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Snowball's Chance Page 7


  For, by and large, assets being so limited, the average Woodlands animals didn’t have much to show for the Pig Farm disbursements. In truth, being the ones who had to actually implement the kerosene anti-trap units, the Woodlands animals were working longer hours than ever. And those anti-trap units were a dangerous business, besides. Sometimes, following a faulty or unexpected kerosene detonation, an animal entirely disappeared, leaving no more, for example, than an aroma of weasel. Diso, on Beaveada, praised the soldiers their heroics.

  Still, it was only natural that questions arose, albeit in hushed undertones, as to whether this kerosene technology wasn’t actually some breach of the hallowed Beaver Code. Diso, firm on this point, issued assurances that any defensive act (namely, springing a potentially murderous spring-trap) was in no way at odds with the code. And to assuage not only the theological fears of the doubters (or “ye of no faith”) but the more definite fears of those who risked self-annihilation, incineration, laceration, indentation, or the more general truncation, which might, or might not, be facilitated by amputation, Diso alluded to the 1600 virgin saplings which awaited believers—especially those who died for the right reasons, such as setting off spring-traps. (Those uninspired by talk of a Lodestar undulating with virgin birch saplings were assured of 1600 fresh caterpillars, or 1600 blackberry bushes, or 1600 fly maggots or earwig eggs—according to one’s palate.)

  So, some believed, some believed fervently, some didn’t believe, and some didn’t believe fervently, but for the most part, the Woodlands animals couldn’t be bothered with belief—instead, they just did what they were told. Diso and his officers were not too tolerant of anything else. Hesitation. Dissent. When, trodding along the happy trail, one encountered some disemboweled water vole trailing ten feet of intestines from an eight-foot tree—well, there was someone who bothered to believe.

  And so, as for the ongoing war against Foxwood and Pinchfield, while the beavers felt better spiritually and intellectually equipped for victory, the Woodlands animals felt better motivated for it. To the Woodlands animals, victory meant conclusion—and, unlike defeat, a conclusion that put an end to the dreaded fur traps, and all the horrors those traps engendered. Lest anyone forget who was to blame for the woes of the Woodlands animals, Beaveada was continually publicizing reports of mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who had twisted off their own limbs to escape the steel jaws of doom. Equally tragic, if not more so, were the tales of the other pitiable unfortunates, who, preferring to end their agony, made no attempt at escape—and rather, in excruciating pain, just waited for their human executioners to arrive. Sometimes, they waited a week.

  As inflamed as the beavers were already, it was with his typical inflammatory rhetoric that Moses enlightened the beavers on how well the animals on the Pig Farm were living—without a single one of them even believing in the Sugarcandy Lodestar! Though perhaps luxurious to the other Woodlands animals, the lifestyle of the beavers, in comparison to the pigs, was one of bare subsistence. Despite the garden salads, roasted nuts and freshly pressed beet-juice, the beavers believed that life was essentially hard—and only to be relieved, upon death, by an ascent to that sweet Lodestar in the sky.

  But while the beavers were in the woods abstaining (no pie) so that they might in the afterlife attain glory, the farm animals were enjoying hot baths and electric heaters—without adhering to any code at all. The farm animals were hedonists who sat around passing gas. (Actually, the beavers were quite right, as any reckless dispersal, including one of methane, was a sure quantification of success to a pig.)

  On the horizon, the beavers could see the Twin Mills, towering above all the surrounding area. There they were—the Twin Mills, in ceaseless relief, in ceaseless reminder. The beavers could not look away. The Twin Mills—the object not only of their own wealth, but of their own oppression. They stared—envious and self-righteous, enraged and determined.

