scaling the wall. Other than Mischief Tower, he'd previously snuck into every restricted area in the city. This was the heritage of a boy who'd run away from home when he was six. Almost immediately, he'd had to turn to burglary to get food enough to live. Figar smiled in spite of himself--cat burglary, of course. He even climbed into the Palace once to sneak a glance at the young prince. That the guards almost caught him and that they would have flayed him alive if they had only added to the excitement. But Mischief would be his crowning achievement. After this, Salea wouldn't be the only one to stop looking at him in horror. He paused his climb for a second. Thoughts like that hurt his ability to convince himself he didn't care how others treated him. Shaking his head, he continued up.
Reaching the top of the wall, Figar peered over the other side. While the outside face of the wall was smooth, the inside was surprisingly rough and uneven. Only about four feet separated the wall from the tower. Although Figar had been planning to use the grapple to slide down the other side of the wall, he decided he could wrap it up and climb down without it. He did so, waved down to Glock and Salea, and started down into the cramped space between the outer wall and the tower. In the bright light of the full moon, his cat's eyes had little difficulty finding suitable holes and stone outcroppings for his toes and fingers. He quickly reached the ground below.
Like the wall, the side of the tower was also uneven and rough, with small holes pockmarking it. The holes ranged from about three feet off the ground to six feet up. Figar tried to peer into one of the holes, but saw only darkness. Looking both ways, he chose at random to go to the right in search of a way into the tower. He traveled roughly an eighth of the way around when he found bleached white bones on the ground along the outer wall. Figar stopped dead in his tracks and stared down at them. It seemed there was at least an ounce of truth to the legends. His hand went to the hilt of his dagger and his head shot around looking for an attacker. None presented itself. He stepped forward cautiously.
Click.
Pushing his quick reflexes to their utmost, Figar dove forward onto his chest, flattening himself to the ground. The holes along the tower erupted in pointed stakes, which shot across the gap and smashed into the outer wall. Looking up at the spikes, Figar took a deep breath and berated himself for not thinking more carefully about the meaning of the holes. Sure, he'd figured it out, but only just in time.
Ahead he heard the sound of stone grating on stone. Not far in front of him, the floor slid aside and revealed a passageway. Figar crawled up to the hole and found stairs leading down into the tower. He crawled onto the steps and continued down until the tunnel became tall enough for him to stand. A torch burned in a sconce, casting a flicking light on the passage ahead. Figar eyed the sconce and noticed the torch sat loosely there, an invitation to take it.
He reached out for the torch, but stopped just short of touching it. The tower had already tried to kill him once. Why would it now offer something useful, like a light source? Perhaps carrying around a torch would mask some of the other traps? Or maybe it would set those traps off. Since he could see well in dim light, he decided to leave the torch behind. Walking carefully down the stone tunnel, his eyes probed the walls, floor, and ceiling ahead for more traps. The passage ended in a flight of stairs leading up, which he ascended with utmost caution.
At the top of the stairs the passage curved off to the left. Figar followed it slowly, soon finding himself in pitch darkness. He considered going back and getting the torch but worried that if he backtracked now he'd lose his nerve and retreat the rest of the way out. So he pushed ahead, creeping forward while lightly dragging his fingers along the wall. He strained his ears to pick up the faintest sound, his eyes to see the dimmest light, and his nose to pick up any unexpected scents.
Sweeping his feet out in arcs before him, his boot encountered a loose stone. He hefted the rough block, about twice the size of his hand, and considered. The tunnel could have easily killed him before. All it had to do was run the spikes to the ground. But instead, it left him a way by. Perhaps this brick was a similar concession, needed to survive the next trap. He held on to it and continued forward, finding more bricks as he went. He could only carry one and hope to stay light on his feet, however, so he left the others on the ground.
He felt the curving passageway straighten out. After a few steps into the straightened area his nose picked up a whiff of a strange scent. Was that something burning? If so, why couldn't he see any light? Figar took a cautious step forward and sniffed again. Yes, definitely something on fire. Was there something else there too? It almost smelled like grease. He bent down and touched the floor, but it was dry. Crawling forward, his hand slipped out from under him. Fortunately, his back hand was still on dry ground and he didn't fall.
