The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Three. by Tim Torkildson

 

                                             Arthur Pennyroyal

Chapter Three.  The Battle of Chicken Flicken.

The Dickendoofian calendar (Old Style) records that in the year 1333 a thunderous battle took place between the blue goblins, led by their chief Snoddle, and the knights of the card table, led by Sir Earwig. Hundreds of goblins and hundreds of knights gathered in the valley of Chicken Flicken to fight it out. Once again we turn to Underlip the Scribe for a description of the action:

The first beams of dawn spilled over the hill, an ironic harbinger of the unfolding chaos. Chief Snoddle, leading the fearsome Blue Goblins, stood at the head of his formidable force, sneering at the shimmering line of knights across the battlefield. Opposite him, beneath the fluttering banner of the Card Table, was Sir Earwig, leader of the Knights, with an expression as steadfast as the armor encasing him. The field in between lay barren, trembling in anticipation.

"Dawn be the hour," intoned Sir Earwig, raising his sword high to catch the morning sun. "The time when Goodness shall defy the specters of the Night! For this battle, my Knights, is not just for us, but for those who sleep peacefully in their beds, trusting our strength to keep the Night at bay."

A defiant cry rose from the armored ranks, their swords and shields glinting with reflected courage. It was a sight that could kindle hope in the hearts of the most pessimistic.

Across the field, the goblin chief Snoddle, bared his sharp teeth in a snarling grin, "Yer shiny armor don't scare us, Earwig! Let's see if yer soft insides match yer hard outsides!"

Goblin laughter filled the air, an abrasive sound that was discordant to the harmonious melody of the morning. Yet, this exchange of words only seemed to tighten the strings of tension pulling at the battlefield.

Then, without warning, it snapped. The Blue Goblins hurtled forward, a torrent of fury. The Knights of the Card Table met them halfway, their swords slicing through the air with deadly precision.

"Stand strong, Knights!" Sir Earwig's voice rang above the turmoil. "Remember our vow! Let our hearts beat for the defenseless, our swords clash for the helpless!"

Chief Snoddle, wielding a wickedly curved sword, sneered in response. "Pretty words, Earwig. Our hearts beat for power, our swords clash for victory! Today, we end yer pointless chirping!"

A raging maelstrom of blue goblins and silver knights enveloped the field. Swords met with furious crashes, the impact reverberating down the arms of the combatants. The Knights fought with an iron discipline, their movements precise, while the goblins attacked with a wild and ruthless energy, a contrast as stark as the differing sun and moon.

Yet, despite the fierceness of the clash, it was clear that both leaders held the same unwavering conviction - this battle was a crucible, one that would define the fate of their worlds. For Sir Earwig and his Knights, it was a fight for justice and protection of the weak. For Snoddle and his Blue Goblins, it was a bold push for power, an attempt to destabilize the status quo. No matter the motive, this day marked a pivotal moment in their history, one that would reverberate through the ages.

As the first day of battle raged on, these opposing forces and their steadfast leaders remained locked in a violent dance, their conflicting ideals forming the core of this unforgettable tableau. It was a vibrant testament to the complexities of warfare and leadership, a spectacle as striking as it was terrifying.

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Underlip continues his narrative for the second day of battle:

Sunlight, piercing the veiled dawn, disclosed the battered battle-field. Torn earth bore testament to the bloody conflict between the blue goblins and the valiant knights of the card table. Fires still smoldered on the charred edges of the plains, silent witnesses to yesterday's carnage.

Pandemonium erupted as the horn of combat sounded. Blue goblins, like raging waves, surged forth. Armored in wickedness, their lust for destruction glinted in their beady eyes. At their head, the monstrous figure of Snoddle, their chief, towered over his comrades, his brutish form instilling dread in the hearts of his foes.

From the opposite flank, the knights of the card table, arrayed in gleaming armor, charged in unison. The ground thundered beneath their warhorses' hooves, and their banners, emblazoned with the image of their sacred table, fluttered courageously against the crimson sky.

Amidst the roar of the battle, Snoddle met his match. Sir Galahard, a knight-captain, lunged at him with a sharpened lance. With an earth-shattering thud, the lance found its mark, tearing through the goblin chief’s thick hide. Snoddle roared, not in defeat, but a defiant bellow that echoed across the battlefield, chilling the blood of the bravest knights.

Snoddle fell, wounded gravely. As his horde rallied around him, his rumbling voice rose above the cacophony. He spoke, a lament of his bloody life, "Always, I've played the beast. I sowed seeds of hatred, wrought chaos and fed on destruction. It was a role thrust upon me, one I accepted for survival.”

He coughed, blood speckling his lips, his gaze faraway, “Yet, deep in the cavernous recesses of my soul, I harbored dreams. Dreams of peace, of gentleness, so at odds with my monstrous facade. I yearned for the simple joys, the art of plucking daisies in sun-kissed fields, the serenity it brought me.”

