By P.K. Silverson
© Copyright 2009
By The Author
All Rights Reserved
In a land of far away, in a time not yet today, there lived a horrible giant.
The horrible giant was not merely horrible because he looked horrible. The horrible giant was not simply horrible because he smelled horrible. The horrible giant was not totally horrible because he had absolutely no notion of proper dental hygiene.
The horrible giant was entirely horrible, aside from his other faults, because he behaved in a rude and horrible manner.
It was expected of him, of course, because he was a horrible giant.
The horrible giant made life in the land of far away miserable for just about everybody. He would flatten entire houses, steal wealth and property, and generally make a horrible nuisance of himself. Over time, it became apparent the horrible giant was bleeding the land of far away bone dry.
But he didn’t care. He was the horrible giant. It was kind of like his job.
In time, the people of the villages and the farmers of the fields had to choose between yielding to the growing demands of the horrible giant or paying their annual tribute to their good king. The choice was made to forgo the tribute, which did not please the good king one tiny bit.
Acting swiftly and with great purpose, the good king sent his mighty knights out into the land of far away to exact the full tribute by whatever means necessary.
At the same time, realizing his strong measures, effective as they proved to be, could not be utilized indefinitely, the good king also sought to find an answer for the menace to his power that the horrible giant had come to represent.
The good king decided to send forth his bravest knight to slay the horrible giant. But the bravest knight proved to be no match for the good king’s mighty adversary.
So the good king decided to send forth his eldest son to slay the horrible giant. This endeavor also met with disaster.
Discouraged and distraught, the good king asked for a volunteer from among his royal court. To his surprise, a meek little man stepped forward to take up the momentous challenge.
The meek little man went forth from the great hall of the good king filled with resolve and purpose, yet armed only with a quill pen and a pad of parchment. He walked all day long and half a day more until he came to the house of the horrible giant at the edge of the mountain in an area of the land of far away with no appreciable property value whatsoever.
The house itself was a great house, with great lands beyond. The fields were filled with cattle and the coops were filled with poultry and the sties were stocked with swine. Inside the great house, piles of immense wealth lay strewn untidily about.
The meek little man noted this all down on his pad of parchment. When the horrible giant returned home from a hard day’s plundering, the meek little man identified himself as the royal tax collector. He then informed the horrible giant his royal taxes were due with interest and presented him with the bill.
So confused was the horrible giant that he fled the kingdom, never to be seen again.
The brave little tax-man walked all day long and half a day more until he returned to the castle of the good king. A great hush fell over the great hall of the royal court as he entered. The hush remained as he made his way to the foot of the royal throne.
“Is he dead?” the good king asked in a small voice, not daring to believe the meek little man before him could possibly succeed where stronger men had failed so miserably before.
“No, Sire,” the brave little tax-man answered, “but he shall never trouble you again, none the less.”
“Don’t speak to me in riddles,” the good king demanded. “Tell me plainly what you mean.”
“He is gone, Your Majesty,” the brave little tax-man answered in a clear, true voice. “He has fled this kingdom, never to return. He has left all his treasure and plunder behind him to be returned to its rightful owner, which is you, Your Highness.”
With a flourish, the brave little tax-man handed the tax bill, signed in the horrible giant’s hand, over to the good king as proof his news was real enough.
The good king looked over the parchment once, then again, and then once more just to make sure. He stood abruptly, towering over the brave little tax-man. “You are a hero, my good man,” the king announced for all to hear.
“No, Sire,” the brave little tax-man demurred before the startled court could carry the cheer and drown him out. “I am but your humble servant.”
“Oh, brave little tax-man,” the good king smiled down on him, “would that all my subjects were so loyal and true.”
The brave little tax-man bowed deeply and withdrew. When he was gone, the nobility smiled to one another and nodded their heads and said, “Our good king sure got off cheap on that one.”
