by Mark Dunn
“You venerate Nollop for one reason, Mr. Lyttle. One reason only.”
A tip of the noggin from Lyttle. “The sentence. That awe-striking sentence which graces our national cenotaph.”
Nate went on: “But what if it turns out that Nollop wasn’t the only man capable of cobbling such a sentence?”
“But he was.”
“But what if there have been others?”
“There have been no others, Mr. Warren. We are fairly certain of this.”
“Fairly, but not absolutely. Please, Mr. Lyttle, hear me out. What if it were possible for someone other than Nollop to come up with such a sentence, in say – hmmm, what might be an appropriate – “
Lyttle wasn’t one to let others finish their sentences:
“If I were to give you until the last setting sun, Mr. Warren, it cannot – simply will not happen. Why, it’s pure, utter futility!”
“But -”
“Your point isn’t a complex one, Mr. Warren. What you are saying is that if there exists such a person with such a gift, why, we might have to place that special person right up there with Nollop. On the very same plane. Is that not the thrust of your argument?”
“If he or she is successful, well, naturally we -”
“Is this a challenge, Mr. Warren?”
“Might you welcome such a challenge, Mr. Lyttle?”
“I may not welcome it. I might, however, in proper fairness, entertain it.”
“Then I’ll make it official. It’s a challenge. Will you take it to the Council?”
“A sentence of thirty-five letters or less.” Then a crinkle – no, an elaborate furrow to Lyttle’s hoary brow. He was thinking. Intense, all important, history-making thoughts. “No. It must be conclusive. Thirty-five letters isn’t conclusive. I suggest thirty-three, no – thirty-two letters.”
“Thirty-two letters?”
“That’s correct.”
“But that leaves a mere six for replication. Six!”
“That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“How long will you give us, Mr. Lyttle? Remembering, of course, that Nollop spent all of his youth creating his sentence.”
“Well, I certainly won’t allow more than a few weeks. Especially with all the help you will be receiving. You’ll have until November 16 – Nollop’s birth anniversary. Remember, as well, that this offer must still win approval by the Council.”
Nate thought this fair. The two men shook on it.
At the sub-terra meeting tonight the challenge will be put to all present. We hope to relay it throughout the nation. (Please cast it about the Village on our behalf.)
We will cross our fingers that the Council approves.
We’ll know nothing until after the council session tomorrow morning.
With this most encouraging news I’ll close, but not without saying farewell to my favorite breakfast cereal. (You will, of course, remember to throw out the Special K, yes, Mother?)
I love you.
Tassie
6
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ABC*EFGHI**LMNOP*RSTUVWXY*
.........................................
The *uic* brown fox *umps over the la*y **g
Nollopton
Satto-gatto, September 30
Mother,
So much to tell, so little time to tell it. Those who were present at last night’s meeting have chosen to embrace the challenge with absolute relish. The prospect of actually being able to control the outcome of this ghastly assault on our collective spirit, let alone our very humanity, by turning this offensive upon its cephalus, has sent some among our sub-terra movement to heights of unencompassable ecstacy. The best news of all: the Council is in full agreement with the challenge (It was official as of this morning.), so secure they seem to be in this asinine “unassailable” position of theirs. We approach the ramparts ourselves commensurably secure. High noon awaits.
At first Nate thought that he might get news to a computer programmer with whom he is familiar – a former college roommate in Orangeburg, South Carolina, who he is certain can crunch the letters, to, in effect, assemble the necessary sentence within a matter of hours. But if the Council were to learn that the sentence was put together by means of artificial intelligence, it might wholly thwart our primary purpose, this being to show that some other human – not Nollop – most certainly not an electronic computing apparatus – was able to come up with the obligatory sentence containing all twenty-six letters of the alphabet using only thirty-two letters in its execution. So he chose to expel that thought without pause. What it will come to will be this: one of us will create it: a sentence to surpass that of Holy Nollop. One of us shall, I am certain, achieve the goal of burying the myth of Nollop forever. For the next forty-six sun-to-suns, this will be our raisson.
Mine, yours, even your gentleman companion Rory who perhaps is still unaware of the other legislation to come out of this morning’s session: “All property left in state of non-occupation through emigrantal vacatement will be given over to confiscatory oversight by the Council, then borne to official annexation into Nollopian tax-exempt ecclesiastical boroughs, thus falling within clear parameters of Council owner-management.” Even as things exist now, Councilman Harton Mangrove is in the process of moving with his family onto the estate of Georgie Boonswang, whose fish cannery after closure, was left in similar circumstance of non-occupation (but not without “proper” ownership, courtesy of egregious title-alteration!). Other Council members seem to be contemplating similar confiscatory moves.