His eyes glazed, “And the nymphs, the ethereal nymphs of the woods. I longed to caress their glowing forms, to make love under the moonlight, amidst whispers of leaves and the soft lullaby of the nightingale. To be one with nature, to savor its beauty, its love. Yet, here I lay, a creature born of darkness, a being of destruction."

Tears, as soft as the morning dew, glistened in Snoddle's eyes. "Each day, a struggle, a battle not against knights but against my own nature. Yearning for peace, yet causing chaos. Dreaming of love, yet sowing hatred. In the grand orchestra of life, I played the villain's tune. But I ask, can a monster dream of love? Can he long for peace? Can he, too, find redemption?"

With a sigh, he finished, “Is it so wrong, then, to yearn for something more than what I am? To seek not just survival, but a life of peace and love? Yet here I am, a creature of war, longing for a world that can never be mine."

The battlefield fell silent, his words resonating in the hearts of both goblins and knights. And as Snoddle's life flickered out under the cold gaze of the indifferent dawn, a question hung heavily in the air - Can a monster dream?

The battle would resume, but with a seed of doubt sown, a questioning glance exchanged between foes. Snodd

Snoddle’s monologue, a reflection of his soul’s lament, served as a haunting reminder of the duality of beings, even those perceived as monstrous.

***************************************************

There is some doubt that Underlip the Scribe ever actually witnessed this heroic three day battle. Most modern authorities (including myself, Arthur Pennyroyal) hold to the theory that Underlip simply interviewed survivors of the battle years later and then cobbled together his stirring narrative. On the other hand, there is some evidence that the scribe acted as a page to Sir Earwig during the fracas. The truth probably lies somewhere sleeping.

Underlip the Scribe finishes his war story thus:

The early morning fog hung heavily over the undulating fields of Chicken Flickin, a natural amphitheater that echoed with the grim symphony of war. It was there that Sir Earwig and his vaunted Knights of the Card Table clashed victorious swords with the ominous horde of Blue Goblins.

On the third day of battle, Sir Earwig, a stout figure with a chin hidden beneath a scruffy beard of iron gray, sat atop his noble steed and surveyed the field. His eyes, as keen as a falcon's, scanned the terrain, reading it like an open book, deciphering the hidden tales written by boot and hoof, by fallen soldiers and discarded weapons.

On the front lines, knights Grimsby and Butterworth, grizzled veterans both, leaned on their shields, their weary legs begging for respite. Grimsby, the taller of the two, grimaced as he bit into a hardtack biscuit, crumbs raining onto his already filth-stained tunic.

"Butterworth," he began, his words muffled by his poor excuse for a meal, "why is it that every time I bite into this blasted biscuit, I swear I'm chewing on gravel?"

"Mayhaps it's the cook's way of ensuring we're grinding our teeth as much as our swords," Butterworth retorted with a wry grin. "Or perhaps it's Sir Earwig's brilliant strategy to arm us with indigestible rations so we might use them as projectiles in desperate times."

Grimsby chuckled, a weary but genuine sound. "Perhaps," he agreed, sending another spray of crumbs flying. "And isn't it strange that the only orders we get from the top are to 'Hold the line'?"

"Just once," Butterworth sighed, casting his gaze skywards as if expecting to see divine intervention, "I'd like a bit more... I don’t know, originality?"

"Strategy would be a nice start," Grimsby added, his voice heavy with resigned humor.

Meanwhile, back at the command post, Sir Earwig was developing just that. The humble card table from which their knightly order took its name was strewn with a chaotic scattering of parchment, quills, and pewter goblets. Sir Earwig studied the scattered parchments, his eyes narrowing as a plan began to take shape.

The morning sun was reaching its zenith when Sir Earwig’s plan was unfurled. With a rallying cry, he charged into the fray, his knights following behind him, their swords gleaming in the sunlight. Sir Earwig himself swung his great sword, cleaving goblins left and right, his blows as unforgiving as his strategy.

The Blue Goblins, despite their savage ferocity, were no match for the cunning of Sir Earwig and his Knights. The battlefield gradually turned into a scene of chaos and defeat for the goblins. They had lost their chief, Snoddle, and were now uncertain of what to do. Their once-mighty force lay decimated, their banners fallen and trodden into the blood-soaked earth.

As night fell, the triumphant Knights of the Card Table stood victorious on the battlefield. Grimsby and Butterworth, tired but triumphant, leaned against a felled oak, watching as the remnants of the Blue Goblins retreated into the dusky horizon.

"Food's still bad, Grimsby," Butterworth remarked, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"But the strategy, Butterworth, the strategy was a feast," Grimsby replied, returning the smile as he took another bite of his unyielding biscuit.

The astute reader will wonder how so few dead dragons could have produced so many blue goblins to be overcome and slain. The answer is that one dragon carcass, according to the eminent reptile authority Reedrobber, was capable of producing an endless supply of blue goblins as it decayed. Unless the unsavory mess was doused with sack – and no one in their right mind in Dickendoof would waste good wine on a dead dragon. Even if it meant being plagued by blue goblins.  After all, drinking enough sack often brought on a regiment of pink elephants – so what’s the difference?

