The AnnotatedComplete Lost Folk Tales of Pippidufka
By Max Singer
Part Two
Nipk’s Tale or The Tax Collector of Pippidufka
nipk’s tale or the tax collector of pippidufka what’s good for the confessor is good for the assessor
One rather slow day, while in his official chambers reviewing a number of petitions for appointments to royal service,1 the attention of the Monarch’s Seneschal who was generally in charge of vetting such appointments was drawn to one communiqué in particular which, while obviously misfiled and misdirected (most
1 In the days that this insignificant history takes place, there were only a few worldly undertakings considered suitable for the male offspring of respectable, or respect-seeking folk, that is, those who were in media res, neither of the peasantry tied by birth and force to the fields nor of the aristocracy tied by birth and force to the throne. (For the female offspring, there were then, as now, just the usual two.)
These few suitable pursuits necessitated securing positions in The Ministry of Miracles, Mortal Transgressions and Elysian Affairs, i.e. the Church; The Secretariat for the Common Good and the Protection of the Motherland, i.e. the Military; or The Department for the Collection of Voluntary Revenues and Patriotic Contributions , i.e. the Royal Treasury. (Anything else, such as Philosophie, Thespianism or Brigandry, invariably meant a downward slide, respectively, into either obscurity, impoverishment or the noose.)
Appointments to positions in these departments required the securing of a license from the Monarch.
In the case of the Church, a license for The Threat of Everlasting Perdition, that is, blackmail
In the case of the Army, a license to provide Protection and Security, that is, Pillage and Plunder.
And, in the case of the Royal Treasury, a license to regulate Commerce and Agriculture, that is, Extortion, pure and simple.
In the return for the grant of such licenses, it was understood that those appointed to the more important, that is to say, more profitable positions, were required to rebate a portion to the Monarch, upwards flowynge as the physiconomists of the time phrased it.
Those appointed to the less important, that is to say, less profitable positions, were understood to be liable to pay a one-time negotiable charge, known commonly as palm sugar, palm soap, finger oil, or simply, bribe.
certainly intended for the Ministry of Mortal Transgressions and Elysian Affairs) nonetheless aroused his curiosity.
This tome was an ancient scroll with the curious title Results and Report of the Investigation of the Plenary Subcommittee of the Ministry of Miracles, Mortal Transgressions and Elysian Affairs for Curious Phenomenon of Uncertain Origins and Cause into The Mystery of the Disappearing Prelates of Pippidufka .
As the Seneschal read through this tome, he laughed aloud, heartily, and often (behavior which caused no some small consternation among his minions in an adjourning chamber, for the Seneschal was most certainly not known to them as a man of wit or humor).
It so happened that the occasion for this uncharacteristic amusement was not just the fact that the village of Pippidufka, as described in this report, was a real place, the selfsame place he had been told outrageous fairy-tales about as a child; nor that Pippidufka was, as also described in that tome, a place where, in olden times, all Prelates, Clerics, Divines, and Prithee-men sent there to reclaim, reform, redeem or return that wayward flock to the fold, simply vanished from the face of the earth; nor the fact that all inquisitions into the cause of these disappearances, as well as all attempts to prevent them from recurring, having failed, the Ministry of Mortal Transgressions and Elysian Affairs gave up trying to do so, and, instead, did what theologists a surprisingly practical folk, given their otherworldly profession do best when faced with an otherwise unavoidable reality: take serendipitous advantage of their predicament by promulgating a new doctrine or practice embodying it. In this case, they established the tradition of appointing contentious, rebellious or annoying prelates to that particular post. Just to be rid of them.
No. The source of the Seneschal’s amusement was that it gave him an idea that caught his particular fancy:
While reading this report it occurred to him, that, if, as they said in The Royal Treasury, “What’s good for the confessor is good for the assessor,” then this same tactic might be used to rid himself of
the attentions of a certain individual to whom, through unsought circumstances, he owed some small favor, but who had, by zealously over-pressing his case, become a plague and a pestilence.
Not to mention this added plus: that at the same time that he would dispose of the contentious wretch’s attentions, the Seneschal would also enrich his own coffers with a small bag or two of the pest’s silver.
“The will of God is inscrutable,” he thought to himself. Of course there would be no mention in the course of negotiations of THE M YSTERY OF THE DISAPPEARING PRELATES a rather too obvious foretelling of a dismal future.
alas at journey’s end
We now come to the tale of that very personage whose nagging persistence had so aroused the enmity of the Seneschal: The Royal Tax Collector of Pippidufka, newly appointed to that post, having given over a small inheritance of his as the agreed upon bribe price.
The new Tax Collector had been deliriously elated at the turn his prospects had taken, so much so that in his enthusiasm he had missed some obvious signs that there might be more (or rather less) to his new position than met his eye.
