by PM Goodman
“Think he’d write about us three?” Perkis asked hopefully. “Me and Finch and Adora?”
Ferkis hesitated. Then he shook his head. “He said nobody would believe it, even though he saw everything with his own eyes. But he’ll mention it to his brother, Dennis. Geoff thinks it might be more up his street. Dennis is a storyteller too. He has that kind of nutty imagination. He’s got one story about a tunnel under the English Channel! Crazy, huh? But listen, how did all your nose-plumbing start?”
That part of the tale took until they reached Uncle Ethel and Auntie Stan’s cruck house. Perkis popped his head round the door. “I brought someone to see you,” he told them.
“Bring them in, dear. Help yourself to soup. And offer them some.” Auntie Stan was busy slurping hers and wasn’t stopping for anyone.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Perkis smiled. “He doesn’t fit any more.”
Ferkis pressed his big face to the small window opening. Auntie dropped her spoon from shock. And Uncle, who had heard what had happened in London, stopped sulking about losing out to Old Finch for third place on the horses with Frank Tyler. (He had been so angry at first, he kicked a rock, his foot swelled to double its size, and he’d been unable to join the peasant march at all.)
After supper, they headed up Stinky Hill to ask John Kent if Ferkis could stay in a spare room at his house.
“Where’s all the Plague-y gunk from their noses?” Ferkis asked.
“Remember Farmer Farnes?” Perkis said.
“The stinking bully?”
“That’s right. He hasn’t changed, but now he has these barns where he keeps chickens. They’re really annoying. I sneaked in one day. I thought, he’ll never notice some extra muck. Now we don’t know how to get rid of it.”
“How about now? Everyone’s asleep…I haven’t got a bed anyway.”
Ferkis could have suggested swimming to France and Perkis would have thought it was a good plan. On the way, they passed the dark and deserted churchyard. Perkis pointed to where the boys had played tag and Farmer Farnes had accused them of graverobbing. Ferkis studied the turned-over earth.
“But it wasn’t us, Ferkis,” Perkis insisted.
“Sshh. Listen, can you hear anything?”
They froze, ears alert to the midnight graveyard in the soundless summer dark. After a few moments, Perkis heard a fierce scraping. Ferkis winked. They went towards the sound. Around the corner, a dog was clawing and scratching at the soft ground. Its paws were ragged. Its ribs showed through its brown coat. It was panting hard.
“If he was fed properly,” Ferkis said, “he wouldn’t be doing this. Would you, boy?” He gently pulled the dog away from its digging. “This is why I left, Perkis. Everyone and everything is hungry here.”
His brother was right. The dog followed them to Farmer Farnes’ barns. An owl hooted nearby. Ferkis stuck his head round the door. He let out a quiet whistle. “Heck, you’ve been busy! At least it’s dried out. How many buckets is that? Well, you’d better get going.”
Ferkis went back outside and pulled from his pocket the short stick that had been his parting gift from the writer. It was no longer hollow. He flipped it into his mouth and began sucking on it. The dog settled down to sleep at his feet.
Perkis emerged with an armload of dried bogeys to see Ferkis’s mouth on fire. “Ferkis, watch out!” he shouted.
Ferkis laughed. “It’s a Byzantine pipe. Don’t panic. Here, try it.” He explained how a Spanish friend of Chaucer’s had brought a pack of them as a gift. Breathe one end, and the other end gave off smoke.
“What’s in it?” asked Perkis.
“Wolfsbane, nectar, other substances that burn well. Actually, you’re not old enough,” Ferkis said, taking it back. “Got to look after my little brother…”
“Let me.”
“No! Now, how many buckets do we need?”
“A hundred at least. We’ll never do it tonight.”
“We have to. Can’t risk leaving it any longer.”
They woke Finch first, then Adora. Perkis shared his brother’s idea with them. “We’re taking it to the river.”
As quiet as dragonflies, they hacked and scraped the dried gunk for Ferkis to rush six buckets at a time to the river. Dead snot was a lot easier to break down.
What had survived in the bogeys, though, was the black powder some giant soldiers had breathed in, firing weapons far-off lands. It was made of sulphur, saltpeter and other alchemical wonders. Centuries later, it would be known as gunpowder.
Ferkis kept his eye on the horizon. Farmers always woke early. Dawn was approaching on this hot summer night.
“How we doing?” he asked.
“About halfway.” Perkis was panting from the effort, and missing his sleep, but he was having a great time with his brother.
“Hurry up,” Ferkis urged. His Byzantine pipe had burned down to its end. He had plenty more in his bag. He flicked the smoking stick away, not noticing where it landed.
Perkis smelled, heard and sensed danger. Menacing crackles got louder as the fire spread. Finch and Adora had their heads down, filling buckets.
“Out! Quick! Something’s wrong!” he shouted at them.
