The Nose Plumbers' Tale

by PM Goodman

  “Perkis, get away,” Adora begged as the Baron seemed to sense trouble, and sniffed once more. A great wind whooshed across them.

  But Perkis had seen a crust. The bogey looked as if it could be drying out. “Come on!”

  He hammered the scraper into the crust. The bogey pushed back. But it couldn’t consume Perkis the way it had just done. The wind had dried its shell. Perkis bashed away. The others joined him. The shell cracked and suddenly it was possible to break the bogey into tiny pieces.

  “These confounded peasant children are in my head!” the Baron roared.

  The Royal servant beside him had seen Barons do strange things in the presence of a King. But he was quite certain Baron Bigge had already completely lost his wits. “I beg your pardon, sire?” he asked.

  “I…never mind…Hang on a minute.”

  Baron Bigge stepped away and pressed the side of his nose. “Where are you?” he muttered. “Still in there? Well, let’s see.” He forced a stream of air down one nostril.

  Blasted with the force of ten herd of cattle farting at once, the gang huddled together as bogey flakes fell around them. “We have to go into his head!” Perkis said. “This way.” They could feel the Baron preparing to detonate his other nostril.

  “Shall we let him have some?” Finch grinned.

  “Good idea.” Perkis tipped the bucket upside down just as the Baron blew.

  “Aargh! Yuck, ughh…” he spluttered as bogey flakes shot straight out. He frantically wiped his nose with his sleeve. A loud proclamation rang out.

  “His Majesty, King Richard The Second, Lord and Master of All Known Dominions, Bagsy be Lord and Master of Any Unknown Ones, Servant to None but the Almighty – And Even Then, Only With A Few Conditions, Duke of This, Earl of That, High Prince of AnythingElseNotMentionedAboveYourLifeIsAtRiskIfYouStopMakingMonthly Payments, hereby commands Baron Bolyon Bigge, Chief of the Kentish County, to enter into His Royal Presence.”

  Crawling along in the dark, the nose plumbers kept close to the walls as they inched forward. The channel was narrowing, but the wind had dropped. “Find somewhere to wait it out,” said Perkis. “Keep listening for clues.”

  Striding out in the daylight, aghast at seeing a field full of rebel peasants, Baron Bigge, holding his head still and straight, inhaled deeply, and set forth to meet his monarch.

  CHAPTER Twelve

  Perkis had stopped crawling. He felt he should have a better idea of where they were going. But when he tried to imagine someone crawling through his own head, it made him feel woozy.

  Out in Smith Field, a teenager who had been King of England since shortly after his tenth birthday was staring down his nose at the assembled masses. “Baron Bigge, we understand you know these peasant protestors,” said King Richard.

  Baron Bigge bowed low, eyeing the serfs carpeting the ground. “This is our first meeting, Majesty. I would have had them come to me, not bother you with their trifling complaints. They are wastrels and grave-robbers, so my bailiffs inform me…”

  “No!” shouted Perkis, listening hard. “That’s not true!”

  “What?” Adora asked. “What’s happening?”

  “It wasn’t us – it was…a mysterious ghost…” Perkis shouted in frustration.

  “…but possibly it was some mysterious ghost,” Baron Bigge found himself saying.

  There were a few nervous giggles from the nobles. What was the Baron doing?

  Had Perkis heard right? He thought fast. “That’s right! We don’t know who disturbed the graves in our parish…and Farmer Farnes, the bailiff, is an idiot!”

  “That’s right,” Baron Bigge parroted. “The parish bailiff is an idiot…”

  “Perhaps you need to fix that, then, Baron,” said King Richard. “The village idiot is usually someone different from the village bailiff!”

  “What else shall I say?” Perkis asked the others.

  “Is he repeating what you’re saying?” Adora couldn’t believe it. She pressed her ear to the wall.

  “Shout, ‘Nose Plumbers rule!’” Finch suggested.

  At that moment, however, came a voice Perkis recognised.

  “If we must pay the new tax, then we need the King’s permission to earn enough to pay it,” said Frank Tyler.

  The young King yawned. “So what do you recommend, Baron Bigge? These are Kentish…men.”

  “With Your Majesty’s permission, I would like to see the matter fairly concluded.” Baron Bigge’s fingers twitched as if fairly concluding each miserable peasant into a tiny ball.