For one thing, his attempts to locate the village of Pippidufka on any of the Officiale Greate Mappes of the Kingdom. One Copper proved futile, and when he enquired of the Seneschal as to the exact location of his new post a natural enough question the response, in hindsight, seemed oddly evasive, a mere “You’re an important personage now. Important personages don’t bother themselves with such trivialities.”
Despite such foreshadowings, the new Tax Collector had gone forth with the greatest of hope and confidence, born out of his expectations of the glory, power and wealth this post would bring, particularly the latter, wealth, as that, he firmly believed, was the fount from which all the others flowed.
He and his lone servant just plunged blindly and bravely ahead on the road, with their donkeys, supplies, and dreams of the Pot of Gold which awaited him, a pot which got heavier and heavier each time he closed his eyes and imagined it.
The Tax Collector would allow nothing to diminish his enthusiasm. Not the fact that the official of the town at the end of the first leg of his journey proved no more forthcoming as to Pippidufka’s location, but merely smiled cryptically and directed him to another official in another town even further along the road in an even more isolated district such procedure being repeated at all the subsequent stops along the way; each port of call getting smaller, and a further distance apart.
Nor, standing at the edge of The Greate Emptiness, being told by some functionary in mufti to “Foller that thar road. I tink tat’ll take yar tru ta Pippidufka.”
No, it was not until he actually arrived at Pippidufka a pitiful place, so small no wonder one could not find it on a map , a backwater, a one-horse village, ill-suited for farming, ill-suited for herding, ill-suited for any profitable venture whatsoever, possessing nothing of value either to the world or to its inhabitants that it became clear to him that there were no more horizons to pass beyond, no next legs to his journey, no more ports of call.
That he was, at last alas! at journey’s end.
It was then, that it seemed as if every bell in every tower, in every steeple, in every town in the kingdom pealed out, gleefully and mockingly, announcing his utter idiocy to the world below and the heavens above, and he could hear the Seneschal’s laughter echoing from the Palace, across the miles and miles of dry plains and mountains, all the way to Pippidufka.
It was then that he finally realized he had been had! Duped!
Abandoned! Marooned! Left high and dry! Exiled to the most backward of backwaters. An island of empty headedness in a sea
of emptiness. The people ignorant. The land poor. And his prospects? Seemingly non-existent.
a pique of derring-do
The Tax Collector of Pippidufka sat at a pine board he sarcastically referred to as his “desk,” in a one-room pine-board shack he mockingly referred to as his “manse”.
In his hand he held the umpty-umpteenth draft of yet another letter the third in fact he was composing to dispatch to the Monarch himself, asking to be relieved of his post and assigned elsewhere.
His first letter2 was a struggle with two somewhat unrelated problems.
The first was the matter of the letter itself: he had written and rewritten it over and over, trying his best to be tactful and diplomatic in his composition.
2 The First Letter from The Royal Tax Collector of Pippidufka. (SIX MONTHS AFTER HIS ARRIVAL )
To His Magnificence, The Most Fearsome And Dauntless, Valiant And Proud, All-Seeing, All-Knowing, Greatest Ruler, Father Of All His People, Defender Of The One True God, Patron Of All True Artists, Prince Among Princes, Liberator, Redeemer, Etc...
O, Most Modest Sire!
I beg to bring to your attention a Misunderstanding an Inadvertent Disservice rather, a Minor Injustice! no! A Great Wrong[!] Regarding my late appointment to the post of Royal Tax Collector of Pippidufka, for which I, in all good faith, hath traded my pitiful inheritance in anticipation, under the traditional terms regulating such matters, of profite therefrom.
I have been ensconced, in situ, in This Pitiful Place for nigh some months now and upon my oath I swear there is nothing of any value in this godforsaken-shyte-hole.
I plead to Thee in thy Great Benevolence:
Appoint me elsewhere for be assured that if I remain here I shall go mad… and quite broke.
I await your Generous, and, I pray, swift response.
Yrs, most humble, abject and loyal subject, the Royal Tax Collector of Pippidufka, etc…
No matter.
The harder he had tried to adopt a pleasant and conciliatory tone, the more that, halfway through its composition, his gore would rise at the thought of the injustice that had been meted out to him, and then, the writing would take on a life of its own, assume a tone of peevishness, then annoyance, inexorably edge towards sarcasm, and, finally, burst into outright defamation, accusation, and blasphemy. Towards the Monarch! Himself!
At that point, he would begin to realize the dire implications of what he was writing and he could feel the noose tightening about his neck; he would tell himself, “No, this will not do!” and crumble the draft into a ball and toss it onto the floor with all the other rejects.