He pushed them through the door. They were still too near! He shoved them into the long grass. Faintly, he heard a complacent cockerel clearing its fat throat for a never-to-be-released early morning crow.
The first bogeys exploded in an orb of flaming heat, with a deafening KA-BOOM! A huge, luminous fireball shot towards the stars. Then the rest caught light. Almost immediately, the first barn’s walls toppled and crashed into the second barn. It, too, detonated with a thunderous bang.
The heat was stupendous. Ferkis picked himself up. “Come on!” he shouted, looking at the destruction. “We have to go. You okay? Go! Now!” He pulled them all to their feet and they took off, each in the direction of home.
The wind fanned the roaring flames. It wafted the strange smell of burning bogeys into the breeze. One final blast behind them was followed by the kind of whistling made by boiling water, that oddly seemed to get louder and faster. It was coming from above. Perkis looked up. He was just in time to see, from the heavens, two large round meaty objects falling into his and Finch’s arms: de-feathered, de-beaked, nice and warm, and beautifully silent. The entire village was going to be able to lie in every morning from now on.
Cooked chicken, Perkis thought as he ran. What a treat.
EPILOGUE by Dr Daryl Flannel, Genius Historian
So ends the Nose Plumbers’ Tale by Dennis Chaucer. If we understood why the world preferred his brother Geoffrey’s yarns, we’d be Expert Professors in Literature at Playground Swings University. The Nose Plumbers’ Tale was swiftly forgotten. Just like Dennis himself. Perhaps people didn’t like to be reminded of a time when greed and selfishness separated large and small. Or maybe Dennis’s writing wasn’t any good.
Once serfs were allowed to keep their crops, with the same amount to go around, the giants’ children grew maybe half as tall as their parents. Within a couple of generations, rich and poor in England had evened up again – in size if nothing else. Our heroes got to look the rich square in the eyes.
Along with the Tale, other notes were discovered. They tell what happened to Perkis, Finch and Adora when they were older. Finch became a successful merchant. He used the gold flecks from Salop’s nose to buy more silk shirts, and travelled the length and breadth of the flat earth.
Adora learned to read and write. Then she wrote a book of poultry recipes. She cooked chicken à la barn for Dukes and Duchesses all over the land.
And Perkis, whose bright ideas and bravery brought so many improvements to the lives of serfs? He went on to lead the quietest life of all of them, marrying and starting a family, and working hard to ensure they were fed, and had fun, every day.
The heldkerchief or sneezecatcher gradually acquired its more familiar name, and the story of the nose plumbers was lost to history…until one night
, four hundred years later, during the reign of King George the Latest. A businessman, whose London townhouse had a blocked chimney, dreamed that an enormous medieval knight in armour appeared to him.
“In my day,” said the knight, “yer cured a cold by shoving a peasant child up yer nose. Least yer did till the little blighters blew up Farmer Farnes’ barns. Still, same goes for a bunged-up house, y’know.”
The businessman woke up coughing. Black fumes filled the bedroom. He threw open the window, called out for a poor street child, and ordered her up the chimney. Soon many children were working in poisonous flues for almost no pay. Their managers were so mean, they made Old Finch look like Mary Poppins. They pocketed a fortune while the poor children stayed small and poor. Many didn’t live to their teens.
This time, however, the world did read about the evil practice, thanks to writers as well-loved as Dennis Chaucer’s brother Geoff. Their work put a stop to the young flue-cleaners’ torments. And the adventures of of Perkis, Finch and Adora, which young chimney sweeps had told to cheer each other up, disappeared once again like smoke.
It was only by spending many hours of diligent research in my garden shed that I came across the historical fragments that allowed me to piece together the whole story – tiny clues to our lost history. A giant shoe. A handkerchief that…ahem…needs washing. A book of incomprehensible writing. Soon everything became clear. There are bright ideas in anything you find.
About The Author(s)
Dennis Chaucer was born and raised in fourteenth century England, forever destined to be outshone by his younger brother Geoffrey. “The Nose Plumber’s Tale” is to date the only work by Chaucer the Elder found in Daryl Flannel’s garden shed (unless he also authored “Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Slugs But Were Afraid To Ask”). His other lost works are believed to include “The Cassiobury Tales” about a group of travellers who tell each other stories to distract themselves from the fact that they are in Watford.
P. M. Goodman was born and raised in fourteenth century Edgware, or the 1970s as they were more commonly known. He has been a deep sea philatelist, long-distance accountant, obscure producer and husky baritone. His previous translations into English include most things his wife says.
Daryl Flannel needs no introduction. So, um…
Coming soon: “Six Wives” by P. M. Goodman, a further historical exclusive revealing, for the first time, what happened when King Henry VIII, old and grumpy and nearing the end of his epic reign, issued his last and craziest decree to the people of England. It was a Royal proclamation so revolutionary, so earth-shaking, that the chaos it unleashed has been hidden ever since by the nation’s historical gatekeepers. Until now. Or, at least, until…soon.