As the old drinking song ‘Green Cheeks’ has it:

In a tavern, 'neath the eaves, where merry folk repine,

There's naught as sweet, on lips to greet, as blessed, bawdy wine.

With a lusty leer and a rousing cheer, we pass the jug divine,

For a Chasers tale is naught but frail, without a splash of vine.

Oh, in goblets deep, the secrets keep of life’s own honeyed line,

We drink our fill of life's sweet swill, in the bosom of the wine.

Through the stained glass light, in the heart of night, we raise our cups on high,

With a wink and grin, we invite sin, 'neath the star-lit sky.

Red or white, in day or night, each draught a lovers' tryst,

In the cups of vine, we intertwine, lost in the vintner's mist.

Oh, with goblets brimmed, and senses dimmed, we chase the divine,

We raise a toast to our gracious host, the generous, sacred wine.

Our tongues do tease with tales of these, of knights and maidens fair,

With each sip we sup, from the brimming cup, we cast away our care.

On velvet chairs, and down the stairs, the laughter sweetly rings,

With the clink of glass, we watch time pass, and the joy that drinking brings.

Oh, in the warmth of wine, the world is fine, its troubles out of line,

So here we'll stay, till break of day, in the arms of the divine wine.

The minstrel's song, it lures along, the damsel and the swain,

In the tavern's glow, the wine does flow, like sweet, ambrosial rain.

In ruby light of candles bright, a dance of shadows play,

While the stories spun 'neath the setting sun, are softened by the gray.

Oh, the tales unwind, as we're inclined, in the company of wine,

Let the world go by, under the sky, while we with the grapevine dine.

We feast and frolic, with jests symbolic, in the wine's intoxicating cheer,

The night, it wanes, but joy remains, as we hold each other near.

In the tavern's heart, we play our part, in life's sweet, spinning reel,

With the wine's embrace, we quicken pace, on the wheel's merry keel.

Oh, through the glass, let hours pass, for we've found our lifeline,

In this tipsy trance, we find romance, in the whispering sweet wine.

So let us raise, in hearty praise, a toast to the grape's delight,

To the joy and mirth, on this blessed earth, in the soft and silken night.

With every cheer, we hold dear, the pleasure that does shine,

In the tavern's light, with hearts alight, we sing the praise of wine.

Oh, till dawn's first light, in the tavern's night, we'll sing of the wine so fine,

In our rapture, we're captured, by the sweet enchantment of the wine.

The Legend of DickenDoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Two. by Tim Torkildson.

 

 

Chapter Two.  The Taste of Mustard.

Killing off the dragons in Dickendoof was one thing. Dealing with the aftermath was another. 

Once again our gabby friend, Underlip the Scribe, has something to say about the matter. And I quote:

A Dramatic Transformation: From Dragon Carcass to Blue Goblin and its Peculiar Mustard Weakness

A slain dragon carcass does not simply decompose like other mortal remains. Instead, it undergoes an elaborate metamorphosis, culminating in a reincarnation as an eccentric, horrid blue goblin with peculiar habits and an unusual weakness.A keen observer may first notice a spectral blue aura shrouding the carcass, a harbinger of the bizarre transformation to follow. Over time, the once majestic dragon form dissipates, replaced by a grotesque goblin creature, imbued with a distinctive, captivating azure hue.

This new entity is known to exhibit unique behaviors, notably nocturnal goat riding, that diverge significantly from conventional goblin norms. Domesticated goats, often the unwitting vessels for this peculiar goblin transportation, become the spectacle of nightly escapades. The goblin, filled with a boundless, impish energy, rides these goats around communities under the veil of night. It then deliberately produces cacophonous sounds that keep the local populace perpetually awake. This noise, ranging from high-pitched cackling to disturbing renditions of traditional goblin songs, resonates through the dark, rendering sleep impossible. 

While the origins of the transformation from a dragon carcass to this audacious creature remain largely a mystery, the solution to mitigating its annoyance lies in an unexpected, mundane substance - mustard. Specifically, applying mustard on the goblin's pink, curly tail negates its nocturnal disturbances, as referenced by folklore and dramatic literature.

Astonishingly, the otherwise formidable goblin exhibits a distinct vulnerability to mustard. This condiment, when applied to the creature's piggy tail, works as an inhibitory agent, neutralizing its unruly behavior. The theory posits that mustard's pungent scent and taste possibly trigger a primal instinct within the goblin, compelling it to retreat in avoidance and thus ceasing its boisterous activities.

However, the process of applying mustard to a goblin's tail is no small task. It demands precision, bravery, and a deep understanding of goblin behavior. It involves tracking the creature's nightly jaunts, silently approaching it, and administering the mustard without alerting it. Once achieved, the tranquility stolen by the blue goblin is promptly restored, signifying the importance of mustard as a tool of peace against this night-time menace.