Grease on the floor and the faint smell of burning--how strange. Wiping his hand off on his pants, he stood up. He hefted the brick and tossed it as far as he could down the hallway. A slit of light appeared on the floor ahead of him and it quickly stretched downward, revealing a large opening full of flame. In the bright light he could see the floor had collapsed into a long slope. Though he could not see any grease on the floor, the brick slid quickly across it. Tracking the brick, Figar noticed an opening on the right side of the wall, roughly halfway down the ramp. If he'd stepped onto the collapsing floor he would have slipped and fallen on his back. In his confusion, he never would have seen the opening and would have slid uncontrollably into the flames.
The brick fell into the fire and the floor sloped back up silently, closing off the opening and once again casting the hallway into darkness. That darkness had just saved Figar's life. If he'd brought along the torch, he probably wouldn't have been moving so slowly and certainly wouldn't have smelled the burning pit over the burning torch. Mischief Tower was a devious place.
He backed up a few steps, found another brick, and threw it down the hall. With the fire pit open again, he ran forward and crouched down, surfing along the grease on his feet. His fingers dragged lightly along the right wall and the opening loomed forward. This would be easy.
Then his foot hit a dry spot. His body lurched forward and he sprawled out in the grease. In the blink of an eye, he reached the opening and began to pass it. He threw a greased hand outward. It hit the far side of the passageway, causing his body to careen into the wall. His hand started to slip. He violently threw up his other hand. At the same time, he frantically tried to dig the toes of his boots into the wall. The first hand slipped off just as the other took hold. He reached back with the first hand and dug his nails into the stone.
His body now fully stopped, he painfully pulled himself up the incline, taking all the weight with his fingers. When his head reached the opening, he could see a long passageway leading up. He wiggled his way partially into the passage and the greased floor began to slope up. Worried that it would cut him in half, he frantically scrambled forward. He fell to the ground just as the passage closed behind him.
A burning torch that was recessed into the wall behind him cast plenty of light by which to see. Figar lay still, waiting for his heart to slow down. After a few minutes, he sat up and tried, to no avail, to wipe off some of the excess grease covering his body. With a sigh, he stood and looked back at the torch. It struck him as strange that it burned from behind a thick plate of glass. It had to be recessed so that it could slide past the ground when the greased floor went down, but why seal it behind glass? As if to answer his question, a roar came hurtling down the hallway toward him.
He spun and saw a wall of water blasting at him. His eyes wide, he plastered himself against the side wall and took a deep breath, waiting for it to hit. The water smashed into him, threatening to peel him off the wall and hurl him into the torch at the end. However, the passage quickly filled, leaving him floating underwater. He pushed away from the wall and swam upward with all his might. He could just see himself in the mirror of the surface as he swam toward it and it rose away from him. His lungs burning, he pushed harder, straining to overtake the rising surface. He broke through and gasped haggardly.
Water poured down the sloped floor, continuously raising the water level and sending him up the passage. He turned over and grabbed the ceiling, pulling himself along as he went up. As he moved farther and farther from the torch at the bottom, it got harder and harder to see what waited for him above.
A faint motion caught his eye. Blades slashed back and forth across the top of the passage. Figar looked around frantically and noticed that, a few feet up, the water rushing along the floor dipped in. He kicked off the ceiling and launched himself at that spot. The raising water passed it and his hands felt an opening. He took a breath, grabbed on and yanked himself into the opening.
He pulled himself through the small underwater tunnel, kicking wildly as he went. Explosively breaking the surface, he found himself in a pool that filled a corner of a large, well-lit room. Pulling himself out of the pool, he collapsed, exhausted, wet, and miserable on the floor. "I got wet for some lousy girl?" he asked no one in particular. "What was I thinking?"
