Snowball's Chance Read online

  And the crowds of Animal Fair watched in a static horror as the wheel rolled, unstoppably, down the one hill, up the other … and towards the waiting Twin Mills.

  Some of the animals on the ground were crying out in terror—and some of the animals on the Ferris Wheel were crying out as well. From the highest of the cabs, one human father was shouting down to his two sons, who had not met the height requirement, and to his wife, who had remained with the boys—

  “I love you. Goodbye. I love you.”

  Other voices began screaming—other bodies began running.

  There was a putrid black smoke in the air—the corpses of the squirrels were now burning by their own fat. There were other animals—riding the Ferris Wheel—who were evidently part of the attack. With fanatical glee, they were shaking their fists and screeching—

  “The Sugarcandy Lodestar!”

  “The Sugarcandy Lodestar!”

  And with that, the fair animals remembered Moses—and his Sugarcandy tales. And as they ran and took cover, they thought—perhaps therein lay some clue.

  At the fair, it had been long agreed that if some fool duck or frog was so backwards as to give high-standing to Moses—well then, so be it, as the farm had Moses, and the likes of his paltry, miserable followers, well in hoof. But now, and suddenly so, Moses’s followers were returned to that lofty status that many had yet to experience in their own lifetimes. And they were elevated not just for the stressful occasion, as that was typically when interest in Sugarcandy Mountain soared, but because those fair animals who followed Moses had some idea as to what those fool squirrels were screeching about. And even if Moses himself was nowhere to be seen, the Animal Fair followers of Moses were swift to provide his insight. Well versed in his preachings (for trials just such as this) they had immediately perceived the mistake in doctrine. It was that loathsome misinterpretation they had seen before. And as they especially hated any purveyors of this so wrongheaded notion of the Sugarcandy Lodestar—so totally at odds with the divine revelation of the Sugarcandy Mountain—they made the correction quite vehemently.

  “No, no! It’s not the Sugarcandy Lodestar! It’s the Sugarcandy Mountain!”

  And as they said it—the Ferris Wheel rolled into the Twin Mills.

  And as they said it—each of the cabs occupied by the fanatical Woodlands animals began exploding, and burning.

  The woolen candy concession stand, which had been in the path of the Ferris Wheel, was outright flattened—and in a flash, it was aflame. The thick black mulch in the air dropped everyone to the ground—to roll, to gag, to choke.

  Flames of woolen candy fell from the sky. The fire stuck to fur and flesh—and those seared made a sound nobody ever wanted to hear again.

  Then, the first of the Twin Mills, which had taken the brunt of the force of the Ferris Wheel … it collapsed. With a crash that shuttled several of the chickens into the air, all that labor, all that lavished labor, was reduced to a dust—an unbreathable, black, killing dust.

  In the cloud of the mills, there was no sight other than the forms of flaming animals jumping from the windows—and plummeting into the fiery rubble below.

  But—it wasn’t over. More screams, more broken bodies—and one of the bumper cars had driven out of its tire-walled enclosure, and into the park. Swerving, tipping on its wheels, the car veered towards the laboratory of Thomas the goat. (Was Thomas inside?) With a mad yell, the driver of the car, a white and brown rabbit with huge, bulging, pink eyes, careened into the structure—

  “The Beaver Code forever!”

  The beavers! The animals realized—it was the beavers! The believers in Sugarcandy Mountain had been right! It was those crazed beavers and their stupid Lodestar! They were the ones! Even if they were nowhere to be seen—they were the ones! They were the ones, even if, now, they were embodied by only a pawful of crazed frogs, rabbits—and one elderly mole. All with big, rounded eyes, they shouted through the smoke—

  “Free the village from the pigs!”

  A hedgehog riding one of the horses screamed it louder than the others—

  “Free the village!”

  The three horses, who could only recite the alphabet to the letter B, made up the Horsey Ride, which mostly catered to juvenile animals who had visited the park with their parents. Only the occasional adult would ride the horses, who were agreeable even when they were required to bear the heavier load, as they had been allowed to name the ride “Clover’s Horsey Ride,” after the mare who had watched over them, and loved them, even though they were dumb, when they were mere foals.