In conclusion, the transformation of a dragon carcass into a blue goblin and its subsequent mustard-induced pacification is a testament to the idiosyncrasies of mythical creatures and the solutions humanity has devised to coexist with them. It underlines the intricate dance between the fantastical and the mundane, highlighting that even in the face of the most eccentric disruptions, often, a simple, unassuming solution lies in wait. 

The death throes of a goblin

(Not for the faint of stomach.)

As the radiant morning sun painted the ethereal skies with hues of gold and crimson, an unsuspecting blue goblin frolicked through the enchanted meadow. Its diminutive frame, adorned with vibrant cerulean skin, reveled in a world of whimsy and mischief. Little did the mischievous creature know that a macabre fate awaited its dainty existence. With a malevolent glimmer in the eyes of its executioner, a vile hand dipped a brush into a pot of pungent mustard, its potent aroma pervading the air with a sinister intent.

As the ominous hand, guided by a wicked purpose, approached the goblin's innocent pink piggy tails, the vibrant strands quivered in unison. In their innocence, they knew not of the impending torment that awaited them. The nefarious brush, dripping with mustard's viscous wrath, descended upon the delicate tresses with a cruel determination, smearing the golden condiment upon the innocent curls. The goblin's joyful squeals of delight turned into agonizing shrieks of despair as the burning embrace of mustard's acidic torment enveloped each strand.

The goblin's once-bright eyes, brimming with mischief and wonder, now reflected the depths of anguish and despair. Its petite frame writhed in agony, contorting like a marionette in the throes of a malevolent puppeteer's whims. The tormented creature's sapphire skin turned sickly pale, the vibrant hues fading into a deathly pallor. Its dainty hands reached towards the cursed piggy tails, their touch now fraught with a searing pain that coursed through every fiber of its being.

With each passing moment, the mustard's caustic essence unleashed its cruel symphony of suffering upon the goblin's once-joyful existence. The blue creature's breath became labored, rasping through constricted passages as if whispering its final lament. The enchanting meadow bore witness to this dark spectacle, the very flowers and blades of grass recoiling in silent horror at the grotesque tableau unfolding before them.

No solace was found for the tortured goblin, for even the wind seemed to carry the agonizing wails of its plight across the land. A cursed rhapsody of despair echoed through the gnarled trees, their twisted branches embracing the goblin's torment as if they were sinister arms of the underworld itself. Nature itself mourned the tragic fate befalling the once-joyful creature, the skies weeping as if shedding tears of liquid sorrow.

As the final vestiges of life ebbed from the blue goblin's tortured form, its delicate frame collapsed upon the hallowed ground. The enchanted meadow fell into an eerie silence, haunted by the memory of the grisly demise. The mustard-stained piggy tails, now lifeless and limp, served as a grim reminder of the goblin's harrowing journey into the abyss. In this twisted dance of life and death, the meadow mourned, forever scarred by the cruel tapestry of mustard's merciless grip.

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Donald Trunk, the tyrannical king of Dickendoof during the early part of the thirteenth century, apparently cared nothing for his subject’s safety or welfare when it came to the sudden emergence of blue goblins once the dragons were being slain. A curious old parchment document, frayed and moth-eaten, from that time period records a dialogue between Fardel the peasant and Sir Earwig, a sympathetic knight, on the subject. It was apparently written by one of the King’s ubiquitous spies as he overheard it:

FARDEL: Good day, Sir Earwig. Word on the winds be that the blue goblins are at it again.

SIR EARWIG: Hail, Fardel. Indeed, those confounded beasts. Their maddening noises torment our nights.

FARDEL: Squeals, howls, and clangs, they are. None can get a wink o' sleep! What say ye of King Trunk? He sits in his gilded castle, all peace and quiet, doesn't he?

SIR EARWIG: Verily. His Highness, ensconced within the thick stone walls of the palace, is no doubt resting peacefully. It seems emergencies are of no concern to him.

FARDEL: I remember the great flood, Sir Knight. We peasants were left to fend for ourselves, while King Trunk feasted on pastries and wines.

SIR EARWIG: Indeed, I recall. His inaction was disheartening. A true king should safeguard his people, not indulge in luxuries while his subjects suffer.

FARDEL: Is it not the duty of the king to protect his people? To quiet the goblins? To care for us in times of need?

SIR EARWIG: That is, indeed, the principle of noblesse oblige, Fardel. But our king appears to lack such values.

FARDEL: Well, if the king cannot be bothered to come down from his high horse, perhaps it's time we peasants did something about it.

SIR EARWIG: Oh? And what do you propose?

FARDEL: Well, my old mum used to say, when royalty becomes a bother, shove 'em in a barrel and throw 'em down a well!

SIR EARWIG: (Laughs) A creative, albeit violent, suggestion. I can't say it lacks merit, though. At the very least, they'd know what it's like to be discomforted.