I must close now to return to my labors with the “group”: Nate, Ella, Aunt Gwenette, Uncle Amos, each of us in pursuit of the magical, temporarily elusive sentence that shall result in our emancipation – to be sure, our very salvation! Albeit a more corporal form of salvation. Our souls, though, are another matter altogether. To apportion worshipful allegiance to both our Heavenly Omnigreatness, as well as to Nollop-the-mortal-marvel has become so very tiresome.
One Supreme Being is enough for me. I much prefer the former to the latter.
Love,
Your Tassie
[Upon the Minnow Pea Porch]
Nollopton
Monty, October 2
My Tassie,
I am watching you through the pane. You sit at the table scribbling – scribbling, then erasing, biting, chewing the unfortunate pencil’s extremity as you contemplate. I share your chore. I might be your portico twin, in perch upon this fresco-chaise, performing same, were it not for glimpsing you through the glass. Such a beguiling sight – your long auburn tresses falling as cataract in shimmering filamentous pool upon the table top, gathering in swirl upon your note paper – obscuring? framing? your toil. I must return to my own mental labors. But you have given me pleasant momentary respite.
My beautiful Tassie, I so love you.
Nate
Nollopville
Monty, October 2
Mittie, my gentlenurse,
I appreciate so much the thermos of pullet soup you sent over. You will be happy to hear that I am feeling much better this morning. When I am stronger I am most eager to see you in some other capacity than nurse. (Not that you haven’t been an excellent caregiver.)
I trust that you are still well, that you haven’t caught this nasty flu circulating through the Village. These are not opportune times for any of us to be ill. There is much that we must accomplish.
I myself, in spite of the flu, have spent the better part of two nights coming up with a sentence containing all twenty-six letters of the alphabet of a length of less than fifty letters – forty-nine to be exact. I was hoping to surprise you with one of far more impressive brevity, but shall be happy with my initial effort. Still, though, it will not fit the ultimate bill; therefore I, in concert with so many other villagers whose lamps burn late into the night, will push on, whittling my count away.
Accompanying this letter is a note bro
ught to you by Eugenia, a little neighbor girl whom you may have seen playing on the lawn next to mine. She is all of seven, but the perfect age to write my sentences for me for purpose of conveying them to you, so that you may monitor my progress. I expect you will employ a youngster yourself in similar fashion so that I may learn of your progress, as well.(What a convenient loophole the not-always-farseeing Council has given us by the exemption from these laws of little ones such as sweet, cooperative Eugenia. The only problem exists in getting across to her through a series of elaborate gestures or comic pointings my intent. For there really is no other legal avenue but pantomime to communicate my full meaning to her. Then through her, to you. Bright youngsters are a precious asset in Nollopville in these troublesome times.)
Sincerely,
Rory
A quick move by the enemy
will jeopardize six fine gun boats.
...............................
Nollopville
Toes, October 3
Rory,
Your sentence is so much better (also shorter) than mine! I am almost reluctant to show my efforts to you. But a promise is a promise. I am in collusion with a boy by the name of Wesley, son of the Noonans who own Noonan’s Florist. Wesley is very popular; I must share his services with four of my neighbors!
I am expecting a letter from Tassie. She will report how things are going in town. Rumor has it that someone – a professor with the university, I believe – has himself come in below 48. If this is true, it is very encouraging, is it not?
Sincerely,
Your Mittie
Back in my quaint garden,
jaunty zinnias vie with flaunting phlox.
...............................
Nollopton
Wetty, October 4
Mother,
Two letters fell last night. “F.” Then another “O.” The Council plans to excise “F” as of twelve o’timepiece on the Thurby/Fribs cusp. I assume they will also instruct us now to shave consumption of the letter “O” by fifty percent.
There is at present fantastic support for what we in town have come to call, “Enterprise Thirty-two.” Still, the Council laughs at us. They taunt the little ones who write our sentences, who transport them between our houses. They gather in reverent, worshipful circles beneath the cenotaph to sing praises to Nollop. It is a stomach-churning sight even forgetting the abuses the Council is currently inflicting upon the remaining inhabitants of this isle. This recent confiscation of property is a clear violation of the National Constitution, yet Councilwoman Houston says we are now in an “extraconstitutional crisis” which calls for “extraconstitutional measures.” The Council is preparing for that moment in which language, as it once was, ceases to exist. As far as I can tell, such preparation involves chiefly the feathering of the counciliteurs’ own nests.
We pray to our own Omnipresence that the final moment never arrives. We’re getting closer. Professor Mannheim has given us a sentence with 47 letters. It is a simple sentence which the chosen six-year-young courier put to scription in no time at all.
Nate isn’t sleeping. I am after him to complete his first article for Nollopiana, but he seems bent on assisting with Enterprise Thirty-two. It is an obsession. The fear is gone, though. This noble movement has given us all a special courage.
I miss you. Be well. I hope to see you soon, when all of this is over.
Love, Tassie
John Brady, give me a
black walnut box of quite small size.
...............................