  But now, they were foals no longer—they were enormous, powerful animals. And one of them had broken away. Having jumped the fence that surrounded the Horsey track, one of the three brutes was charging—running erratically through the fires. The animals were bawling desperately to the horse—trying to explain to him that the hedgehog on his back was the enemy. But that big dumb horse was galloping—and there’s no explaining anything to a big dumb horse galloping.

  And if there was no stopping that charge, the only thing left to do was save the lives of any animals that might be in the path of (or a part of) that hedgehog’s target. What is the target? The way the horse and hedgehog ran helter-skelter, it was nearly impossible to tell if they were actually headed in any direction. But, whatever direction, whatever target, one could see that it, whatever it was, was coming up, as the hedgehog, opening his backpack (presumably packed with gunpowder), was dousing himself and the horse with kerosene poured from a thermos. He held the lighter in his paw.

  It was only Benjamin the donkey who could see, or thought he could see, the hedgehog’s intentions. The pigs and goats, apparently, feared that the Jones House was the hedgehog’s target—but Benjamin saw differently. Wherever that hedgehog meant to go, that horse was taking him directly to the new barracks—Thomas Towers. A nervous horse, Benjamin knew it, would always go home.

  And in that barracks, Benjamin also knew, there were at least a hundred animals—some sleeping, some just sitting around on their four-day weekend. And among those animals, sleeping in Benjamin’s very own stall, was the love of his life, the one love of his life, the one love of his life that he had waited through youth and middle-age to find—Emerald the mathematical donkey. Emerald and her son, Kip, of whom Benjamin had also grown quite fond.

  And Benjamin … who had always told the animals of the fair that they would never see how a donkey died, realized his mistake. He had said a thousand times that they would never see him die—but now, he knew, he was wrong. He had been wrong before—not to care, not to have hope—and now, he was wrong again. Donkeys lived a long long time—but for all, even a donkey, an end would come. And this, for Benjamin, was the end.

  “Now,” bayed Benjamin, not so much to anyone in particular as to the world he was bidding good-bye, “You see how a donkey dies!”

  Benjamin thought—

  Kip and Emerald, they’re young, and I’m old. And there are other young animals in that new barn. And I know it wouldn’t have mattered to me much a year ago, or five years ago, or ten years ago—but it isn’t fair a short, cruel life gets shorter, and crueler.

  “Now you see how a donkey dies!”

  And even as Benjamin issued forth those words to posterity, he was already running towards the spiny hedgehog on the rampaging cart-horse. And just as the pair erupted into flames, Benjamin’s body collided into them. And the three toppled, and burned—in a grotesque heap between the Jones House and the new barracks. And as their blazing limbs still flimmered, and a unified pain screamed from the pile of three—those who were still alive knew that no one else would perish there.…

  Benjamin, who had been asked a million questions, had finally found the answer. Benjamin, who had lived a million days, had finally found the one thing that could make him alive. Benjamin, that defeated, cynical, heartbroken donkey, had discovered that love, for Emerald, for Kip, for all the animals of the fair, was the meaning of his li
fe. And then, to save their lives, Benjamin had given his own.

  Benjamin had died a hero, and for those who saw, they would tell … that was how a donkey died.

  Transfixed by the catastrophe, animals watched as a vast cloud of smoke engulfed the day. And suddenly, it was night. A moonless, starless night. A night—not of a setting sun, but of a rising blackness. Animals on two legs fell to all fours, and some, from there, fell to their bellies—to gasp the black breaths that would be their last. In an instant, they were covered, buried, and lost.

  Amidst flames and frenzy out of control, a gone-wild gray squirrel—a feral, ferocious Woodlands animal—screamed the Beaver Creed as he was shaken to death by a dog.

  Through the killing smoke, sheep wheezed angrily—

  “The Woodlands animals! The Woodlands animals!”

  And dogs arriving on the scene repeated them—

  “The Woodlands animals! The Woodlands animals!”