  Over the next few months, many of the moles, mice, squirrels, rabbits, frogs, and other Woodlands animals (who weren’t nearly so unwavering or resentful) abandoned the Woodlands in favor of emigrating—to join the farm. The Pig Farm. It seemed that the notion of starting anew, in a heated stall, could be overwhelming. It was common knowledge that the Pig Farm animals were fat, lazy and spoiled—and to compound this with the idea that, on the Pig Farm, one could succeed by hard work … it was just too much for the common mole to resist. (I already work hard, such a mole would think, and I can certainly work harder than an animal who’s fat, lazy and spoiled.) In the Woodlands, it was often said of the Pig Farm animals that they were so brainless and inept that they could chew off three legs—and still be caught in the trap. And thus, families were gathered up, cheeks were packed with seeds and acorns, and muffled oaths of “no more digging” were made.

  And the Woodlands animals who remained behind would just squat on the big rock and stare at the Twin Mills—towering over the village. And, so squatting, so staring, the Woodlands creatures would either grow more resentful, and ardent about the beaver’s way, or more committed to migrating to that better land.

  The beavers, too, squatted and watched. Often, up on the big rock, they were joined by Moses, who expounded passionately on the subject of the Epoch of the Beaver, and recalled to the beavers their sacred ways. To die for the cause of the Ancient Beaver Code, said Moses with a tremulous caw, would send an animal straight to the Sugarcandy Lodestar—that oasis of light in the night sky, where days were as carefree as the days of pups, and fruit was always in season, and honeybees had no stingers.

  Under the guidance of Moses, the beavers were becoming more devout—their beaver pride balanced only by their anger. The animals on the Pig Farm were now walking on two legs. The beavers, so staunch in their beaver ways, were incensed. Two legs bad, four legs good, Moses had told them—and everyone knew besides, that this was an ancient truth of all animals.

  Soon after, the birds of the Woodlands, so as to be walking on all fours, were forced to volunteer to drag their wingtips when they walked.

  VII

  ANIMAL FARM WAS BUILDING A CARNIVAL—a showcase of electric lights, edifying spectacles, and delights to the senses. As effortlessly as the locality had watched the Twin Mills erected, the theme park was going up even easier—even faster. There was no denying it now—Animal Farm was a runaway success. Not only did it have one of the highest standards of living for any farm, it was a farm that promised freedom—and, moreover, with the carnival under way, a thousand opportunities. Clear-cutting the Woodlands for lumber and land—pumping black smoke into the air from the electrical plant that was motored by the Twin Mills—there was industry in the air!

  And it was attracting new animals like bees to honey!

  There were moles, voles, hedgehog, shrews, mice, rats, squirrels, weasels, rabbits, porcupines, foxes, toads, frogs, lizards, snakes, pigeons, ducks, geese, and the badgers, who, an extremely boisterous lot, were liked by all, except the voles, whose introverted personalities left them at odds with the grub-eating extroverts, whom they considered brusque, loud and foolish. Of course, there were many other types of animals, and there were many other types of feuds and rivalries—some rooted in past grievances, some utterly new. And just as there were animals that were popular, the gregarious badgers, for example, there were animals that were unpopular, such as the rats. No matter how often the Trotter described the farm’s vermin residents as upfront, thorough, and absolutely indispensable to the general clean-up and presentability of the park, the Rattus rattus community could not shake a reputation for being dirty and shiftless.

  As for specific animosities, the cows and horses had it in for the snakes. (After that trampling incident in the barn, which had, accidental as it was, nearly cost one innocent snake his life, the hard feelings directed at the snakes by the cows and horses turned mutual—and the snakes directed those feelings back.) The chickens could not forgive the foxes the offenses of their fathers—much as the rabbits could not forgive the dogs the o
ffenses of theirs. For reasons all too obvious, nobody wanted to have much to do with the porcupines, who were likable enough creatures, if you got to know them, but still, not the kind of friend you wanted to cuddle up with. The bats, who worked the night shifts, weren’t too well-regarded either. The beavers, as well, raised a few ears, as private, even standoffish, as those long-toothed creatures were.