The Tax Collector, however, was nothing if not, shall we say, greedily persistent, blindly obstinate, and stubbornly unrepentant, and so, eventually he dashed off a version in a pique of derring-do and signed and sealed it.
The actual writing of the missive was nothing when compared to the second, more practical problem, the difficulty the actual posting of such a missive would present, for since h is arrival in Pippidufka not a single outsider had passed through the village. No coaches, no couriers, no wagons, no riders on horse. Not even a tramp or walkabout.
a stinking fish in the larder
Over time, the Tax Collector had become obsessed with the notion that things in Pippidufka were not what they seemed to be, in short, he became convinced largely through the absence of any evidence to the contrary that the villagers were holding out on him.
For example, there was the manner in which, at least outwardly, they dealt with him.
They seemed accepting of his authority, duly respectful, sufficiently subservient in manner and speech.
Yet, at the same time, when it came to commandeering Sufficiencies for his and his servant’s health and hearth not to mention the Amenities he felt to be his due he found the villagers to be vague, evasive, slippery, shifty, and shrewd: the appropriation of a scrawny chicken, a basket of potatoes, a leg of stringy mutton, a plain loaf of brown bread, a handful of gooseberries, a faggot of kindling, a gourd of god -awful hooche, was a draining, arduous, time-consuming, endless negotiation, like pressing oil from a stone.
And when it came to actual monies? shekels, rupees, kroner, chinkers, clinkers, dangles he had never seen any, let alone seen any actually changing hands. Things just seemed to pass from one person to another, and on those occasions when he pressed the issue on the villagers, they would look at him blankly, shrug their shoulders and, with the hint of a wan smile, move on.
If anything, there, indeed, he thought, was ample proof of a stinking fish in the larder.
No, these people were most certainly a devious lot., more devious than one would have imagined at first.
Somewhere they had a treasure whatever form it took. Hidden and safe.
Or so they thought.
But he would find it.
And, if all else failed, he would find a way to convince the Monarch to send a garrison and tear the village apart. But tha t was a last resort, his ace-in-the-hole, for, short of rescuing him from this shyte-hole, there would be no profit in it for him: the Monarch would surely take it all and leave him with nothing but a fare-thee-well.
To call a prune a plum, the Tax Collector was a mule, the type of fellow who would not budge: if he were to be stuck in some shytehole, then, for the time being, he would be damned if he didn’t turn his predicament to his advantage.
He swore to himself he would find a way to squeeze these yokels dry, dry enough to float his own ship back to civilization. But to do so, he would have to take a different approach, devise a plan.
In the meantime he needed to know more about his adversaries.
So he decided he would resort to subterfuge and put his servant to the task of spying on the villagers.
First, however, he would have to put the servant’s loyalty to the test.
Entrusting him with a mission to dispatch his letter, via the nearest Royal Post-Coach which, if his memory of the wretched journey to claim his position proved correct, was a fortnight’s ride away would be just the thing.
After all, he had nothing to lose.
At worse, the scoundrel could abscond. And if so? So be it. What loss would it be to him? None that he could calculate.
His service had thus far proved of no profit to him, merely an expense and burden. But, if the fool returned, which, if the Tax Collector were to be in the same position, he himself most certainly would not, well, then, that would be another matter altogether.
cast out
Being one of those people who justify brutal treatment of their underlings as concern for the spiritual and moral improvement and well-being of their lessers, it followed, in the Tax Collector’s way of parsing the world, that his servan t a fellow by the name of Nipk, whom the Tax Collector had often been forced to beat for his insolence and laziness would relish the opportunity to redeem himself in the sight of his generous, forgiving, and caring Master.
In truth, Nipk’s sole defects if one were to call the preferences of one’s nature a defect were an affinity for the out-of-doors (particularly lazy nights under the stars); a penchant for improvising ditties upon his lute; a taste for both the odd nipper as
well as fine malmsey; and disappearing, whenever possible, for a midday snooze.
Otherwise, he was quite a bright and energetic lad, naturally gifted, curious, and unusually well-educated for one whose parents were poor tenant farmers, locked and wed to the fields: a local cleric had noticed Nipk at an early age, took an interest in him, and offered to take him from his parents and have him educated at his order’s nearby monastery, where, if the lad proved as bright as his benefactor believed and also had a great deal of luck he might hope to eventually join the order as a brother, albe it at a level of importance commensurate with his lack of means.
The thought of their son being able to rise above their pitiful condition, sweetened by the gift of a few monthly coppers to compensate them for the loss of his labor, overcame their reluctance to part from their “only and beloved son” and off to the monastery Nipk went.
Things went quite well for the first four or five years.