FARDEL: Exactly! A little scare might make 'em see sense. Mayhap they'll think twice 'fore leaving us to fend off blue goblins alone.

SIR EARWIG: Fardel, you may have the simple garb of a peasant, but you carry the wisdom of a sage. King Trunk could indeed learn from this experience.

FARDEL: So, you agree, then?

SIR EARWIG: (Chuckles) I must say, as a knight, I ought to defend the crown. But as a man of the people, I see the merit in your words. Perhaps...perhaps royalty should taste the hardships they oft ignore.

FARDEL: It would do 'em good, wouldn't it, Sir Knight?

SIR EARWIG: Indeed, Fardel. The throne has always been too comfortable for most. Perhaps it's time to let them taste the water of the well.

FARDEL: I'll drink to that, Sir Earwig. I'll drink to that!

(They clink their mugs together in agreement, a smile on both of their faces, their laughter echoing in the night.)

*********************************************************************

In the event, King Donald Trunk lived a long and peaceful and prosperous life. He’ll figure more largely in this narrative later on. Once we have disposed of the vexing problems facing both peasants and their knight landlords back in those ancient, violent days.

As the poet Schlitzer wrote at the time:

Poesies are red.

Aphids draw near.

They fall in the soup

And into your beer.

 

The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter One. by Tim Torkildson.

 

CHAPTER ONE.  A flea in the flock.

The land now known as Dickendoof emerged in the aftermath of the Roman Empire's collapse. This once Roman province transitioned into a landscape dominated by Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, an era rich with fascinating stories and historical shifts.

In the early 9th century, these kingdoms faced repeated onslaughts from the Viking invaders. King Alfred of Wessex emerged as a heroic figure, leading the resistance and ultimately establishing a period of relative peace. The fruits of his efforts bloomed when Æthelstan, his grandson, successfully unified Dickendoof under his rule in 927. (If this sounds like English history, it's because the typesetter was drinking heavily when he set this up.)

But the life in medieval Dickendoof wasn't a tranquil one for everyone. Amidst the serene pastures and rugged landscapes, there were tales of struggle and hardship. The story of Earwig, a knight, and Fardel, a humble peasant, comes to mind.

One day, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Earwig met Fardel near the edge of a muddy field. The peasant’s calloused hands were hardened by the harsh reality of his labor. "How do you fare, Fardel?" Earwig asked, shifting in his shiny armor.

"Weary, Sir Earwig. The King’s tax collectors came again. They've taken nearly half of my crop," Fardel replied, his eyes reflecting the hardship of his life.

"Half? That's too harsh," Earwig murmured, realizing the burden the crown placed on its people.

During the reign of the Normans, which began with the famous battle of Hastings in 1066, the feudal system had firmly taken root. The common folk like Fardel were required to give a significant portion of their produce as tax, or rent, to the noble lords who, in turn, provided military services to the King.

Earwig, a knight, was caught in this intricate web. He was responsible for protecting the realm, but also understanding of the troubles faced by peasants like Fardel. The Knight-errant mused, "I shall bring this matter to the court, Fardel. The peasantry's struggle ought to be recognized."

"Will it matter, Sir Earwig? Will they hear us?" Fardel asked, skeptical.

"We must try," Earwig asserted. "The realm thrives on its people. They cannot be left to suffer."

Such exchanges gave birth to the Code of Magnesia in 1215, a crucial document in Dickendoof's history. It limited the monarch’s arbitrary use of power and established the principle that everybody, including the king, was subject to the law.

Unfortunately, the law didn't entirely ease the peasantry's plight. Further rebellions, like the Peasants' Revolt in 1381, echoed the constant struggle between the rulers and the ruled. However, these events gradually shaped the societal structure and governance of Dickendoof, leading to the development of more balanced systems and the slow march towards a more democratic society.

Dickendoof's medieval history is a saga marked by kings and knights, peasants and serfs, battles and rebellions. It is a story of hardship, resilience, and evolution. It’s in the tales of people like Earwig and Fardel that we find the true strength and spirit of this land, the heartbeats that echoed across the realm, and the voices that refused to be silenced. The narration of this history, written with quill on parchment, has withstood the test of time, allowing future generations to reflect on the struggles and triumphs of their ancestors.

So wrote Underlip the Scribe, many centuries past.

We haven't time to do a full workup on Underlip the Scribe right now. There's a pot of fudge working to a boil on the hallway radiator that needs attending to. Suffice it to say that this intriguing story, for the most part, is cribbed from Underlip's magnum opus: Holus Molus.  

******************************************************** 

In the vast, rugged landscape of Dickendoof, nestled in the heart of Medieval Europe, society exhibited a hierarchical structure that was both compelling and inherently stratified. Knights, like our Earwig, served as the stewards of the land, dispensing justice and ensuring the peace. Peasants, such as Fardel, worked the fields, cultivating the fertile ground in return for protection and relative stability. Yet, as tightly knit as this social fabric was, it found itself rent apart by an unexpected threat – dragons.