Nollopton
Thurby, October 5
Tassie,
You were not at home when they came. Three L.E.B. officers in possession of papers. Papers with my name on them. Your Cousin Ella was there, though. Your aunt, your uncle as well. They will tell you more this evening.
I write this from the Office of Corrections at Town Center.
I must remain here until the chief magistrate is able to see me.
I have a strong sense as to what this is about.
Apparently, someone has become aware of my publication. Information about my whereabouts has brought them straight to me.
If I am to be stolen from this Isle, stolen from you, it will
be my own fault, through not using an alias when I came over. Will you ever forgive me, Tassie?
Will I ever see you again?
If you are giving any thought to coming with me, I will not allow it. You must stay to fight, because I cannot. This is not an act of gallantry, of heroism on my part. I am only being practical. I want you to be practical too. To contribute where I now cannot.
Be sure of it, my Tassie – that when the battle is won, we will be together again. Enterprise Thirty-two will be a success. It will be our happy fate, you’ll see.
Your cousin, your aunt, your uncle – they all agree with me. Even your mother up in the Village, I am sure, if it were put to her.
I will try to contact you before they put me on the boat. If
I miss that opportunity, please write. Continue to write. You cannot let them stop you.
Soon we may all have to learn Hawaiian.
With love,
Nate
Nollopton
Thurby, October 5
Mother,
Nate is no longer with us. I enclose a copy of the letter he sent me. He was gone before I even got to Town Center. Banishment was swift. Swift, I believe, because of his alien status.
I am at a terrible loss, Mother – one I cannot even begin to articulate. Were there all twenty-six letters available for my use, my ability to translate my feelings, my thoughts of Nate to this page might still be put to supreme test.
“F” leaves us tonight. I haven’t even the strength to curse those beasts with that epithet you taught me never to say. It’s pointless at this point, anyway.
So long, “F.” So long, my sweet Nate. I will miss you. Ferociously so.
Love,
Tassie
7
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ABC*E*GHI**LMNOP*RSTUVWXY*
.........................................
The *uic* br*wn *ox *umps over the la*y **g
HIGH COUNCIL
Ribs, October 13
Nollopians:
Many have come to us to learn whether or not, given the latest alphabetical prohibition, employing tetra/penta class numbers as numerals (e.g. 4; 5; 45; 54; 5,445; 554,554,455 etc.) is still allowable. It is. (As you can plainly see.) Using numbers will always be permissible. There are no numbers in the vulpine-canine sentence. Only letters.
Sincerely,
Hamilton
Executive Secretary
High Council
Nollopville
Ribs, October 13
Tassie,
Violation number two this morning, this hapless Ribs the Thirteenth! I was caught in the act, very near our house – right there at the piscimonger’s booth on the pier while purchasing shrimp! (It was my plan to surprise Rory with a special gumbo supper to honor his birth-anniversary.) I witlessly put to use a grapheme which I have been – at least up to now – abstaining with relative ease:
“Boil-seasoning with that, Mrs. Mittie?”
“Not this time, Xenia. I’m preparing gumbo.”
Then a most curious stare. I’m sure I won’t be able to relate to you with any great success this woman’s expression. But I’ll try, nonetheless, (because it was such a strange mixture): surprise, slight anxiety, momentary consternation, then overwhelming, saucer-eye panic!
I began to stammer: “What is it? What have I -”
It then became obvious. In an eye bat. All this time – in my brain – never having seen her name written out, I was misspelling it. You see, Xenia’s name began not with an X, but with the other letter – the one that brought in this whole reprehensible era! Hers was, obviously, the legal spelling. Hence, my culpability.
Thi
s woman isn’t a stranger to me, Tassie. I am no stranger to her. There is twenty-year amity between us. This is why I am so sure that she wasn’t the one to report the violation. It was the other woman. The one in line with me wearing the worn-out tunic with all the paint splotches. Georgeanne Towgate. The ever-present, honor-bent Georgeanne Towgate!
I’m sure that she was the one whose ears got it all. My suspicion was met by a smile – a sinister simper, twisting her saliva-moist, overly rubilious lips as she apparently thought it all through – especially how important it was to bring this glaring violation to the Council’s attention as soon as possible.
My thoughts were spinning at that moment as well: giving serious contemplation to pushing this Mary Cassatt aspirant – now my veritable nemisister – right over that railing. Straightway into that heaving sea. What a pharisaic, vigilante witch! The nerve – to report me – not once, but twice!
Not being one to waste time about such things, Mrs. Towgate, I’m certain, brought in her eyewitness report within minutes; by early evening your poor mother was in ignominious cephalo-strait.
The opportunity was mine to silence the witch in perpetuity. I let it go. I am an ignoble poltroon!
Sincerely,
Your ignoble poltroon Mother
Nollopton
Sunshine, October 15
Aunt Mittie,
Tassie gave me your letter. I am so sorry. What a moronic way to spell one’s name! Give me permission; I will happily
terminate Mrs. Towgate, saving you the trouble.