That wasn't fair. While Salea was the catalyst, he knew damn well he was here for himself. Still, it felt better to blame her and Glock. After doing his best to wring out his pants and shirt and to shake the excess water from his hair, he surveyed the room. Other than the pool in the corner and the torches on sconces around the walls, the room's only feature was an iron spiral staircase running up into the ceiling. Ominously, the bottom of the stair ended with a wall of spikes angled up. Figar eyed the spikes warily but saw no other way out of the room. He slid by them and started up the stairs. Every quarter turn a torch in a sconce adorned the wall. Other than that, the wall was smooth, without so much as a railing to hold on to. Each step causing greater unease, Figar ascended and ascended.
He stopped and looked around. If these steps were going to become a ramp, he'd fall and wouldn't be able to reach the torches to slow his descent. He didn't relish the thought of sliding into the spikes below. With the height he'd climbed, he'd hit them at high speed. He pulled out his grapple, its rope still wet, and flicked out the hooks. He untied the first two loops and held it ready as he ascended.
Though expecting it, he still gasped when he stepped on a stair, it rolled over under his foot, and the rest matched it. Sliding down, he threw his grapple at a torch. It clanged aside. He drew it back in and tossed it at the next one. This time it caught and he slid to a halt. The torch pulled down with a click and the ramp became steps again. Figar stood and, keeping his hand on the rope, climbed back up to the torch. He removed the hook and the torch slid back up. The stairs held.
So that was the trick. Keeping his grapple ready, Figar climbed to the next torch and pulled down on it. It clicked and the torch returned to its upright position. He repeated this action at the next torch and then the one after that. Twenty torches later he reached the top of the stairs, where a door was set into the ceiling. Figar hooked his rope on a nearby ring and pulled on the door. The door opened and stairs became a ramp again. Figar hung by his rope and looked down at the ramp. Then he pulled himself through the opening.
He found himself in a large circular room with a gigantic window on one side. A platform stood near the window holding a glowing yellow sphere. With a sharp intake of breath, Figar realized he'd reached the top of Mischief Tower.
A voice from behind startled him. "Well done, Figar! Of course, I knew you could do it."
Figar jerked around and found an adult, probably thirty or forty years old, sitting in a throne-like chair. The man had slitted eyes and too much hair. Figar reached back through the door and unhooked his grapple. Still holding it in his hand, he stood. "I assume you're the one who lights the sphere every night. But who are you?"
The man smiled and stood up, holding his empty hands outward. "Why Figar, don't you recognize me?"
Figar shook his head.
"I'm you!"
Figar arched his eyebrows and backed away from the man. "Excuse me?"
"Relax, Figar, I can explain everything. This is the second time I've been through this moment of time, so I'm sure I'll do it right."
Figar continued to back away until he ran into one of the legs of the platform. He glanced down through the window and saw the wall and moat below. The sleeping city also stretched out before him. "You have a nice view up here."
"The best in Dresden. And soon you'll have that view for yourself."
Not entirely comfortable with the prospect, he asked, "Why?"
The man who claimed to be an elder Figar held his ground and made no threatening gestures. He just clasped his hands before him and stood comfortably. "To answer that, let me first explain Mischief Tower. You see, this place is cursed."
Figar didn't like the sound of that at all. "Cursed?"
"Yes. It is full of magic and power, so much so that people throughout time have tried to steal its secrets. But as you can readily attest, it is exceedingly hard to get into."
Yes, Figar had no difficulty agreeing with that assessment. "But being difficult to enter does not make something cursed."
"You are correct; it does not. The curse is this. The tower needs a master, so any person who can safely enter rules it. He has full access to its knowledge and power. However, he can not leave until the next brave adventurer makes his way in. That is the curse."
Power at the price of freedom. Did Figar want that? Power had never been an option before, so he wasn't sure how much he wanted it. However, he knew he valued his freedom. He valued it so much he'd chosen to live on the streets rather than under the rule of unloving parents. "But that doesn't explain how you are me."
"I'm you because we don't just have the senses and reflexes of a cat. We're also clever like one. We found a way to circumvent the curse, to beat Mischief at its own game."
Figar leaned against the rock steady platform. "I'm listening."