One day, as Earwig strode through the bustling marketplace, he bumped into Fardel, who was visibly perturbed.

"Fardel, why so pale?" asked Earwig, seeing the worry etched on the peasant's face.

"It's them dragons, milord," Fardel replied, his voice trembling. "They're devourin' folk left and right. Me own cousin, Bertie, was taken just yesterday."

"I've heard tales, but how many are there?" queried Earwig, gripping his sword hilt instinctively.

"There be seven, milord. Seven fire-breathing devils tearing through our fields, our livestock, our kin," Fardel declared, a bitter resentment lining his words.

Recognizing the need for swift action, Earwig called for a council. Nobles and commoners alike gathered to devise a strategy to rid Dickendoof of the dragons. They concluded that they needed a special weapon, a weapon made from the metal mined from the highest peak of the nearby Iron Hills.

This plan set into motion, the community sprang to work, rallying together in the face of danger. Miners braved the treacherous cliffs to extract the needed metal. Blacksmiths hammered tirelessly, forging a blade strong enough to pierce dragon scales. This shared effort showcased the unity of the Dickendoof society - nobles, knights, and peasants, all working together for the common good.

When the weapon was finally crafted, it was bestowed upon Earwig. He journeyed to the dragons' lair and, after a hard-fought battle, succeeded in ridding Dickendoof of the monstrous threat. The dragons were vanquished, and the kingdom breathed a sigh of relief.

Yet, amidst the victory, a chilling realization dawned on them - the dragons were not a natural menace but a creation of the wizards, the supposed wise men of Dickendoof. The wizards, cloaked in their enigmatic power, had unleashed this terror, playing with lives as if they were mere chess pieces.

The society of Dickendoof, after surviving the dragon onslaught, stood together, united in their denouncement of these wizards. Earwig, victorious yet contemplative, addressed the crowd, "We knights and yeoman, we nobles and peasants, have labored together, fought together, and triumphed together. But it is our wizards, the ones who should have been our guardians, who brought this havoc upon us."

He paused, looking out over the silent crowd, "These wizards, who toyed with the natural order, who bred fire-breathing beasts to terrorize our lands, they are the true menace. A menace we shall no longer abide."

His words echoed across the kingdom, a strong and irrefutable indictment of those who had so callously endangered them. It signified a turning point in Dickendoof's history, a period where society recognized and repudiated the reckless wielding of power. And so, with new resolve, they began rebuilding, learning from the past, and standing firm against those who would disrupt the harmony of their land.

***************************************************

If we bother to look at other original sources on the early chaotic times of Dickendoof, we won’t go far wrong by quoting an ancient mage known as Woodruff the Wizard.  He was a chatty old bird, whose scribblings on wizardry are currently housed in the National Archives at Happy Landings, New Bipple. He has some interesting things to say about the wizard problem that plagued the early Dickendoofers. We quote him at length and verbatim,bad jokes and all, for historical accuracy and because we’re too darn lazy to edit this windy melange:

 A Whisker-Twirling Discourse on Wizardry

Ah, there you are, curious stranger! I am Woodruff the Wizard, purveyor of the perplexing, wielder of the wondrous, and not to mention, the honorary custodian of the Cursed Coffee Pot of Calcutta. Let's bend a few corners of reality, shall we?

Being a wizard is not just about the flashy staffs and billowing robes. It is a state of being that is akin to winning the lottery, but instead of money, you receive a ceaseless torrent of eccentricities. Ah, how marvellously madcap it is!

The first thing you must understand is the importance of the beard. A wise man, Hocus P. Pocus, said in his seminal work "Beardonomics: The Facial Fuzz of Wizardry," "A wizard without a beard is like a cat without its whiskers - it simply isn't done!" And to that I say, cheers! I've had more birds nesting in my beard than I care to count. Once, I found a nest of miniature unicorns! A miracle of the highest magical order, if I dare say so.

Wizardry isn't just beard-growing, though. There's the mastery of magic to consider. Just last week, I attempted to summon a loaf of bread and ended up with a very disgruntled, carb-phobic dragon in my pantry. He and I had a very insightful conversation about the perils of gluten.

Alchemy is another core aspect. Now, let me tell you about the time I accidentally brewed a love potion instead of my morning coffee. Everyone in the village, from the stoic butcher to the aloof librarian, fell head over heels for the town crier. 'Twas a spectacle indeed! Sir Smokes-a-Lot, a renowned alchemical scholar, once said: "The bubbling brew within a wizard's cauldron mirrors the swirling madness within his mind." I can't help but nod in fervent agreement every time my coffee maker belches out a rainbow.

Then there's the quintessential art of divination. It might sound glamorous, but let me assure you, the tea leaves are rather moody. In the wizardly bestseller, "The Sneezy Seer's Guide to Grumpy Grains," Mysterio the Mystic advised, "Divination is the delicate dance of courting the chaos of the cosmos." Well, I once danced with the chaos, and it left me with two left feet. Literally.