  There was only one thing for Perkis to do. “The serfs are right!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

  “What Tyler may be right in his argument,” Baron Bigge found himself saying.

  “What?” said King Richard. “You mean you agree with the serfs, Baron?”

  “Majesty,” Tyler broke in, “this can be the greatest moment since we grew apart.”

  “He’s doing alright,” Perkis said, taking his ear from the wall. “Better than us. We’re never going to get out of here.”

  “I’m not bad at directions,” claimed Adora. She looked around with a deep frown.

  “Oh, really?” Finch sneered. “Know where we are, do you? No? Let me tell you. We’re totally lost inside a crazy Baron’s head! How did we wind up here, if you’re so not bad at directions?”

  “I wanted to be here,” she snapped. You’re here because your dad made you.”

  “Don’t start about my dad again. You don’t know anything about him.”

  “I know he’s wearing your MONEY!” Adora said angrily. Finch shoved into her She shoved back.

  “Guys, stop!” Perkis pleaded. “You’re behaving like…like giants! Come on. The King of England’s out there!”

  “The King of England there!” Baron Bigge blurted out. The voices! Demon sprites were possessing him. Or it was his conscience – he knew he should have been nicer to his mum last week. It never occurred to him that the nose plumbers were anywhere other than his nose.

  King Richard’s mouth had formed an ‘O’ of disbelief. “Baron Bigge?”

  Baron Bigge bowed to the King. Then he shook his head again. He had a sudden itch deep in his ear.

  Perkis suddenly glimpsed something. “Daylight!” he said.

  “If you cannot control your head, Baron, we can arrange to remove it,” the King said.

  “Kind of you, sire, but it’s merely a cold.”

  “The Plague begins with a single sneeze, you know. I feel a slight chill myself.” A Royal servant rushed to drape a velvet cloak around Richard’s shoulders. “Is that why you rub your ear?” he inquired.

  Baron Bigge’s ear itched like nobody’s business. He tugged it again. “No…a Kentish…nose…ah…one John Kent, has trained young serfs to go into…ah…”

  He clenched his jaw. Unable to speak, he gripped his head as, one after another, Perkis, Adora and Finch emerged from his ear. The gasps of the Royal court alerted the peasant army massed in the field. Cheers went up. “It’s Perkis…” they shouted.

  The nose plumbers surveyed the view. The sky was sunny, the east London air crisp and fresh. It was wonderful after the soggy swamp inside Baron Bigge’s skull. The young, spotty King sat on a high-backed throne, on a raised stage draped in white cloth. He had one leg crossed. And there wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. The field was covered in serfs.

  At the head of the serf army, four peasants sat on little horses. There were Frank Tyler; Ralph Rolfe; another Old called Cliff Wycliffe whom Perkis hardly knew; and a round, slightly uncomfortable-looking figure in a fine white shirt – staggeringly but unmistakably Old Finch!

  “What’s my dad doing there?” Finch asked. He sounded amazed, but proud too.

  “Still got the silk shirt on,” Adora muttered.

  Finch scowled at her.

  “I’m just saying…” she said.

  “Maybe he was right,” Perkis suggested. “They had to dress to impress.”

&n
bsp; Watching from the Royal stage was an older giant with a fine white pointed beard and a short hollow stick dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was writing with a quill pen on a parchment roll (clever, Perkis thought – maybe he’s like the King’s brain, writing advice for him). The writer’s parchment was held up by a boy about the King’s age.

  “Are those…?” King Richard mumbled in a daze.

  “Peasant children, sire.”

  “Did they come out of your ear?”

  “They are our boys,” Frank Tyler proudly proclaimed. “And girl.”

  “Well, help them down, Baron,” commanded the King.

  Baron Bigge reluctantly offered his hand for a lift down. Finch and Adora stepped on. Perkis didn’t move.

  “Come on, Perkis!” Adora called. The Baron was lowering his hand.

  Perkis couldn’t take his eyes off the writer’s assistant. “It’s my brother…” he said, scarcely believing his own words.

  “What?!” Finch scanned the crowds. “Where?”

  “By the King…”

  “Wait!!” Adora waved her arms to get the Baron to return his hand to his ear. Reluctantly he did so. This time, Perkis got on.

  “He’s holding that writer’s parchment,” Perkis said.