Nipk was a fast learner: by 14, he had picked up the classic languages; by 15, memorized large portions of the holy books; and by 16, become quite adept at arguing the finer points of astrology, philosophy and theology.
Ultimately ironically it was his skill at the latter that proved to be his downfall, for he eventually angered the Abbott of the monastery not just by rejecting his advances, but also his theology. For such heresies, Nipk was cast out of the monastery and indentured into the service of an obsequious schemer who thought to make use of Nipk as a scrivener, keeper of accounts, general factotum, and walking advertisement for his own status as a gentleman, which unnamed personage (who we choose to keep anonymous to protect the reputation of those good souls who might have the misfortune to share his name) you might have surmised, is none other than the Tax Collector of this very tale.
Nipk’s term of indenture would continue, as was the norm, for such a length of time as it took him to repay his Master through the
value of his labor as judged by his master, of course for that amount which had been paid over to the Monastery in consideration of the cost of Nipk’s former upkeep and education, as well as the now discontinued coppers his parents had been receiving, less, of course, the cost of his upkeep as judged by his master, of course and the usual unforeseen fines, penalties and punishments.
In other words, if the Tax Collector’s calculations were correct, forever.
under the stars
Nipk, as you shall soon see, was neither as slow -witted nor as eager for redemption as his Master believed him to be, for what the Tax Collector did not know, could not have known, was that Nipk had begun to plot his own exodus ever since the night, when, on the mission to deliver the very first letter the Tax Collector had entrusted to him, he had encamped at some small distance from Pippidufka, unsealed the Tax Collector’s communiqué and read it by the light of his campfire.
Nipk’s first thought was: too good to be true. From his reading of the missive, it seemed that the best way to rid himself of servitude to his onerous Master was, ironically, to merely carry out his assignment.
His master obviously had a hole in his wig: the shatter-pated idiot’s communication was a barely disguised screed against the Monarch himself, whose immediate response would most certainly be to send an executioner to bring the treasonous Tax Collector’s head back to the capital.
If he were lucky, that is.
The Monarch might just as well send a guard of troops to return the Tax Collector’s entire body intact, still breathing, so that it’s various parts might be separately examined, in a detached manner,
as it were, so as to determine the cause and location of his aberrant behavior.
In either case, Nipk would be free
Or would he?
There was, after all, the issue of Property Rights and Obligation of Contracts, the little matter of the bill of indenture.
Who was to say that the authorities would not enforce that right and ship him off to an even worse Master?
Heaven forbid, they might even consider him to be in cahoots with the Tax Collector and, as the Hindoos were known to do, consider the servant a mere appendage to the body of the Master and toss him upon the pyre as well.
And what was that old dictum about the dangers of being the bearer of ill-tidings?
“Nipk,” he chided himself, “Do you even think they give a flea’s turd about you, the Tax Collector, or even about Pippidufka?”
Mercy’s sake, he had not seen a strange soul in months, let alone receive any official visitors or communiqués. For all he knew the Monarch was glad to be rid of all of them.
Ah, well, he thought, the best strategy for now was to fold the letter and keep it in his pocket in case it might prove of some use in the future.
In the meantime?
Take a tenth-night ticket of leave in the out-of-doors, under the stars, alone with his lute.
The mysteries of the universe to ponder.
As well as his future.
a mouth fulle of woole, a heade fulle of pinnes
The very night Nipk returned, a fortnight after “delivering” The Tax Collector’s latest screed3 a fevered version of which he had
3 The Second Letter from The Royal Tax Collector of Pippidufka (3 MONTHS AFTER HIS FIRST)
To his Magnificence, the Most Fearsome and Dauntless, Valiant and Proud, Busy and Absent-minded … etc… potentate
O most wise and fearsome lord!
It has been some weeks since my previous missive and I have received no response. Have I offended Thee? If so, I abase myself before thee and beg forgiveness for the rashness of my request.
When I wrote Thee that there was nothing of v alue in this god-forsakenshyte-hole, I was in a Delirium of Despair at my most unpleasant situation.
I did not mean to suggest that You in anyway had participated in cheating me of my inheritance. That would be an accusation beyond the pale of this Worthless Person. Please allow me thus to amend, append and alter my remarks so that they might prove more pleasing Musik to Thy Royal Ears.
What I should have said was this: were i to begi n where i stand and dig to the very bowels of the earth, i would still find nothing!Of!Any!Worth!Value!Use!Or!Interest!
In-this-god-forsaken-shyte-hole.
Other than perhaps the following items to which I draw your attention, and which, by my oath, is an accurate and true description of what I hath seen, with heaven above as my witness, and, as proof thereof as well, my fear of Your Fabled Cruel and Swift Retribution.
Yrs, most humble servant et cetera.