However, it's not all tea leaves and transmutations. There's a softer side to being a wizard, like managing your mythical menagerie. For instance, my phoenix, Percival, is afraid of heights, and my pet basilisk Basil has a terrible case of stage fright. Tending to them teaches me the magic of empathy. It's a charm you won't find in any grimoire.

Then comes the final, and perhaps most crucial, characteristic of being a wizard: our insatiable curiosity. Sir Cognito, in his enlightening tome "The Wizard's Ever-Questing Eye," puts it so aptly: "A wizard's mind is an unending spiral, always circling towards the next enigma." One minute I'm investigating the uncanny correlation between goblin economics and moon cycles, the next I'm chasing a thought that leapt out of my own head!

Ah, I digress. Time's a precious commodity in the wizarding world, particularly because it has an uncanny knack for knotting itself up when you least expect it. But even as I traverse the chaotic cosmos of magic, these humorous hiccups serve as the breadcrumbs on my spellbound journey.

So, dear reader, being a wizard is not just about the flashy pyrotechnics and miraculous manifestations. It is about living a life filled with the unexpected, the uncanny, and the utterly unexplainable. It's about embracing the chaos and dancing with the bizarre. It's about finding joy in the journey, even if you're just following a trail of breadcrumbs through a labyrinth of lunacy. Now, if you'd excuse me, I believe my coffee maker just belched out a unicorn…

~

After rereading the above tripe from Woodruff, it’s no wonder Sir Earwig wanted to exterminate the whole tribe of warlocks. Not only did they bring dragons upon the land, but they were spreading logorrhea like mad.

****************************************

The end of the first chapter of this fantastic history seems an appropriate place to explain who is actually writing this book. It's a group effort by the Writer's Gulden. We are a group of writers dedicated to the spread of mustard. And so from time to time you will notice subliminal messages encouraging you to use more mustard. 

I am Arthur Pennyroyal; duly elected secretary to the Writer's Gulden. Most of this fantasy is being cobbled together by me, although I'll continue to use "we" when I wish to interject something. Makes it sound more majestic and otherworldly. We hope for bestseller status for this book, since mustard is getting way too expensive. And we use a lot of it during our meetings.

 

The Pickle.

 

 

The history of the pickle is as old as civilization itself, with origins that trace back to 2030 BCE. Often enjoyed as a tangy addition to sandwiches or a crunchy companion to cheeses, the story of the humble pickle is steeped in a worldwide culinary tradition that has continuously evolved throughout centuries.

The very first evidence of pickling comes from ancient Mesopotamia, where cucumbers from the Tigris Valley were pickled. This ancient technique was used as a means of food preservation, especially during long journeys. The process, which involves soaking foods in solutions that either promote or prevent fermentation, allowed for a longer shelf-life of produce and protected the abundance of harvests from spoiling.

As trade routes expanded, pickling techniques spread to other parts of the world. In fact, cucumbers were introduced to the Mediterranean region through trade with the Tigris Valley. Ancient Greeks and Romans appreciated the nutritional and preservative aspects of pickles. Notable figures such as Aristotle and Julius Caesar endorsed their health benefits. Aristotle praised the healing effects of pickles, and Julius Caesar is said to have fed them to his troops for strength.

The pickle's journey continued eastward to India, where it developed into a cherished tradition. The practice of pickling in India encompassed a wide range of fruits and vegetables and incorporated a variety of local spices, creating a medley of flavors unique to Indian cuisine.

Fast forward to the Age of Exploration in the 15th century, when pickles played a significant role in sustaining sailors on long voyages. It was during this period that Christopher Columbus reportedly brought pickles to the New World. The vitamin C-rich pickles helped prevent scurvy among sailors, an affliction caused by a deficiency of this important nutrient.

In the United States, the story of the pickle intertwines with the tale of immigration. The iconic dill pickle, as it is known today, has roots in Eastern European Jewish communities. Jewish immigrants arriving in New York in the late 19th and early 20th centuries brought their pickling traditions with them, peddling pickles in pushcarts around the Lower East Side of Manhattan. This cultural addition quickly embedded itself in American culinary fabric.

Today, pickles are enjoyed in many forms across the world, with regional variations reflecting local produce and palate. From the salty-sour German sauerkraut and the spicy Korean kimchi to the sweet American bread-and-butter pickles, the art of pickling continues to evolve and diversify.

Whether they're providing a punch of flavor in a sandwich, acting as a cooling condiment in a spicy meal, or even being deep-fried at a state fair, pickles have endured as a testament to our ancestors' ingenuity in food preservation. The history of the pickle is ultimately a history of human civilization, reflecting our journey from ancient techniques of survival to a modern world of diverse culinary delights.

 

Limburger Cheese.

 

 

Limburger Cheese, famous for its strong odor but loved for its rich, savory flavor, is a historically significant dairy product with origins tracing back to the 19th century in the Duchy of Limburg. The Duchy, located in the heartland of Western Europe, straddled territories across present-day Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands, providing an intriguing socio-cultural background to this unique cheese.