  And one of the shepherds nabbed a running rabbit. Wasn’t that Zeke? The Woodlands newcomer who worked the candy-apple stand? And before any animal could formulate a word, or even a thought, that dog had torn Zeke to shreds. And that dog—anyone who looked at that dog immediately saw it—he must have known something about Zeke the rabbit. And to look at Zeke—well, even in a chaos like this, he was clearly guilty of something.

  And one couldn’t help but realize—not even the sheep needed it explained—every Woodlands animal was a conspirator.

  “Where are the Woodlands animals? The Woodlands animals?” asked the dogs. “Have you seen any beavers? Student beavers?” And the fair animals pointed to where the Woodlands animals, all of them recent immigrants, had taken shelter. And the fair animals pointed to where the beavers, and the student beavers, had taken shelter. And the dogs, in their clenched jaws, dragged the Woodlands creatures away.…

  And then came the goats—breaking out gas masks from large crates that had appeared from somewhere. And as the goats were already wearing the masks, no animal could tell one goat from another. Who was who? Were they their goats? Was Thomas still alive to protect them?

  Yes, the animals could see as the dogs donned the masks, these were their goats. They were good goats!

  And after the dogs had adjusted the head straps of their own masks (the pigs were already snug in theirs), they distributed them to the hysterical fair animals, who were either running to and fro, not knowing where to go, or just standing, frozen in fear. And as the dogs passed out the masks, the goats were saying, “There’s nothing to worry about, it’s not dangerous. Just stay where you are.” And the dogs were repeating, “There’s nothing to worry about, it’s not dangerous. Just stay where you are.” And the animals were doing just that, and as the second Twin Mill collapsed on them—they died where they stood.

  And more dust rose—and there was blackness. And then there was Snowball, standing atop the chicken coop.

  And the animals heard that great pig Snowball, who had somehow acquired a bullhorn, announcing, “We were prepared for this.” And without pause, that great pig Snowball called the extremist attack, “The Massacre of the Twin Mills.” And for it, he vowed—

  “Revenge, justice, retaliation! The blood of beavers will flow in the river of the Woodlands!”

  And from the rowdiest of the badgers and geese to the most retiring of the voles and ducks—all the animals were calling out for this deliverance. They foamed at the maw and the beak—and the fangs of dogs pointed through an angry froth. And the divisions of shepherds pouring forth from the Jones House were more fierce and multitudinous than anyone could have ever imagined. And the animals, they received the legions of dogs with heartfelt cheers—and feathers and fur raised in vengeance. They were all big now.

  The sheep started out with something they had retained from somewhere—

  “It’s entirely up to us! It’s entirely up to us.”

  And in only a moment their coarse cheer had overcome itself with that roar more rousing and familiar—

  “Animal Fair! Animal Fair!”

  And the rest of the park animals, who were usually silenced by such outbursts from the sheep, this time responded, belting out a battle cry of their own—one that quickly overpowered the baa-ing of the sheep altogether.

  “Kill the beavers!”

  “Kill the beavers!”

  “Kill!”

  “Kill!”

  “Kill!”

  AFTERWORD

  BY JAMES SHERRY

  A few weeks after September 11, 2001, John Reed called me to ask why his agent’s lawyer had flagged his newly penned satire of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, based on the events surrounding the attack on the World Trade Center. I knew immediately that Orwell’s anti-communist sacred cow was not a tract publishers wanted to dis. There was no way the same mainstream press that published John’s first book, a romantic Civil War novel, would print this highly charged political tract.

  Everybody was afraid of St. George, and vengeance was in the air: Christian love was about to engulf the world. Very few publications or writers for that matter wanted to point out that 9/11 was as much a result of American policy as it was driven by Islamic fundamentalism.

  So I put my head on the block and asked John if he’d let Roof Books publish Snowball. I made it clear that as a slightly academic poetry publisher Roof didn’t have the distribution that important critiques of U.S. policy like Snowball’s Chance demanded. Nevertheless, we decided it was worth the effort and better to get it in print somehow than let it languish in commercial limbo.

