Ella Minnow Pea, Page 8

  Enterprise Thirty-two has hit a wall at 47. Instructor Mannheim with the university, in alliance with his tireless pupils, assures us that they will soon breach barrier 44. But I am not so sure. Many others here in town, though, seem to have given up. Pop is beginning to believe it to be an impossibility – this thirty-two letter grail (“chimera” he calls it) we all pursue. But I am not in agreement with those who own this opinion.

  So many long-time isle inhabitants are now gone. Most are expulsion victims, but some are no longer with us simply because they choose not to live in such a hostile, inhospitable place. It is no place to thrive, Aunt Mittie – no place at all to raise young ones, to be even marginally happy.

  Mother worries about you with Tassie not there. (Especially given what you mention in your last letter.) Is the gentleman Rory being proper helpmate/protector? It gives her solace when she recalls your mentioning his ease with language – the way he seems to clearly embrace the challenges inherent in communication with restriction. Ah, that we might all ultimately rise to such challenges.

  Tassie is well – heart-ailing, but otherwise well. We will not permit you to worry about her. She is writing to Nate as much as she can. There are no guarantees that her letters are getting through to him in the States; she can only trust that those to whom she passes them to smuggle out, with proper payment, will honor their contractual agreement.

  By the way, her epistles must still be written with all alphabetical restrictions intact, lest interception bring them to the L.E.B., the result being Tassie’s own banishment. (Although, I must say she is in a better position than most, without even a single violation to her name.) This is an important point; recently, several on their way to Pier Seven (then on to the States) wrote parting letters without employing the necessary caution with respect to current alphabetical restrictions, only to have the recipients themselves brought up on charges! Remember, as well, that L.E.B. thugs are still wont to engage in spot home searches, hoping to turn up anything containing the illicitabeticals. One cannot be too wary; last Thurby, a woman who lives near us was brought into L.E.B. Precinct 2. The charge: an unthought-through grocery list seen by a thug, there on her icebox.

  Pop is staying out late, coming home with a pungent alcohol smell about him. (I am not eager to tell you this, but Mother will not allow me to engage her on the topic.) 48 hours ago he was put on notice by his wholesaler that U.S-Nollop business transactions were moving to hiatal suspension. Were Pop to continue to create his miniatures, especially those popular moonshine vessels, he will have to emigrate to the U.S. Which means we will have to go too. I am sorry to say, Aunt Mittie, that I was not sympathetic. Because this obviously means leaving my eighteen-year home here, who can say how long? Leaving all that I cherish. Leaving Tassie. Leaving my sweet Aunt Mittie.

  There have been reports that Nollop expatriates are having a rough time in the States, are very much “at sea” in American society, in cultural isolation as it were – unable to melt into the proverbial American melting pot. It will be the same with us, I am certain. As long as we are there we will live as outcasts.

  I will tell Pop that we will live on my washerwoman’s income, on our meager savings, until this crisis comes to a close. Then, as expatriates begin to return home, house construction will surely begin anew, carpenters such as Pop naturally obtaining ample employment in the process.

  But let us say this never occurs. That the crisis continues. Because we cannot move below 47! Because the best brains at the university – the best brains in the nation cannot move us anywhere near 32 by November 16! What then?

  It is late. Pop has yet to come home. Tassie sits writing letters to Nate – letters he may never see.

  The gnawing apprehension has come again.

  Help me, sweet Aunt Mittie, not to give in to it.

  Love,

  Your niece Ella

  Nollopville

  Monty, October 16

  Ella,

  I cannot help you. Not now. Please tell Tassie: Rory is gone. It began this way: brash Council representatives, upon reaching his northern acreage, gave him papers that gave them authority to appropriate his property. No reason was given other than: “It is the Council’s wish.”

  “Meaning it isn’t Nollop’s wish?” was Rory’s angry response.

  “On the contrary. The Council serves only Nollop. By extension, then, Mr. Cummels, whatever laws the Council passes, are laws which by their nature must certainly have met with Nollop’s approval.”

  “But I can’t possibly see how stealing another man’s property meets with Nollop’s approval.”

  “The reasons are strictly ecclesiastical in nature, Mr. Cummels. Perhaps the Council wishes to erect a tabernacle on this site.”

  Rory was seething, his countenance nearly vermilion in hue. My worry that moment was that poor Rory might have a coronary arrest!

  “A tabernacle – a temple – you actually mean – you actually mean a house in which to worship Nollop?”

  “That is correct.”

  “But what about the Supreme Being we presently choose to worship?”

  “There is no other Supreme Being but Nollop.”

  “Repeat that statement, sir. Please. I want Mrs. Purcy to hear it.”

  I was then brought over as close witness.

  The Council representative – his voice: even, treacly polite – gave his response again, with slight elaboration: “Mr. Cummels, it is the Council’s earnest conviction that there is no other Supreme Being but Almighty Nollop. None whatsoever. Praise Nollop. Nollop eternal.”

  At this point, Rory lost all control. Now, Rory isn’t a very religious man – at least I never thought so. But he became at that moment positively apoplectic – moving to assault the representative with everything available to him in his verbal arsenal, utterly without restraint – letting loose with a veritable, vituperative salvo – nothing printable here. Expulsion was complete within an hour’s time, as an outgoing ship was set to leave at precisely the moment Rory was brought to the pier.