The brave little tax-man went home to his loving wife, who stood, with her arms folded over her ample bosom at the door of their unexceptional cottage near the back gate of the castle village. In one hand she held a rough wooden mixing spoon dripping with the gravy of their dinner stew. Her other meaty fist held a large wooden rolling pin that was still clean.
The brave little tax-man knew all too well her pin would not remain clean long. If he could not explain himself quickly to her complete satisfaction, his loving wife obviously intended to lay her clean rolling pin right upside his head.
“Just where have you been these past three days,” his loving wife demanded in a voice which could send dogs with sensitive ears scurrying for cover. “I burned our dinner roast waiting for you to come home the night before last, and yesterday’s supper, too.”
“Sorry, my love,” the brave little tax-man answered weakly. “I was out on an emergency mission for our good king.”
“A likely story,” his loving wife said. He could tell by the way the rolling pin was waggling in her hand it would soon be sailing in his direction if he couldn’t prove his contention.
“But turtledove,” he cooed, “it’s true. I went out to see the horrible giant who’s been plaguing our neighbors in the villages and the farmers of the fields. I assessed all his goods and property on the spot in the name of our good king and sent him packing from our land forever.”
“Well,” his loving wife smiled, gentle sunshine spreading across her cloudy visage in a way sure to warm her dear husband’s heart, “that should have pleased our good king greatly.”
“Yes, honey bunch,” the brave little tax-man agreed.
“Then, I expect he offered you a rich reward for your service,” his loving wife dropped her heavy utensils and rushed forward to embrace him in her ample arms.
“Not exactly, light of my life,” the brave little tax-man managed to say by-and-by.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” his loving wife brayed, releasing him so suddenly from her embrace that he fell to the ground with a dull thud.
“I couldn’t accept a reward, dearest,” the brave little tax-man smiled apologetically at her as he picked himself off the unkempt lawn of his unexceptional little cottage near the back gate of the castle village and dusted himself off with his cap. “I was only doing my job.”
“I should have known it!” His loving wife’s face turned purple as she lifted her hands to the sky and shook them with rage. “You were only doing your job!” she howled. In the distance, the neighborhood hounds bayed a chorus of accompaniment. “Everyone knows the bravest knight in the realm couldn’t do what you did, but he managed to cut a special deal with the king anyway. Wasn’t he only doing his job?”
“I can’t help it if other people are unscrupulous, honey bunch,” the brave little tax-man countered.
“Don’t you dare ‘honey bunch’ me,” his loving wife thundered, retrieving her trusty rolling pin from the ground and heaving it at his unprotected head in one fluid motion.
Nimbly, the brave little tax-man executed a tuck-and-roll which took him out of harm’s way with scant inches to spare.
When he recovered his bearings, he saw his loving wife’s full figure framed in the doorway of their unexceptional little cottage near the back gate of the castle village. “I’m sick of hearing your lame excuses,” she roared at him, whipping the frenzied canine choir higher still. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. You’ve been in our good king’s employ for going-on fifteen years, and you’re still nothing but another bean counter. Men with half your experience and education have passed you over for promotion. Now I see why we’re still eating stew while others dine on venison and veal steaks. It’s because you wouldn’t recognize opportunity if it came up and bit you right on your behind.”
With her eyes blazing, the brave little tax-man’s loving wife pointed at him and said, “You should be higher up in the world by this time, my good husband. I mean to see you get what you deserve. From now on, I’ll tell you what to do and when to do it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my love,” the brave little tax-man answered, picking himself up from the ground.
“Then come inside and clean yourself up,” his loving wife turned and went into the unexceptional cottage herself. “Tonight you’ll sup and tonight you’ll sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll march yourself right back into the great hall and get what’s coming to you.”
The next day, the brave little tax-man indeed returned to the royal chambers of the castle. But, quite opposite to his loving wife’s clear instructions, instead of marching into the good king’s great hall, he returned to his tiny cubicle at the end of the tower. Seated on a tall stool by his desk near a southern window, he took up his ledgers and quietly ciphered his ciphers. He paused now and again to rub his eyes and look out the window. But he never stopped once to think about what might have been.