"For me to leave, you must stay. But the worry is that no one will ever again make it into the tower to relieve you. So we used the tower's magic to send ourselves back into time. Now, when you relieve me I'll be free to go back out into the world and use all the power and knowledge I've gained over the years here. You'll go back in time, relieve the previous tower's master, and then amass all the knowledge for yourself. In a few years you'll reach this same time as me, when the younger you successfully breaches the tower and relieves you. We'll have beaten the tower!"
"How?"
"Because after you go back in time and I leave, the tower in this time frame will have no one trapped in it. I'll destroy the cursed place and keep it from trapping other people in the future. The tower gets its power from its master, and only an empty tower can be destroyed."
Figar frowned. "And if I refuse?"
His elder self frowned and shook his head. "You can't. This has all already happened. To change it now would rip the fabric of space and time, destroying everything you and I know forever."
He continued to frown and the other nodded. "I wouldn't lie to myself, Figar. I assure you that the years of solitude aren't that bad. You'll learn amazing things. And you'll definitely be freed by yourself later."
When Figar didn't move, the adult said. "Think of it this way. We've got nine lives. Spending a part of one of them to became powerful isn't that bad a sacrifice."
That settled it. Figar nodded. "Okay, what do I have to do?"
The adult beamed. "Follow me." A glowing portal appeared on the far wall, and he walked toward it.
The instant the elder turned his back, Figar clamped his grapple on the platform and dove through the window. It shattered and he fell toward the top of the wall below. One leather strap broke, then another, each slowing him down. Three broken straps later, one held and he came to a halt, dangling far above the wall. He grabbed the rope with one hand, drew his dagger with the other, and cut the remaining straps. He then cut the end of the rope attached to his belt and let it drop. It only reached about three-quarters of the way to the wall. He sheathed his dagger and rapidly climbed downward.
The spikes running horizontally between the tower and wall retracted and new, vertical ones rose up from the ground and top of the wall. A voice called down from above. The voice sounded different than before. "You can't get down Figar, climb back up."
Figar looked up and saw a normal human face staring down at him. He wasn't surprised. He knew the adult hadn't been him. The tower's magic might have given its captive the power to make himself look like Figar, but it obviously hadn't given him the power to read his mind. Figar never believed he had nine lives. Even if studying in the tower had revealed that he did, he wouldn't have used that fact to convince himself to stay. He continued his descent.
The voice called down again. "Figar, look at me."
He glanced up and saw the man holding a knife.
"Being trapped up here is better than dying. Climb back up or I'll cut your rope."
Figar looked down at the myriad of spikes pointing up at him. Yes, a fall to them would certainly kill him. He glanced back up at the man. How long had he been trapped up there? He looked desperate enough to go through with it, even though killing Figar wouldn't free him. With a glance back down, Figar saw Glock and Salea standing next to the moat and staring up at him.
Taking a deep breath, Figar called up. "Okay, I'm coming back up. Put your knife away." He pulled his legs up and rested them against the wall, looking up. The man pulled the dagger away from the rope and grinned. Figar flexed his legs. Though there was only about four feet from the tower to the wall, the moat wasn't all that wide either. This would be tough.
He kicked away from the tower with all the force his legs could muster. As he swung out, he stared down, watching for the end of the rope to pass the outer wall. As soon as it did, he let go and continued to sail outward as he fell. Curling himself into a ball, he tried to reorient himself to go in feet first. Instead, he smacked the water with his knees and shot straight to the bottom. His feet hit the muck and something grabbed at them. He kicked it and clawed at the shore, yanking himself up. Breaking the surface with a shout, he scrambled out of the water and crawled away as fast as he could.
Glock and Salea rushed over to him. "Figar, are you okay?" she asked.
He rolled over and stared up at the man in the broken window. In the yellow glow of the sphere, he saw the tower's captive shake his head and disappear from view. With a nervous laugh, Figar exhaled and relaxed. He looked up at his companions. Glock stared at him in shock, Salea in awe. He laughed again. "Okay? No I'm not okay. Look at me. I'm soaking wet. Do you know how much I hate water?"
She laughed and threw her arms around him. "Well I don't mind it."
Figar returned her embrace.

The End

Copyright Michael P. Calligaro

All Rights Reserved