'Ippikin and the Young Poet' by Dave Bingham

Again the young poet tried.
‘Ippikin, Ippikin, keep away with your long chin.’
And, as before, nothing happened.
The boulder which covered the entrance to the cave remained exactly where it was, the trees which grew from the limestone cliff lost not a single leaf and the birds continued to flit by without breaking their flight.
‘What a lot of old rot,’ he thought, ‘I’ve been a fool. I knew I should have ignored them.’
‘Them’ being the regulars at the Wenlock Edge Inn who had told the young poet about Ippikin.
Ippikin, the twelfth century, robber knight who terrorised the villages between Caer Caradoc and the River Severn and held-up and murdered travellers on the track from Much Wenlock to Ludlow.
Ippikin, buried inside Wenlock Edge for eight hundred years after a huge boulder fell across the entrance to the cave where he and his band of criminals were hiding.
Ippikin, who, legend has it, responds to an ancient rhyme by emerging from his cave to kill the person who calls him.
The young poet picked up his bag. ‘It’s my own fault, I was much too drunk and much too gullible.’ He was about to leave when he heard a rustling in the trees.
At first, in the early twilight, it was difficult to make out what was causing the noise. But, then he saw the shape of a man coming towards him; a giant of a man wearing a metal helmet, a long fur-rimmed leather coat, a leather breastplate and fur-rimmed boots. A sword and an axe hung from his belt and around his neck there was a the brightly shining, gold chain
‘What clay-brained coxcomb is it that would provoke me?’ said the phantom in a world-weary tone. ‘Can’t you pignuts just leave me in peace. Haven’t you louts got anything better to do with your time?’
Shocked, the young poet was unable to speak.
‘Stuck for words are you? You tickle-brained maltworm. Well it’s obvious you are or otherwise you wouldn’t come here chanting such nonsense.’
The young poet was offended by this. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a poet and I’m seldom stuck for words; and, if there’s anyone around here that deserves criticism – well it’s you.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that you boil-brained hugger-mugger.’
‘I dare because I speak the truth. I was promised a lot more than the poor excuse for a phantom you’ve turned out to be, a phantom who can’t do better than creep up on a person.’
‘Well, you beetle-headed baggage, what do you expect if you chant such rubbish. Ippikin, Ippikin. Keep away with your long chin. It’s nothing more than a children’s rhyme and it doesn’t scan properly. Did you really believe it was going to make me angry?. It’s a mild irritation, that’s all. From a poet I’d have expected better.’
‘I’m sorry, but I used the words I was given. Next time I’ll use my own words. And then I promise you my words will drive you mad. But I’ll only do it if you promise to put on a better show.’
‘Put on a show in this world of show? Look here, you idle-headed clotpole, I make the rules around here, not you!’ Iippikin stopped and looked down at the young poet. ‘However, you look like an honest sort. So I’ve a mind to humour you. You come up with a rhyme that genuinely maddens me and I’ll not disappoint.’ With that, Ippikin turned and ambled back into the trees at the foot of the scarp.
The young poet, left on his own, sat on a log and took out his laptop.. He was feeling inspired and was soon typing furiously. He smiled to himself at each fresh creation and laughed out loud at his own cleverness. ‘That’s enough,’ he said to himself eventually. ‘If this doesn’t do it, nothing will.’
He put his things back in his bag and approached the craggy, limestone cliff.
‘Are you ready in there?’ he shouted.
‘I’m ready, do your worst.’
‘Ippikin Ippikin – nerdikin, twerpikin’
‘That’s pathetic, you craven, crook-pated measle, it’s worse than the old one. You don’t really think I’d come out for that.’
‘Then how about this - Ippikin, Ippikin –dumbikin, dunce-ikin.’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘Better, you mangled, gut-griping puss ball, but you’re not there yet.’
‘Don’t worry, I think this’ll do it,’ the young poet said confidently, ‘ Ippikin, Ippikin – crassikin, assikin!’
A heavy silence fell. The birds ceased their dusk chorus.
Then ground shook. A storm blew - lightning flashed and thunder roared. Trees fell from the cliff and rock fragments showered down on him.
The boulder in front of the cave rolled away and Ippikin appeared. He was ten times larger than before and surrounded by fire. The stench of the dead filled the young poet’s nostrils as he looked at Ippikin’s face – a face contorted with hatred and anger as he made straight for the young poet. ‘Come here you venomous, fen-sucked scut.’
But the young poet was not afraid. ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – goonikin, loonikin,’ he shouted as he skipped along the slope.
Ippikin lumbered after him snapping down trees as he gave chase. ‘I’ll get you, you gorbellied, lily-livered jolthead.’
The young poet dodged down the slope. ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – grossikin, dope-ikin.’ he called over his shoulder at the trundling giant behind him.
‘You can’t get away from me you frothy, flap-mouthed moldwarp.’
‘You’ll never catch me,’ the young poet bellowed, ‘Ippikin, Ippikin – dimikin, nitikin.’ He came to a stream and leapt to the opposite bank; but slipped and fell.
Ippikin caught up, grabbed the young poet and carried him, above his head, to the steepest part of the edge. He was about to throw him down the slope when the poet yelled , ‘Ippikin stop! How will people know?’
‘How will people know what you brazen-faced giglet.?’
‘Know the verses they can use to anger you.’
Ippikin paused.
‘I can tell them,’ said the young poet. ‘I’ll write a story about this evening and when people read it they’ll know what to say when they come here.’
Ippikin thought this over. ‘And you promise to do that.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘And what will you call this story?’
‘I’ll let you decide that.’
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘ that’s only fair.’
He placed the young poet back on the ground and walked slowly away towards his cave. Just before he re-entered that dark and dreadful place, Ippikin turned and said to the young poet, in a deep and sorrow-filled voice, ‘Call it Ippikin and the Young Poet.’