He was only doing his job and it made him happy. The tall stool was up high enough for him.
At the end of the day, he closed his ledger, cleared off his desk, snuffed out his candle and went home to the unexceptional cottage near the back gate of the castle village. His loving wife was waiting for him there once again. When she inquired how he’d made out with the good king, the brave little tax-man smiled a weak little smile and simply answered, “He said he’d think about it.”
Time went by, and every day the brave little tax-man reported faithfully to his desk and ciphered his ciphers. Every evening, he’d return home to his loving wife and dutifully report the good king was still thinking about it.
Days turned into weeks, weeks ran into months and months stretched into years. That is the way time works as it’s measured by standard tools. The brave little tax-man spent his working life diligently ciphering his ciphers, all but forgotten by the good king whose wealth and power had been preserved by the loyal civil servant. The brave little tax-man toiled long and well and never complained while he was repeatedly and continually passed over for promotion.
One day, news came to the land of far away that the once-upon-a-time menace, the horrible giant, had died. The old behemoth had taken up begging in other lands but was never very good at it and had barely eked out a living wage. When he died, it was in a penniless state of disgrace.
The tidings brought renewed joy to a kingdom which had flourished in the horrible giant’s absence. But to the unexceptional cottage near the back gate of the castle village, the same news brought only renewed domestic strife.
“See the fools out there, dancing in the street,” the brave little tax-man’s loving wife pointed out the window of their humble kitchen. “They owe their prosperity all to you, and yet we sit here, no better off than when the horrible giant roamed our country at will.”
“Yes, turtledove,” the brave little tax-man said, not daring to look up from his morning coffee and paper.
“Our good king has made you wait for his answer long enough,” his loving wife decided. “You should be higher up in the world by this time than you are today. You must go and demand his decision.”
“Yes, honey bunch,” the brave little tax-man answered, not having much choice in the matter.
The brave little tax-man went to work that morning as he did every day. Quite opposite to his loving wife’s clear instructions, instead of marching into the good king’s great hall, he went as usual to his tiny cubicle at the end of the tower.
He took his customary seat on the tall stool by his desk near the southern window, took up his ledgers and quietly ciphered his ciphers. He paused now and again to rub his eyes and look out the window, but he never stopped once to think about what might have been.
He was only doing his job, and it made him happy. His tall stool was high enough up in the world for him.
At the end of the day, he closed his ledger, cleared off his desk, snuffed out his candle and went home to the unexceptional cottage near the back gate of the castle village. His loving wife was waiting for him there once again, and when she inquired how he’d made out with the good king, the brave little tax-man smiled a weak little smile and simply answered, “He said I was under consideration for a promotion, and he’d let me know when it came through.”
Time went by, and every day the brave little tax-man reported faithfully to his desk and ciphered his ciphers. Every evening, he’d return home to his loving wife and dutifully report the good king was still waiting for the right time to announce the promotion and to just bide the time patiently.
As prosperous as the days since the departure of the horrible giant from the land of far away had been, the days following the monster’s final demise proved even more productive. Wealth and plenty came to the kingdom. Those who had a keen eye for opportunity embraced it heartily.
Time came and time went while the brave little tax-man continued to toil long and well, never complaining as he was repeatedly passed over for promotion. The coffers of the good king grew filled to overflowing at the expense of newly enriched subjects who, for the first time, where able to buy their own plots of property.
Soon, there came a rumbling from the suburbs of the kingdom that the good king’s taxing policies weren’t particularly good at all. In a public relations coup, the good king quieted the unhappy land-holders by explaining taxes had to remain at their pre-giant rates in order to make up the difference between what should be in the royal treasury and what actually was in the royal treasury due to the years of plundering and pillaging while the horrible giant was at large.
Because times were good and people were getting fat, they smiled and accepted the good king’s explanation.