The inception of Limburger cheese can be attributed to Belgian Trappist monks from the monastery of Saint-Sixtus in the 1820s. Influenced by the traditional methods of cheesemaking from the French-speaking Wallonia region of Belgium, the monks began crafting a soft, washed-rind cheese with an unmistakable aroma, giving birth to the first Limburger cheese. Over the years, the production of Limburger cheese shifted predominantly to Germany, with the Allgäu region becoming one of the significant producers.

From the industrial perspective, it's fascinating to note that the cheesemaking practices for Limburger migrated to the United States during the wave of German immigration in the mid-19th century. By the turn of the 20th century, Wisconsin had become a central hub for Limburger production in the United States, continuing the tradition and supplying the cheese to the domestic market. Chalet Cheese Cooperative, the only U.S. producer of Limburger cheese as of my knowledge cutoff in 2021, faithfully upholds this legacy, handcrafting the cheese and carefully aging it for at least two months to develop its characteristic flavor and smell.

Limburger is a washed-rind cheese, meaning that during the aging process, it's regularly bathed in a brine solution. This treatment encourages the growth of beneficial bacteria, contributing to the cheese's distinctive aroma and pungent flavor profile. Despite its infamous odor, often likened to sweaty feet, the cheese offers an unexpectedly mild, buttery taste with a slight tang.

In terms of usage, Limburger cheese is versatile. In its native regions, it is traditionally served with dark rye bread and onions, often accompanied by a robust Belgian ale or a hearty German lager. This classic combination is popular in the American Midwest as well, known as a Limburger sandwich. Moreover, the cheese melts well, making it a suitable addition to dishes like fondue, gourmet burgers, or oven-baked potatoes.

For those with a daring palate, Limburger cheese is also a key ingredient in adventurous culinary creations, incorporated into cheese boards, or paired with fruits and cured meats. Importantly, it's best consumed at room temperature to fully appreciate its complex flavor profile.

In summary, Limburger cheese, with its vivid history and unique characteristics, remains a testament to the rich traditions of European cheesemaking. Its robust smell might raise some eyebrows, but for those who venture to taste it, the cheese offers a complex, satisfying flavor that outweighs any initial olfactory reservations. Today, it continues to be a culinary delight cherished by cheese enthusiasts, who appreciate th

 

Franklin Pangborn.

 

 

Franklin Pangborn (January 23, 1889 – July 20, 1958) was a consummate character actor who left an indelible mark on Hollywood's Golden Age with his unique style and unforgettable performances. His idiosyncratic persona, often playing the finicky, easily flustered and slightly effeminate characters, brought humor and dynamism to any film or television show he was a part of.

Pangborn was born in Newark, New Jersey, and began his acting career in silent films in the early 1920s. Despite the limitations of the silent era, Pangborn's expressiveness and ability to convey emotion with his eyes and gestures were apparent from the beginning. As talkies emerged, his vocal inflections added another layer to his persona, enhancing his performances in a way that would not have been possible in silent films.

Throughout his career, Pangborn worked with a number of notable directors such as Preston Sturges and Ernst Lubitsch. These directors were drawn to Pangborn's distinctive character work, often casting him as the officious clerk or the fussy hotel manager. He had the unique ability to fully embody these characters, making them more than just peripheral figures but significant contributors to the storyline.

In films such as "My Man Godfrey" (1936), "Hail the Conquering Hero" (1944), and "The Sin of Harold Diddlebock" (1947), Pangborn showcased his range. He never shied away from the comedic aspects of his roles, delivering one-liners with perfect timing and inflection. His physical comedy, too, was unmatched. Pangborn’s characters might be frazzled or flustered, but he played them with such charm and wit that audiences couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Pangborn was also an active player in the world of radio and television, demonstrating his versatility across different mediums. His work on the Jack Benny Program on radio and later on television was a particular highlight of his career in broadcasting.

However, beyond his memorable performances and his remarkable consistency as an actor, Pangborn’s real legacy lies in his ability to take stereotypical, one-note characters and breathe life into them. He imbued each role with depth and personality, turning even the smallest of parts into a memorable performance. He perfected the art of the character actor, understanding that while his role may not be the central focus, it was crucial to the overall success of the film.

Despite passing away in 1958, Franklin Pangborn's legacy endures. He was not just a character actor but an icon, a symbol of a time when every role, no matter how small, was critical to the story. With over 200 credits to his name, Pangborn remains a fixture of the Golden Age of Hollywood, and his contributions to film and television continue to be recognized and appreciated by audiences and critics alike.

In essence, Franklin Pangborn is a testament to the power and importance of character actors in the world of cinema. His roles, albeit often small and seemingly inconsequential, were executed with such charisma and skill that they have stood the test of time, cementing Pangborn as one of Hollywood's most celebrated character actors.