  Some, as a rule, viewed the newcomers as a shady and angry lot—while others strongly disagreed. The pigs had little to contribute to this debate—they merely reiterated in their regular press releases that, as was continually evidenced by their appointments to official positions, they embraced animal diversity. Nevertheless, it did seem to be an accepted fact that there was a tendency for newcomers to be unfamiliar with the ways of the farm. Although this was only to be expected, many of the farm animals no longer remembered how difficult it had been for them, when they were learning how to walk and wear clothing. (Occasionally, one heard a meanspirited joke about the “dumbcomers,” such as—why don’t dumbcomers take work-breaks that last longer than fifteen minutes? Because they don’t want to get retrained.)

  But, regardless of obstacles, the newcomers did learn to walk and wear clothing—and after a time, they became as accustomed to it as anyone else. And whatever an animal said, it could not be denied that, for the most part, the newcomers consisted of hard-workers. Indeed, most of them had come to work, specifically, at those jobs the original farm animals would no longer perform. Empty and sanitize the human bathrooms, clean the windows of the big barn.… It was difficult not to admire some of the newcomers, actually, for this work ethic, as many of them were far too educated to attend such tasks. What’s more, to live in those makeshift shacks on the marshy side of the field.…

  Well … to live there, with no hot water or electricity, that was a determined lot.

  Well … mostly.

  There were the ostriches—the six eggs having been purchased from a local farmer who claimed that ostriches were too ornery to breed. It had been thought that such exotic animals would surely make an excellent exhibit for the carnival. But the ostriches, too dumb to understand they were free, were always trying to escape. A dog pack was assigned as an escort—not only to protect the farm’s investment, but to protect the ostriches from themselves (an ostrich on its own would be totally unable to attend such basic needs as health and shelter). On the open field, however, the ostriches regularly broke away from their protectors—and easily outpaced them. What they thought they would accomplish by this truancy was an obscure matter, as, invariably, the birds would just run into the electric fence, where they would fall, unconscious, into the fringe of ostrich down that ringed the farm.

  The charred birds were an ongoing unpleasantness. There goes another stupid ostrich. Is he gonna run? Looks like he fell face first onto a griddle. A discussion ensued in the Trotter as to whether the ostriches really were trying to get somewhere/do something, or they just liked the electric fence. It was sometimes postulated that this continuing barbeque was, among the ostriches, a contest of strength. Who could smack the fence hardest? Who could endure the volts longest?

  After all the pigs had done for them! Those dumb ostriches!

  To spare everyone the spectacle, the ostriches were moved off to a housing area on the outskirts of the farm. And as that area was enclosed with its own electric fence, there was no more of the nasty business—aside from the periodic thwpt, and subsequent thump of some 345 pound bird. Over the top of the fence, there would be a plume of sparks and feathers.

  Those less forbearing among the pigs had been especially infuriated by the needless, senseless disgrace. Outspoken among the irate—Minimus. And by way of the Prize Pig’s wrath, which took the form of an editorial published in the Trotter, a resentment towards all new animals was promptly precipitated from the general population—as everybody already had his or her own hostilities toward the newcomers.

  Some of the farm animals called for the expulsion, posthaste, of all newcomers. And yet, several of the newcomers were so loved that nobody, not even those who called for immediate action, could bear to see them go. How could anyone say good-bye to Emerald the counting donkey, or her son, Kip? Besides, many of the newcomers, like Emerald, had special abilities, while others were performing labors that nobody else would perform. In rebuttal, naysayers among the original animals argued that no job held by a newcomer couldn’t be filled by one of their own, and that as for special abilities—those could be taught to the original animals who wanted to learn them.

  It was perhaps Minimus who phrased it best, in his self-published pamphlet—

  ANIMAL FARM FOR FARM ANIMALS

  At the first Sunday Meeting that followed Minimus’s distribution of his pamphlet, Pinkeye, fulfilling his duties as Next Prize Pig, called for a vote among farm animals (the original animals, that is, who were the only animals allowed to vote) on whether or not to keep the newcomers. It would be all or nothing—either force the newcomers to go, now, or let them stay, forever. Should the newcomers be permitted to remain, they would be entirely recognized as animals of the farm, and even be extended the right to vote on those issues that the animals typically voted on—such as whether or not to paint the barn doors red. (The farm animals, who had never before voted on an issue like immigration, were pleased to perceive themselves so much a part of the process.)