INVENTORY OF ITEMS OF POSSIBLE VALUE CONTAINED IN THE VILLAGE OF PIPPIDUFKA
Rusted Snee. Sans hilt.
Twisted ship’s anchor.
Collection of teeth. Human. Infant. Numbering 93.
Stuffed furry animal. Uncertain species. Missing tail. Awkward pose.
A fuzzy flummadiddle. Interesting shape.
A tin box. Old. Dented.
Sequined snood.
Set of forefinger bones of 8 saints. Religion uncertain.
Sailing ship in a bottle.
Birdcage. No door. No bird.
Lead plumb bob. No string.
Whalebone corset. Large. European. No stays.
Fur hat. Signs of Mange.
Tin whistle on a string.
Rusted manacles. No keys.
Box of fireworks. Chinese. Signs of water damage.
Large piece of what appears to be Petrified Dung.
Six billiard balls. Wooden.
Lace tablecloth. Large hole in center.
Brass handbell. Broken clapper.
Red wig.
Jar of smooth stones.
Box of assorted wooden buttons.
Carved Scrimshaw tooth or claw of large animal.
Various and sundry fetishes and amulets.
Partial Military Dress Uniform. Unknown provenance.
Ring of old keys.
On the other hand, who am I, your ignorant subject, to judge the value of what lies before me in plain sight? Am I a connoiss eur of the arts? Am I a scholar of the wondrous things of this world? Nay! I say twice nay. Nay! Nay!
THUS: who am I to say that what appears to me as a mere sailing ship in a bottle, is not, in truth, the fabled treasure ship of ali baba, bewitched and imprisoned therein by a vengeful genie or magus, awaiting only the secret incantation from yr. High priest to release it and its stores of gold, ivory and jewels?
AFTER ALL IS SAID: Who would I presume to be if I were to refute your assertion that the birdcage with missing door is in fact the true home of the golden swallow of Emperor Chang and when it is placed on the
penned and sent off with Nipk in his usual drunken pique of derring-do with reports of a successful mission, as well as more fabricated news and gossip of the latest intrigues in the capital (which his Master devoured eagerly), the Tax Collector decided to proceed with his larger plan, which, as he outlined it, was for Nipk to make himself a habitué of the local Shebeen by name of Mutz’s where, through convincing play-acting, expressions of dislike and contempt for his Master, snipes, curses, a touch of mockery, the odd invective, a slur here and there and other such vituperations, Nipk would thereby insinuate himself amongst them and gain their trust and confidence.
Nipk insisted he begin right away, and that very night, he made his way directly to Mutz’s, found a spot by the fire, and ordered a gourd of gooseberry brandy which to Mutz’s surprise, Nipk paid for with actual coppers, the very coppers his Master had given him. ledge of the window in yr. royal bedroom, the golden swallow will return there each year to lay a pair of eggs one of diamond, one of ruby?
WHO AM I TO SAY: that the rusted manacles without lock or key are not the self-same Chains Which May Tame And Subdue The Fearsome Dragon Of Knoth which guardeth three of the gates to Asgard and its eternal life.
Perhaps, in my great ignorance, I might propose that you dispatch, at all haste, whatever means you deem adequate (vehicles, camels, donkeys) to convey all of these objects, as well as those others I hath described in my previous missive, to THY MINISTER OF PUBLIC ENTERTAINMENT Or To THY COMMISSAR OF RARE AND CURIOUS ARTIFACTS so that he mayst construct a pinakotheke of thingums, domajiggers and hootmalallies in thy great capital and extract a couvert of a shekel or sou from all the citizens therein that th ey may claim entrée, to observe, and be learned of their worth. This, I predict, would prove to be of great monetary value to your treasury, particularly, if, to boot, thou declareth an edict that requireth a bi-annual visit by each such citizen Under Payne of Alle Sortes of Nastie Thynges. I stand ready to discuss with thee my profite in this matter. Be assured, that a third share would prove more than pleasing to me, yrs. Et cetera et cetera.
There were a number of village denizens there that night whom Nipk recognized from other encounters in the village: Mutz, Zwig the Moonshiner, Frutz the Cobbler, and a handful of other characters.
Nipk was treated civilly, but cooly, and a stony, silent, air of distrust, permeated the room. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire.
And, soon, that of Nipk, softly humming and strumming his lute. Humming and strumming. Something. To himself.
He let out a short laugh rather more of a snicker or a chortle.
Then a few minutes later he laughed a little louder and longer a snort, as it were.
Finally, unable to restrain himself, he let out a full -fledged belly-laugh
That was too much for Frutz the Cobbler, who glared at him and demanded “And what be it exactly, sar, that ye be larfin’ at?”