  There was a cursory exchange between us – an impotent attempt at a chin-up bon voyage replete with the now customary, almost prosaic parting anguish. A moment later he was gone. As the ship was pulling away, Rory gave the store hasty mention. It is mine now. I will try to run it as best I can, preserving solvency until his return. Given this provision: he actually returns.

  That is, given this provision as well: the Council chooses not to turn the little store into yet another Nollopian church. A church to bring a smile to that corpsal countenance we all must revere, or else. We have seen the “or else.” It no longer scares me. The lamp will burn late tonight. We will best 47. Our battle may ultimately result in our extinction, but we will win at least this small success. Less than 47. It can be. Nollop was able in 35. Let us remember, as well, that Nollop was an imbecile.

  With love,

  Your Aunt Mittie

  Nollopton

  Toes, October 17

  Nate,

  I’m not sure this letter will reach you, though I pray the contrary. Time is running out. We cannot go below 47. As much as we try – that is, those who are still trying. I’m aware that some are still laboring at the university. Mother writes to Cousin Ella that she continues her own moiling over the alphabet up in the Village. But the mass exit has nonetheless begun. Townspeople. Villagers.

  As three more tiles have given plunge. All in one evening. Two “e’s,” then a “b.”

  We have one “e” remaining. The “b” may be a blessing. Other possibilities might have been more troublesome. (Yet as I peruse what I have written up to now, I note six “b”s in the last two sentences!) Who, then, can ever be sure about such a thing? At this point, losing any letter can only be problematic.

  We have come to a travailious time, Nate. Mother’s Rory is gone. Mother, Aunt Gwenette, Uncle Amos – each has one violation to spare, then banishment. I am growing so weary with that term. “Banishment.” You hear it al
l over. In urgent whispers; in hopeless cries. Companion to the listless, vacant stares – stares belonging to those who live in resignation to the grimmest possible outcome, all but put to seal. “Banishment.” We say the term. We write the term. Believing somehow that in 36 hours, it surely will not be gone. That somehow the cavalry will come to our rescue!

  But we are our own cavalry. The only cavalry there is. Whose horses seem in permanent hobble status!

  “Banishment”: the next banishment victim! To become one more invisiblinguista. The 4000th, 5000th such victim? Is anyone counting? Perhaps Nollop? Expunging each entry in his Heavenly Lexicon – one at a time – until the tome’s pages stop resembling pages at all. Until they become pure expurgatory-tangibull. Raven-striate leaves. Ebony reticulate sheets. Tenebrous night in thin tissue.

  Contemnation by tissue! It is almost unbearable.

  Am I being morose? I’m sorry. I cannot help it. I want you here. I cannot say how much.

  Write me. Will I receive your letter? I can only hope.

  I miss you so.

  Love,

  Tassie

  8

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  A*C*E*GHI**LMNOP*RSTUVWXY*

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  Th* *uic* *r*wn *ox *umps ov*r the la*y **g

  Nollopton

  Topsy Turvy, Octavia 19

  My Nate,

  Mannheim has come through! He has at least met the goal I wrote you concerning in my last letter: he has come up with a sentence 44 letters in length containing all the necessary 26 appearances. With the recent spate in migrations to the States, there is now a shortage: not nearly enough six- to seven-year-youngs to write the sentences. Conveniently, though, Mannheim is papa to an intelligent six-year-young lass – Paula – who met with success in her initial attempt at transcription. I cannot, alas, mail it to you, as I then put yours-truly at peril. (Only were I a youngster, six or seven, might I attempt to courier via the post such a precarious missive.) Perhaps it will somehow reach you through other means.

  In other news: (Yes, there is much other news to tell!) Someone is relaying threats to the Council. Each counciliteur has gotten a copy: “Cease the insanity or you will perish.” As a result, the – I must now call them what I am only too happy to call them: police goons – the police goons have gone house-to-house in their investigation, yet have yet to turn up anyone except the usual suspects – that is, virtually everyone on the isle not in Nollopian Cult thrallage. That isn’t all: the Council has put crepuscular-to-auroric house arrest upon all Nollop civilians not in league with the cult.

  Almost all the villagers, Mother tells me, are leaving – either moving to Town or to the States. She says that it’s nearly a ghost town up there now. As there are no more customers, the store is no longer open. This is all right, though, she says; victuals were starting to run scarce. Soon she will have to come to town as well, to move into my Aunt Gwenette’s house. (At least I will get to see her again. I truly miss her.) Uncle Amos, I am sorry to say, is no longer with us. There was a harsh exchange, Aunt Gwenette unhappy with his return to the alcoholic spirits! Now he lives with Uncle Isaac across town. Soon he will resolve one way or another – to leave or not to leave the isle.

  Yes, that is now the topic on every lip. This salient, impertinent, Hamlettian choice.

  To leave or not to leave.

  To waive claim to our homes. To renounce our mother soil. To give up everything to those who warrant only our lowest contempt – to those who aspire to reign in outright tyranny, who misperceive Nollopian thoughts in service to rapacious intentions. Can they not see that we see what is happening here?