  My first concern was a lawsuit from the Orwell estate, which seemed very possible at the time of publication. I, for one, was hoping for a lawsuit—but in the intervening years, that eventuality has become unlikely. Legal decisions on The Wind Done Gone and other parodies have reasserted the right to parody in the United States. (Even parody in the United Kingdom, which has never been protected, is now in a state of transformation.) In 1994, Justice David Souter delivered a unanimous Supreme Court decision on the use by 2 Live Crew of the Roy Orbison song “Oh, Pretty Woman,” which said that “even if 2 Live Crew’s copying of the original’s first line of lyrics and characteristic opening bass riff may be said to go to the original’s ‘heart,’ that heart is what most readily conjures up the song for parody, and it is the heart at which parody takes aim.” Souter also quoted Lord Ellenborough: “While I shall think myself bound to secure every man in the enjoyment of his copyright, one must not put manacles upon science.”

  Acting as the publisher, I informed the Orwell estate that we were going to publish Snowball and sent them galleys. I received a rapid response from Orwell’s nephew, William Hamilton, on July 8, 2002. His note said that said he was “hostile” to the book and its execution. He made the point that imitation trivializes Orwell’s victories over totalitarianism. He attacked Reed’s “commercial … exploitation” of Orwell’s ideas. Hamilton further wrote that relating Animal Farm to 9/11 can only bring Orwell’s name into disrepute, as if Reed were anxious to support Orwell’s politics. Finally, he said he was alarmed that Roof would consider publishing the book “without clearing the rights in principle” with Hamilton and the estate. Finally, he wrote that he would consider what further action to take.

  Nothing happened. I proceeded to publish the book, but I feared that without a significant publicity effort that I could not afford, it would fall into the abyss.

  Fortunately, quite a bit of publicity followed. As publisher I monitored the attacks carefully and Snowball’s Chance became Roof’s best-selling book. Even though the Orwell estate did not pursue legal action, misrepresentations by media and government about American policy certainly drove many critics to attack Snowball’s Chance. Cathy Young intentionally confused the reader in her review “Blaming the victim of terrorism” in the Boston Globe, suggesting that Reed’s critique of American policy empowered conservatives: “Some so-called progressives, it seems, would rather whitewash theocratic fascism than acknow
ledge that the West holds the moral high ground in any conflict. Ironically, this repugnant attitude only helps those conservatives who would demonize all dissent on war-related issues. It certainly makes their job easier.”

  What became apparent as the reviews were published was that Snowball’s Chance mounted both a valid criticism of Orwell original’s support of the security state and a clear minded critique of free market corporatism.

  The British press was most incensed about Reed’s novel. Defending Orwell, the Telegraph stamped its trotters, “It will take a great deal more than a fortnight’s work by a smart-aleck anti-corporatist to undermine the most brilliant satire of the 20th century.” The Scotsman asked “is it ever right to write a book modelled on a classic, that twists the original message into unrecognisable form?”

  Christopher Hitchens was trotted out to defend both Orwell and corporate prerogatives. He called Reed “a Bin Ladenist” in their BBC radio conversation. During the interview, Reed’s microphone was unaccountably turned off, so his response was not broadcast.

  But many critics did recognize the real message in Snowball’s Chance and supported the book: John Strausbaugh in the New York Press wrote that Reed “not only shanghais Orwell’s story, but amps up and mocks the writer’s famously flat, didactic style—that fairytailish simplicity that has ensured Animal Farm a place in high school English classes for the last 50 years.” This same publication hosted an argument between Hitchens and his former friend, Alexander Cockburn, and Snowball’s Chance was mentioned. As far afield as Oregon, Paul Duchene commented in the Portland Tribune, “Orwell’s sacred pigs get a proper roast.”

  One of the most supportive articles came from Dinitia Smith in the New York Times, “A pig returns to the farm, thumbing his snout at Orwell … the world had a new evil to deal with, and it was not communism.” Not only did Smith extoll the virtues of the book but extolled Reed’s authenticity, saying in effect that she’d rather spend her time in the author’s hovel than in the board rooms of those concocting legal actions.