Mark Dunn - Ella Minnow Pea

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 all 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

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.