  Before the ballots were cast on the fate of the newcomers, Minimus spoke of how many rats were among the assortment, and how the rats had historically been in league with the enemies of Animal Farm. And as the animals looked to the rats (the mice, too, for that matter) they could see that, indubitably, there was something disreputable about them. Making the case for the opposition, Snowball spoke of how all animals wanted a chance—and how he wanted to be a part, and he wanted Animal Farm to be a part, of giving them that chance.

  A goat instructed the voters—“yes” for stay, “no” for go.

  “Yes for stay, no for go,” repeated the sheep.

  And then, in the usual manner, the goats made their way through the barn, and the animals turned in their ballots. The goats, carrying note pads, read off the votes as they counted them.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Dozens of baa-ing voices filled the barn. How the goats kept track of it all was beyond anyone—though in only a few minutes the votes were tallied.

  “The numbers are in,” said Snowball, who stood atop his soapbox as he read from a note pad—

  “One hundred and eighty-three votes—yes. One hundred and eighty-three votes—no.”

  What did this mean? wondered the animals. And they whispered to each other—

  “It’s a tie. A tie!”

  “Yes,” Snowball raised his hooves in his characteristic gesture—

  “It’s a tie. But one animal hasn’t yet voted.” The animals exhaled—

  Who? Who hasn’t voted? Who will cast the deciding ballot?

  It was Filmont the Labrador who first apprehended the abstainer—

  “Benjamin.”

  And all the animals, especially the geese, whispered to each other—

  “Benjamin!”

  “Benjamin!”

  “Benjamin!”

  And Snowball pointed his hoof—

  Benjamin!

  All looked to the donkey, who, standing in his stall, had lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  Benjamin had always refused to do much of anything in connection with decision-making on the farm. He would just say that this was a hard life, and resume whatever he’d been doing. Certainly, he had always refused to vote. True, the issues before had been minor—such as where to plant the flowerbed, or how high the water fountain should spout water. (Come to think of it, nothing serious had ever been put to a vote. No, the animals shook their heads, that must be wrong. They just didn’t remember.) But even so—even wi
th a ballot so momentous as this, would Benjamin vote?

  Would he cast the tie-breaking vote?

  “Benjamin?” posed Snowball.

  Benjamin stood beside his new friend (his new, close friend), Emerald the counting donkey, and her son, Kip, both of whom, along with the rats, squirrels, badgers, bats, and all the others newcomers, were dependent upon the outcome of this vote for their very futures.

  Emerald and Kip looked to Benjamin with watery eyes—Benjamin looked to Emerald and Kip with watery eyes.

  And then the old donkey raised his ears and his muzzle. And the whole barn inhaled, as if to wonder—

  What—yes for stay, or no for go?

  And, at long last, a stream of tears running off the end of his nose, Benjamin exercised his suffrage—

  “Yes, they stay. They all stay.”

  Emerald nuzzled Benjamin affectionately. Kip nuzzled Emerald. And all the animals who wanted the newcomers to stay let out a cheer. And all the animals who wanted the newcomers to go let out a groan. And the newcomers—they let out a sigh. And then it was over. And after singing Animal Fair, which had now officially replaced Beasts of Earth, the Meeting was dismissed.

  The next day, a number of the geese, who, coincidentally, made up the majority of Minimus’s kitchen staff, proceeded from the Jones House to the barnhouse, where they mounted a cantankerous and clamorous protest. Animal Farm for farm animals! Patently opposed to opening the farm to the newcomers, they complained that they had been skipped over in the counting. Emerald (recently voted in with the other newcomers) was consulted, as it was known she could count anything without even trying, and she would undoubtedly know if the figures cited by the goats had been correct. But Emerald, in a sad way, answered that the scene had been just too overwhelming, and … she hadn’t counted. She was sorry.