“Be assured, Frutz, my good fellow for that is your name, is it not?” Nipk responded. “I mock neither you nor your compatriots, whom I find a fine and friendly lot. What does amuse me is the odd and pleasingly strange situation I find myself in, as well as the little ditty I am writing to celebrate it. May I sing it for you by way of explanation? Methinks you too will be entertained by the gist of it. And when I have finished, my most fervent wish is that you all join me in celebration and a round of gooseberry brandy.
“My Master, for whom I can only suspect you harbor little or no good will, beats me for my indolence and laziness. And thus I despise him. Tonight he has given me a wonderful opportunity to ‘redeem myself,’ as he put it. And how, you may ask? He has sent me here to spy on you and discover where you have hidden your treasure. He has even given me coin so I might ply you with drink and gain your confidence by my telling you what a vile ignoramus, no good jackass, odious scoundrel, vulgar misanthrope, foulmouthed hooligan, monster, goon, heartless idiot, vengeful knave, two-headed snake, traitorous coward, beetle –headed malfeasant, slippery swindler, lecherous rakehell, and weasel-hearted ape he is.
And he is!
“Besides…he smells like a dungheap.
“Thus, in a nutshell, this is the joke: I would gladly curse him for free. But thanks to his scheming, I can do so with his own coin in my purse, by a warm fire, with, I hope, my newfound friends. Mutz! Break out your finest hooche! Drinks around!”
And with that Nipk picked up his lute and this is what he sang:
A Tax Collector’s serving man was put to a commission, With a pocketful of coppers to lubricate his mission.
O! Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la! Fiddilli, diddilli, deedoo!
Fa-di-la-di-la-di-la. Piddle, Squiddle, Squeeboo.
So off he ran to the Shebeen, no man had traveled faster, For he was sent there to malign his ‘dear beloved’ Master.
O! Fee-fi-fo-fi-fum-fe-dum. Deedle, doodle, dingle. Hem, ham, hum-dee, Pin-pan Pum. Twiddle-Dee, Wigglety Tingle
My Master is a horse’s arse, a Monkey pure and simple. His father was a cross between a Donkey and a pimple.
O! Skidoo, Skiddee, Skidda Tee Too. Glallimpelly, Chammafamble!
Sca-rump, Ta-dump, Ca-lump, Tee-dump. Scrimmelly Dander-randell!
My Master is a dried up turd, a Bastard Whoreson varlet. His mother was a pox-faced slut, a leprous pustuled harlot.
O! Pumba-Whamba, Whimba-woo. Ta-rumph-Ca-lumph-Ca-diddle
Schmiggle-dee-dog, Fig, Fag, Fug. Zhiska, Phliska, Phloo-phloo
Now if ye scold me for the joy I taketh in this mission, I say: “Stick a bagpipe up yer arse, and toot this composition.
O! Flap-doodle-doo Di-diddley-doo. Gummbel, Gimmbel, Jammbel. Slapple, Clapple, Sniffle Poo, Wimple, Scrimple, Scramble.”
When he finished, everyone in the Shebeen laughed merrily and gave Nipk a hearty round of Huzzas and Harroos.
That night many laughs were had at the Tax Collector’s expense and the next morning many a Pippidufkan awoke to find himself on a strange floor, or under a pile of leaves, with a mouthe fulle of woole and a heade fulle of pinnes.
alle the olde tailes
The next few weeks were a time of great joy for Nipk, the first taste of freedom and true comradeship he had in years.
Each night, he would sit by the fire at Mutz’s, drink with his new friends (at his master’s expense! even more satisfying!), pick up his lute and play for them all the songs he had learned as a child, and even set to music one of their favorite passages from Alle Sortes of Nastie Thynges.
In return the villagers would regale him with all the tales they had heard and told amongst themselves a thousand times. But, with a new ear to listen, the villagers seemed to tell and hear the familiar stories as if for the first time The Besotted Vizier, The Abject Apology of Lady Wu, The Golden Kingdom , The Punctilious Plenipotentiary, and all the rest of the old stories.
And each night, at the end of the evening, with the conspiratorial connivance of the villagers, Nipk would return to his Master and relate some innocuous piece of information, snippet of conversation or some such portentous revelation, that he would claim to have overheard.
“I’m gaining their confidence.”
“They call you the snake in the belly of the village.”
“They’re not telling me all there is to tell. “
“I’ll learn more tomorrow.”
For a time, this stratagem seemed to work. Yet, even as he continued his deception, Nipk knew in his heart that there would be a time of reckoning, for each night, after Nipk’s report the Tax Collector’s only response was to press his servant with increasing agitation and urgency, to tell what he had learned about “Their Treasure.”
their treasure!? their treasure!? their treasure!?
Always… Their Treasure!?
“Do you know yet where it is?”
“No?”