  The boy was a young giant. Nothing about him was at all peasant-like. He was four or five times the size of his little brother. If it was Ferkis.

  “You sure, mate?” Finch asked.

  Perkis couldn’t remember ever being so sure of anything.

  They stepped off the Baron’s hand by Frank Tyler’s horse.

  “What in Thor's name are you doing here, son?” asked Old Finch from his horse.

  “Hi, Dad,” Finch replied. “Good to see you too.” He waved at some serfs in the protesting army.

  “Will someone explain what’s going on?” moaned the King.

  “Say something, Perkis,” Old Finch grumbled. “Can't get any sense out of my son.”

  In the sudden silence, Perkis went for it. “FERKIS!” he called at the top of his voice.

  The teenage giant’s jaw dropped open in surprise. He whispered to his master, bowed to King Richard, and strode over to meet Perkis, who rushed towards him.

  “Brother?” Ferkis crouched down, lost for words.

  “Hi, Ferkis. You’ve grown! Loads! What are you doing up there?”

  “Well, I’m assistant to that man. He writes stories for the King. Never mind that. What are you doing here? And what were you doing in there?!” He pointed at Baron Bigge, who was looking around like he’d woken up in his worst nightmare.

  Before Perkis could reply, Ferkis said. “I must return. Come and chat later…”

  Perkis danced back to the gang, beaming with joy.

  “Remarkable.” King Richard had heard the nose plumbers’ history from Tyler. “Chaucer, are you getting all this?” he asked. The writer nodded. He was scribbling away on the parchment. “And your secretary’s brother is a nose plumber?”

  “Secretary? Parchment-holder, more like,” Old Finch mumbled.

  “We’re here to negotiate,” Cliff Wycliffe snapped at Tyler.

  “An unexpected interruption,” King Richard glowered at Cliff Wycliffe. Nobody knew if he meant the nose plumbers or Cliff Wycliffe’s complaint. “We agree the people’s rewards for their work should be…fairer.”

  “Nobles will only be fair when they are forced to be,” Cliff Wycliffe shouted. “Or can What Tyler not hear how empty a promise that is?”

  “Thanks to the nose plumbers, I hear much better now,” Tyler parried.

  “The Lords will regret it if our demands are not met,” Wycliffe snarled threateningly.

  Old Finch and Ralph Rolfe shifted nervously in their saddles. Tyler shook his head sadly. The writer’s quill flew across the parchment Ferkis was holding.

  King Richard stood. Suddenly he sounded older than fourteen. “You come with your toy soldiers, and speak to us like that! Do you hope to gain your freedom by having a tantrum? Were you free, would we not still be your King? England is wounded! This man’s head shall be a peace offering unto us.” At a nod from the King, a giant plucked Cliff Wycliffe from his horse and took him from the field.

  “Everyone should be free to take responsibility for themselves, Majesty,” Tyler pleaded bravely.

  “You have to earn your freedom by your actions.”

  “Majesty, how else will we pay our taxes and still live?”

  The King had had enough. Another giant nobleman approached Tyler and lifted him by his shoulders. With his other hand, the giant reached for Old Finch!

  “No,” said King Richard. “Leave the fat one. He looks funny up there.”

  “Do what you will to the messenger, Majesty,” Tyler called from mid-air. “But the message rings out down the ages.” He twisted to look down at Perkis. “The message will live on…” he repeated, staring into Perkis’s shocked face.

  The serf army was stunned. Frank Tyler hadn’t changed the world after all. Now he was gone.

  But the nose plumbers still had a chance. King Richard’s face was creasing up, and not at Old Finch’s appearance. His nostrils quivered like a hungry dog. The gang saw what was coming.

  “You can't do it, Perkis!” Adora whispered urgently. “He's the King!”

  “No…” Perkis replied. “But – ”

  “Something has to,” Finch urged. “Otherwise…there’s an army here. If the King sneezes on them, they’ll take it as a declaration of war!”

  They thought as one, worked as a team. In a blur, Finch flew at his father, ripping the silk shirt from his back. He balled it up and pitched it over his shoulder to Perkis. It flew like a catapult. Perkis caught it in mid-air. He pirouhetted onto the stage with a leg-up from Adora. Racing to the throne and up the Royal robes, he swallow-dived from the King’s shoulder. He jammed the silk shirt under King Richard’s noseburst half a blink before the Royal sneeze exploded onto it like a ton of tomatoes hitting a victim in the stocks.