  Are we to them only silent, witless nonessentials – prostrate irrelevancies to step over in their march to own, to expropriate, to steal everything in sight – even our very tongues!

  Nate, I have to tell you something important. I wasn’t going to; however, it seems crucial to me now that you have a true, complete account as to what is going on here.

  I wrote the letters. The ones with the threats. Were anyone to learn this, it will mean my ruin, perhaps even my execution. (Smuggler-courier: my very existence is in your palms!)

  I love you, Nate. I miss you greatly.

  Tassie

  PS. The Mephistophelians live here. Not in the Orient. You will get my meaning later.

  Six big devils from Japan quickly

  forgot how to waltz.

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  Nollopville

  Riggy-roo, Octopus 20

  Mrs. Mittie,

  Help us.

  Please. Something appalling has put my son Timmy in harm’s way. The school says that he is eight. The school says he was eight last month. Since last month he has not given any care to what he says. He thought – we all thought – that he was exempt. That his exemption continues until Novemgroogy 13, when he turns eight. When he truly, legally turns eight. It seems that someone at the Village Archives got it wrong. Unless we can prove otherwise Timmy will have to leave Nollop. We haven’t the necessary papers to prove our claim. We lost our last home, you see, lost everything in it to Hurricane Elspeth. Perhaps you might go to the school – might locate something to prove that Timmy won’t turn eight until Novempoopy 13; thus Council proclamata cannot in any legal sense apply to him. Otherwise he will have to go!

  We implore you.

  Sincerely,

  Georgeanne Towgate

  Nollopville

  Satto-gatto, Octarchy 21

  Mrs. Towgate,

  I went to the school. With my erstwhile colleague Miss Greehy’s assistance I spent the morning searching all the papers pertaining to your son. I must relay that nothing that might help your case came to our attention.

  I am truly sorry.

  Sincerely,

  Mittie Purcy

  PS. The tempera picture on your letter’s verso is really lovely.

  I am partial to seascapes; it will gain a choice spot on my wall.

  Nollopton

  Sunshine, Octangle 22

  Sweet, sweet Mittie,

  I have ghastly news. They have Tassie. She awaits trial as suspect in those recent anonymous threats to the Council. Come as soon as you can. In the event there is a guilty ruling, expulsion will not constitute a legally punitive option. Such a ruling will only result in something much, much worse. Something I venture not even to say.

  Gwenette

  [Upon the Minnow Pea kitchen table]

  Nollopton

  Sunshine, Octane 22

  Gwenette, loving spouse,

  Ella, my Ella,

  A slip-up near a police goon. Now only minutes away: a rap on the portal, then a hasty trip to Pier Seven. Will I see you two prior to my leave? I’m sorry to hear the news concerning Tassie. Who is her lawyer? Are they even allowing her counsel? I might suggest someone. There isn’t much time, though.

  Will you see me go, or will you remain at the Correctional Center with Tassie? I will neglect something, I am sure. Without your help. What a help you have -

  Enough!

  I simply can’t do it anymore. And why should I? Why be so careful now? Moments away from transportation to the dreaded “Pier of Goodbyes.” What’s the point? What is there left to lose?

  Like a retarded robot I go into the pre-programmed mode, placing my brain on high-alert to avoid these Nollop-frowned-upon devil letters. The devils aren’t in Japan! The devils are here. Satan is alive and well, right here in all his z-q-j-d-k-f-b, jumpy-brown-fox-slothful-pooch-quick-and-the-dead-glory – right here upon this devil’s island of hatred and anger and unconscionable, inconsolable loss.

  Hide this letter. Hide it well, but let me say the things that I must say. Before it’s too late. Let me say that I love you both dearly. Let me say that I am so very sorry for returning to strong drink, for turning my back on you when you needed me most. Now that I have a voice, there are hundreds of other things I
want to say. But cannot. Look into my heart and know them all.

  And find it in your own hearts to forgive me.

  You don’t have to see me off. I know you’re worried about Tassie. Be there with her, for her. But if you do come, please do me a small favor – a large favor, really. I’m not able to transport my miniature moonshine jugs to the pier. I would like to take them with me, though. You know that where I’m going they will be as good as money. You’ll find them in my studio – stored together – all ten dozen of them. Half that number should suffice. Put them in one of the little crates; they’ll be easier to convey that way.

  Would you mind doing this one last thing for me? Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs?

  Thank you.

  Be well. Be safe.

  Until we meet again.

  Your loving husband and father,

  Amos

  HIGH COUNCIL

  Sunshine, Octonary 22

  Notice to all Nollopians:

  At precisely 12:00 tomorrow morning the letter “c” will cease to exist at all points on this isle. You will eschew its use or receive penalties as per earlier Council proclamata. We note, that a “u” is gone as well. Its twin, however, remains intact.

  Sincerely,

  Hamilton

  Executive Secretary

  Nollop High Council

  9

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  A***E*GHI**LMNOP*RSTUVWXY*

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  Th* *ui** *r*wn *ox **mps ov*r the la*y **g

  Nollopville