“Do you know yet what it is?”
“No?”
“Did you hear them discuss it yet?”
“No?”
Their Treasure! Their Treasure! Their Treasure! Eventually, the Tax Collector would demand something concrete from his secret agent or the flow of coin that was lubricating Nipk’s nightly soirees would be cut off. Or worse.
Things came to a head rather sooner than later.
One night, when Nipk returned, empty-handed once again, his Master, who had been in an increasingly foul mood, launched into a lengthy tirade on and on and on, interspersed of course with strings of obscenities, expletives and the like [the exact nature of which is best left to your imaginings]:
“… those […] think they’ve put one over on me those […] think I’m defeated, powerless, abandoned […] need not even deign to answer my letters they’re […] wrong I’ll get mine even if I have to travel to the […] capital and drag the […] here personally they’ll tear this […] village apart ‘til they find it and you you […] worthless idiot you’ve been wasting my time and my coin you’ve brought me nothing […] nothing…”
…and then, erupted violently and gave Nipk a sound beating.
The Tax Collector’s spleen depleted, Nipk implored him in the most remorseful and abject fashion to give his “pitiful excuse of a servant” another chance to prove himself worthy in the eyes of “such a generous and forgiving Master” adding that he, Nipk, was certain that he was close to gaining the compete and total trust and faith of “these ignorant, villainous yokels.”
The Tax Collector, flattered and mollified by this speech, as Nipk hoped he would be, softened his anger and granted Nipk leave not more than a fortnight to bring him something concrete.
“Or else!”
And then left Nipk to nurse his wounds.
The next evening the villagers did what they could to cheer their friend up and to concoct a plan to deal with their mutual dilemma.
On the one hand, they were concerned about Nipk’s welfare: the Tax Collector was becoming increasingly obsessive, irrational and violent.
On the other hand, if the Tax Collector did carry out his quixotic threat to march on the capital and confront the Monarch, face-toface, there was always the possibility, however slim, that, as farfetched as his fantasies about Their Treasure might appear, some greedy official might just hedge his bets and send an armed troop to the village “Just in case there’s something to this lunatic’s ravings after all!”
And, if soldiers did come they would not leave empty-handed as well they knew from their tales and their own history or, if they were forced to do so, they would first wreak havoc and their vengeance upon Pippidufka.
“The worst of it is,” Nipk mused “That there is obviously no hidden treasure. You villagers are poor as church mice.”
At which Frutz looked at him, somewhat oddly, for a moment, and then laughed and said “Wal, frend Nipk, yer might be raite aboot us bein’ pur as church meese, but as fer we havin’ no hidden treasure? Wal, that be different story altigither!”
And then proceeded to tell Nipk the one story which they h ad yet to tell him.
“This here tale is called Treasure of Pippidufka ,” Frütz began.
a taile in which the villain turns taile
Treasure of Pippidufka , an old faerie-taille about a talking bear that once-upon-a-time-etc (as thyse tailles are tolde) saved the village from the wrath of a villainous mercenary, provided Nipk with quite a few hearty la ughs as well as a great deal of vicarious pleasure.
“Well-a-day,” Nipk joked, “All that remains for me to do is to befriend a talking bear!”
But his good humor quickly degenerated into a gloomy silence.
“Alas,” Nipk sighed, and mused, “If only it were as simple as it is in your stories.”
“Praps, it be. Praps it be,” answered Dabyt the Peat Cutter, who then proceeded to tell him that the villagers had been devising a certain plan to scare the bejeezis out of the tax collector and force him to flee.
“But what is the plan exactly?” Nipk asked, after hearing them out. “Jus’ ye do yer pert!”
“I don’t understand,” said a perplexed Nipk.
“We’er yoost t’get ‘ar hands a bit darty,” was the only answer he got. But Nipk trusted them and so agreed to go along and do whatever they told him to do.
Immediately thereafter, Nipk’s nightly reports to his Master took on a frenzied and excited tone.
“Master, you were right! They are up to something. Tonight they were talking about ‘golden shekels!’”
“I saw them poring over a piece of paper. It was a map. And they were whispering something about their treasure!”
And thus, bit by bit Nipk fed his Master’s already fevered obsession until his nightly dreams became more and more filled with gold and silver and precious jewels, until, in those ephemeral imaginings, he was turned into a drooling madman, bathing in a sea of jewels; and would awake, panting, soaked in sweat, desperately searching for the fortune that, just seconds before, was firmly in his grasp.
Then, one particular night, Nipk returned and told his Master the news Nipk knew he had been waiting to hear.