  Gripping the Royal nose, Perkis somehow held the shirt steady. He caught sight of Ferkis. Parchment dangled from his fingers. The writer’s quill had fallen from his grasp. Their mouths hung open in shock.

  Slowly King Richard breathed out. Perkis inched the shirt away from his nose.

  “Thank you,” the King said. He pointed to the soft ball in Perkis’s hand. It was now gloopy and pale green. “That’s…”

  “Oi! I’m freezing!! What was that for? I said I’d give you the money…!” Old Finch broke the spell that had been cast by The Catching Of The King’s Sneeze.

  “Could that end the pestilence?” Richard said to Perkis, ignoring Old Finch. “What do you call this…sneezecatcher?”

  Perkis furrowed his brow. “Um…” He looked at the others, who shrugged unhelpfully.

  “A sneezecatcher?” Finch mouthed.

  “It is a hand-held kerchief,” the King pondered. “We shall call our invention…the heldkerchief.”

  The King had called it “our invention”. Everyone knew that meant his. Everyone except Old Finch.

  “Whose invention?” he called, saying for the first time in his life exactly what his son wanted him to say.

  King Richard glared at him.

  “Yours, sire. Naturally, Your Majesty,” Old Finch coughed. Giants were one thing. He wasn’t going to start negotiating with the monarch.

  “For playing the tiniest role in your invention, Majesty…” Perkis began.

  “You want money?”

  “Not a groat, sire. The country needs all the money it can get. But could our loyal service earn three serfs, and their families…freedom?”

  The serfs held their breath. The serfs’ horses held their breath. The air was still.

  “Perhaps it’s time to consider limited freedoms for serfs,” the King mused. “After all, you’re in short supply.”

  There were further gasps from the nobility. They hated gasping. Gasping meant surprises. The nobility liked everything to
carry on as normal. Normal suited them just fine. But the nose plumbers had upturned the biggest apple-cart anyone could remember. Ferkis gave his little brother a furtive thumbs-up.

  “Now bring me silk of all colours,” commanded the young King. “For our heldkerchiefs. We need to develop our product range.”

  CHAPTER Thirteen

  Everyone was silent on the journey home, thinking about Frank Tyler and Cliff Wycliffe.

  Perkis hadn’t talked to Ferkis again. Ralph Rolfe had dragged him away as the serfs escaped. It had been going so well. The King offered a deal. But his advisers urged him not to give in to peasants. Serfs were trampled. The protesters retreated. Chaucer, the writer, must have needed a lot of assistance at that point, Perkis figured.

  “At least everyone heard Baron Bigge call Farmer Farnes an idiot,” Adora said cheerily. “We don’t have to worry about him accusing you of graverobbing any more.”

  She didn’t expect a cheer from the whole line of serfs behind her. But it wasn’t for Adora. Striding towards them came Ferkis, carrying a satchel over his shoulder!

  “Good old Geoff’s given me a week off,” Ferkis said, explaining that Geoff was Chaucer’s first name. They passed the rest of the journey catching up with each other’s lives.

  “It’s been so long,” Ferkis said. “I’ve thought about you a lot. I tried to take you with me, you know. When I left.”

  Perkis was too astounded to speak. His brother hadn’t abandoned him after all. “So what happened?” he finally managed to ask.

  “You were small. We both were! It was nighttime. I carried you as far as I could, but I had to leave you. You were asleep. So I lay you down in a field of long grass, kissed you, and set off. I thought you had more chance of surviving than I did.”

  As Ferkis spoke, Perkis remembered: waking up, cold, frightened, alone, knowing he would never see his brother again, and surrounded by nothing except…long green stalks! That was why he had always hated the colour!

  “I’ve had loads of adventures,” Ferkis explained. “They’d fill a book at least. Two if the first one sells well, so Chaucer says.”

  “Did he teach you to read and write?” Perkis asked.

  “No. He was impressed I knew when I met him. That’s why he gave me a job.”

  “If I was King, I’d prefer having a jester to a writer…”

  Ferkis laughed. “Chaucer makes up funny tales. And he reports on what’s happening in the country. We were in Canterbury last month. He came up with some great stuff.”