So time came and time went. The brave little tax-man continued to collect the good king’s high taxes from the middle-class property owners. But memory of the shadow of the horrible giant began to fade from the consciousness of the kingdom. The land-owners continued to grumble about their high taxes.
Soon, all the good king’s explanations weren’t enough. Then news leaked from the castle that there actually was a surplus of treasure in the royal treasury. This sent the middle class up in arms. They stormed the castle but to no avail. Taxes stayed high and the middle class stayed angry.
“Our poor king,” the brave little tax-man observed over his evening stew.
“What about him,” sniffed his loving wife, not really caring.
“He worries so about the middle class land-owners,” the brave little tax-man said. “They’ve threatened to stop paying their taxes.”
“Worst that could happen would be you’re out of a job which never treated you right a day in your life,” his loving wife sighed.
“I like my job,” the brave little tax-man said.
“Then you should recognize this for what it is,” his loving wife told him. “It’s the opportunity you’ve waited all your life for.”
“What do you mean?” the brave little tax-man asked. In the back of his mind, he feared what her answer might be.
“You’ve been in our good king’s employ for going-on twenty-five years,” his loving wife said. “You’re still nothing but a bean counter. Men with one-quarter your experience and education have passed you over for promotion. You should higher up in the world than you are today, my good husband. I mean to see that you get what you deserve. So, I’ll tell you what to do and this time, you’ll do it with no excuses. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my love,” the brave little tax-man answered.
His loving wife picked up his plate from the table and said, “You’ve finished your breakfast and you’ve had your sleep. Now, it’s time to march yourself right out of the castle and settle those tax-payers down. You did it with the horrible giant and you can do it again. When you do, you’ll come back into the great hall and get what’s coming to you.”
The brave little tax-man stared at his wife and said, “You must be out of your mind. Those tax payers are in revolt. They’re renegades. If I go out there, they’ll rip me into a thousand tiny pieces, maybe more.”
“Nonsense,” his loving wife said. “They’re no worse than the horrible giant. You’ll see. They only want a more equitable system. Offer them a compromise.”
“Then the good king will rip me into a thousand tiny pieces, maybe more,” the brave little tax-man’s eyes grew even wider from his horror.
“Nonsense,” his loving wife said. “You saved him from the horrible giant once upon a time. Now you can save him again. Only this time, you won’t be so scrupulous. You’ll take the reward. Understand?”
“Yes, dear,” the brave little tax-man shrugged his shoulders and prepared to leave for work.
“I’ll walk you to the castle gate,” his loving wife told him. “You should have gotten higher up in life a long time ago. I want to see you get what’s coming to you.”
Unable to dissuade his wife from accompanying him, the brave little tax-man trudged to the rear gate of the castle wall like a doomed man. Even before the heavy wooden bridge was lowered away from the gate, he could hear the outraged chanting of the tax demonstrators beyond the moat.
With final resignation, he kissed his wife on her cheeks for the last time. “You deserve this,” his loving wife said. “Now go make me proud of you.”
“Yes dear,” the brave little tax-man said.
He slipped out the small gate by the bridge tower and crossed to where the renegade property owners were camped across from the castle.
“Who are you?” the leader of the renegades demanded when he entered the camp.
“I come on behalf of our good king to offer you a compromise,” the brave little tax-man told him.
“We’re listening,” the renegade leader crossed his hands in front of his chest, reminding the brave little tax-man of his own wife.
“No we’re not,” a voice came from the back of the crowd. “I recognize him. That’s the tax collector who seized the horrible giant’s land and assets in the name of the king.”
“He’s probably been sent out here to do the same to us,” another renegade yelled. “Let’s string him up and send a message back to our good king.”
Before the brave little tax-man could argue, his hands were bound and his mouth was gagged. He was soon higher up, just as his loving wife had promised he would be. As he danced on the breeze held by a strong rope around his neck, he could see his tall empty stool by the window of his little cubicle in the castle tower from the corner of his eye. He wished he were there instead, because the tall stool was high enough for him.
Moral: Calendars are only score-cards for time.