“Master, they’ve shown me the map. It is exactly what you thought it was. I said to the villagers ‘What a wondrous map this is. And so valuable. You must have put a copy aside, well hidden, haven’t you, for who knows what may befall it? Of course you have, smart people like you.’ They then told me ‘Nae, we ne’er did thought of that’ and then I suggested that perhaps they ought to find ‘someone to put to the task of copying it’ for them, and then, being known to them as having ‘certain gifts and skills’ in that sphere, they asked me to grant them the boon of performing that service for them; but I demurred, saying I was just an outsider and a newcomer; but they insisted; and, at last, I relented, and the end of this tale is, that tomorrow night, they will give me the map to take and copy and I will bring it right to you!”
The next night, the Tax Collector could barely restrain his anticipation. He writhed and paced anxiously as he waited for Nipk to return. He had waited so long for this moment, he could not, would not, wait another night, another hour, another second.
He had prepared thoroughly: his horse was saddled with a glowing lantern hanging from the pommel. Nipk’s donkey was also in the ready. Loaded down with sacks of provisions, digging tools, and assorted other who-knows-what’s, as if The Tax Collector were preparing for a very long expedition.
When he saw Nipk approach, his heart beat harder, faster, and louder.
“Do you have it? Do you?”
“Yes, Master, right here in my hand.”
And before Nipk could utter another word, the Tax Collector demanded “Give it here!” and pulled it out of his servant’s grasp. His hands shaking, he unfolded the piece of paper, and an almost beatific look of joy spread over his face. He quickly thrust into Nipk’s hands a sealed document which Nipk immediately recognized was yet another letter to the Monarch.4 “Deliver this. At once!” his Master commanded.
And then, without as much as “how-doo-ye-doo-dah,” mounted his horse and with Nipk’s donkey in tow, rode off into the night.
out of the corner of his eye
A few days later, as Nipk sat by the fire, in his usual encampment, just a few miles outside the village, reading his
(DATE UNCERTAIN )
O most tardy, greedy, niggardly, penurious, penny-pinching, pusillanimous and ignorant sire
… alas, too late, alas, you fat tub of royal lard! ha! Perhaps, irony of ironies, at the very moment I am penning this note, you are finally rousing your great inertness to consider my offer as expressed in previous letter[s] alas! alas! alas! for you… I have succeeded beyond my wildest imaginings I have discovered that the village of Pippidufka is in fact the capital of the legendary Golden Kingdom… this information garnered from a spy I have placed amongst the villagers…and that the rusted keys of which I wrote are in fact the keys that ope’ the treasure trove of that fabled place... by the time you receive this message, I, your once poor servant, and his new treasure will by long gone...do not seek me out… it will prove of no avail… a pox on thee!... formerly yrs…etc
4 The Last Letter from The Royal Tax Collector of Pippidufka.Master’s last, and most insane, letter over and over, who should he suddenly see riding towards him on Nipk’s very own donkey but Frutz the Cobbler.
Frutz assured Nipk that all had gone as planned. Their stratagem had worked, the Tax Collector was gone from their midst forever and, he insisted, it was safe for Nipk to return and join them again by the hearth at Mutz’s.
But Nipk would have none of it. He was still fearful of his Master’s wrath.
“Are you certain?” he kept asking.
“A’corse, a’corse.” Frutz keep replying.
“But what if he comes back?”
“Twont.”
“But how can you be so certain?”
“B’cass, jus b’cass!”
“I still don’t understand!”
“Jus coom back!”
“But there was no treasure, was there?” Frutz didn’t answer. “And how did you come by my donkey?”
And Frutz didn’t answer.
In the end, Nipk stayed a fortnight, not trusting that his Master was out of his life for good. But, he finally relented and returned to Pippidufka.
It did take a while for him to get used to the notion that he was a freeman.
But not too long.
And he did.
And eventually stopped asking the villagers questions about how exactly they pulled off this disappearing act, and what they knew of his Master’s fate, for, whenever he did, they grew silent and changed the subject. (He didn’t even say anything when a day came when he thought he saw the Tax Collector’s horse romping in Tussi’s fields.)
By the spring, though, Nipk had grown comfortable with his new life. As well as his new position: Pippidufka’s OfficialUnofficial-Acting-Bailiff often he would blow a quiet toot on the tin whistle that hung around his neck, as a symbol of his authority. There were, he would have admitted, however, still a few occasions though a very few, and very few, and very far between when he felt he had some cause to question the events of the previous winter.
Such as the time when leaving Mutz’s on his way to somewhere or another he saw Sempil sitting on a rock, sharing a pipe with someone unknown to Nipk, a bulky bearded figure, dressed in simple workman’s garb soft cap, baggy pants, shirt and tunic and the stranger happened to turn and look his way for just a split second, and, when he did, Nipk could have sworn that he found himself staring directly into the face of a smiling brown bear who winked at him.